ONE DAY AT ARLE By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 One day at Arle--a tiny scattered fishing hamlet on the northwesternEnglish coast--there stood at the door of one of the cottages near theshore a woman leaning against the lintel-post and looking out: a womanwho would have been apt to attract a stranger's eye, too--a woman youngand handsome. This was what a first glance would have taken in; a secondwould have been apt to teach more and leave a less pleasant impression. She was young enough to have been girlish, but she was not girlish inthe least. Her tall, lithe, well-knit figure was braced against thedoor-post with a tense sort of strength; her handsome face was just atthis time as dark and hard in expression as if she had been a woman withyears of bitter life behind her; her handsome brows were knit, her lipswere set; from head to foot she looked unyielding and stern of purpose. And neither form nor face belied her. The earliest remembrances of thecoast people concerning Meg Lonas had not been over-pleasant ones. Shehad never been a favorite among them. The truth was they had half fearedher, even as the silent, dogged, neglected child who used to wander upand down among the rocks and on the beach, working harder for her scantliving than the oldest of them. She had never a word for them, and neversatisfied their curiosity upon the subject of the treatment she receivedfrom the ill-conditioned old grandfather who was her only livingrelative, and this last peculiarity had rendered her more unpopular thananything else would have done. If she had answered their questionsthey might have pitied her; but as she chose to meet them with stubbornsilence, they managed to show their dislike in many ways, until at lastit became a settled point among them that the girl was an outcast intheir midst. But even in those days she gave them back wrong for wrongand scorn for scorn; and as she grew older she grew stronger of will, less prone to forgive her many injuries and slights, and more prone torevenge them in an obstinate, bitter fashion. But as she grew older shegrew handsomer too, and the fisher boys who had jeered at her in herchildhood were anxious enough to gain her good-will. The women flouted her still, and she defied them openly; the men foundit wisest to be humble in their rough style, and her defiance of themwas more scornful than her defiance of their mothers and sisters. Shewould revenge herself upon them, and did, until at last she met a wooerwho was tender enough, it seemed, to move her. At least so people saidat first; but suddenly the lover disappeared, and two or three monthslater the whole community was electrified by her sudden marriage with asuitor whom she had been wont to treat worse than all the rest. How shetreated him after the marriage nobody knew. She was more defiant andsilent than ever, and gossipers gained nothing by asking questions. Soat last she was left alone. It was not the face of a tender wife waiting for a loving husband, theface that was turned toward the sea. If she had hated the man for whomshe watched she could not have seemed more unbending. Ever since hervisitor had left her (she had had a visitor during the morning) she hadstood in the same place, even in the same position, without moving, andwhen at last the figure of her husband came slouching across the sandshomeward she remained motionless still. And surely his was not the face of a happy husband. Not a handsomeface at its dull best, it was doubly unprepossessing then, as, paleand breathless, he passed the stern form in the doorway, his nervous, reluctant eyes avoiding hers. "Yo'll find yo're dinner aw ready on th' table, " she said to him as hepassed in. Everything was neat enough inside. The fireplace was clean and bright, the table was set tidily, and the meal upon it was good enough in itsway; but when the man entered he cast an unsteady, uncomprehendingglance around, and when he had flung himself into a chair he did notattempt to touch the food, but dropped his face upon his arm on thetable with a sound like a little groan. She must have heard it, but she did not notice it even by a turn of herhead, but stood erect and steadfast until he spoke to her. She mighthave been waiting for his words--perhaps she was. "Tha canst come in an' say what tha has to say an' be done wi' it, " hesaid at last, in a sullen, worn-out fashion. She turned round then and faced him, harder to be met in her rigid moodthan if she had been a tempest. "Tha knows what I ha' getten to say, " she answered, her tone strainedand husky with repressed fierceness. "Aye! tha knows it well enough. I ha' not much need to tell thee owt. He comn here this morning an' hetowd me aw I want to know about thee, Seth Lonas--an' more too. " "He comn to me, " put in the man. She advanced towards the table and struck it once with her hand. "Tha'st towd me a power o' lies, " she said. "Tha's lied to me fro' firstto last to serve thy own eends, an' tha'st gained 'em--tha'st lied meaway fro' th' man as wur aw th' world