the squire of sandal-side a pastoral romance by amelia e. barr author of "jan vedder's wife," "a daughter of fife," "the bow of orange ribbon," etc. new york the a.d. porter co. publishers contents. i. seat-sandal ii. the sheep-shearing iii. julius sandal iv. thus runs the world away v. charlotte vi. the day before christmas vii. wooing and wedding viii. the enemy in the household ix. esau x. the new squire xi. sandal and sandal chapter i. seat-sandal. "this happy breed of men, this little world." "to know that which before us lies in daily life is the prime wisdom." "all that are lovers of virtue ... be quiet, and go a-angling." there is a mountain called seat-sandal, between the dunmail raise and grisedale pass; and those who have stood upon its summit know that grasmere vale and lake lie at their feet, and that windermere, esthwaite, and coniston, with many arms of the sea, and a grand brotherhood of mountains, are all around them. there is also an old gray manor-house of the same name. it is some miles distant from the foot of the mountain, snugly sheltered in one of the loveliest valleys between coniston and torver. no one knows when the first stones of this house were laid. the sandals were in sandal-side when the white-handed, waxen-faced edward was building westminster abbey, and william the norman was laying plans for the crown of england. probably they came with those norsemen who a century earlier made the isle of man their headquarters, and from it, landing on the opposite coast of cumberland, settled themselves among valleys and lakes and mountains of primeval beauty, which must have strongly reminded them of their native land. for the prevailing names of this district are all of the norwegian type, especially such abounding suffixes and prefixes as _seat_ from "set," a dwelling; _dale_ from "dal," a valley; _fell_ from "fjeld," a mountain; _garth_ from "gard," an enclosure; and _thwaite_, from "thveit," a clearing. it is certain, also, that, in spite of much anglo-saxon admixture, the salt blood of the roving viking is still in the cumberland dalesman. centuries of bucolic isolation have not obliterated it. every now and then the sea calls some farmer or shepherd, and the restless drop in his veins gives him no peace till he has found his way over the hills and fells to the port of whitehaven, and gone back to the cradling bosom that rocked his ancestors. but in the main, this lovely spot was a northern lotus-land to the viking. the great hills shut him in from the sight of the sea. he built himself a "seat," and enclosed "thwaites" of greater or less extent; and, forgetting the world in his green paradise, was for centuries almost forgotten by the world. and if long descent and an ancient family have any special claim to be held honorable, it is among the cumberland "statesmen," or freeholders, it must be looked for in england. the sandals have been wise and fortunate owners of the acres which lögberg sandal cleared for his descendants. they have a family tradition that he came from iceland in his own galley; and a late generation has written out portions of a saga,--long orally transmitted,--which relates the incidents of his voyage. all the sandals believe implicitly in its authenticity; and, indeed, though it is full of fighting, of the plunder of gold and rich raiment, and the carrying off of fair women, there is nothing improbable in its relations, considering the people and the time whose story it professes to tell. doubtless this very lögberg sandal built the central hall of seat-sandal. there were giants in those days; and it must have been the hands of giants that piled the massive blocks, and eyes accustomed to great expanses that measured off the large and lofty space. smaller rooms have been built above it and around it, and every generation has added something to its beauty and comfort; but lögberg's great hall, with its enormous fireplace, is still the heart of the home. for nowhere better than among these "dalesmen" can the english elemental resistance to fusion be seen. only at the extreme point of necessity have they exchanged ideas with any other section, yet they have left their mark all over english history. in cumberland and westmoreland, the most pathetic romances of the red rose were enacted. in the strength of these hills, the very spirit of the reformation was cradled. from among them came the wyckliffite queen of henry the eighth, and the noble confessor and apostle bernard gilpin. no lover of protestantism can afford to forget the man who refused the bishopric of carlisle, and a provostship at oxford, that he might traverse the hills and dales, and read to the simple "statesmen" and shepherds the unknown gospels in the vernacular. they gathered round him in joyful wonder, and listened kneeling to the scriptures. only the death of mary prevented his martyrdom; and to-day his memory is as green as are the ivies and sycamores around his old home. the protestant spirit which gilpin raised among these english northmen was exceptionally intense; and here george fox found ready the strong mystical element necessary for his doctrines. for these men had long worshipped "in temples not made with hands." in the solemn "high places" they had learned to interpret the voices of winds and waters; and among the stupendous crags, more like clouds at sunset than fragments of solid land, they had seen and heard wonderful things. all over this country, from kendal to old ulverston, fox was known and loved; and from swarthmoor hall, a manor-house not very far from seat-sandal, he took his wife. after this the stuarts came marching through the dales, but the followers of wyckliffe and fox had little sympathy with the stuarts. in the rebellion of , their own lord, the earl of derwentwater, was beheaded for aiding the unfortunate family; and the hills and waters around are sad with the memories of his lady's heroic efforts and sufferings. so, when prince charles came again, in , they were moved neither by his beauty nor his romantic daring: they would take no part at all in his brilliant blunder. it was for his stanch loyalty on this occasion, that the christopher sandal of that day was put among the men whom king george determined to honor. a baronetcy was offered him, which he declined; for he had a feeling that he would deeply offend old lögberg sandal, and perhaps all the rest of his ancestral wraiths, if he merged their ancient name in that of baron of torver. the sentiment was one the german king of england could understand and respect; and sandal received, in place of a costly title, the lucrative office of high sheriff of cumberland, and a good share besides of the forfeited lands of the rebel houses of huddleston and millom. then he took his place among the great county families of england. he passed over his own hills, and went up to london, and did homage for the king's grace to him. and that strange journey awakened in the mountain lord some old spirit of adventure and curiosity. he came home by the ocean, and perceived that he had only half lived before. he sent his sons to oxford; he made them travel; he was delighted when the youngest two took to the sea as naturally as the eider-ducks fledged in a sea-sand nest. good fortune did not spoil the old, cautious family. it went "cannily" forward, and knew how "to take occasion by the hand," and how to choose its friends. towards the close of the eighteenth century, an opportune loan again set the doors of the house of lords open to the sandals; but the head of the family was even less inclined to enter it than his grandfather had been. "nay, then," was his answer, "t' sandals are too old a family to hide their heads in a coronet. happen, i am a bit opinion-tied, but it's over late to loosen knots made centuries ago; and i don't want to loosen them, neither." so it will be perceived, that, though the sandals moved, they moved slowly. a little change went a great way with them. the men were all conservative in politics, the women intensely so in all domestic traditions. they made their own sweet waters and unguents and pomades, long after the nearest chemist supplied a far better and cheaper article. their spinning-wheels hummed by the kitchen-fire, and their shuttles glided deftly in the weaving-room, many a year after manchester cottons were cheap and plentiful. but they were pleasant, kindly women, who did wonderful needlework, and made all kinds of dainty dishes and cordials and sirups. they were famous florists and gardeners, and the very neatest of housewives. they visited the poor and sick, and never went empty-handed. they were hearty churchwomen. they loved god, and were truly pious, and were hardly aware of it; for those were not days of much inquiry. people did their duty and were happy, and did not reason as to "why" they did it, nor try to ascertain if there were a legitimate cause for the effect. but about the beginning of this century, a different day began to dawn over sandal-side. the young heir came to his own, and signalized the event by marrying the rich miss lowther of whitehaven. she had been finely educated. she had lived in large cities, and been to court. she dressed elegantly; she had a piano and much grand furniture brought over the hills to sandal; and she filled the old house during the summer with lords and ladies, and poets and artists, who flitted about the idyllic little village, like gay butterflies in a lovely garden. the husband and children of such a woman were not likely to stand still. sandal, encouraged by her political influence, went into parliament. her children did fairly well; for though one boy was wild, and cost them a deal of money, and another went away in a passion one morning, and never came back, the heir was a good son, and the two girls made splendid marriages. on the whole, she could feel that she had done well to her generation. even after she had been long dead, the old women in the village talked of her beauty and spirit, of the tight hand she kept over every one and every thing pertaining to sandal. of all the mistresses of the old "seat," this mistress charlotte was the most prominent and the best remembered. every one who steps within the wide, cool hall of seat-sandal faces first of all things her picture. it is a life-size painting of a beautiful woman, in the queer, scant costume of the regency. she wears a white satin frock and white satin slippers, and carries in her hand a bunch of white roses. she appears to be coming down a flight of wide stairs; one foot is lifted for the descent, and the dark background, and the dim light in which it hangs, give to the illusion an almost startling reality. it was her fancy to have the painting hung there to welcome all who entered her doors; and though it is now old-fashioned, and rather shabby and faded, no one of the present generation cares to order its removal. all hold quietly to the opinion that "grandmother would not like it." in that quiet acre on the hillside, which holds the generations of the sandals, she had been at rest for ten years. but her son still bared his gray head whenever he passed her picture; still, at times, stood a minute before it, and said with tender respect, "i salute thee, mother." and in her granddaughter's lives still she interfered; for she had left in their father's charge a sum of money, which was to be used solely to give them some pleasure which they could not have without it. in this way, though dead, she kept herself a part of their young lives; became a kind of fairy grandmother, who gave them only delightful things, and her name continued a household word. only the mother seemed averse to speak it; and charlotte, who was most observant, noticed that she never lifted her eyes to the picture as she passed it. there were reasons for these things which the children did not understand. they had been too young at her death to estimate the bondage in which she had kept her daughter-in-law, who, for her husband's sake, had been ever patient and reticent. nothing is, indeed, more remarkable than the patience of wives under this particular trial. they may be restive under many far less wrongs, but they bear the mother-in-law grievance with a dignity which shames the grim joking and the petulant abuse of men towards the same relationship. and for many years the young wife had borne nobly a domestic tyranny which pressed her on every hand. if then, she was glad to be set free from it, the feeling was too natural to be severely blamed; for she never said so,--no, not even by a look. her children had the benefit of their grandmother's kindness, and she was too honorable to deprive the dead of their meed of gratitude. the present holder of sandal had none of his mother's ambitious will. he cared for neither political nor fashionable life; and as soon as he came to his inheritance, married a handsome, sensible daleswoman with whom he had long been in love. then he retired from a world which had nothing to give him comparable, in his eyes, with the simple, dignified pleasures incident to his position as squire of sandal-side. for dearly he loved the old hall, with its sheltering sycamores and oaks,--oaks which had been young trees when the knights lying in furness abbey led the grasmere bowmen at crécy and agincourt. dearly he loved the large, low rooms, full of comfortable elegance; and the sweet, old-fashioned, dutch garden, so green through all the snows of winter, so cheerfully grave and fragrant in the summer twilights, so shady and cool even in the hottest noons. thirty years ago he was coming through it one july evening. it had been a very hot day; and the flowers were drooping, and the birds weary and silent. but squire sandal, though flushed and rumpled looking, had still the air of drippy mornings and hazy afternoons about him. there was a creel at his back, and a fishing-rod in his hand, and he had just come from the high, unplanted places, and the broomy, breezy moorlands; and his broad, rosy face expressed nothing but happiness. at his side walked his favorite daughter charlotte,--his dear companion, the confidant and sharer of all his sylvan pleasures. she was tired and dusty; and her short printed gown showed traces of green, spongy grass, and lichen-covered rocks. but her face was a joy to see: she had such bright eyes, such a kind, handsome mouth, such a cheerful voice, such a merry laugh. as they came in sight of the wide-open front-doors, she looked ruefully down at her