Some girls are very quiet and nice in business, and very ladylike, and a credit to the house out of it; but are still not good barmaids, because they are not able to suit their manner to the class of customer they happen to be serving. Some of the best barmaids for work and smartness aren’t nice in other ways, giving themselves airs and showing off before the customers, and being fond of talking with the young fellows who come in and loll across the counter; and some of them dye their hair gold, and make themselves up, and look fast, which is a thing I have always had a horror of; but some of these girls are, as far as doing the trade is concerned, among the best barmaids going, and often there is a good deal less harm in them than in your quiet girls, who seem as if they couldn’t say boh to a goose, and look down on the floor, if a young fellow pays them a compliment.
A good, smart, showy barmaid has generally learnt her trade and knows her customers. The compliments paid to her run off her like water off a duck’s back, and she knows how to take care of herself. But her very independence makes her a trial to put up with, and if she’s a favourite with the customers she soon lets you know it.
Your quiet barmaid, who doesn’t dress up a bit, and only{251} says “yes” and “no” when the customers talk to her, is generally slow and makes a lot of silly mistakes, and is afraid of a bit of hard work. She is the sort of girl who can’t take more than one order at once, and draws stout1 for the people who ask for whiskey, and opens lemonade and puts it into the brandy for gentlemen who have ordered a B. and S. We had one of these extra quiet girls once, and she nearly drove me mad. On Saturday nights, and at busy times, if I hadn’t been in the bar half the people would have gone away without being served. But it was while she was with us that we began to feel uncomfortable about the state of the till, and, after we’d sent her off, it was found out that she’d been giving too much change every night to a scamp of a fellow that had made her believe he was desperately2 in love with her.
Miss Measom was one of the best barmaids we ever had, as a barmaid; but she was much too flighty for me. I didn’t like her the first day I saw her in the bar. She was what Harry3 called “larky,” and in a quiet place like ours that sort of thing attracts more attention than it would in London.
But when I knew her better, I really began to like her, and thought that there wasn’t any harm in the girl. It was just her animal spirits. She was full of mischief4, and had the merriest laugh I ever heard, and used to say the oddest things. What annoyed me at first was that some of the young fellows who used our house for the billiard room gave her a nickname. They called her “Tommy,” and she liked it. I didn’t. One evening I was in the bar and one of them said, “Tommy, give me another whiskey cold,” and I thought it wasn’t respectful to me, so I said, “That’s not Miss Measom’s name, Mr. Smith, and if you don’t mind I’d rather you didn’t call her by it.”
He was an impudent5 fellow, and he said, “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Beckett,” and then he said, “May I have the honour of asking you for another whiskey cold, if you please, Miss Measom?” And then a lot of the young monkeys that were with him began “Miss Measom-ing” all over the place, and the grown-up men, who ought to have known better, did it too, and I was so indignant, I went out of the bar and left them at it.{252}
It was Saturday evening, after the football, and that was always what Miss Measom used to call “a warm time,” because the young fellows in the club got excited, and they brought in the club that had come down to play them, and I was generally rather glad when it was time to shut up.
The night that this happened in the bar that I have told you about, after we’d shut, Miss Measom came to me and she said, “I hope you’re not cross with me, Mrs. Beckett. I can’t help them calling me Tommy, and they don’t mean any harm.” “I am cross, Miss Measom,” I said. “It doesn’t sound nice, and it isn’t the sort of thing for a place like ours. If you didn’t encourage them they wouldn’t do it.”
“I don’t encourage them—indeed I don’t!” said the girl; “but it’s no good my being nasty about it.”
I don’t know what I should have said; but Harry came in at the moment, and, hearing the conversation, he joined in and said he was sure Miss Measom couldn’t help it, and, after all, it was nothing, because young fellows would be young fellows, and you couldn’t expect them to behave in a bar as if they were in a chapel6.
That put my back up, and I turned on Harry quite indignantly, for I didn’t like his taking the girl’s side against me.
I don’t know what possessed7 me to say it, but I said, “Oh, I know Miss Measom is a great favourite of yours; wouldn’t you like me to beg her pardon?”
It was a very foolish thing to say. I felt so directly I’d said it; but I was in a temper, and wouldn’t draw it back.
“You’re very unwise to say a thing like that,” said Harry. “I can’t think what’s come to you lately.”
“I will say it,” I said; “and I am not the only person who says it. You are always sticking up for that girl against me. Both of her last Sundays out she has been home half an hour late, and you told me not to be cross with her about it.”
“You’re a foolish little woman,” Harry said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Oh, yes; I dare say it’s not an agreeable subject.{253}”
“No, it isn’t; get on with your supper.”