to me, but th' time's comn nowwhen thy day's o'er an' his is comn agen. Ah! thou bitter villain! Doesta mind how tha comn an' towd me Dan Morgan had gone to th' fair at Lakewi' that lass o' Barnegats? That wur a lie an' that wur th' beginnin'. Does ta mind how tha towd me as he made light o' me when th' lads an'lasses plagued him, an' threeped 'em down as he didna mean to marry nosuch like lass as me--him as wur ready to dee fur me? That wur a lie an'that wur th' eendin', as tha knew it would be, fur I spurned him fro' meth' very next day, an' wouldna listen when he tried to straighten' out. But he got at th' truth at last when he wur fur fro' here, an' he browtth' truth back to me to-day, an' theer's th' eend fur thee--husband orno. " The man, lay with his head upon his arms until she had finished, andthen he looked up all white and shaken and blind. "Wilt ta listen if I speak to thee?" he asked. "Aye, " she answered, "listen to more lies!" And she slipped down into a sitting posture on the stone door-step, andsat there, her great eyes staring out seaward, her hands lying looseupon her knee, and trembling. There was something more in her mood than resentment. In this simplegesture she had broken down as she had never broken down in her lifebefore. There was passionate grief in her face, a wild sort of despair, such as one might see in a suddenly-wounded, untamed creature. Hers wasnot a fair nature. I am not telling the story of a gentle, true-souledwoman--I am simply relating the incidents of one bitter day whose tragicclose was the ending of a rough romance. Her life had been a long battle against the world's scorn; she had beeneither on the offensive or the defensive from childhood to womanhood, and then she had caught one glimpse of light and warmth, clung to ityearningly for one brief hour, and lost it. Only to-day she had learned that she had lost it through treachery. She had not dared to believe in her bliss, even during its fairestexistence; and so, when light-hearted, handsome Dan Morgan's rival hadworked against him with false stories and false proofs, her fierce pridehad caught at them, and her revenge had been swift and sharp. But it hadfallen back upon her own head now. This very morning handsome Dan hadcome back again to Arle, and earned his revenge, too, though he hadonly meant to clear himself when he told her what chance had broughtto light. He had come back--her lover, the man who had conquered andsweetened her bitter nature as nothing else on earth had power to do--hehad come back and found her what she was--the wife of a man for whom shehad never cared, the wife of the man who had played them both false, androbbed her of the one poor gleam of joy she had known. She had been hardand wild enough at first, but just now, when she slipped down upon thedoor-step with her back turned to the wretched man within--when it cameupon her that, traitor as he was, she herself had given him the rightto take her bright-faced lover's place, and usurp his tender power--whenthe fresh sea-breeze blew upon her face and stirred her hair, and thewarm, rare sunshine touched her, even breeze and sunshine helped herto the end, so that she broke down into a sharp sob, as any other womanmight have done, only that the repressed strength of her poor warpednature made it a sob sharper and deeper than another woman's would havebeen. "Yo' mought ha' left me that!" she said. "Yo' mought ha' left it to me!There wur other women as would ha' done yo', there wur no other man onearth as would do me. Yo' knowed what my life had been, an' how it wurhand to hand betwixt other folk an' me. Yo' knowed how much I cared furhim an' what he wur to me. Yo' mought ha' let us be. I nivver harmedyo'. I wouldna harm yo' so sinful cruel now. " "Wilt ta listen?" he asked, laboring as if for breath. "Aye, " she answered him, "I'll listen, fur tha conna hurt me worser. Th'day fur that's past an' gone. " "Well, " said he, "listen an I'll try to tell yo'. I know it's no use, butI mun say a word or two. Happen yo' didna know I loved yo' aw' yorelife--happen yo' didna, but it's true. When yo' wur a little lassgatherin' sea-weed on th' sands I watched yo' when I wurafeared tospeak--afeared lest yo'd gi' me a sharp answer, fur yo' wur ready enowwi' 'em, wench. I've watched yo' fur hours when I wur a great lubberlylad, an' when yo' gettin' to be a woman it wur th' same thing. I watchedyo' an' did yo' many a turn as yo' knowed nowt about. When yo' wursearchin' fur drift to keep up th' fire after th' owd mon deed an' leftyo' alone, happen yo' nivver guessed as it wur me as heaped little pilesi' th' nooks o' th' rocks so as yo'd think 'at th' tide had left ittheer--happen yo' did n't, but it wur true. I've stayed round the oldhouse many a neet, feared summat mought harm yo', an' yo' know yo' niwergave me a good word, Meg. An' then Dan comn an' he made way wi' yo' ashe made way wi' aw th' rest--men an' women an' children. He niwer workedan' waited as I did--he niwer thowt an' prayed as I did; everything comeeasy