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Chapter Twenty Six
In Hiding

When Nesta reached the railway station she was almost beside herself with fear. She went to the ticket office to get a third-class single ticket for Newcastle. There was a girl standing just in front of her, a commonplace, respectable looking girl, who asked for a ticket to a place which she pronounced as Souchester. The ticket only cost one and sixpence. It flashed through Nesta’s mind that she might just as well go to Souchester as anywhere else. It had not before entered into her brain that here lay an immediate source of relief. Perhaps her family would be really frightened when they knew nothing about her, so frightened that when they saw her again, they would forgive her.

Scarcely knowing what she did, and with no previous intention of going anywhere but straight home, she too asked for a ticket to Souchester. The man handed it to her.

“One and sixpence, please,” he said.

She pushed in her half-sovereign, received back eight and sixpence change, which she thought great riches, slipped the money into her purse, put the purse into her pocket, and went on the platform. The man directed her which way to go to catch the Souchester train. She followed the girl who had first put the idea into her mind. This girl looked of the servant class. She was respectably dressed, she carried a parcel wrapped up in brown paper. Nesta felt that between her and that girl there was a sort of link; she could not quite account for it, but she was anxious not to lose sight of her.

“Souchester,” said the man who stood on the platform, taking Nesta’s ticket and examining it, “there you are, Miss, right ahead, that train, that train, Miss, it’s just starting, you be quick if you want to catch it.” Nesta hurried. The girl with the brown paper parcel got into a third-class carriage, Nesta followed her, and a minute later the train was in motion. At first it went slowly, then quickly, and soon the gay town of Scarborough was out of sight, and they were going rapidly between fields full of waving corn, with the blue sea still close at hand.

It so happened that Nesta and the girl with the brown paper parcel were the only two in this special compartment. Nesta looked at her companion; she did not exchange a single word with her, but nevertheless, she was for the time being her guiding star. The girl was essentially commonplace; she was stout, very dumpy in figure, she had a large, full-moon face, small eyes, a wide mouth, and high cheek bones. She wore no gloves, and her hands were coarse and red. Presently she pulled a coarse sandwich, made of two hunches of bread with a piece of bacon in the middle, from her brown paper parcel, and began to eat it deliberately. When she had eaten half, she looked at Nesta. Then taking a knife out of her pocket, she cut a piece from her sandwich and offered it awkwardly, and yet with a good-natured smile, to her fellow traveller. Nesta thanked her, and said she was not hungry.

This incident, however, opened the ball, and Nesta was able to ask what sort of place Souchester was.

“Oh, just a country place,” said the girl. “Be yer going there, Miss?”

“I’m a poor girl just like yourself,” said Nesta. She became suddenly interested. If this was not a real adventure, a real proper running away, she did not know what was.

“I am a poor girl like you,” repeated Nesta, “and I am going to Souchester.”

“Now I wonder what for?” said the girl. “My name is Mary Hogg. I’m in a place – it’s a big house, and I’m under kitchenmaid. I have had a week’s holiday to see my aunt, who lives in a poor part of Scarborough, not where the rich folks live. I’ve had a jolly week and now I’m going back to my place. There are very few poor at Souchester, it’s just a little bit of a village, and it’s owned by the St. Just family.”

Nesta suddenly felt she had been entrapped once more. “What St. Justs?” she asked.

“Why, the St. Justs,” answered the girl. “Miss Angela’s folks. You must have heard of Miss Angela St. Just.”

“Yes,” said Nesta, then she added petulantly – “They seem to be everywhere.”

“Oh, no, they ain’t,” said Mary Hogg. “Sir Edward and his daughter, they’ve had what you call reverses, but the rest of the family is rich, very rich. They owns Hurst Castle, and my place. I belong to ’em, so to speak. I’m at Castle Walworth. I’m under kitchenmaid. They keep a power of servants; you can scarce count ’em on your fingers.”

Nesta was interested.

“Have you very hard work to do?” she asked.