feet and her grass-and-water-stained skirt, and then into her father's face. "i don't know what sophia will say if she sees me, father; i don't, indeed." "never you mind her, dear. sophia's rather high, you know. and we've had a rare good time. eh? what?" "i should think we have! there are not many pleasures in life better than persuading a fine trout to go a little way down stream with you. are there, father?" "you are right, charlotte. trout are the kind of company you want on an outing. and then, you know, if you can only persuade one to go down stream a bit with you, there's not much difficulty in persuading him to let you have the pleasure of seeing him to dinner. eh? what?" "i think i will go round by the side-door, father. i might meet some one in the hall." "nay, don't do that. there isn't any need to shab off. you've done nothing wrong, and i'm ready to stand by you, my dear; and you know what a good time we've been having all day. eh? what?" "of course i know, father,-- "showers and clouds and winds, all things well and proper; trailer, red and white, dark and wily dropper. midges true to fling made of plover hackle, with a gaudy wing, and a cobweb tackle." "cobweb tackle, eh, charlotte? yes, certainly; for a hand that can manage it. lancie crossthwaite will land you a trout, three pounds weight, with a line that wouldn't lift a dead weight of one pound from the floor to the table. i'll uphold he will. eh? what?" "i'll do it myself, some day; see if i don't, father." "i've no doubt of it, charlotte; not a bit." then being in the entrance-hall, they parted with a smile of confidence, and charlotte hastened up-stairs to prepare herself for the evening meal. she gave one quick glance at her grandmother's picture as she passed it, a glance of mingled deprecation and annoyance; for there were times when the complacent serenity of the perfect face, and the perfect propriety of the white satin gown, gave her a little spasm of indignation. she dressed rapidly, with a certain deft grace that was part of her character. and it was a delightful surprise to watch the metamorphosis; the more so, as it went on with a perfect unconsciousness of its wonderful beauty. here a change, and there a change, until the bright brown hair was loosened from its net of knotted silk, to fall in wavy, curly masses; and the printed gown was exchanged for one of the finest muslin, pink and flowing, and pinned together with bows of pale blue satin. a daring combination, which precisely suited her blonde, brilliant beauty. her eyes were shining; her cheeks touched by the sun till they had the charming tints of a peach on a southern wall. she looked at herself with a little nod of satisfaction, and then tapped at the door of the room adjoining her own. it was miss sandal's room; and miss sandal, though only sixteen months older than charlotte, exacted all the deference due to her by the right of primogeniture. "come in, charlotte." "how did you know it was i?" "i know your knock, however you vary it. nobody knocks like you. i suppose no two people would make three taps just the same." she was far too polite to yawn; but she made as much of the movement as she could not control, and then put a mark in her book, and laid it down. a very different girl, indeed, was she from her younger sister; a stranger would never have suspected her of the same parentage. she had dark, fine eyes, which, however, did not express what she felt: they rather gave the idea of storing up impressions to be re-acted upon by some interior power. she had a delicate complexion, a great deal of soft, black hair compactly dressed, and a neat figure. her disposition was dreamy and self-willed; occult studies fascinated her, and she was passionately fond of moonlight. she was simply dressed in a white muslin frock, with a black ribbon around her slim waist; but the ribbon was clasped by a buckle of heavily chased gold, and her fingers had many rings on them, and looked--a very rare circumstance--the better for them. having put down her book, she rose from her chair; and as she dipped the tips of her hands in water, and wiped them with elaborate nicety, she talked to charlotte in a soft, deliberate way. "where have you been, you and father, ever since daybreak?" "up to blaeberry tarn, and then home by holler beck. we caught a creel full of trout, and had a very happy day." "really, you know?" "yes, really; why not?" "i cannot understand it, charlotte. i suppose we never were sisters before." she said the words with the air of one who rather states a fact than asks a question; and charlotte, not at all comprehending, looked at her curiously and interrogatively. "i mean that our relationship in this life does not touch our anterior lives." "oh, you know you are talking nonsense, sophia! it gives me such a feel, you can't tell, to think of having lived before; and i don't believe it. there, now! come, dear, let us go to dinner; i'm that hungry i'm fit to drop." for charlotte was watching, with a feeling of injury, sophia's leisurely method of putting every book and chair and hairpin in its place. the sisters' rooms were precisely alike in their general features, and yet there was as great a relative difference in their apartments as in their natures. both were large, low rooms, facing the sunrise. the walls of both were of dark oak; the roofs of both were of the same sombre wood; so also were the floors. they were literally oak chambers. and in both rooms the draperies of the beds, chairs, and windows were of white dimity. but in sophia's, there were many pictures, souvenirs of girlhood's friendships, needlework, finished and unfinished drawings, and a great number of books mostly on subjects not usually attractive to young women. charlotte's room had no pictures on its walls, and no odds and ends of memorials; and as sewing was to her a duty and not a pleasure, there was no crotcheting or berlin-wool work in hand; and with the exception of a handsome copy of "izaak walton," there were no books on her table but a bible, book of common prayer, and a very shabby thomas à kempis. so dissimilar were the girls in their appearance and their tastes; and yet they loved each other with that calm, habitual, family affection, which, undemonstrative as it is, stands the wear and tug of life with a wonderful tenacity. down the broad, oak stairway they sauntered together; charlotte's tall, erect figure, bright, loose hair, pink dress, and flowing ribbons, throwing into effective contrast the dark hair, dark eyes, white drapery, and gleaming ornaments of her elder sister. in the hall they met the squire. he was very fond and very proud of his daughters; and he gave his right arm to sophia, and slipped his left hand into charlotte's hand with an affectionate pride and confidence that was charming. "any news, mother?" he asked, as he lifted one of the crisp brown trout from its bed of white damask and curly green parsley. "none, squire; only the sheep-shearing at the up-hill farm to-morrow. john of middle barra called with the statesman's respects. will you go, squire?" "certainly. my men are all to lend a hand. barf latrigg is ageing fast now; he was my father's crony; if i slighted him, i should feel as if father knew about it. which of you will go with me? thou, mother?" "that, i cannot, squire. the servant lasses are all promised for the fleece-folding; and it's a poor house that won't keep one woman busy in it." "sophia and charlotte will go then?" "excuse me, father," answered sophia languidly. "i shall have a headache to-morrow, i fear; i have been nervous and poorly all the afternoon." "why, sophia, i didn't think i had such a foolish lass! taking fancies for she doesn't know what. if you plan for to-morrow, plan a bit of pleasure with it; that's a long way better than expecting a headache. charlotte will go then. eh? what?" "yes, father; i will go. sophia never could bear walking in the heat. i like it; and i think there are few things merrier than a sheep-shearing." "so poetic! so idyllic!" murmured sophia, with mild sarcasm. "many people think so, sophia. mr. wordsworth would remember pan and arcadian shepherds playing on reedy pipes, and chaldæan shepherds studying the stars, and those on judæa's hills who heard the angels singing. he would think of wild tartar shepherds, and handsome spanish and italian." "and still handsomer cumberland ones." and sophia, having given this little sisterly reminder, added calmly, "i met mr. wordsworth to-day, father. he had come over the fells with a party, and he looked very much bored with his company." "i shouldn't wonder if he were. he likes his own company best. he is a great man now, but i remember well when people thought he was just a little off-at-side. you knew nancy butterworth, mother?" "certainly i did, squire. she lived near rydal." "yes. nancy wasn't very bright herself. a stranger once asked her what mr. wordsworth was like; and she said, 'he's canny enough at times. mostly he's wandering up and down t' hills, talking his po-et-ry; but now and then he'll say, "how do ye do, nancy?" as sensible as you or me.'" "mr. wordsworth speaks foolishness to a great many people besides nancy butterworth," said sophia warmly; "but he is a great poet and a great seer to those who can understand him." "well, well, mr. wordsworth is neither here nor there in our affairs. we'll go up to latriggs in the afternoon, charlotte. i'll be ready at two o'clock." "and i, also, father." her face was flushed and thoughtful, and she had become suddenly quiet. the squire glanced at her, but without curiosity; he only thought, "what a pity she is a lass! i wish harry had her good sense and her good heart; i do that." chapter ii. the sheep-shearing. "plain living and high thinking ... the homely beauty of the good old cause, ...our peace, our fearful innocence, and pure religion breathing household laws." "a happy youth, and their old age is beautiful and free." the sheep-shearings at up-hill farm were a kind of rural olympics. shepherds came there from far and near to try their skill against each other,--young men in their prime mostly, with brown, ruddy faces, and eyes of that bright blue lustre which is only gained by a free, open-air life. the hillside was just turning purple with heather bloom, and along the winding, stony road the yellow asphodels were dancing in the wind. everywhere there was the scent of bog-myrtle and wild-rose and sweetbrier, and the tinkling sound of becks babbling over glossy rocks; and in the glorious sunshine and luminous air, the mountains appeared to expand and elevate, and to throw out glowing peaks and summits into infinite space. hand in hand the squire and his daughter climbed the fellside. they had left home in high spirits, merrily flinging back the mother's and sophia's last advices; but gradually they became silent, and then a little mournful. "i wonder why it is, father?" asked charlotte; "i'm not at all tired, and how can fresh air and sunshine make one melancholy?" "maybe, now, sad thoughts are catching. i was having a few. eh? what?" "i don't know. why were you having sad thoughts?" "well, then, i really can't understand why. there's no need to fret over changes. at the long end the great change puts all right. charlotte, i have been coming to barf latrigg's shearings for about half a century. i remember the first. i held my nurse's hand, and wore such a funny little coat, and such a big lace collar. and, dear me! it was just such a day as this, thirty-two years ago, that your mother walked up to the shearing with me, charlotte; and i asked her if she would be my wife, and she said she would. thou takes after her a good deal; she had the very same bright eyes and bonny face, and straight, tall shape thou has to-day. barf latrigg was sixty then, turning a bit gray, but able to shear with any man they could put against him. he'll be ninety now; but his father lived till he was more than a hundred, and most of his fore-elders touched the century. he's had his troubles too." "i never heard of them." "no. they are dead and buried. a dead trouble may be forgot: it is the living troubles that make the eyes dim, and the heart fail. yes, yes; barf is as happy as a boy now, but i remember when he was back-set and fore-set with trouble. in life every thing goes round like a cart-wheel. eh? what?" in a short time they reached the outer wall of the farm. they were eight hundred feet above the valley; and looking backwards upon the woods from their airy shelf, the tops of the trees appeared like a solid green road, on which they might drop down and walk. stone steps in the stone wall admitted them into the enclosure, and then they saw the low gray house spreading itself in the shadow of the noble sycamores-- ... "musical with bees; such tents the patriarchs loved." as they approached, the old statesman strode to the open door to meet them. he was a very tall man, with a bright, florid face, and a great deal of fine, white hair. two large sheep-dogs, which only wanted a hint to be uncivil, walked beside him. he had that independent manner which honorable descent and absolute ownership of house and land give; and he looked every inch a gentleman, though he wore only the old dalesman's costume,--breeches of buckskin fastened at the knees with five silver buttons, home-knit stockings and low shoes, and a red waistcoat, open that day, in order to show the fine ruffles on his shirt. he was precisely what squire sandal would have been, if the sandals had not been forced by circumstances into contact with a more cultivated and a more ambitious life. "welcome, sandal! i have been watching for thee. there would be little prosperation in a shearing if thou wert absent. and a good day to thee, charlotte. my ducie was speaking of thee a minute ago. here she comes to help thee off with thy things." charlotte was untying her bonnet as she entered the deep, cool porch, and a moment afterward ducie was at her side. it was easy to see the women loved each other, though ducie only smiled, and said, "come in; i'm right glad to see you, charlotte. come into t' best room, and cool your face a bit. and how is mrs. sandal and sophia? be things at their usual, dear?" "thank you, ducie; all and every thing is well,--i hope. we have not heard from harry lately. i think it worrits father a little, but he is never the one to show it. oh, how sweet this room is!" she was standing before the old-fashioned swivel mirror, that had reflected