wi' him--everything allus did come easy wi' him, an' when I seedhim so light-hearted an' careless about what I wur cravin' it run medaft an' blind. Seemt like he couldna cling to it like I did an' I begunto fight agen it, an' when I heerd about that lass o' Barnegats I towdyo', an' when I seen yo' believed what I didna believe mysen, it run medafter yet, an' I put more to what he said, an' held back some, an'theer it wur an' theer it stands, an' if I've earnt a curse, lass, I'vegetten it, fur--fur I thowt yo'd been learnin' to care fur me a bit sin'we wur wed, an' God knows I've tried to treat yo' fair an' kind i' mypoor way. It wurna Dan Morgan's way, I know--his wur a better way thanmine, th' sun shone on him somehow--but I've done my best an' truestsin'. " "Yo've done yo're worst, " she said. "Th' worst yo' could do wur to partus, an' yo' did it. If yo'd been half a mon yo' wouldna ha' been contentwi' a woman yo'd trapped with sayin' 'Aye, ' an' who cared less for yo'than she did fur th' sand on th' sea-shore. What's what yo've done sin'to what yo' did afore? Yo' conna wipe that out and yo' conna mak' meforget. I hate yo', an' th' worse because I wur beginnin' to be contenta bit. I hate mysen. I ought to ha' knowed"--wildly--"he would ha'knowed whether I wur true or false, poor chap--he would ha' knowed. " She rocked herself to and fro for a minute, wringing her hands in apassion of anguish worse than any words, but a minute later she turnedon him all at once. "All's o'er betwixt yo' an' me, " she said with fierce heat; "do yo' knowthat? If yo' wur half a mon yo' would. " He sat up and stared at her humbly and stupidly. "Eh?" he said at last. "Theer's not a mon i' Arle as isna more to me now than tha art, " shesaid, "Some on 'em be honest, an' I conna say that o' thee. Tha canstget thee gone or I'll go mysen. Tha knows't me well enow to know I'llne'er f orgie thee for what tha's done. Aye"--with the passionatehand-wringing again--"but that wunnot undo it. " He rose and came to her, trembling like a man with the ague. "Yo' dunnot mean that theer, Meg, " he said slowly. "You dunnot mean itword fur word. Think a bit. " "Aye, but I do, " she answered him, setting her white teeth, "word furword. " "Think again, wench. " And this time he staggered and caught hold of thedoor-post. "Is theer nowt as'll go agen th' wrong? I've lived wi'theenigh a year, an' I've loved thee twenty--is theer nowt fur me? Aye, lass, dunnot be too hard. Tha was allus harder than most womankind; tryan' be a bit softer like to'rds th' mon as risked his soul because hewur a mon an' darena lose thee. Tha laid thy head on my shoulder lastneet. Aye, lass--lass, think o' that fur one minnit. " Perhaps she did think of it, for surely she faltered a little--whatwoman would not have faltered at such a moment?--but the next, thememory of the sunny, half-boyish face she had clung to with so stronga love rushed back upon her and struck her to the heart. She rememberedthe days when her life had seemed so full that she had feared her ownbliss; she remembered the gallant speeches and light-hearted wiles, andall at once she cried out in a fierce, impassioned voice: "I'll ne'erforgie thee, " she said--"I'll ne'er forgie thee to th' last day o' mylife. What fur should I? Tha's broke my heart, thou villain--tha's brokemy heart. " And the next minute she had pushed past him and rushed intothe house. For a minute or so after she was gone the man stood leaning against thedoor with a dazed look in his pale face. She meant what she said: hehad known her long enough to understand that she never forgave--neverforgot. Her unbroken will and stubborn strength had held her to enmitiesall her life, and he knew she was not to be won by such things as wonother women. He knew she was harder than most women, but his dull naturecould not teach him how bitter must have been the life that rendered herso. He had never thought of it--he did not think of it now. He was notblaming her, and he was scarcely blaming himself. He had tried to makeher happy and had failed. There were two causes for the heavy passion ofmisery that was ruling him, but neither of them was remorse. His treachery had betrayed him, and he had lost the woman he had lovedand worked for. Soul and body were sluggish alike, but each had its dullpang of weight and wretchedness. "I've come to th' eend now surely, " he said, and, dropping into herseat, he hid his face. As he sat there a choking lump rose in his throat with a sudden click, and in a minute or so more he was wiping away hot rolling tears with theback of his rough hand. "I'm forsook somehow, " he said--"aye, I'm forsook. I'm not th' soart o'chap to tak' up wi' th' world. She wur all th' world I cared fur, an'she'll ne'er forgie me, for she's a hard un--she is. Aye! but I wurfond o' her! I wonder what she'll do--I do wonder i' my soul what she'sgettin' her mind on!" It did not occur to him to call to her or go and see what she was doing. He had always stood in some dull awe of her, even when she had beenkindest, and now it seemed