“Oh, no; nothing to speak of, and I gets rare good living, and no end of pickings, too, which I takes to my mother, whenever I has time to go and see her. She lives in a bit of a cottage just outside of the village. She’s very poor, indeed, is mother. She’s a widdy. Father died five years ago, and left her with me and two boys. The boys is still at school. The St. Just family is very good to mother, and it was through Miss Angela asking, that I got a place as kitchenmaid at the Castle. I’m proud of my place.”

“You must be,” said Nesta.

“It’s real respectable,” said the girl. “You can’t be like ordinary servants; you mustn’t consider yourself an ordinary servant there. Just think of me – a bit of a girl like me – I ain’t seventeen yet – having to wear a little tight bonnet with strings fastened under my chin, and a regular livery. Grey, it is, with red pipings. That’s the livery the servants at Castle Walworth wear. The bonnets are black, with a bit of red just bordering them inside. We look very nice when we go to church, all in our livery. But when I goes to see mother, then I can wear just what I like, and when I’m with my aunt – oh, my word, I did have a good time at Scarborough – but here we be, Miss, here we be. I’ll wish you good-day, Miss.”

The train stopped and the two girls alighted on the platform. Nesta walked hurriedly by her companion’s side. The girl with the brown paper parcel did not seem to want anything more to do with her. The tickets were taken by the ticket collector, and then they found themselves side by side in a narrow road, a road branching off to right and left. It was a winding road, quite pretty and very countrified indeed. If there was a village, there seemed to be no trace of one.

“Where’s the village?” asked Nesta, doing her best to detain the sole person in all the world whom she thought she had a right to speak to.

“Why, there – down in the valley, nestling among all them trees,” said Mary Hogg. “This is my way,” she added, “straight up this steep hill, and there’s the Castle, and the flag is flying; that shows the family are at home. They’ll be waiting for me. If Mrs Gaskell, that’s our housekeeper, finds I’m five minutes late, why she’ll blow my nose off.”

“How awful!” said Nesta.

“Oh, she ain’t really so bad; she’s quite a kind sort; but the family is at home, and I’m due back now, so I’ll wish you good-evening, Miss.”

“Stay one minute, just one minute.”

“I can’t really, Miss; I must hurry; time’s up, and time’s everything at Castle Walworth. We, none of us, dare be one minute late, not one blessed minute. There’s the family has their pleasure, and they must have time for that, and we servants, we has our work, and we must have time for that. That’s the way of the world, Miss. I can’t stay to talk, really, Miss.”

“Then I’ll walk with you,” said Nesta.

“It’s a steep hill, Miss, and if you’ve come to see your friends – ”

“That’s just what I haven’t – I have come to – Oh, Mary Hogg, I must confide in you. I have come here because I want to – to hide for a little.”

“My word! To hide!” said Mary Hogg. She really quite interested at last. She forgot the awful Mrs Gaskell and all the terrors that punctuality caused in the St. Just establishment. Her eyes became round as the letter “O,” and her mouth formed itself into much the same shape.

“You be a bad ’un!” she said. “So you’ve run away?”

“Yes, I have. I haven’t time to tell you my story, but I want to stay at Souchester just for a little! you must help me, for I wouldn’t have come to Souchester but for you.”

“There now; didn’t I say you were bad? What in the name of wonder have I to do with it?”

“I was going in quite another direction, and I heard you ask for a ticket to Souchester, and I thought I’d come too, and I got into the same carriage with you because I thought you looked kind and – and respectable. I’ve got some money,” continued Nesta, speaking with sudden dignity. “I’m not a beggar, but I want to go to a very cheap place just to spend the night. Do you know of any place? It won’t do you any harm to tell me if there’s anybody in the village who would give me a bed.”

“But, do you mean a very, very cheap place?” asked Mary Hogg, who thought on the spot that she might do a good deal for her mother. Mrs Hogg was so poor that she was glad even of stray sixpences and pence.

“I don’t mind how poor it is, if it is only cheap; that is what I want – something very cheap.”

“There’s mother’s house. Would you mind going there?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Where is it?”

