All he ever dreamed of was to lie still.
In the village, everyone knew and disliked Jasper for his unbearable temper. He was married to Evelyn, a quiet woman plagued by one sorrow—she could not bear him children. They lived together twelve years, yet none came.
Then, like thunder from a clear sky, Evelyn died. Her mother had suspected her daughter was unwell, but Evelyn never complained.
“You don’t look right lately,” her mother would say when Evelyn visited.
“It’s nothing, Mum, just a bit faint sometimes. I’ll rest and be fine. Don’t fret.”
Evelyn never liked to fuss, least of all to Jasper—he couldn’t stand it when she had so much as a headache.
“Quit pretending, women always whinge about something. Too lazy to work, that’s it. No one pities you here,” he’d snap.
A year passed after the funeral. Jasper lived alone, but thoughts of remarrying gnawed at him. It was no good being solitary, even for a man who preferred his own company. He eyed the village women.
“Must be childless,” he mused. “Don’t want another man’s brats. Trouble is, women my age all have baggage. Need someone younger—though who’d take me?”
He knew well enough. His sour temper had won him no friends. The village kept its distance. Still, his gaze settled on Elsie—a plain, mousy thing, quiet and hardworking.
One day, he waylaid her near his cottage.
“Elsie! Come here.”
She looked up, startled, and obeyed.
“Good day, Mr. Whitlock.”
“Listen,” he grunted. “Been watching you. Fancy being my wife? I’ve a good home, steady money. We’ll live proper, have children. Need heirs, don’t I?”
“Oh! I—I’d have to ask Mum,” Elsie stammered, flushing.
“Ask, then. I’ll come by tonight.”
Elsie hurried home.
“Mum, I think I’m getting married.”
“What? To who? You’ve no beau!”
“Jasper Whitlock’s courting me.”
“Oh, child! He’s years older, and foul-tempered. Folk whisper he drove his first wife to the grave—worked her to death, or worse. Think hard before you bind yourself to that.”
“What choice have I? No suitors queuing for me, and time’s slipping. Maybe it’s just gossip…”
Elsie married Jasper. The village buzzed. Some pitied her:
“Poor lass, tying herself to that brute.”
Others reckoned Jasper lucky:
“Clever, picking a meek one. She’ll obey, work hard.”
And so it was. Jasper quarrelled with neighbours, scowled at his mother-in-law, and barely let Elsie visit home.
“He’s a tyrant,” Elsie’s mother hissed when her daughter sneaked over.
“It’s fine, Mum. I’ll manage. He growls, I stay quiet, pray for patience.”
“Oh, child, with a man like that, you’ll be praying all your life,” her mother wept.
Yet in five years, Elsie bore two sons. Jasper didn’t hate them—perhaps loved them in his way—but he snarled and cursed them all the same. Elsie warned the boys:
“Steer clear of your dad. Never know when he’ll lash out.”
They learned fast, vanishing outdoors till dark. Still, Jasper grumbled:
“Where do those layabouts loaf? Ought to be helping, not idling! You’ve spoiled them!”
Elsie weathered his rages, silent as stone. Though younger, she was wiser, holding house and home together while Jasper drank and ranted. Neighbours pitied her.
“How does she bear it?”
Time passed. The boys, grown, left for the city after school—rarely returning.
“Mum, don’t take it ill. We can’t stand his tongue. Nothing but bile.”
The eldest vowed:
“Once I’ve a wife, I’ll fetch you to the city.”
Elsie shook her head. “No, lad. My lot’s here.”
They stayed with Granny when they visited, treating home as a stranger’s house. Jasper’s temper worsened.
“All of you—leeches! Work my fingers to the bone, and for what? No respect!”
His gravelly, drunken voice carried far. Sometimes Elsie dared retort:
“You wanted marriage. Wanted sons. What now? And how much do you drink away?”
But silence was wiser—nothing would shut him up.
“Elsie, how d’you endure it?” her mother wept. “I’d have left long ago!”
“The boys need raising. I’m used to his noise.”
Years slid by. The sons married, settled in town. Then one morning, Elsie returned from milking to unnatural quiet. Upstairs, Jasper sprawled on the floor—gurgling, slack.
The doctor called it a stroke.
Brought home feeble, Jasper lay like a felled tree. Elsie tended him without complaint, though her mother sighed:
“Be careful what you wish for. Now he’s stone round your neck.”
“I’ll manage. At least it’s quiet.”
Eighteen months later, Jasper died without fuss.
In time, Elsie’s younger son returned with his family. Age had weakened her, and she moved in with her mother.
Jasper was scarcely remembered. Elsie thanked God his temper had skipped their sons. Grandchildren brought her joy. At last, her life was calm.