three generations,--a fair, bright girl, with the light and hope of youth in her face. the old room, with its oak walls, immense bed, carved awmries, drawers, and cupboards, made a fine environment for so much life and color. and yet there were touches in it that resembled her, and seemed to be the protest of the present with the past,--vivid green and scarlet masses of geranium and fuchsia in the latticed window, and a great pot of odorous flowers upon the hearthstone. but the peculiar sweetness which charlotte noticed came from the polished oak floor, which was strewed with bits of rosemary and lavender, to prevent the slipping of the feet upon it. charlotte looked down at them as she ejaculated, "how sweet this room is!" and the shadow of a frown crossed her face. "i would not do it, ducie, for any one," she said. "poor herbs of grace! what sin have they committed to be trodden under foot? i would not do it, ducie: i feel as if it hurt them." "nay, now; flowers grow to be pulled dear, just as lasses grow to be loved and married." "is that what you think, ducie? some cherished in the jar; some thrown under the feet, and bruised to death,--the feet of wrong and sorrow,"-- "don't you talk that way, charlotte. it isn't lucky for girls to talk of wrong and sorrow. talking of things bespeaks them. there's always _them_ that hear; _them_ that we don't see. and everybody pulls flowers, dearie." "i don't. if i pull a rose, i always believe every other rose on that tree is sad about it. they may be in families, ducie, who can tell? and the little roses may be like the little children, and very dear to the grown roses." "why, what fancies! let us go into the yard, and see the shearing. you've made me feel as if i'd never like to pull a posy again. you shouldn't say such things, indeed you shouldn't: you've given me quite a turn, i'm sure." as ducie talked, they went through the back-door into a large yard walled in from the hillside, and having in it three grand old sycamores. one of these was at the top of the enclosure, and a circle of green shadow like a tent was around it. in this shadow the squire and the statesman were sitting. their heads were uncovered, their long clay pipes in their hands; and, with a placid complacency, they were watching the score of busy men before them. many had come long distances to try their skill against each other; for the shearings at latrigg's were a pastoral game, at which it was a local honor to be the winner. there the young statesman who could shear his six score a day found others of a like capacity, and it was greek against greek at up-hill shearing that afternoon. "i had two thousand sheep to get over," said latrigg, "but they'll be bare by sunset, squire. that isn't bad for these days. when i was young we wouldn't have thought so much of two thousand, but every dalesman then knew what good shearing was. _now_," and the old man shook his head slowly, "good shearers are few and far between. why, there's some here from beyond kirkstone pass and nab scar!" it was customary for young people of all conditions to give men as aged as barf latrigg the honorable name of "grandfather;" and charlotte said, as she sat down in the breezy shadow beside him, "who is first, grandfather?" "why, our stephen, to be sure! they'll have to be up before day-dawn to keep sidey with our steve.--steve, how many is thou ahead now?" the voice that asked the question, though full of triumph, was thin and weak; but the answer came back in full, mellow tones,-- "fifteen ahead, grandfather." "oh, i'm so glad!" "charlotte sandal says 'she's so glad.' now then, if thou loses ground, i wouldn't give a ha'penny for thee." then the women who were folding the fleeces on tables under the other two sycamores lifted their eyes, and glanced at steve; and some of the elder ones sent him a merry jibe, and some of the younger ones, smiles, that made his brown handsome face deepen in color; but he was far too earnest in his work to spare a moment for a reply. by and by, the squire put down his pipe, and sat watching with his hands upon his knees. and a stray child crept up to charlotte, and climbed upon her lap, and went to sleep there, and the wind flecked these four representatives of four generations all over with wavering shadows; and ducie came backwards and forwards, and finally carried the sleeping child into the house; and stephen, busy as he was, saw every thing that went on in the group under the top sycamore. even before sundown, the last batch of sheep were fleeced and _smitten_,[smitten. marked with the cipher of the owner in a mixture mostly of tar.] and turned on to the hillside; and charlotte, leaning over the wall, watched them wander contentedly up the fell, with their lambs trotting beside them. grandfather and the squire had gone into the house; ducie was calling her from the open door; she knew it was tea-time, and she was young and healthy and hungry enough to be glad of it. at the table she met stephen. the strong, bare-armed hercules, whom she had watched tossing the sheep around for his shears as easily as if they had been kittens under his hands, was now dressed in a handsome tweed suit, and looking quite as much of a gentleman as the most fastidious maiden could desire. he came in after the meal had begun, flushed somewhat with his hard labor, and perhaps, also, with the hurry of his toilet; but there was no embarrassment in his manner. it had never yet entered stephen's mind that there was any occasion for embarrassment, for the friendship between the squire's family and his own had been devoid of all sense of inequality. the squire was "the squire," and was perhaps richer than latrigg, but even that fact was uncertain; and the sandals had been to court, and married into county families; but then the latriggs had been for exactly seven hundred years the neighbors of sandal,--good neighbors, shoulder to shoulder with them in every trial or emergency. the long friendship had never known but one temporary shadow, and this had been during the time that the present squire's mother ruled in sandal; the mistress charlotte whose influence was still felt in the old seat. she had entirely disapproved the familiar affection with which latrigg met her husband, and it was said the disputes which drove one of her sons from his home were caused by her determination to break up the companionship existing between the young people of the two houses at that time. the squire remembered it. he had also, in some degree, regarded his mother's prejudices while she lived; but, after her death, sophia and charlotte, as well as their brother, began to go very often to up-hill farm. naturally stephen, who was ducie's son, became the companion of harry sandal; and the girls grew up in his sight like two beautiful sisters. it was only within the past year that he had begun to understand that one was dearer to him than the other; but though none of the three was now ignorant of the fact, it was as yet tacitly ignored. the knowledge had not been pleasant to sophia; and to charlotte and stephen it was such a delicious uncertainty, that they hardly desired to make it sure; and they imagined their secret was all their own, and were so happy in it, that they feared to look too curiously into their happiness. there was to be a great feast and dance that night: and, as they sat at the tea-table, they heard the mirth and stir of its preparation; but it came into the room only like a pleasant echo, mingling with the barking of the sheep-dogs, and the bleating of the shorn sheep upon the fells, and the murmur of their quiet conversation about "the walks" latrigg owned, and the scrambling, black-faced breed whose endurance made them so profitable. something was also said of other shearings to which stephen must go, if he would assure his claim to be "top-shearer," and of the wool-factories which the most astute statesmen were beginning to build. "if i were a younger man, i'd be in with them," said latrigg. "i'd spin and weave my own fleeces, and send them to leeds market, with no go-between to share my profits." and steve put in a sensible word now and then, and passed the berry-cake and honey and cream; and withal met charlotte's eyes, and caught her smiles, and was as happy as love and hope could make him. after tea the squire wished to go; but latrigg said, "smoke one pipe with me sandal," and they went into the porch together. then steve and charlotte sauntered about the garden, or, leaning on the stone wall, looked down into the valley, or away off to the hills. many things they said to each other which seemed to mean so little, but which meant so much when love was the interpreter. for charlotte was eighteen and stephen twenty-two; and when mortals still so young are in love, they are quite able to create worlds out of nothing. after a while the squire lifted his eyes, and took in the bit of landscape which included them. the droop of the young heads towards each other, and their air of happy confidence, awakened a vague suspicion in his heart. perhaps latrigg was conscious of it; for he said, as if in answer to the squire's thought, "steve will have all that is mine. it's a deal easier to die, sandal, when you have a fine lad like steve to leave the old place to." "steve is in the female line. that's a deal different to having sons. lasses are cold comfort for sons. eh? what?" "to be sure; but i've given steve my name. any one not called latrigg at up-hill would seem like a stranger." "i know how you feel about that. a squire in seat-sandal out of the old name would have a very middling kind of time, i think. he'd have a sight of ill-will at his back." "thou means with _them_!" the squire nodded gravely; and after a minute's silence said, "it stands to reason _they_ take an interest. i do in them. when i think of this or that sandal, or when i look up at their faces as i sit smoking beside them, i'm sure i feel like their son; and i wouldn't grieve them any more than if they were to be seen and talked to. it's none likely, then, that _they_ forget. i know they don't." "i'm quite of thy way of thinking, sandal; but steve will be called latrigg. he has never known any other name, thou sees." "to be sure. is ducie willing?" "poor lass! she never names steve's father. he'd no business in her life, and he very soon went out of it. stray souls will get into families they have no business in, sometimes. they make a deal of unhappiness when they do." sandal sat listening with a sympathetic face. he hoped latrigg was going to tell him something definite about his daughter's trouble; but the old man puffed, puffed, in silence a few minutes, and then turned the conversation. however, sandal had been touched on a point where he was exceedingly sensitive; and he rose with a sigh, and said, "well, well, latrigg, good-by. i'll go down the fell now. come, charlotte." unconsciously he spoke with an authority not usual to him, and the parting was a little silent and hurried; for ducie was in the throng of her festival, and rather impatient for stephen's help. only latrigg walked to the gate with them. he looked after sandal and his daughter with a grave, but not unhappy wistfulness; and when a belt of larches hid them from his view, he turned towards the house, saying softly,-- "it is like to be my last shearing. very soon this life will _have been_, but through christ's mercy i have the over-hand of the future." it was almost as hard to go down the fell as to come up it, for the road was very steep and stony. the squire took it leisurely, carrying his straw hat in his hand, and often standing still to look around him. the day had been very warm; and limpid vapors hung over the mountains, like something far finer than mist,--like air made visible,--giving them an appearance of inconceivable remoteness, full of grandeur; for there is a sublimity of distance, as well as a sublimity of height. he made charlotte notice them. "maybe, many a year after this, you'll see the hills look just that way, dearie; then think on this evening and on me." she did not speak, but she looked into his face, and clasped his hand tightly. she was troubled with her own mood. try as she would, it was impossible to prevent herself drifting into most unusual silences. stephen's words and looks filled her heart; she had only half heard the things her father had been saying. never before had she found an hour in her life when she wished for solitude in preference to his society,--her good, tender father. she put stephen out of her mind, and tried again to feel all her old interest in his plans for their amusement. alas, alas! the first secret, especially if it be a love-secret, makes a break in that sweet, confidential intercourse between a parent and child which nothing restores. the squire hardly comprehended that there might be a secret. charlotte was unthoughtful of wrong; but still there was a repression, a something undefinable between them, impalpable, but positive as a breath of polar air. she noticed the mountains, for he made her do so; but the birds sang sleepy songs to her unheeded, and the yellow asphodels made a kind of sunshine at her feet that she never saw; and even her father's voice disturbed the dreamy charm of thoughts that touched a deeper, sweeter joy than moor or mountain, bird or flower, had ever given her. before they reached home, the squire had also become silent. he came into the hall with the face of one dissatisfied and unhappy. the feeling spread through the house, as a drop of ink spreads itself through a glass of water. it almost suited sophia's mood, and mrs. sandal was not inclined to discuss it until the squire was alone with her. then she asked the question of all questions the most irritating, "what is the matter with you, squire?" "what is the matter, indeed? love-making. that is the matter, alice." "charlotte?" "yes." "and stephen latrigg?" "yes." "i thought as much. opportunity is a dangerous thing." "my word! to hear you talk, one would think it was matterless how our girls married." "it is never matterless how any girl marries, squire; and our charlotte"-- "oh, i thought charlotte was a child yet! how could i tell there was danger at up-hill? you ought to have looked better after your daughters. see that she doesn't go near-hand latrigg's again." "i wouldn't be so foolish, william. it's a deal better not to notice. make no words about it; and, if you don't like stephen, send charlotte away a bit. half of young