“I must be quick; I really must. You had better come a little way up the hill with me, and I’ll tell you. It’s rather steep, but there, I’ll go a little slower. I’ll tell Mrs Gaskell that I met a fellow creature in distress. She’s a very Christian woman, is Mrs Gaskell, and that, perhaps, will make her more inclined to be lenient with me. I’ll tell her that.”

“But you won’t tell her my name, will you?”

“In course not, seeing as I don’t know it.”

“That’s true,” said Nesta, with a relieved laugh.

“And I don’t want to,” said Mary Hogg.

“Better not,” said Nesta.

“Well, if you think mother’ll give you a bed – ”

“I don’t know – it was you who said it.”

“She will, if you pay her. You may have to give her fourpence – can you afford that?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“She’ll give you your breakfast for three ha’pence, and a sort of dinner meal for threepence. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, quite well.”

Nesta made a mental calculation. If Mrs Hogg was really so very reasonable, she might stay with her for several days. Eight and sixpence would last a long time at that rate.

“You are very kind,” she said, with rapture. “That will do beautifully. Now, just tell me where she lives, will you?”

“You say as Mary Hogg told you to come. Mother’ll know what that means. It’s a very small house; ’tain’t in no way the sort as you’re used to.”

“I don’t mind. Tell me where it is.”

“Well; there’s the village yonder. You foller your nose and you’ll get it. By-and-by you’ll cross the stream over a little bridge, but still foller after your nose, and you’ll come to a cottage just at the side of the road, standing all alone. You can go up the path and knock at the door, and when you knock, mother’ll say, ‘Come right in,’ and you’ll go right in, and mother ’ll say, ‘What do you want?’ and you’ll say, ‘Mary Hogg sent me.’ Then you’ll manage the rest. Good-bye to you; I really must run.”

Mary put wings to her feet, and toiling and panting with her brown paper parcel, she hurried up the steep hill towards that spot where Castle Walworth reflected from its many windows the gleam of the now westering sun.

Nesta stood for a minute just where her new friend had left her, and then went down towards the village. She felt in her pocket for her little purse; she took it out and opened it. Yes, there was the money that Mrs Griffiths had lent her – eight shillings and sixpence. She felt herself quite wealthy. At the Hogg establishment she might really manage to live for several days.

Following Mary’s directions she reached the little village street, found the rustic bridge, crossed it and went along a pretty shady road. Some people passed her, poor people returning from their work, people of her own class, some well dressed, some the reverse. They all looked at her, for people will stare at a stranger in country villages. Then a carriage passed by with several gaily dressed ladies in it, and they also turned and looked at Nesta. Nesta hurried after that. How awful it would be if she suddenly met Angela St. Just Angela would know her, of course, and she would know Angela. But no one in the carriage seemed to recognise her, and the prancing horses soon bowled out of sight.

Then she came to a cottage covered with ivy, roof and all; it almost seemed weighted down by the evergreens. She saw a tiny porch made of latticework, which was also covered with evergreens. The porch was so small and so entirely covered that Nesta had slightly to stoop to get within. There was a little door which was shut; she knocked, and a voice said, “Come right in.”

Nesta felt for a moment as though she were Red Riding Hood, and the wolf were within. She lifted the latch and went in. The first person she saw was a sandy-haired middle-aged woman, with a strong likeness to Mary Hogg. The woman said, “Oh, my!” then she gave a little curtsey, then she said, “Oh, my!” again. Nesta stood and stared at her. A small boy who had been lying face downward on the floor, started to his feet, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and stared also. Another boy, who had been bending over a book, and who was a little older, flung the book on the floor, and added to the group of starers.

“Mary Hogg sent me,” said Nesta.

She used the words wondering if they would be a talisman, the “open sesame” which her hungry soul desired. They certainly had an immediate effect, but not the effect she expected. Mrs Hogg darted forward, dusted a chair, and said:

“Honoured Miss, be seated.”

Nesta dropped into the chair, for she was really very tired.

“If you are one of the young ladies from the Castle, I’m sorry I ain’t got all the sewing done yet, but I will to-morrow.”