that they were too far apart for anypossibility of approach at reconciliation. So he sat and ponderedheavily, the sea air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun shiningsoft and warm upon the house, and the few common flowers in the stripof garden whose narrow shell walks and borders he had laid out for herhimself with much clumsy planning and slow labor. Then he got up and took his rough working-jacket over his arm. "I mun go down to th' Mary Anne, " he said, "an' work a bit, or we'llne'er get her turned o'er afore th' tide comes in. That boat's a moit o'trouble. " And he sighed heavily. Half-way to the gate he stopped before a cluster of ground honeysuckle, and perhaps for the first time in his life was conscious of a suddencurious admiration for them. "She's powerful fond o' such loike bits o' things--posies an' suchloike, " he said. "Thems some as I planted to please her on th' very dayas we were wed. I'll tak' one or two. She's main fond on 'em--fur such ahard un. " And when he went out he held in his hand two or three slender stems hungwith the tiny pretty humble bells. He had these very bits of simple blossoms in his hand when he wentdown to where the Mary Anne lay on the beach for repairs. So hisfellow-workmen said when they told the story afterwards, rememberingeven this trivial incident. He was in a strange frame of mind, too, they noticed, silent and heavyand absent. He did not work well, but lagged over his labor, stoppingevery now and then to pass the back of his hand over his brow as if torouse himself. "Yo' look as if yo' an' th' missus had had a fallin' out an' yo'n gettenth' worst o' th' bargain, " one of his comrades said by way of roughjest. They were fond of joking with him about his love for his handsome, taciturn wife. But he did not laugh this time as he usually did. "Mind thy own tackle, lad, " he said dully, "an I'll mind mine. " From that time he worked steadily among them until it was nearly timefor the tide to rise. The boat they were repairing had been a difficultjob to manage, as they could only work between tides, and now beinghurried they lingered longer than usual. At the last minute they foundit must be moved, and so were detained. "Better leave her until th' tide ebbs, " said one, but the rest were notof the same mind. "Nay, " they argued, "it'll be all to do o'er agen if we do that. Theer'splenty o' time if we look sharp enow. Heave again, lads. " Then it was that with the help of straining and tugging there came alittle lurch, and then it was that as the Mary Anne slipped over on herside one of the workers slipped with her, slipped half underneath herwith a cry, and lay on the sand, held down by the weight that rested onhim. With his cry there broke out half a dozen others, and the men rushed upto him with frightened faces. . "Are yo' hurt, Seth, lad?" they cried. "Are yo' crushed or owt?" The poor fellow stirred a little and then looked up at them pale enough. "Bruised a bit, " he answered them, "an' sick a bit, but I dunnot thinktheer's any bones broke. Look sharp, chaps, an' heave her up. She's amoit o' weight on me. " They went to work again one and all, so relieved by his words that theywere doubly strong, but after toiling like giants for a while they werecompelled to pause for breath. In falling the boat had so buried herselfin the sand that she was harder to move than ever. It had seemed simpleenough at first, but it was not so simple, after all. With all theirefforts they had scarcely stirred her an inch, and their comrade'sposition interfered with almost every plan suggested. Then they triedagain, but this time with less effect than before, through theirfatigue. When they were obliged to pause they looked at each otherquestioningly, and more than one of them turned a trifle paler, and atlast the wisest of them spoke out:-- "Lads, " he said, "we conna do this oursens. Run for help, Jem Coulter, an' run wi' thy might, fur it wunnot be so long afore th' tide'll flow. " Up to this time the man on the sands had lain with closed eyes and setteeth, but when he heard this his eyes opened and he looked up. "Eh!" he said, in that blind, stupid fashion. "What's that theer tha'ssayin' Mester?" "Th' tide, " blundered the speaker. "I wur tellin' him to look sharp, that's aw. " The poor fellow moved restlessly. "Aye! aye!" he said. "Look sharp--he mun do that. I didna think o' th'tide. " And he shut his eyes again with a faint groan. They strove while the messenger was gone; and they strove when hereturned with assistance; they strove with might and main, until not aman among them had the strength of a child, and the boldest of them wereblanching with a fearful, furtive excitement none dared to show. A crowdhad gathered round by this time--men willing and anxious to help, womensuggesting new ideas and comforting the wounded man in rough, earneststyle; children clinging to their mothers' gowns and looking onterror-stricken. Suddenly, in the midst of one of their mightiestefforts, a sharp childish voice piped out from the edge