A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

He seized her roughly in his arms, and in spite of her struggles, managed to snatch a kiss from her reluctant and outraged lips. Then, finding she was not the easy conquest he had anticipated, and perhaps a little fearful of the consequences of his unmanly act, he beat a hasty retreat. When the father returned he was told of what happened, and burst into a paroxysm of wild fury, venting imprecations on the young dastard who had dared to offer such an insult to a virtuous girl like his daughter.

Selfish, soddened and callous as the man had become from long habits of intemperance, if there was one being in the world that he respected, it was this unhappy girl whom he had condemned to such a sordid and degrading existence. He knew well enough that, in his position, the young cub had no serious intentions, but merely wished to play with her as he had done with many of his village light-o’-loves.

Shabby, down-at-heel, familiar as he was with his inferiors, there were times when he remembered that he had once been a gentleman, descended from a long line of decent people; that his daughter had ever been and was still a lady—that a kiss from a man in the position of Archibald Brookes was an insult to a girl in hers.

What ensued may best be described in the words of good old Dobbs, who waxed dramatic and at times sadly ungrammatical in his narration.

“I shall never forget that day as long as I live. He comes into the Arms about five o’clock, the usual time for young Brookes to make a call, looking terribly mad and waving a thick stick. There was me and Mr. Simpson, the landlord, in the bar, an old farmer named Coates and three other men. ‘Has that dirty dog, Archie Brookes, been in?’ he roared out in a voice of thunder. We all looked up, of course, wondering what was the matter, what had turned Larchester against him. We told him he hadn’t, and he roared out again in that big voice, ‘When he does I’m going to half thrash the life out of him. He came to my house this morning and insulted my daughter.’

“At that moment young Brookes comes in, and when he sees the other man’s furious face he turns a bit white about the gills. ‘Good-day, Mr. Larchester,’ he says in a very small voice, trying to carry it off easy like. Larchester was a powerful man, and young Archie was on the small side; he could have broken him across his knee. He made one long stride to him, seized him by the collar, and beat him with that big stick till I thought he would have broken every bone in his body, roaring out, ‘You dirty young swine, I’ll give you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry. In future, stick to your village trolls, and don’t dare to lay your filthy hands on a respectable girl.’

“We got him away at length, while one of the men fetched young Brookes a cab. But at the last moment Larchester, with his great strength, broke away from us, and gave him a kick that sent him flying into the roadway.”

“The best thing I have heard of Mr. Larchester yet, Dobbs,” said Sellars, whose blood had warmed during this recital. “Well, what become of all the actors in the drama?”

“Well, sir, young Archie got mended of his bruises, and a few months later he was shipped off to Australia, where he died. The Larchesters stayed here for just four years, and then went, but we never rightly knew where they went to. He got worse in his habits, and shabbier and shabbier, and the poor girl began to show the strain in her looks. They were very poor at the end, and the woman who used to do the charing for them only went once a week instead of every morning. It was a real tragedy, sir, for that poor young thing; the man had brought it on himself, he didn’t deserve overmuch pity. And yet, when he was sober, he was delightful company, and could be a gentleman when he liked.”

The polite Dobbs gave the usual little preliminary cough which heralded farewell. “I hope I haven’t bored you, sir, but I got that excited, although it all happened so many years ago, that I was a bit carried away.”