“No,” said Nesta, “it isn’t that. I’m not one of the young ladies from the Castle; I’m just a girl, a stranger, and I want a bed for the night. I travelled in the same train with your daughter, Mary Hogg, and she sent me on here. She said you would give me a bed, and that you’d expect me to pay. I can pay you. I have got eight and sixpence. I hope you won’t charge me a great deal, for that is all the money I have in the wide world. But I can pay you; will you give me a bed?”

Now this was most exciting to Mrs Hogg. It was still more exciting to the two boys, whose names were Ben and Dan. They stood now side by side, each with his hands in his pockets, and his glowing eyes fixed on Nesta’s face. Mrs Hogg stood silent; she was considering deeply.

“There’s but two rooms,” she said, at last. “This room, and the bedroom beyond; but there’s the scullery.”

“I could sleep anywhere,” said Nesta, who was terrified at the thought of being thrust out of this humble habitation.

“There’s only one thing to be done,” said Mrs Hogg, “you must share my bed.”

This was scarcely agreeable, but any port in a storm, Nesta thought.

“Very well.”

“I’ll charge you twopence a night.”

“Thank you,” said Nesta.

“The boys will have to leave the room and sleep in the scullery.”

“Hooray!” said Dan.

“Hurroa!” cried Ben.

“Quiet, lads, quiet,” said the mother. “You go right out of the way and let the young lady rest herself.”

“I’m just a girl,” said Nesta. “I’d best not be a young lady; I’m just a girl, and I’m very glad to come and stay with you. I shall be rather hungry presently,” she continued; “could you give me any supper?”

“If it’s anything special, I’ll charge you what it costs,” said Mrs Hogg; “but if it’s anything, why, it’ll be three ha’pence for supper, twopence for breakfast, threepence for dinner. Them’s my terms.”

“It must be anything,” said Nesta.

Mrs Hogg nodded. She whispered to her eldest boy, who, with another “Hooray!” rushed out of the cottage, followed by his brother. Nesta sank down in the shadow; she had found a refuge. For the present she was safe. Even Horace, with all his penetration, could not possibly find her in Mrs Hogg’s kitchen, in Souchester. She made a hurried calculation. She might live here for over a week quite comfortably. In her present terrible plight a week seemed like forever.

Chapter Twenty Seven
Unaccustomed Fare

Mrs Hogg’s bedroom was choky and Mrs Hogg herself snored loudly. But the place was really clean, and Nesta was too tired to lie long awake. When she did open her eyes in the morning, it was to the pleasant perfume of fried herring. A small boy was standing gazing at her out of two of the roundest eyes Nesta had ever seen. She came to the conclusion that the eyes of the entire Hogg family were not made like other people’s; they were as round as marbles, and protruded very slightly from the head. The boy said:

“Red herrings!” thrust his tongue into his cheek, winked at her, and vanished.

Nesta proceeded to dress herself, and went into the living room. The place of honour was reserved for her. There was bread for breakfast, but no butter. There was, however, a sort of lard, which the children much appreciated. There was tea, but very little milk, and coarse brown sugar. Mrs Hogg helped the boys liberally, but she did not give them any of the red herring. Nesta noticed that Ben’s eyes watered when he glanced at it. She herself could not touch it, so she transferred the morsel which had been put on her plate to that of the little boy. The boy shouted; he did not seem to be able to speak quietly. He said “Hurra!” The moment he said “Hurra!” the eldest boy said “Hooray!” and stretched out his hand and snatched a piece of herring from the dish. Mrs Hogg rose and smacked both the boys on their ears, whereupon they fell to crying bitterly.

“Oh, don’t,” said Nesta. “How can you? It seems so cruel.”

“Crool?” said Mrs Hogg; “crool to smack yer own children? Why, don’t Bible Solomon say, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’? There’s no spoiling of my children in this house. Put back that fish, you greedy boy. Ain’t it got to do for Missie’s dinner and supper, as well as for her breakfast; you put it back this blessed minute.”

