“Jenny,” I said, when she had finished, “you have trusted me, and you shall never repent it. I think you are a brave girl, and you may stop with us as long as you like. No living soul shall ever hear your story from me.”
She flung her arms around my neck and kissed me, and cried a little again. And then she said, “Don’t tell Mr. Beckett, will you? I should die of shame if I thought he knew. It’s only a woman who could understand my story and respect me still.”
I gave her the promise, and I kept it until—— But I must not anticipate. I understood now why she was so merry and so gay, and what I called flighty. She was doing as hundreds of poor women do—hiding her heart’s sorrow under a mask of gaiety; forcing herself to appear bright and cheerful, lest the world should suspect her secret. I told Harry the next day that I was very sorry for what I had said about Miss Measom, and that I had determined to keep her on, as she was such a good barmaid; and he said, “As you will, little woman; I leave it entirely to you. I’m sure you’ll do what your heart tells you is right.”
Miss Measom soon recovered her gaiety; it was only when we were alone together that she was quiet and thoughtful, and when she went for her holiday I never grumbled again at her being a little late. I thought of her in the little home, cheering her poor mother and father, and loving her little baby, and thinking of the man who would have been her husband, and of the happy home she might have had but for that terrible tragedy.
Jenny stayed with us for about six months, and then she left us.
How she left us was in this way. One night after we had closed up we were sitting at supper—Harry and I and Jenny, and she picked up the London paper and began to read for a few minutes before going to bed.
Harry was smoking his pipe in his easy chair, and I was looking over some pages of manuscript that I had written in a hurry and wanted to see how they read.
All of a sudden Harry called out, “Look at Miss Measom!”
I looked up and there was Jenny just going down off her chair in a dead swoon. I ran to her and caught her, and told Harry to go out of the room. Then I loosened her dress, and bathed her forehead with some vinegar, and got her to.
“Jenny, dear Jenny,” I said; “what is it? What’s the matter? Are you ill, dear?”