“I shan’t; I don’t want any supper,” I said, pushing my plate away.
“Oh, very well,” said Harry; “perhaps you’re better without it. I should think you’ve got indigestion now, and that’s what makes you so disagreeable.”
With that he got up from the table, and went and sat down in the armchair and lit his pipe, and took up the paper.
And we didn’t speak another word to each other that evening.
* * * * *
The next morning was Sunday, and, after breakfast, Miss Measom came to me and said, “Mrs. Beckett, can I say a word to you?”
“Yes,” I said quite sharply. “What is it?”
“I think I’d better leave.”
“As you please, Miss Measom.”
“Then, as soon as you’re suited.”
“Certainly!” and with that I turned on my heel and went upstairs to dress for church.
I didn’t say anything to Harry about Miss Measom having given notice. To tell the truth, I was beginning to be a little bit ashamed of myself, and to think that I had been too hasty.
After that Miss Measom’s manner quite changed in the bar. She hadn’t a smile for anybody, and the customers asked me what was the matter with the girl. The next Saturday when the young fellows came in one of them called her “Tommy.” She looked up quietly, and said, “Mr. So-and-so, I should be much obliged if you wouldn’t call me that. There are reasons why I ask you, which I can’t tell you.”
The young fellow, who was a gentleman, raised his hat, and after that nobody called our barmaid “Tommy” again.
The night before it was Miss Measom’s day to leave, after business she went straight up to her room. When I went up, I had to pass her door, and I thought I heard a strange noise. I stopped and listened, and then I knew it was some one sobbing9. I went to Miss Measom’s door and{254} knocked. It was a minute or two before she opened it, and when she did I saw that her eyes were quite red.
“What’s the matter, Jenny?” I said, calling her by her Christian10 name, feeling rather sorry for her.
She didn’t answer for a second, and then she began to cry right out. So I pushed the door to and made her sit down, and then I said, “Jenny, I don’t want to part bad friends with you. You’re in trouble. Won’t you tell me what it is?”
She looked at me through her tears a moment, and then she said, “Oh, Mrs. Beckett, I’m so sorry I’m going away like this.”
“So am I, Jenny,” I said; “but you gave me notice; you know I didn’t give it to you.”
“I couldn’t bear to cause trouble between you and your husband,” she answered. “You’ve been the nicest, kindest people I ever lived with, and I’ve been very happy here—till—till—till you said what you did; but you didn’t mean it, did you? Tell me you didn’t mean it.”
I hesitated for a moment. But the girl looked so heart-broken that I said, “No, Jenny, I didn’t; and I’m very sorry I ever said it.”
That broke the poor girl down altogether. So I put my arm round her waist, and drew her to me, and kissed her.
“There,” I said, “all is forgiven and forgotten, and if you like to stay on I’ll pay the new girl that’s coming a month’s wages, and tell her she isn’t wanted.”
“No; you are good and kind, as you have always been; but I can’t stay with you now—it wouldn’t be right—unless—unless you know all, and forgive me.”
When she said this it gave me quite a start. A hundred things came into my head. What had I to know, and to forgive when I knew it?
Without meaning it my manner changed, and I said, almost coldly, “What is it that I ought to know?”
“What I am,” she said, looking straight before her at the wall.” If my story were ever to come to you from some one else, after what you said that night, you might think worse of me than perhaps you will when you hear it from my own lips.”
“Mrs. Beckett, you’ve been very cross with me once or twice, when I’ve been late in on my nights out. Shall I tell you where I’d been, and what made me late?”
“Yes—if—if you think you ought to.”
“I had been to London to see my baby.”
“What—are you—are you—a married woman, then?”
“No! God help me, no!”
* * * * *
I can’t recollect12 what happened, or what I said or did for a few minutes after that. It was such a shock to me—so unexpected—that it almost took my breath away.
All I know is that presently I found Jenny on her knees by my side, pouring her story into my ears, telling it quickly and excitedly, as though she feared that I should refuse to hear her, if she didn’t get it out before I could stop her.
It was a very sad story.
Jenny Measom had been well brought up by her father and mother until she was fifteen, and then her father, who held a good position in a big brewery13, had a paralytic14 stroke. The most unfortunate thing about it was that it happened a week after he had left his old firm of his own accord, and gone to take a better position in another, so that he had not the slightest claim on either firm for much consideration, and the stroke meant ruin. He got a little better, but not well enough to get about or to do anything, and so Jenny’s mother had to take needlework, and Jenny was, by the kindness of the old firm, got into a public-house as a barmaid, and her earnings15 and her mother’s were all that kept them from the workhouse.