Nesta felt a sudden sense of dismay. To be obliged to eat red herring as her sole sustenance for one whole day did seem dreadful, but she reflected that anything was better than her father’s and brother’s wrath, and the sneers of her two sisters, and better than Marcia’s gracious, and yet most intolerable forgiveness. Nesta was not at all sorry yet, for what she had done, but she was sorry for the sense of discomfort which now surrounded her. She had borne with her supper, which consisted of porridge and milk, the night before, but her breakfast was by no means to her taste. When the boys had gone to Sunday school, she said almost timidly:

“If I can’t help you in any way can’t I go out?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake do, my dear. I don’t want to see you except when you want to see me. You’re welcome to half my bed, although I was half perished in the night, for you would take all the clothes and wrap yourself in them. I’ve got rheumatics in my back, and I could have cried out with the pain. You’re a selfish young miss, I take it.”

Nesta was accustomed to home truths, but Mrs Hogg’s home truths hurt her more than most. She felt something like tears burning at the back of her eyes.

“Perhaps I am,” she said. “I know I’m not at all happy.”

She went out of the house, and wandered down the summer road. Soon she got into an enchanting lane where wild flowers of all sorts grew in wild profusion. Here also was a distant, a very distant glimpse of the blue, blue sea. She was glad to be away from it; she was glad, of course, to be here. She had not an idea what would become of her in the end. She felt as though all her life had suddenly been drawn up short, as though the thread of her existence had been snapped. It was her own doing; she had done it herself.

She heard the church bells ringing in the distance, but she knew it was impossible for her to go to church. She began to wonder what they were doing at home, and to wonder what the Griffiths were doing. She found she did not like to think either of her home or of the Griffiths. What could she do when her eight and sixpence was gone? Mrs Hogg was not at all an affectionate woman; she would exact her pence to the uttermost farthing. Nesta felt that if she were to live on red herrings for a week, she would feel very thin at the end of it. She detested red herrings She sincerely hoped there would be a variety in the Hogg menu. But Mrs Hogg’s emphatic statement did not seem to point that way. At least for to-day she was to be supported on butterless bread and red herrings.

Still she wandered on, the country air fanning her cheeks. There was peace everywhere except in her own troubled heart. As yet she was not at all sorry, there was only sorrow for herself, she was not sorry for the pain she was giving others. Had the temptation come to her again she would have succumbed.

“The people at home don’t love me much,” she thought, “or they’d have sent for me. I gave them every chance. It might have been naughty of me to run away, but I gave them the chance of sending for me. But they never sent a line or a message; they never would have done it, if Mr Griffiths had not gone to see mother and found out the truth. Oh, to think of what he would say when he came in. I wonder what he did say. I wonder what Flossie is doing. I wonder – oh, I wonder!”

She went on until she was tired, then she sat down by the edge of a babbling brook, dipped her hand into the water, and amused herself watching the minnows and other small fish as they floated past her in the bed of the stream. There were forget-me-nots growing on the edge of the bank; she picked some and tore them to pieces. Then she started up impatiently. What was she to do when the eight and sixpence was out? She began to think of Mary Hogg up at the Castle. It must be nice to have something to do. She wondered if the St. Justs would take her on as one of their servants. They kept such a lot, perhaps they might have room for her. She did not relish the idea. She had some pride, and she did not care to sink to the position of a domestic servant. Nevertheless, she thought it would be better than doing nothing at all; better than going back to her family; better than starving. But then the St. Justs might not have her. She could not honestly say she would make a good servant. She felt certain in her heart that she would be unpardonably careless, thoughtless, unable to do any one thing properly. Why, she could not even make a bed! She used to try at home, sometimes, and always failed miserably.

Then she began to consider another fact. The St. Justs would very quickly discover who she was. Oh, no, she must not go there; she must go to somebody else. But who else? She had really no time to lose. Perhaps she could go as reader or companion. That was much better. That would be quite nice. There must surely be a blind lady in the village, and blind old ladies always wanted companions to read to them. Nesta could read – how often she had read to her mother. Oh, yes, she would really do that part quite nicely. She was the quickest reader she knew. She could gabble through a story at breathless speed; it did not matter whether she pronounced her words right or wrong. Yes, a blind old lady was the very thing.