people's love-affairs is just because they are handy to each other." "'like stephen!' it is more than a matter of liking, as you know very well. if harry sandal goes on as he has been going, there will be little enough left for the girls; and they must marry where money will not be wanted. more than that, i've been thinking of brother tom's boy for one of them. eh? what?" "you mean, you have been writing to tom about a marriage? i would have been above a thing like that, william. i suppose you did it to please your mother. she always did hanker after tom, and she always did dislike the latriggs. i have heard that when people were in the grave they 'ceased from troubling,' but"-- "alice!" "i meant no harm, squire, i'm sure; and i would not say wrong of the dead for any thing, specially of your mother; but i think about my own girls." "there, now, alice, don't whimper and cry. i am not going to harm your girls, not i. only mother was promised that tom's son should have the first chance for their favor. i'm sure there's nothing amiss in that. eh?" "a young man born in a foreign country among blacks, or very near blacks. and nobody knows who his mother was." "oh, yes! his mother was a judge's daughter, and she had a deal of money. her son has been well done to; sent to the very best german and french schools, and now he is at oxford. i dare say he is a very good young man, and at any rate he is the only sandal of this generation except our own boy." "your sisters have sons." "yes, mary has three: they are _lockerbys_. elizabeth has two: they are _piersons_. my poor brother launcie was drowned, and never had son or daughter; so that tom's julius is the nearest blood we have." "julius! i never heard tell of such a name." "yes, it is a silly kind of a foreign name. his mother is called julia: i suppose that is how it comes. no sandal was ever called such a name before, but the young man mustn't be blamed for his godfather's foolishness, alice. eh?" "i'm not so unjust. poor launcie! i saw him once at a ball in kendal. are you sure he was drowned?" "i followed him to whitehaven, and found out that he had gone away in a ship that never came home. mother and launcie were in bad bread when he left, and she never fretted for him as she did for tom." "why did you not tell me all this before?" "i said to myself, there's time enough yet to be planning husbands for girls that haven't a thought of the kind. we were very happy with them; i couldn't bear to break things up; and i never once feared about steve latrigg, not i." "what does your brother and his wife say?" "tom is with me. as for his wife, i know nothing of her, and she knows nothing of us. she has been in england a good many times, but she never said she would like to come and see us, and my mother never wanted to see her; so there wasn't a compliment wasted, you see. eh? what?" "no, i don't see, william. all about it is in a muddle, and i must say i never heard tell of such ways. it is like offering your own flesh and blood for sale. and to people who want nothing to do with us. i'm astonished at you, squire." "don't go on so, alice. tom and i never had any falling out. he just got out of the way of writing. he likes india, and he had his own reasons for not liking england in any shape you could offer england to him. there's no back reckonings between tom and me, and he'll be glad for julius to come to his own people. we will ask julius to sandal; and you say, yourself, that the half of young folks' loving is in being handy to each other. eh? what?" "i never thought you would bring my words up that way. but i'll tell you one thing, my girls are not made of melted wax, william. you'll be a wise man, and a strong man, if you get a ring on their fingers, if they don't want it there. sophia will say very soft and sweet, 'no, thank you, father;' and you'll move scawfell and langdale pikes before you get her beyond it. as for charlotte, you yourself will stand 'making' better than she will. and you know that nothing short of an earthquake can lift you an inch outside your own way." and perhaps sandal thought the hyperbole a compliment; for he smiled a little, and walked away, with what his wife privately called "a peacocky air," saying something about "greek meeting greek" as he did so. mrs. sandal did not in the least understand him: she wondered a little over the remark, and then dismissed it as "some of the squire's foolishness." chapter iii. julius sandal. "variety's the very spice of life that gives it all its flavor." "domestic happiness, thou only bliss of paradise that has survived the fall." life has a chronology quite independent of the almanac. the heart divides it into periods. when the sheep-shearing had been forgotten by all others, the squire often looked back to it with longing. it was a boundary which he could never repass, and which shut him out forever from the happy days of his daughters' girlhood,--the days when they had no will but his will, and no pleasures but in his smile and companionship. his son harry had never been to him what sophia and charlotte were. harry had spent his boyhood in public schools, and, when his education was completed, had defied all the sandal traditions, and gone into the army. at this time he was with his regiment,--the old cameronian,--in edinburgh. and in other points, besides his choice of the military profession, harry had asserted his will against his father's will. but the squire's daughters gave him nothing but delight. he was proud of their beauty, proud of charlotte's love of out-door pleasures, proud of sophia's love of books; and he was immeasurably happy in their affection and obedience. if sandal had been really a wise man he would have been content with his good fortune; and like the happy corinthian have only prayed, "o goddess, let the days of my prosperity continue!" but he had the self-sufficiency and impatience of a man who is without peer in his own small arena. he believed himself to be as capable of ordering his daughters' lives as of directing his sheep "walks," or the change of crops in his valley and upland meadows. suddenly it had been revealed to him, that stephen latrigg had found his way into a life he thought wholly his own. until that moment of revelation he had liked stephen; but he liked him no longer. he felt that stephen had stolen the privilege he should have asked for, and he deeply resented the position the young man had taken. on the contrary, stephen had been guilty of no intentional wrong. he had simply grown into an affection too sweet to be spoken of, too uncertain and immature to be subjected to the prudential rules of daily life; yet, had the question been plainly put to him, he would have gone at once to the squire, and said, "i love charlotte, and i ask for your sanction to my love." he would have felt such an acknowledgment to be the father's most sacred and evident right, and he was thinking of making it at the very hour in which sandal was feeling bitterly toward him for its omission. and thus the old, old tragedy of mutual misunderstanding works to sorrowful ends. the night of the sheep-shearing the squire could not sleep. to lay awake and peer into the future through the dark hours was a new experience, and it made him full of restless anxieties. of course he expected sophia and charlotte to marry, but not just yet. he had so far persistently postponed the consideration of this subject, and he was angry at stephen latrigg for showing him that further delay might be dangerous to his own plans. "a presumptuous young coxcomb," he muttered. "does he think that being 'top-shearer' gives him a right to make love to charlotte sandal?" in the morning he wrote the following letter:-- nephew julius sandal,--i hear you are at oxford, and i should think you would wish to make the acquaintance of your nearest relatives. they will be glad to see you at seat-sandal during the vacation, if your liking leads you that way. to hear soon from you is the hope of your affectionate uncle, william sandal, _of sandal-side_. he finished the autograph with a broad flourish, and handed the paper to his wife. "what do you think of that, alice? eh? what?" there was a short silence, then mrs. sandal laid the note upon the table. "i don't think over much of it, william. good-fortune won't bear hurrying. can't you wait till events ripen naturally?" "and have all my plans put out of the way?" "are you sure that your plans are the best plans?" "they will be a bit better than any charlotte and stephen latrigg have made." "i don't believe they have such a thing as a plan between them. but if you think so, send charlotte to her aunt lockerby for a few months. love is just like fire: it goes out if it hasn't fuel." "nay, i want charlotte here. after our harry, julius is the next heir, and i'm set on him marrying one of the girls. if he doesn't like sophia he may like charlotte. i have two chances then, and i'm not going to throw one away for steve latrigg's liking or loving. don't you see, alice? eh? what?" "no: i never was one to see beyond the horizon. but if you must have to-morrow in to-day, why then send off your letter. i would let 'well' alone. when change comes to the door, it is time enough to ask it over the threshold. we are very happy now, william, and every happy day is so much certain gain in life." "that is a woman's way of talking. a man looks for the future." "and how seldom does he get what he looks for. but i know you, william sandal. you will take your own way, be it good or bad; and what is more, you will make others take it with you." "i am inviting my own nephew, alice. eh? what?" "you know nothing about it. there are kin that are not kindred. you are inviting you know not who or what. but,"--and she pushed the letter towards him, with a gesture which seemed to say, "i am not responsible for the consequences." the squire after a moment's thought accepted them. he went into the yard, humming a strain of "the bay of biscay," and gave the letter to a groom, with orders to take it at once to the post-office. then he called charlotte from the rose-walk. "the horses are saddled," he said, "and i want you to trot over to dalton with me." mrs. sandal had gone to her eldest daughter. she was in the habit of seeking sophia's advice; or, more strictly speaking, she liked to discuss with her the things she had already determined to do. sophia was sitting in the coolest and prettiest of gowns, working out with elaborate care a pencil drawing of rydal mount. she listened to her mother with the utmost respect and attention, and her fine color brightened slightly at the mention of julius sandal; but she never neglected once to change an f or an h pencil for a b at the precise stroke the change was necessary. "and so you see, sophia, we may have a strange young man in the house for weeks, and where to put him i can't decide. and i wanted to begin the preserving and the raspberry vinegar next week, but your father is as thoughtless as ever was; and i am sure if julius is like _his_ father he'll be no blessing in a house, for i have heard your grandmother speak in such a way of her son tom." "i thought uncle tom was grandmother's favorite." "i mean of his high temper and fine ways, and his quarrels with his eldest brother launcelot." "oh! what did they quarrel about?" "a good many things; among the rest, about the latriggs. there was more than one pretty girl at up-hill then, and the young men all knew it. tom and his mother were always finger and thumb. he was her youngest boy, and she fretted after him all her life." "and uncle launcelot, did she not fret for him?" "not so much. launcelot was the eldest, and very set in his own way: she couldn't order him around." "the eldest? then father would not have been squire of sandal-side if launcelot had lived?" "no, indeed. launcelot's death made a deal of difference to your father and me. father was very solemn and set about his brother's rights; and even after grandfather died, he didn't like to be called 'squire' until every hope was long gone. but i would as soon have thought of poor launcie coming back from the dead as of tom's son visiting here; and it is inconvenient right now, exceedingly so; harvesting coming on, and preserving time, and none of the spare rooms opened since the spring cleaning." "it is trying for you, mother, but perhaps julius may not be very much trouble. he'll be with father all the time, and he'll make a change." "change! that is just what i dread. young people are always for change. they are certain that every change must be a gain. old people know that changes mean loss of some kind or other. after one is forty years old, sophia, the seasons bring change enough." "i dare say they do, mother. i don't care much for change, even at my age. have you told charlotte?" "no, i haven't told her yet. i think she is off to dalton. father said he was going this morning, and he never would go without her." indeed, the squire and his younger daughter were at that moment cantering down the valley, mid the fresh green of the fields, and the yellow of the ripening wheat, and the hazy purple of mountains holding the whole landscape in their solemn shelter except in front, where the road stretched to the sea, amid low hills overgrown with parsley-fern and stag's-horn-moss. they had not gone very far before they met stephen latrigg. he was well mounted and handsomely dressed; and, as he bowed to the squire and charlotte, his happy face expressed a delight which sandal in his present mood felt to be offensive. evidently steve intended to accompany them as far as their roads were identical; but the squire pointedly drew rein, and by the cool civility of his manner made the young man so sensible of his intrusion, that he had no alternative but to take the hint. he looked at charlotte with eyes full of tender reproach, and she was too unprepared for such a speedy termination to their meeting to oppose it. so stephen was galloping at headlong speed in advance, before she realized that he had been virtually refused their company. "father, why did you do that?" "do what, charlotte? eh? what?" "send steve away. i am sure i do not know what to make of you doing such a thing. poor steve!" "well, then, i had my reason for it. did you see the way he looked at you? eh? what?" "dear me! a cat may look at a king. did you send steve away for a look? you have put me about, father." "there's looks and other looks, my lass. cats don't look at kings