of an anxiousgroup a brief warning that struck terror to every heart that beat amongthem. "Eh! Mesters!" it said, "th' tide's creepin' up a bit. " The men looked round with throbbing pulses, the women looked also, andone of the younger ones broke into a low cry. "Lord, ha' mercy!" shesaid; "it'll sweep around th' Bend afore long, an'--an'"--and she endedwith a terror in her voice which told its own tale without other words. The truth forced itself upon them all then. Women began to shriek andmen to pray, but, strange to say, the man whose life was at stake laysilent, with ashen lips, about which the muscles were tensely drawn. His dull eyes searched every group in a dead despair that was yet apassion, in all its stillness. "How long will it be, " he asked slowly at last--"th' tide? Twentyminutes?" "Happen so, " was the answer. "An', lad, lad! we conna help thee. We'ntried our best, lad"--with sobs even from the uncouth fellow who spoke"Theer is na one on us but 'ud leave a limb behind to save thee, buttheer is na time--theer is na"-- One deep groan and he lay still again--quite still. God knows whatweight of mortal agony and desperate terror crushed him in that dead, helpless pause. Then his eyes opened as before. "I've thowt o' deein', " he said with a catch of his breath. "I've thowto' deein', an' I've wondered how it wur an' what it felt like. I neverthowt o' deein' like this here. " Another pause and then-- "Which o' yo' lads 'll tell my missus?" "Ay! poor chap, poor chap!" wailed the women. "Who on 'em will?" "Howd tha noise, wenches, " he said hoarsely. "Yo' daze me. Theer is natime to bring her here. I'd ha' liked to ha' said a word to her. I'd ha'liked to ha' said one word; Jem Coulter"--raising his voice--"canst thasay it fur me?" "Aye, " cried the man, choking as he spoke, "surely, surely. " And heknelt down. "Tell her 'at if it wur bad enow--this here--it wur not so bad as itmought ha' been--fur _me_. I mought ha' fun it worser. Tell her I'd liketo ha' said a word if I could--but I couldna. I'd like to ha' heard hersay one word, as happen she would ha' said if she'd been here, an' tellher 'at if she had ha' said it th' tide mought ha' comn an' welcome--butshe didna, an' theer it stands. " And the sob that burst from hisbreast was like the sob of a death-stricken child. "Happen"--he saidnext--"happen one o' yo' women-foak con say a bit o' a prayer--yo're notso fur fro' safe sand but yo' can reach it--happen one o' yo' ha' a wordor two as yo' could say--such like as yo' teach yo're babbies. " Among these was one who had--thank God, thank God! and so, amid wailsand weeping, rough men and little children alike knelt with uncoveredheads and hidden eyes while this one woman faltered the prayer that wasa prayer for a dying man; and when it was ended, and all rose glancingfearfully at the white line of creeping foam, this dying man for whomthey had prayed, lay upon his death-bed of sand the quietest of themall--quiet with a strange calm. "Bring me my jacket, " he said, "an' lay it o'er my face. Theer's a bito' a posie in th' button-hole. I getten it out o' th' missus's gardenwhen I comn away. I'd like to howld it i' my hand if it's theer yet. " And as the long line of white came creeping onward they hurriedly didas he told them--laid the rough garment over his face, and gave him thehumble dying flowers to hold, and 'aving done this and lingered to thelast moment, one after the other dropped away with awe-stricken soulsuntil the last was gone. And under the arch of sunny sky the littleshining waves ran up the beach, chasing each other over the glitteringsand, catching at shells and sea-weed, toying with them for a moment, and then leaving them, rippling and curling and whispering, butcreeping--creeping--creeping. They gave his message to the woman he had loved with all the desperatestrength of his dull, yet unchanging nature; and when the man who gaveit to her saw her wild, white face and hard-set lips, he blundered uponsome dim guess as to what that single word might have been, but thesharpest of them never knew the stubborn anguish that, following andgrowing day by day, crushed her fierce will and shook her heart. Shewas as hard as ever, they thought; but they were none of them the menor women to guess at the long dormant instinct of womanhood and remorsethat the tragedy of this one day of her life had awakened. She had saidshe would never forgive him, and perhaps her very strength made it longbefore she did; but surely some subtle chord was touched by those heavylast words, for when, months later, her first love came back, faithfuland tender, with his old tale to tell she would not listen. "Nay, lad, " she said, "I amna a feather to blow wi' th' wind. I've hadmy share o' trouble wi' men foak, an' I ha' no mind to try again. Him aslies i' th' churchyard loved me i' his way--men foak's way is apt to bea poor un--an' I'm wore out wi' life. Dunnot come here courtin'--tak' abetter woman. " But yet, there are those who say that the time will come when he willnot plead in vain.