Jenny, with her bright merry ways and her smartness at her work, soon got on as a barmaid, and left the first public-house, and went to a big West End house, where the trade was of a higher character.
It was when she was eighteen, and in this swell16 West End house, that the great misfortune of her life happened to her. Among the young fellows who came to the bar was one named Sidney Draycott. He was a handsome young fellow, the son of an English doctor who had at that time a practice in Paris. Sidney Draycott was studying for his father’s profession, and, like most young fellows of his{256} class, he spent a good many of his evenings in bars and billiard-rooms.
He fell awfully17 in love with Jenny, and the poor girl fell in love with him, and they walked out together. It never entered the head of the young girl that the difference in their stations made the acquaintance a dangerous one, for “Sid,” as she called him, had asked her to be his wife. She spoke18 well, and played the piano, and had learnt quite enough before she left her good school to hold her own in conversation, and to appear a lady.
But the young fellow begged her to keep the engagement secret for the present, as he didn’t want anybody to know until he had passed his examination and become qualified19 to set up for himself, which would be very soon.
Jenny was in the seventh heaven of delight. She was going to be married to the man she loved, and he was a gentleman. The only person she told was her mother, and she was one of those simple-minded women who know very little of the world, and thought her dear, good, clever Jenny was fit to be a nobleman’s wife.
So things went on, and the young fellow passed his examination, and then he proposed that they should be married quietly before the registrar20, and the day was fixed21.
The Sunday before the wedding, which was to be on the following Wednesday, was Jenny’s Sunday out. She went with her lover into the country to look at a place where he thought of asking his father to buy a practice. They missed the last train, and they stayed at a little hotel something like ours in that country place.
On Monday morning Jenny went back to her business with an excuse about her mother having been ill, and having had to stop with her all night, and in the afternoon Mr. Draycott came in looking very worried, and told her he had just had a telegram calling him to Paris, as his father had been taken suddenly ill, and it was feared that he was dying. The marriage would have to be postponed23; but he would hurry back as soon as things turned either one way or the other with his father.{257}
He crossed to Paris by the night mail. What happened nobody ever knew. He was seen at Calais to get into a carriage where there were two other men—Frenchmen—and when the train stopped at Amiens, where there is a buffet24, and it waited for a short time, a passenger from Amiens to Paris going to get into the carriage, which was empty, noticed something wrong. There were signs of a struggle, and there was blood here and there.
The guard was called, and a search was made. The two men who had been seen at Calais, the guard then remembered not to have seen get out at Amiens, nor the young Englishman either. No trace of the men was ever found; but the young Englishman was discovered lying on the line half way between Calais and Amiens, with his pockets empty, his watch and his diamond pin gone, and with a terrible injury to his head.
He was instantly attended to by medical men, and removed to a proper place; but though the wound in time got better, and his life was saved, his brain was affected25. The doctors differed about him—some thought that in time he would gradually recover his reason, others that he would never do so. Poor Jenny couldn’t quite explain what it was; but it was supposed to be a clot26 of blood, or something of the sort, pressing on the brain, which might become absorbed in time, and then he would be all right, but which might not.
The young man’s father recovered from his illness, and had his son brought to Paris, and had the best advice, and it was recommended that he should be sent to an asylum—and there, said poor Jenny, as she finished her story, “the man, who was my affianced husband, now is; and my baby is with my mother, God bless her, for she has never given me one reproach. And so, you see, I have three to keep, Mrs. Beckett, and if I get out of a situation, and there is anything against my character, they must suffer as well as I.”
Poor Jenny—it was a sad story. As soon as she was a little calmer I asked her if she had not let her lover’s father know.
“No,” she said proudly, “I would sooner starve. My poor Sid would have married me, I know; everything was{258} arranged; but how could I go to his father in his great trouble, and tell him that which might perhaps add to his grief and despair?”
“Jenny,” I said, when she had finished, “you have trusted me, and you shall never repent27 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 determined28 to keep her on, as she was such a good barmaid; and he said, “As you will, little woman; I leave it entirely29 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 grumbled30 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.{259}
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?”
“No,” she whispered, opening her eyes slowly, “look—look at the paper!”
I kept my arm around her and stooped and picked up the London paper, which had fallen from her hands on to the floor.
I looked at it for a minute and couldn’t see anything—then a name caught my eye, and I read this——
“It is reported from Paris that the young Englishman who was robbed and thrown out of a train some time ago between Calais and Amiens has at last recovered from the injury to the brain, which at one time threatened to be permanent. The case has aroused much interest in the medical profession in Paris, where, it may be remembered, his father, Dr. Draycott, has been for many years a resident.”