She began to feel hungry, for her breakfast had not been very satisfying. Whatever happened she must be in time for the Hogg dinner. This was the principal meal of the day; it would cost her threepence. She began to think that she was paying dear for the sort of food she got at the Hoggs’.

She walked back without meeting any one, and entered her new home. She was right; they were preparing for dinner. Mrs Hogg was stirring something over the fire; the boys were in their old attitude of rapt attention, their hands in their pockets. There was a cloth on the table which had once been white; it was certainly that no longer. There were coarse knives and forks and very coarse plates, with the thickest glasses to drink out of that Nesta had ever seen. Mrs Hogg said:

“If you’ll take your ’at off, Miss, dinner’ll be ready in a twinkle.”

Nesta retired into the bedroom; she came back in a few minutes. When she did so the youngest boy came up to her, and whispered in her ear:

“Pease pudding for dinner.” He then said, looking round at his brother, “Hurra!” and the brother, as was his invariable habit, cried “Hooray!”

The pease pudding was lifted out of the pot in a bag; the bag was opened, the boys looking on with breathless interest. It was put in the centre of the table on a round dish, and the family sat down.

“Your grace, Dan,” said Mrs Hogg.

Dan said:

“For all your mercies – ” He closed his eyes and mumbled the rest.

Then Mrs Hogg cut liberal slices of the pease pudding and helped Nesta and the two children. She gave Nesta the largest share. Nesta disliked pease pudding as much as she disliked fried herring, but that did not matter; she was so hungry now that she ate it. The pease pudding was followed by a dumpling, which the boys greatly appreciated. There were currants in it, so few that to search for them was most exciting and caused “Hurras!” and “Hoorays!” to sound through the cottage. This was a dinner which was, as the boys expressed it, “filling.”

“Seems to puff you out,” said Ben.

“Seems to stuff you up,” said Dan.

“Out you both go now,” said Mrs Hogg, and she and Nesta were alone. Mrs Hogg washed up and put the place in perfect order. She then sat down by the table, put on her spectacles, and opened her Bible.

“Ain’t you got a Bible with you?” she said.

“No,” replied Nesta, “I haven’t got anything with me.”

“Shall I read aloud to you, Miss?”

“No, thank you,” replied Nesta.

Mrs Hogg glanced up at Nesta with small favour in her face.

“Please,” said Nesta, coming close to her, “I want to get something to do. I am a young lady, you know.”

“Maybe you be; but you took all the clothes off me last night, and that ain’t young-ladyish to my way o’ thinking.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nesta, who thought it best to propitiate Mrs Hogg, “Please,” she continued, in a coaxing tone, “do you happen to know a blind lady in the village?”

“A blind lady – what do you mean?”

“Isn’t there one?” cried Nesta, in a tone of distress. “Why, you talk as though you wanted some one to be blind. What do you mean?”

“Well, I do; I want to read to her.”

“Sakes alive! what a queer child.”

“But is there one?”

“There ain’t as far as I’m aware. There’s old Mrs Johnston, but she ain’t blind; she has the very sharpest of eyes that were ever set into anybody’s head. She’s crool, too, crool, the way she snaps you up. She used to have a lady to read to her, but that lady has gone to Ameriky to be married. She went a week ago, and they say Mrs Johnston almost cried, crool as she used to be to Miss Palliser. Now, if you really wanted to – ”

“But I do; I do,” said Nesta. “I want to very badly indeed. May I go to see her? What is her address?”

“What ails her is rheumatism. She can’t stir without screeching out loud, and she wants some one to bolster her up. Not that I think much of you myself, but anyhow you might as well go and see.”

“Would she like me to go and see her to-day?”

“Bless you!” said Mrs Hogg, “on the Sawbath? Not a bit of it. She’d never give you nothing to do if you went and broke in on her Sunday rest. It’s church with her, as far as church indoors can be church, and she wouldn’t see you if you called fifty times. But you might go to-morrow, if you so liked it.”