the way steve looked at you. now, then, i want no love-making between you and steve latrigg." "what nonsense! steve hasn't said a word of love-making, as you call it." "i thought you had all your woman-senses, charlotte. bethink you of the garden walk last night." "we were talking all the time of the sweetbrier and hollyhocks,--and things like that." "you might have talked of the days of the week or the multiplication-table: one kind of words was just as good as another. any thing steve said last night could have been spelled with four letters." "four letters?" "to be sure. l-o-v-e." "you used to like stephen." "i like all bright, honest, good lads; but when they want to make love to miss charlotte sandal, they think one thing, and i think another. there has been ill-luck with love-making between the sandals and the latriggs. my brothers launcie and tom quarrelled about one of barf latrigg's daughters, and mother lost them both through her. there is no love-line between the two houses, or if there is nothing can make it run straight. don't you try to, charlotte; neither the dead nor the living will like it or have it." he intended then to tell her about julius sandal, but a look at her face checked him. he had a wise perception about women; and he reflected that he had very seldom repented of speaking too little to them, but very often repented of speaking too much. so he dropped stephen, and dropped julius; and began to talk about the fish in the becks and tarns, and the new breed of sheep he was trying in the lower "walks." ere long they came into the rich valley of furness; and he made her notice the difference between it and the vale of esk and duddon, with its dreary waste of sullen moss and unfruitful solitudes. "those old cistercian monks that built furness abbey knew how to choose a bit of good land, charlotte. eh? what?" "i suppose so. what did they do with it?" "let it out." "i wonder who would want to come here seven hundred years ago." "you don't know what you are saying, charlotte. there were great men here then, and great deeds doing. king stephen kept things very lively; and the scots were always running over the border for cattle and sheep, and any thing else they could lay their hands on. and the monks had great flocks, so they rented their lands to companies of four fighting men; and one of the four was to be ready day and night to protect the sheep, and the scots kept them busy. eh? what?" "the musgraves and armstrongs and netherbys, i know," and the cloud passed from her face; and to the clatter of her horse's hoofs, she lilted merrily a stanza of an old border song:-- "the mountain sheep were sweeter, but the valley sheep were fatter; we therefore deemed it meeter to carry off the latter. we made an expedition; we met a force, and quelled it; we took a strong position, and killed the men who held it." and the squire, who knew the effort it cost her, fell readily into her mood of forced gayety until the simulated feeling became a real one; and they entered dalton neck and neck together, after a mile's hard race. in the mean time the letter which was to summon fate sped to its destination. when it arrived in oxford, julius had left oxford for london, and it followed him there. he was sitting in his hotel the ensuing night, when it was delivered into his hands; and as it happened, he was in a mood most favorable to its success. he had been down the river on a picnic, had found his company very tedious; and early in the day the climate had shown him what it was capable of, even at mid-summer. as he sat cowering before the smoky fire, the rain plashed in the muddy streets, and dripped mournfully down the dim window-panes. he was wondering what he must do with himself during the long vacation. he was tired of the continent, he was lonely in england; and the united states had not then become the great playground for earth's weary or curious children. many times the idea of seeking out his own relations occurred to him. he had promised his father to do so. but, as a rule, people haven't much enthusiasm about unknown relations; and julius regarded his promise more in the light of a duty to be performed than as the realization of a pleasure. still, on that dreary night, in the solitary dulness of his very respectable inn, the sandals, lockerbys, and piersons became three possible sources of interest. while his thoughts were drifting in this direction, the squire's letter was received; and the young man, who was something of a fatalist, accepted it as the solution of a difficulty. "sandal turns the new leaf for me," he murmured; "the new leaf in the book of life. i wonder what story will be written in it." he answered the invitation while the enthusiasm of its reception swayed him, and he promised to follow the letter immediately. the squire received this information on saturday night, as he was sitting with his wife and daughters. "your nephew julius sandal, from calcutta, is coming to pay us a visit, alice," he said; and his air was that of a man who thinks he is communicating a piece of startling intelligence. but the three women had already exchanged every possible idea on the subject, and felt no great interest in its further discussion. "when is he coming?" asked mrs. sandal without enthusiasm; and sophia supplemented the question by remarking, "i suppose he has nowhere else to go." "i wouldn't say such things, sophia; i would not." "he has been in england some months, father." "well, then, he was only waiting till he was asked to come. i'm sure that was a proper thing. if there is any blame between us, it is my fault. i sent him a word of welcome last wednesday morning, and it is very likely he will be here to-morrow. i'm sure he hasn't let any grass grow under his feet. eh? what?" charlotte looked up quickly. "_wednesday morning_." she was quite capable of putting this and that together, and by a momentary mental process she arrived at an exceedingly correct estimate of her father's invitation. her blue eyes scintillated beneath her dropped lids; and, though she went calmly on tying the feather to the fishing-fly she was making, she said, in a hurried and unsteady voice, "i know he will be disagreeable, and i have made up my mind to dislike him." julius sandal arrived the next morning when the ladies were preparing for church. he had passed the night at ambleside, and driven over to sandal in the first cool hours of the day. the squire was walking about the garden, and he saw the carriage enter the park gates. he said nothing to any one, but laid down his pipe, and went to meet it. then julius made the first step towards his uncle's affection,--he left the vehicle when they met, and insisted upon walking by his side. when they reached the house, his valet was attending to the removal of his luggage, and they entered the great hall together. at that moment mistress charlotte's remarkable likeness seemed to force itself upon the squire's attention. he was unable to resist the impulse which made him lead his nephew up to it. "let me introduce you, first of all, to your father's mother. i greet you in her name as well as in my own." as he spoke, the squire lifted his hat, and julius did the same. it was a sudden, and to both men a quite unexpected, ceremonial; and it gave an air, touching and unusual, to his welcome. and if that man is an ingrate who does not love his native land, how much more _immediate_, tender, and personal must the feeling be for the _home_ of one's own race. that stately lady, who seemed to meet him at the threshold, was only the last of a long, shadowy line, whose hands were stretched out to him, even from the dark, forgotten days in which lögberg sandal laid the foundations of it. julius was sensitive, and full of imagination: he felt his heart beat quick, and his eyes grow dim to the thought; and he loitered up the wide, low steps, feeling very like a man going up the phantom stairway of a dream. the squire's cheery voice broke the spell. "we shall be ready for church in a quarter of an hour, julius; will you remain at home, or go with us?" "i should like to go with you." "that's good. it is but a walk through the park: the church is almost at its gates." when he returned to the hall, the family were waiting for him; mrs. sandal and her daughters standing together in a little group, the squire walking leisurely about with his hands crossed behind his back. it would have been to some men a rather trying ordeal to descend the long flight of stairs, with three pairs of ladies' eyes watching him; but julius knew that he had a striking personal appearance, and that every appointment of his toilet was faultless. he knew also the value of the respectable middle-aged valet following him, and felt that his irreproachable manner of serving his hat and gloves was a satisfactory reflection of his own importance. it is the women of a family that give the tone and place to it. one glance at his aunt and cousins satisfied julius. mrs. sandal was stately and comely, and had the quiet manners of a high-bred woman. sophia, in white mull, with a large hat covered with white drooping feathers, and a glimmer of gold at her throat and wrists, was at least picturesque. of charlotte, he saw nothing in the first moments of their meeting but a pair of bright blue eyes, and a face as sweet and fresh as if it had been made out of a rose. he took his place between the girls, and the squire and his wife walked behind them. sophia, being the eldest, took the initiative, talking softly and thoughtfully, as it was proper to do upon a sunday morning. the sods under their feet were thick and green; the oaks and sycamores above them had the broad shadows of many centuries. the air was balmy with emanations from the woods and fields, and full of the expanding melody of church-bells travelling from hill to hill. julius was conscious of every thing; even of the proud, shy girl who walked on his left hand, and whose attitude impressed him as slightly antagonistic. they soon reached the church, a very ancient one, built in the bloody days of the plantagenets by the two knights whose grim effigies kept guard within the porch. it was dim and still when they entered: the congregation all kneeling at the solemn confession; the clergyman's voice, low and pathetic, intensifying silence to which it only added mortal minors of lament and entreaty. he was a small, spare man, with a face almost as white as the vesture of his holy office. julius glanced up at him, and for a few minutes forgot all his dreamy philosophies, aggressive free thought, and shallow infidelities. he could not resist the influences around him; and when the people rose, and the organ filled the silence with melody, and a young sweet voice chanted joyfully,-- _"o come let us sing unto the lord: let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation. let us come before his presence with thanksgiving: and shew ourselves glad in him with psalms,"--_ he turned round, and looked up to the singer, with a heart beating to every triumphant note. then he saw it was charlotte sandal; and he did not wonder at the hearty way in which the squire joined in the melodious invocation, nor at his happy face, nor at his shining eyes; and he said to himself with a sigh, "that is a psalm one could sing oftener than once in seven days." he had not noticed charlotte much as they went to church: he amended his error as he returned to the "seat." and he thought that the old sylvan goddesses must have been as she was; must have had just the same fresh faces, and bright brown hair; just the same tall, erect forms and light steps; just the same garments of mingled wood-colors and pale green. the squire had a very complacent feeling. he looked upon julius as a nephew of his own discovering, and he felt something of a personal pride in all that was excellent in the young man. he watched impatiently for his wife to express her satisfaction, but mrs. sandal was not yet sure that she had any good reason to express it. "is he not handsome, alice?" "some people would think so, william. i like a face i can read." "i'm sure it is a long way better to keep yourself to yourself. say what you will, i am sure he will have plenty of good qualities. eh? what?" "for instance, a great deal of money." "treat him fair, alice; treat him fair. you never were one to be unfair, and i don't think you'll begin with my nephew." "no, i'll never be unfair, not as long as i live; and i'll take up for julius sandal as soon as i am half sure he deserves it." "you can't think what a pleasure it would be to me if he fancied one of our girls. i've planned it this many a long day, alice." "well, then, william, if you have a wish as strong as that, it is something more than a wish, it is a kind of right; and i'll never go against you in any fair matter." "and though you spoke scornful of money, it is a good thing; and the girl julius marries will be a rich woman. eh? what?" "perhaps; but it is the happiness and not the riches of her child that is a good mother's reward, and a good father's too. eh, william?" "certainly, alice, certainly." but his unspoken reflection was, "women are that short sighted, they cannot put up with a small evil to prevent a big one." he had forgotten that "the wise one" and the "counsellor" thought one day's joys and sorrows "sufficient" for the heart to bear. chapter iv. thus runs the world away. "but we mortals planted so lowly, with death to bless us, sorrow no longer." "our choices are our destiny. nothing is ours that our choices have not made ours." julius sandal had precisely those superficial excellences which the world is ready to accept at their apparent value; and he had been in so many schools, and imbibed such a variety of opinions, that he had a mental suit for all occasions. "he knows about every thing," said sandal to the clergyman, at the close of an evening spent together,--an evening in which julius had been particularly interesting. "don't you think so, sir?" the rector looked up at the starry sky, and around the mountain-girdled valley, and answered slowly, "he has a great many ideas, squire; but they are second-hand, and do not fit his intellect." charlotte had much the same opinion of the paragon, only she expressed it in a different way. "he believes in every thing, and he might as well believe in nothing. confucius and christ are about the same to him, and he thinks juggernaut only 'a clumsier spelling of a name which no man spells