“Oh, Jenny!” I said; and that was all I could say. But we had a long talk up in her room afterwards, and she decided31 that she would write the next day to Sidney, under cover to his father—only a line with her address, nothing to worry him, nothing to distress32 him, only these words:—“The present address of J. Measom is ‘The Stretford Arms,’” and then she added the name of our village and the county.
She put “J.,” not to put “Jenny,” for fear the father might open it. Of course “J.” might be a John, and she wrote it in a big, round hand that might be a man’s.
Three days afterwards a telegram came. She showed it me. It was only this: “My poor darling,—I am coming back as soon as I can travel. Have written. God bless you!”
And then came a letter—a letter written in a shaky hand; but one that poor Jenny kissed and hugged and{260} cried and sobbed33 over till I really was afraid she would make herself quite ill.
I had an idea that it would be all right for poor Jenny now; but I was a little afraid how the young fellow would take what had happened after he left England. Some men, under the circumstances, would have been heartless enough to—but what is the use of troubling about what some men would have done. Sidney Draycott behaved like a noble and honourable34 young Englishman. He came back to London a month later, and took Jenny to the church one fine morning, and he brought her out again Mrs. Sidney Draycott.
I went up to town for the day, and was at the church, and I was the only one invited except a great friend of Mr. Draycott’s, who had come up from the country on purpose. Jenny cried, and I cried, and nearly spoilt my beautiful new bonnet35 strings36 letting the tears run down them, and after it was all over and Jenny had kissed her husband, she came up and put her arms round my neck and kissed me, and then we both had just one little moment’s cry together, and then they both went off quietly in a four-wheel cab to see the baby.
* * * * *
Ever since Jenny Measom left us she has written to me and I have written to her. Some time ago, when I was not very well, the doctor said that I wanted a change, and so I wrote to Jenny, and said that perhaps I was going to the seaside, and she might not hear from me till I came home again. Two days afterwards I got such a nice letter back saying that she and her husband would be very angry if I didn’t come and stay with them. It would do me quite as much good as the seaside and more, and her husband, being a doctor, if I was out of sorts could make me up all manner of nice things to take. Of course this was a joke, but the invitation wasn’t, and I went. And I was very glad that I did, for they made quite a fuss with me, and I couldn’t have been treated better if I had been a duchess.
They have the loveliest little place, in a nice country town, where Mr. Draycott is established as a doctor, and is doing wonderfully well. Quite a lovely home it is, and{261} they are so happy. And Jenny has her baby and her mother with her to help her, and to keep her company when the doctor is out on his rounds.
The people about the place of course, don’t know when they were married, as it has been kept quite secret. Even Mr. Draycott’s father thinks they were married secretly before he left London for Paris and met with that terrible adventure. Old Mr. Draycott has been over once from Paris, and Jenny says that he fell quite in love with her before he left, and said that his son was a lucky dog. Wasn’t it nice of him? Poor old Mr. Measom died very soon after the wedding; but he died very happy, knowing his daughter was comfortably settled. Poor old gentleman! it was the best thing perhaps, for he had become quite childish.
When I left to come back again to the ‘Stretford Arms,’ I was quite another woman. My cheeks were quite fat and rosy37 again, and Harry, when he met me at the station, pretended not to know me, but came up and said, “I beg your pardon, miss, but have you seen a pale young woman named Mary Jane anywhere about?”
The big goose! I gave him a kiss before all the railway porters, who wouldn’t look the other way, and I said, “No, I haven’t, and I hope she won’t see me or she mightn’t like me kissing her husband.”
Before I left I told Jenny and her husband that I should insist on their coming and staying for a week at our hotel as our guests, and they have promised that they will. When I asked them, Jenny looked up, with a twinkle in her eye, and the old saucy38 look on her face, and she said, “I’ll come; but you must promise not to be cross with Mr. Beckett if anybody calls me ‘Tommy,’ won’t you?”
Dear old “Tommy!” Oh, how glad I am that I didn’t let her go away through my nasty jealous temper! Who knows if things would have turned out so happily as they did if I hadn’t made it up with her and asked her to stay on at the ‘Stretford Arms.’
After Jenny left we had a barmaid, who——
* * * * *
Nurse, will you stop those children? Whatever are they making such a noise about? Master Harry and the{262} baby fighting for the kitten! Then, take the kitten away from them! That poor kitten! I’m sure I expect to see it pulled in two sometimes. Can anybody tell me why cats and kittens and dogs let little babies pull them about and hardly ever scratch or bite? It is always a mystery to me.
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2
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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3
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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4
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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5
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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6
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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7
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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8
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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9
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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10
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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11
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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12
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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13
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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15
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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16
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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17
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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19
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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clot
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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28
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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29
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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30
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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32
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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35
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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36
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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38
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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