Wild Heather

by L. T. Meade

"He's a rare 'un for giving you a nip," said the boy in reply, "but Lor' bless yer, that don't matter. There's nothing wicious about he."

The other people in the carriage were also interested in the boy, and even more so in "Frisky," who by and by extended his peregrinations from one person to another, nibbling up a few crumbs of cake, and putting away with disdain morsels of orange peel, and altogether behaving like a well-behaved weasel of independent mind. The boy said he hoped "Frisky" would be allowed to sleep in his bed at his uncle's place, and the women sympathised, the men also expressing their hearty wishes on the subject.

"And why not?" said one very burly-looking farmer. "I'd a whole nest of 'em once, and purtier little dears I never handled."

The third-class carriage was, indeed, packed full; the endless luggage, the boxes little and big, boxes that went on the rack and boxes that would not go on the rack, but stuck out all over the narrow passage and got into everyone's way. There were shawls, and a pretty bird in a cage, and a white rabbit in another cage, and bundles innumerable. But everyone talked and laughed and became chatty and agreeable. The boy was the first to tell his story. It was a very simple one. He was poor; his father and mother had just saved up money enough to apprentice him to Uncle Ben Rogers. He was going to him; he was off his parents now, and would never trouble them again, God helping him.

By and by the people in the carriage turned their attention full on me. They had confided their histories each to the other, their simple stories of love and of hate, of ill-nature and of good-nature, of stormy days of privation and full days of plenty. Now it was my turn. I was assailed by innumerable questions. "Why did I wear such smart clothes? Where did I get the feather that was in my hat? Why did I, being a lydy, travel with the likes of them?"

I told these good, kind creatures that I loved to travel with them, and that I hated wealth and grand people. I said also that I was going back to a kind aunt of mine, who hated fine clothes as much as I was beginning to hate them, and that I earnestly hoped she would let me stay with her. I said that I was a very miserable girl, and then they all pitied me, and one woman said, "Poor thing, poor, pretty young thing!" and another took my hand and squeezed it, and said, "Bear up, my deary, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." I did not exactly know what she meant, but I took comfort from her kindly words and kindly face. And so at last we got out at the big junction and then I took the little train to Cherton. One or two of my fellow-travellers, amongst others the boy with the weasel, accompanied me. He was looking a little nervous, and when I said:

"I'll come and see you some day," his little woebegone face brightened up considerably, and he answered:

"Don't forget, lydy, as I'm mostly known as Jack Tar, although I was never at sea in the whole course of my life; but my father makes tar, and I was christened Jack, so what could be more likely than that I should be called Jack Tar?" He then added again that his real name was Martin; but that was no use to him at all, he was always "Jack Tar," and he would not like to be anything else.

I smiled at the boy and we parted the best of friends. Cherton looked perfectly lovely. It was just the crown of the year, that time in early May when, if the weather is fine, the whole world seems to put out her brightest and sweetest fragrance. The may trees were not yet in bloom, it is true, but the blackthorn was abundant, and as to the primroses and violets, they seemed to carpet the place. My heart beat faster and faster. Oh, the old streets, and the little town, and the happy, peaceful life I had led here! Would Aunt Penelope be glad to see me? Of course she would. She was not a demonstrative old woman, but she was good to me; she, of course, had been very good to me. From the time she had taken me—a tiny, motherless girl—from my father, she had done her best in her own fashion for me. After all, I had not been so long away from her, only a few months; but so much had been crowded into those months that the time seemed years.

I had—I knew quite well—stepped from childhood into womanhood. My eyes had been opened to discern good from evil, but I was glad of that; I was glad, more than glad, that Cherton meant good to me, and that London meant evil. I recalled the first time I had come to Cherton and what a miserable little child I had been, and how I had rushed away, all by myself, to the railway station to meet the train by which Anastasia was to come. Things were different now. Now Cherton meant home, and I had, I will own it, almost forgotten Anastasia.