correctly.'" "his mind is like a fine mosaic, charlotte." "oh, indeed, sophia, i don't think so! mosaics have a design and fit it. the mind of julius is more like that quilt of a thousand pieces which grandmother patched. there they are, the whole thousand, just bits of color, all sizes and shapes. i would rather have a good square of white marseilles." "i don't think you ought to speak in such a way, charlotte. you can't help seeing how much he admires you." there was a tone in sophia's carefully modulated voice which made charlotte turn, and look at her sister. she was sitting at her embroidery-frame, and apparently counting the stitches in the rose-leaf she was copying; but charlotte noticed that her hand trembled, and that she was counting at random. in a moment the veil fell from her eyes: she understood that sophia was in love with julius, and fearful of her own influence over him. she had been about to leave the room: she returned to the window, and stood at it a few moments, as if considering the assertion. "i should be very sorry if that were the case, sophia." "why?" "because i do not admire julius in any way. i never could admire him. i don't want to be in debt to him for even one-half hour of sentimental affection." "you should let him understand that, charlotte, if it be so." "he must be very dull if he does not understand." "when father and you went fishing yesterday, he went with you." "why did you not come also? we begged you to do so." "because i hate to be hot and untidy, and to get my hands soiled, and my face flushed. that was your condition when you returned home; but all the same, he said you looked like a water-nymph or a wood-nymph." "i think very little of him for such talk. there is nothing 'nymphy' about me. i should hate myself if there were. i am going to write, and ask harry to get a furlough for a few weeks. i want to talk sensibly to some one. i am tired of being on the heights or in the depths all the time; and as for poetry, i wish i might never hear words that rhyme again. i've got to feel that way about it, that if i open a book, and see the lines begin with capitals, my first impulse is to tear it to pieces. there, now, you have my opinions, sophia!" sophia laughed softly. "where are you going? i see you have your bonnet on." "i am going to up-hill. grandfather latrigg had a fall yesterday, and that's a bad thing at his age. father is quite put out about it." "is he going with you?" "he was, but two of the shepherds from holler scree have just come for him. there is something wrong with the flocks." "julius?" "he does not know i am going; and if he did, i should tell him plainly he was not wanted either at up-hill, or on the way to it. ducie thinks little of him, and grandfather latrigg makes his face like a stone wall when julius talks his finest." "they don't understand julius. how can they? steve is their model, and steve is not the least like julius." "i should think not." "what do you mean?" "never mind. good-by." she shut the door with more emphasis than she was aware of, and went to her mother for some cordials and dainties to take with her. as she passed through the hall the squire called her, and she followed his voice into the small parlor which was emphatically "master's room." "i have had very bad news about the holler scree flock, charlotte, and i must away there to see what can be done. tell barf latrigg it is the sheep, and he will understand: he was always one to put the dumb creatures first. the kindest thing that is in your own heart say it to the dear old man for me; will you, charlotte?" "you can trust to me, father." "yes, i know i can; for that and more too. and there is more. i feel a bit about stephen. happen i was less than kind to him the other day. but i gave you good reasons, charlotte; and i have such confidence in you, that i said to mother, 'you can send charlotte. there is nothing underhand about her. she knows my will, and she'll do it.' eh? what?" "yes, father: i'll be square on all four sides with you. but i told you there had been no love-making between me and steve." "steve was doing his best at it. depend upon it he meant love-making; and i must say i thought you made out to understand him very well. maybe i was mistaken. every woman is a new book, and a book by herself; and it isn't likely i can understand them all." "stephen is sure to speak to me about your being so queer to him. had i not better tell the truth?" "i have a high opinion of that way. truth may be blamed, but it can't be shamed. however, if he was not making love to you at the shearing, won't you find it a bit difficult to speak your mind? eh? what?" "he will understand." "ay, i thought so." "father, we have never had any secrets, you and me. if i am not to encourage stephen latrigg, do you want me to marry julius sandal?" "well, i never! such a question! what for?" "because, at the very first, i want to tell you that i could not do it--_no way_. i am quite ready to give up my will to your will, and my pleasure to your pleasure. that is my duty; but to marry cousin julius is a different thing." "don't get too far forward, charlotte. julius has not said a word to me about marrying you." "but he is doing his best at it. depend upon it he means marrying; and i must say i thought you made out to understand him very well. maybe i was mistaken. every man is a new book, and a book by himself; and it is not likely i can understand them all." "now you are picking up my own words, and throwing them back at me. that isn't right. i don't know whatever to say for myself. eh? what?" "say, 'dear charlotte,' and 'good-by charlotte,' and take an easy mind with you to holler scree, father. as far as i am concerned, i will never grieve you, and never deceive you,--no, not in the least little thing." so she left him. her face was bright with smiles, and her words had even a ring of mirth in them; but below all there was a stubborn weight that she could not throw off, a darkness of spirit that no sunshine could brighten. since julius had come into their home, home had never been the same. there was a stranger at the table and in all its sweet, familiar places, and she was sure that to her he always would be a stranger. something was said or done that put them farther apart every day. she could not understand how any sandal could be so absolutely out of her love and sympathy. who has not experienced these invasions of hostile natures? alien voices, characters fundamentally different, yet bound to them by natural ties which the soul refuses to recognize. the somberness of her thoughts affected her surroundings very much as rain affects the atmosphere. the hills looked melancholy: she was aware of every stone on the road. alas! this morning she had begun to grow old, for she felt that she had _a past_,--a past that could never return. hitherto her life had been to-day and to-morrow, and to-morrow always in the sunshine. hitherto the thought of stephen had been blended with something that was to happen. now she knew she must always be remembering the days that for them would come no more. she found herself reviewing even her former visits to up-hill. in them also change had begun. and it is over the young, sorrow triumphs most cruelly. they are so easily wounded, so inapt to resist, so harassed by scruples, so astonished at troubles they cannot comprehend, that their very sensitiveness prepares them for suffering. very bitter tears are shed before we are twenty years old. at forty we have learned to accept the inevitable, and to feel many things possible which we once declared would break our hearts in two. there was an air of great depression also at up-hill. ducie was full of apprehension. she said to charlotte, "when men as old as father fall, they stumble at their own grave; and i can't think what i'll do without father." "you have steve." "steve is going away. he would have left this morning, but for this fresh trouble. i see you are startled, charlotte." "i am that. i heard nothing of it. he moves in a great hurry." "he always moves that way, does steve." "how is grandfather?" "he has had quite a backening since yesterday night. he has got 'the call,' charlotte. i've had more than one sign of it. just before he fell he went into the garden, and brought in with him a sprig of 'death-come-quickly.' [the plant _geranium robertianum_.] 'father,' i asked, 'whatever made you pull that?' then he looked so queerly, and answered, 'i didn't pull it, ducie: i found it on the wall.' he was quite curious, and sent me to ask this one and the other one if they had been in the garden. no one had been there; and, at the long end, he said, 'make no more talk about it, ducie. there's _them_ that go up and down the fellside that no one sees. _they_ lift the latch, and wait not for the open door, the king's command being urgent. i have had a message.' he fell an hour afterwards, charlotte. he did not think he was much hurt at the time, but he got his death-throw. i know it." "i should like to speak to him, ducie. tell him that charlotte sandal wants his blessing." he was lying on the big oak bed in the best room, waiting for his dismissal in cheerful serenity. "come here, charlotte," he said; "stoop down, and let me see you once more. my sight grows dim. i am going away, dear." "o grandfather! is there any thing i can do for you?" "be a good girl. be good, and do good. stand true to steve,--remember,--true to steve." and he did not seem inclined to talk more. "he is saving his strength for the squire," said ducie. "he has a deal to say to him." "father hoped to be back this afternoon." "though it be the darkening when he gets home, ask him to come at once, charlotte. father is waiting for him, and i don't think he will pass the turn of the night." there were many subtle links of sympathy between up-hill and sandal. death could not be in one house without casting a shadow in the other. julius privately thought such a fellow-feeling a little stretched. the latriggs were on a distinctly lower social footing than the sandals. rich they might be; but they were not written among the list of county families, nor had they even married into their ranks. he could not understand why barf latrigg's death should be allowed to interfere with life at seat-sandal. yet mrs. sandal was at up-hill all the afternoon; and, though the squire did not get home until quite the darkening, he went at once, without taking food or rest, to the dying man. "why, barf is very near all the same as my own father," he said. and then, in a lower voice, "and he may see my father before the strike of day. i wouldn't miss barfs last words for a year of life. i wouldn't that." it was a lovely night,--warm, and sweet with the scent of august lilies, and the rich aromas of ripening fruit and grain. the great hills and the peaceful valleys lay under the soft radiance of a full moon; and there was not a sound but the gurgle of running water, or the bark of some solitary sheep-dog, watching the folds on the high fells. sophia and julius were walking in the garden, both feeling the sensitive suggestiveness of the hour, talking softly together on topics people seldom discuss in the sunshine,--intimations of lost powers, prior existences, immortal life. julius was learned in the oriental view of metempsychosis. sophia could trace the veiled intuition through the highest inspiration of western thought. "it whispers in the heart of every shepherd on these hills," she said; "and they interpreted for mr. wordsworth the dream of his own soul." "i know, sophia. i lifted the book yesterday: your mark was in it." and he recited in a low, intense voice,-- "'our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: the soul that rises with us, our life's star, hath had elsewhere its setting, and cometh from afar: not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from god, who is our home:'" "oh, yes!" answered sophia, lifting her dark eyes in a real enthusiasm. "though inland far we be, our souls have sight of that immortal sea which brought us hither.'" and they were both very happy in this luxury of mystical speculation. eternity was behind as before them. soft impulses from moon and stars, and from the witching beauty of lonely hills and scented garden-ways, touched within their souls some primal sympathy that drew them close to that unseen boundary dividing spirits from shadow-casting men. it is true they rather felt than understood; but when the soul has faith, what matters comprehension? in the cold sweetness of the following dawn, the squire returned from up-hill. "barf is gone, alice," were his first words. "but all is well, william." "no doubt of it. i met the rector on the hillside. 'how is barf?' i asked; and he answered, 'thank god, he has the mastery!' then he went on without another word. barf had lost his sight when i got there; but he knew my voice, and he asked me to lay my face against his face. 'i've done well to sandal,--well to sandal,' he muttered at intervals. 'you'll know it some day, william.' i can't think what he meant. i hope he hasn't left me any money. i could not take it, alice." "was that all?" "when steve came in he said something like 'charlotte,' and he looked hard at me; and then again, 'i've done well by sandal.' but i was too late. ducie said he had been very restless about me earlier in the afternoon: he was nearly outside life when i got there. we thought he would speak no more; but about three o'clock this morning he called quite clearly, '_ducie, the abbot's cross_.' then ducie unlocked the oak chest that stands by the bed-side, and took from it an ivory crucifix. she put it in his left hand. with a smile he touched the christ upon it; and so, clasping the abbot's cross, he died." "i wonder at that, william. a better church-of-england man was not in all the dales than barf latrigg." "ay; but you see, alice, that cross is older than the church of england. it was given to the first latrigg of up-hill by the first abbot of furness. before the days of wyckliffe and latimer, every one of them, babe and hoary-head, died with it in their hands. there are things that go deeper down than creeds, alice; and the cross with the saviour on it is one of them. i would like to feel it myself, even when i was past seeing it. i would like to take the step between here and there with it in my hands." in the cool of the afternoon, julius and the girls went to up-hill. he had a solemn curiousness about death; and both personally and theoretically the transition filled him with vague, momentous ideas, relating to all sides of his conscious being. in every land where he had sojourned, the superstitions and ceremonials that attended it were subjects of interest to him. so he was much touched when he entered the deep, cool porch, and saw the little table at the threshold, covered with a white linen cloth, and holding a plate of evergreens and a handful of salt. and when sophia and charlotte each scattered a little salt upon the ground, and broke off a small spray of boxwood, he knew instinctively that they were silently expressing their faith in the preservation of the body, and in the life everlasting; and he imitated them in the simple rite. ducie met them with a grave and tender pleasure. "come, and see the empty soul-case," she said softly; "there is nothing to fear you." and she led them into the chamber where it lay. the great bed was white as a drift of snow. on the dark oak walls, there were branches of laurel and snowberry. the floor was fragrant under the feet, with bits of rosemary, and bruised ears of lavender, and leaves of thyme. the casements were wide open to admit the fresh mountain breeze; and at one of them steve rested in the carved chair that had been his grandfather's, and was now his own. the young men did not know each other; but this was neither the time nor the place for social civilities, and they only slightly bowed as their eyes met. indeed, it seemed wrong to trouble the peaceful silence with mere words of courtesy; but charlotte gave her hand to stephen, and with it that candid, loving gaze, which has, from the eyes of the beloved, the miraculous power of turning the water of life into wine. and charlotte perceived this, and she went home happy in the happiness she had given. four days later, barf latrigg was buried. in the glory of the august afternoon, the ladies of seat-sandal stood with julius in the shadow of the park gates, and watched the long procession winding slowly down the fells. at first it was accompanied by fitful, varying gusts of solemn melody; but as it drew nearer, the affecting tones of the funeral hymn became more and more distinct and sustained. there were at least three hundred voices thrilling the still, warm air with its pathetic music; and, as they approached the church gates, it blended itself with the heavy tread of those who carried and of those who followed the dead, like a wonderful, triumphant march. after the funeral was over, the squire went back to up-hill to eat the arvel-meal, [death-feast.] and to hear the will of his old friend read. it was nearly dark when he returned, and he was very glad to find his wife alone. "i have had a few hard hours, alice," he said wearily; "and i am more bothered about barfs will than i can tell why." "i suppose steve got all." "pretty nearly. barf's married daughters had their portions long ago, but he left each of them three hundred pounds as a good-will token. ducie got a thousand pounds and her right in up-hill as long as she lived. all else was for steve except--and this bothers me--a box of papers left in ducie's charge. they are to be given to me at her discretion; and, if not given during her lifetime or my lifetime, the charge remains then between those that come after us. i don't like it, and i can't think what it means. eh? what?" "he left you nothing?" "he left me his staff. he knew better than to leave me money. but i am bothered about that box of papers. what can they refer to? eh? what?" "i can make a guess, william. when your brother tom left home, and went to india, he took money enough with him; but i'm afraid he got it queerly. at any rate, your father had some big sums to raise. you were at college at the time; and though there was some underhand talk, maybe you never heard it, for no one round sandal-side would pass on a word likely to trouble the old squire, or offend mistress charlotte. now, perhaps it was at that time barf latrigg 'did well to sandal.'" "i think you may be right, alice. i remember that father was a bit mean with me the last year i was at oxford. he would have reasons he did not tell me of. one should never judge a father. he is often forced to cut the loaf unevenly for the good of every one." but this new idea troubled sandal. he was a man of super-sensitive honor with regard to money matters. if there were really any obligation of that kind between the two houses, he hardly felt grateful to latrigg for being silent about it. and still more the transfer of these papers vexed him. ducie might know what he might never know. steve might have it in his power to trouble harry when he was at rest with his fore-elders. the subject haunted and worried him; and as worries are never complete worries till they have an individuality, steve very soon became the personal embodiment of mortifying uncertainty, and wounded _amour propre_. for if mrs. sandal's suspicion were true, or even if it were not true, she was not likely to be the only one in sandal-side who would construe latrigg's singular disposition of his papers in the same way. certainly squire william did not feel as if the dead man had 'done well to sandal.' stephen was equally annoyed. his grandfather had belonged to a dead century, and retained until the last his almost feudal idea of the bond between his family and the sandals. but the present squire had stepped outside the shadows of the past, and stephen was fully abreast of his own times. he understood very well, that, whatever these papers related to, they would be a constant thorn in sandal's side; and he saw them lying between charlotte and himself, a barrier unknown, and insurmountable because unknown. from ducie he could obtain neither information nor assistance. "mother," he asked, "do you know what those papers are about?" "ratherly." "when can you tell me?" "there must be a deal of sorrow before i can tell you." "do you want to tell me?" "if i should dare to want it one minute, i should ask god's pardon the next. when i unlock that box, steve, there is like to be trouble in sandal. i think your grandfather would rather the key rusted away." "does the squire know any thing about them?" "not he." "if he asks, will you tell him?" "not yet. i--hope never." "i wish they were in the fire." "perhaps some day you may put them there. you will have the right when i am gone." then steve silently kissed her, and went into the garden; and ducie watched him through the window, and whispered to herself, "it is a bit hard, but it might be harder; and right always gets the over-hand at the long end." the first interview between the squire and stephen after barf latrigg's funeral was not a pleasanter one than this misunderstanding promised. sandal was walking on sandal scree-top one morning, and met steve. "good-morning, mr. latrigg," he said; "you are a statesman now, and we must give you your due respect." he did not say it unkindly; but steve somehow felt the difference between mr. latrigg and squire sandal as he had never felt it when the greeting had only been, "good-morning, steve. how do all at home do?" still, he was anxious to keep sandal's good-will, and he hastened to ask his opinion upon several matters relating to the estate which had just come into his hands. ordinarily this concession would have been a piece of subtle flattery quite irresistible to the elder man, but just at that time it was the most imprudent thing steve could have done. "i had an offer this morning from squire methley. he wants to rent the skelwith 'walk' from me. what do you think of him, sir?" "as how?" "as a tenant. i suppose he has money. there are about a thousand sheep on it." "he lives on the other side of the range, and i know him not; but our sheep have mingled on the mountain for thirty years. i count not after him, and he counts not after me;" and sandal spoke coldly, like a man defending his own order. "are you going to rent your 'walks' so soon? eh? what?" "as soon as i can advantageously." "i bethink me. at the last shearing you were all for spinning and weaving. the coppice woods were to make your bobbins; silver force was to feed your engines; the little herd lads and lassies to mind your spinning-frames. well, well, mr. latrigg, such doings are not for me to join in! i shall be sorry to see these lovely valleys turned into weaving-shops; but you belong to a new generation, and the young know every thing,--or they think they do." "and you will soon join the new generation, squire. you were always tolerant and wide awake. i never knew your prejudices beyond reasoning with." "mr. latrigg, leave my prejudices, as you call them, alone. to-day i am not in the humor either to defend them or repent of them." they talked for some time longer,--talked until the squire felt bored with steve's plans. the young man kept hoping every moment to say something that would retrieve his previous blunders; but who can please those who are determined not to be pleased? and yet sandal was annoyed at his own injustice, and then still more annoyed at steve for causing him to be unjust. besides which, the young man's eagerness for change, his enthusiasms and ambitions, offended him in a particular way that morning; for he had had an unpleasant letter from his son harry, who was not eager and enthusiastic and ambitious, but lazy, extravagant, and quite commonplace. also charlotte had not cared to come out with him, and the immeasurable self-complacency of his nephew julius had really quite spoiled his breakfast; and then, below all, there was that disagreeable feeling about the latriggs. so stephen did not conciliate sandal, and he was himself very much grieved at the squire's evident refusal of his friendly advances. there is no humiliation so bitter as that of a rejected offering. was it not the failure of cain's attempted propitiation that kindled the flame of hate and murder in his heart? steve latrigg went back to up-hill, nursing a feeling of indignation against the man who had so suddenly conceived a dislike to him, and who had dashed, with regrets and doubtful speeches and faint praise, all the plans which at sunrise had seemed so full of hope, and so worthy of success. the squire was equally annoyed. he could not avoid speaking of the interview, for it irritated him, and was uppermost in his thoughts. he detailed it with a faint air of pitying contempt. "the lad is upset with the money and land he has come into, and the whole place is too small for his greatness." that was what he said, and he knew he was unjust; but the moral atmosphere between steve and himself had become permeated with distrust and dislike. unhappy miasmas floated hither and thither in it, and poisoned him. when with stephen he hardly recognized himself: he did not belong to himself. sarcasm, contradiction, opposing ideas, took possession of and ruled him by the forces of antipathy, just as others ruled him by the forces of love and attraction. the days that had been full of peaceful happiness were troubled in all their hours; and yet the sources of trouble were so vague, so blended with what he had called unto himself, that he could not give vent to his unrest and disappointment. his life had had a jar; nothing ran smoothly; and he was almost glad when julius announced the near termination of his visit. he had begun to feel as if julius were inimical to him; not consciously so, but in that occult way which makes certain foods and drinks, certain winds and weathers, inimical to certain personalities. his presence seemed to have blighted his happiness, as the north wind blighted his myrtles. "if i could only have let 'well' alone. if i had never written that letter." many a time a day he said such words to his own heart. in the mean time, julius was quite unconscious of his position. he was thoroughly enjoying himself. if others were losing, he was not. he was in love with the fine old hall. the simple, sylvan character of its daily life charmed his poetic instincts. the sweet, hot days on the fells, with a rod in his hand, and charlotte and the squire for company, were like an idyl. the rainy days in the large, low drawing-room, singing with sophia, or dreaming and speculating with her on all sorts of mysteries, were, in their way, equally charmful. he liked to walk slowly up and down, and to talk to her softly of things obscure, cryptic, cabalistic. the plashing rain, the moaning wind, made just the monotonous accompaniment that seemed fitting; and the lovely girl, listening, with needle half-drawn, and sensitive, sensuous face lifted to his own, made a situation in which he knew he did himself full justice. at such times he thought sophia was surely his natural mate,--'the soul that halved his own,' the one of 'nearer kindred than life hinted of.' at other times he was equally conscious that he loved charlotte sandal with an intensity to which his love for sophia was as water is to wine. but charlotte's indifference mortified him, and their natures were almost antagonistic to each other. under such circumstances a great love is often a dangerous one. very little will turn it into hatred. and julius had been made to feel more than once the utter superfluity of his existence, as far as charlotte sandal was concerned. still, he determined not to resign the hope of winning her until he was sure that her indifference was not an affectation. he had read of women who used it as a lure. if it were charlotte's special weapon he was quite willing to be brought to submission by it. after all, there was piquancy in the situation; for to most men, love sought and hardly won is far sweeter than love freely given. yet of all the women whom he had known, charlotte sandal was the least approachable. she was fertile in preventing an opportunity; and if the opportunity came, she was equally fertile in spoiling it. but julius had patience; and patience is the art and secret of hoping. a woman cannot always be on guard, and he believed in not losing heart, and in waiting. sooner or later, the happy moment when success would be possible was certain to arrive. one day in the early part of september, the squire asked his wife for all the house-servants she could spare. "a few more hands will bring home the harvest to-night," he said; "and it would be a great thing to get it in without a drop of rain." so the men and maids went off to the wheat-fields, as if they were going to a frolic; and there was a happy sense of freedom, with the picnicky dinner, and the general air of things being left to themselves about the house. after an unusually merry lunch, julius proposed a walk to the harvest-field, and sophia and charlotte eagerly agreed to it. it was a joy to be out of doors under such a sky. the intense, repressing greens of summer were now subdued and shaded. the air was subtle and fragrant. amber rays shone through the boughs. the hills were clothed in purple. an exquisite, impalpable haze idealized all nature. right and left the reapers swept their sharp sickles through the ripe wheat. the women went after them, binding the sheaves, and singing among the yellow swaths shrill, wild songs, full of simple modulations. the squire's field was busy as a fair; and the idle young people sat under the oaks, or walked slowly in the shadow of the hedges, pulling poppies and wild flowers, and realizing all the poetry of a pastoral life, without any of its hard labor or its vulgar cares. mrs. sandal had given them a basket with berries and cake and cream in it. they were all young enough to get pleasantly hungry in the open air, all young enough to look upon berries and cake and cream as a distinct addition to happiness. they set out a little feast under the trees, and called the squire to come and taste their dainties. he was standing, without his coat and vest, on the top of a loaded wain, the very embodiment of a jovial, handsome, country gentleman. the reins were in his hand; he was going to drive home the wealthy wagon; but he stopped and stooped, and charlotte, standing on tip-toes, handed him a glass of cream. "god love thy bonny face," he said, with a beaming smile, as he handed her back the empty glass. then off went the great horses with their towering load, treading carefully between the hedges of the narrow lane, and leaving upon the hawthorns many a stray ear for the birds gleaning. when the squire returned he called to julius and his daughters, "what idle-backs you are! come, and bind a sheaf with me." and they rose with a merry laugh, and followed him down the field, working a little, and resting a little; and towards the close of the afternoon, listening to the singing of an old man who had brought his fiddle to the field in order to be ready to play at the squire's "harvest-home." he was a thin, crooked, old man, very spare and ruddy. "eighty-three years old, young sir," he said to julius; and then, in a trembling, cracked voice, he quavered out,-- "says t' auld man to t' auld oak-tree, young and lusty was i when i kenned thee: i was young and lusty, i was fair and clear, young and lusty was i, many a long year. but sair failed is i, sair failed now; sair failed is i, since i kenned thou. sair failed, honey, sair failed now; sair failed, honey, since i kenned thou." it was the appeal of tottering age to happy, handsome youth, and julius could not resist it. with a royal grace he laid a guinea in the old man's open palm, and felt fully rewarded by his look of wonder and delight. "god give you love and luck, young sir. i am eighty-three now, and sair failed; but i was once twenty-three, and young and lusty as you be. but life is at the fag end with me now. god save us all!" then, with a meaning look at the two pretty girls watching him, he went slowly off, droning out to a monotonous accompaniment, an old love ballad:-- "picking of lilies the other day, picking of lilies both fresh and gay, picking of lilies, red, white, and blue, little i thought what love could do." "'_little i thought what love could do_,'" julius repeated; and he sang the doleful refrain over and over, as they strolled back to the oak under which they had had their little feast. then sophia, who had a natural love of neatness and order, began to collect the plates and napkins, and arrange them in the basket; and this being done, she looked around for the housemaid in order to put it in her charge. the girl was at the other end of the field, and she went to her. charlotte had scarcely perceived what was going on. the old man's singing had made her a little sad. she, too, was thinking of "what love could do." she was standing under the tree, leaning against the great mossy trunk. her brown hair had fallen loose, her cheeks were flushed, her lips crimson, her whole form a glowing picture of youth in its perfect beauty and freshness. sophia was out of hearing. julius stepped close to her. his soul was in his face; he spoke like a man who was no longer master of himself. "charlotte, i love you. i love you with all my heart." she looked at him steadily. her eyes flashed. she threw downward her hands with a deprecating motion. "you have no right to say such words to me, julius. i have done all a woman could do to prevent, them. i have never given you any encouragement. a gentleman does not speak without it." "i could not help speaking. i love you, charlotte. is there any wrong in loving you? if i had any hope of winning you." "no, no; there is no hope. i do not love you. i never shall love you." "unless you have some other lover, charlotte, i shall dare to hope"-- "i have a lover." "oh!" "and i am frank with you because it is best. i trust you will respect my candor." he only bowed. indeed, he found speech impossible. never before had charlotte looked so lovely and so desirable to him. he felt her positive rejection very keenly. "sophia is coming. please to forget that this conversation has ever been." "you are very cruel." "no. i am truly kind. sophia, i am tired; let us go home." so they turned out of the field, and into the lane. but something was gone, and something had come. sophia felt the change, and she looked curiously at julius and charlotte. charlotte was calmly mingling the poppies and wheat in her hands. her face revealed nothing. julius was a little melancholy. "the fairies have left us," he said. "all of a sudden, the revel is over." then as they walked slowly homeward, he took sophia's hand, and swayed it gently to and fro to the old fiddler's refrain,-- "'little i thought what love could do.'" chapter v. charlotte. "oh, how this spring of love resembleth the uncertain glory of an april day!" "hammering and clinking, chattering stony names of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff, amygdaloid and trachyte." when charlotte again went to up-hill she found herself walking through a sober realm of leafless trees. the glory of autumn was gone. the hills, with their circular sheep-pens, were now brown and bare; and the plaided shepherds, descending far apart, gave only an air of loneliness to the landscape. she could see the white line of the stony road with a sad distinctness. it was no longer bordered with creeping vines and patches of murmuring bee-bent heather. and the stream-bed also had lost nearly all its sentinel rushes, and the tall brakens from its shaggy slopes were gone. but silver beck still ran musically over tracts of tinkling stones; and, through the chilly air, the lustered black cock was crowing for the gray hen in the hollow. very soon the atmosphere became full of misty rain; and ere she reached the house, there was a cold wind, and the nearest cloud was sprinkling the bubbling beck. it was pleasant to see ducie at the open door ready to welcome her; pleasant to get into the snug houseplace, and watch the great fire leaping up the chimney, and throwing lustres on the carved oak presses and long settles, and on the bright brass and pewter vessels, and the rows of showy chinaware. very pleasant to draw her chair to the little round table on the hearthstone, and to inhale the fragrance of the infusing tea, and the rich aroma of potted char and spiced bread and freshly-baked cheese-cakes. and still more pleasant to be taken possession of, to have her damp shoes and cloak removed, her chill fingers warmed in a kindly, motherly clasp, and to be made to feel through all her senses that she was indeed "welcome as sun-shining." with a little shiver of disappointment she noticed that there were only two tea-cups on the table; and the house, when she came to analyze its atmosphere, had in it the perceptible loneliness of the absent master. "is not stephen at home?" she asked, as ducie settled herself comfortably for their meal; "i thought stephen was at home." "no, he isn't. he went to kendal three days ago about his fleeces. whitney's carpet-works have made him a very good offer. did not the squire speak of it?" "no." "well he knew all about it. he met steve, and steve told him. the squire has been a little queer with us lately, charlotte. do you know what the trouble is? i thought i would have you up to tea, and ask you; so when sandal was up here this morning, i said, 'let charlotte come, and have a cup of tea with me, squire, i'd be glad.' and he said, 'when?' and i said, 'this afternoon. i am fair lonely without steve.' and he said, 'i'm agreeable. she'll be glad enough to come.' and i said, 'thank'ee, squire, i'll be glad enough to see her.' but what _is_ the matter, charlotte? the squire has been in his airs with steve ever so long." then charlotte's face grew like a flame; and she answered, in a tone of tender sadness, "father thinks steve loves me; and he says there is no love-line between our houses, and that, if there were, it is crossed with sorrow, and that neither the living nor the dead will have marriage between steve and me." "i thought that was the trouble. i did so. as for the living, he speaks for himself; as for the dead, it is your grandmother sandal he thinks of. she was a hard, proud woman, charlotte. her two daughters rejoiced at their wedding-days, and two out of her three sons she drove away from their home. your father was on the point of going, when his brother launcie's death made him the heir. then she gave him a bit more respect, and for pretty alice morecombe's sake he stayed by the old squire. ten years your mother waited for william sandal, charlotte." "yes, i know." "do you love steve, charlotte? i am steve's mother, dear, and you may speak to me as if you were talking to your own heart. i would never tell steve either this way or that way for any thing. steve would not thank me if i did. he is one of them that wants to reach his happiness in his own way, and by his own hand. and i have good reasons for asking you such a question, or i would not ask it; you may be sure i have, that you may." charlotte had put down her cup, and she sat with her hands clasped upon her lap, looking down into it. ducie's question took her by surprise, and she was rather offended by it. for charlotte sandal had been taught all the reticences of good society, and for a moment she resented a catechism so direct and personal; but only for a moment. before ducie had done speaking, she had remembered that nothing but true kindness could have prompted the inquiry. ducie was not a curious, tattling, meddlesome woman; charlotte had never known her to interfere in any one's affairs. she had few visitors, and she made no calls. year in and year out, ducie could always be found at home with herself. "you need not tell me, dear, if you do not know; or if you do not want to tell me." "i do know, ducie; and i do not mind telling you in the least. i love stephen very dearly. i have loved him ever since--i don't know when." "and you have always had as good and as true as you have given. steve is fondly heart-grown to you, charlotte. but we will say no more; and what we have said is dropped into my heart like a stone dropped into deep water." then they spoke of the rector, how he was failing a little; and of one of the maids at seat-sandal who was to marry the head shepherd at up-hill; and at last, when there had been enough of indifferent talk to effectually put steve out of mind, ducie asked suddenly, "how is harry, and is he doing well?" this was a subject charlotte was glad to discuss with ducie. harry was a great favorite with her, and had been accustomed to run to up-hill whenever he was in any boyish scrape. and harry was _not_ doing well. "father is vexed and troubled about him, ducie," she answered. "whenever a letter comes from harry, it puts every thing wrong in the house. mother goes away and cries; and sophia sulks because, she says, 'it is a shame any single one of the family should be allowed to make all the rest uncomfortable.'" "harry should never have gone into the army. he hasn't any resisting power, hasn't harry. and there is nothing but temptation in the army. dear me, charlotte! we may well pray not to be led into the way of temptation; for if we once get into it, we are no better off than a fly in a spider's web." she was filling the two empty cups as she spoke, but she suddenly set down the teapot, and listened a moment. "i hear steve's footsteps. sit still, charlotte. he is opening the door. i knew it was he." "mother! mother!" "here i am, steve." he came in rosy and wet with his climb up the fellside; and, as he kissed his mother, he put out his hand to charlotte. then there was the pleasantest stir of care and welcome imaginable; and steve soon found himself sitting opposite the girl he loved so dearly, taking his cup from her hands, looking into her bright, kind eyes, exchanging with her those charming little courtesies which can be made the vehicles of so much that is not spoken, and that is understood without speech. but the afternoons were now very short, and the happy meal had to be hastened. the clouds, too, had fallen low; and the rain, as ducie said, "was plashing and pattering badly." she folded her own blanket-shawl around charlotte; and as there was no wind, and the road was mostly wide enough for two, steve could carry an umbrella, and get her safely home before the darkening. how merrily they went out together into the storm! steve thought he could hardly have chosen any circumstances that would have pleased him better. it was quite necessary that charlotte should keep close to his side; it was quite natural that she should lift her face to his in talking; it was equally natural that steve should bend towards charlotte, and that, in a moment, without any conscious intention of doing so, he should kiss her. she trembled and stood still, but she was not angry. "that was very wrong, steve. i told you at the harvest-home what father said, and what i had promised father. i'll break no squares with father, and you must not make me do so." "i could not help it, charlotte, you looked so bewitching." "oh, dear! the old, old excuse, 'the woman tempted me,' etc." "forgive me, dear charlotte. i was going to tell you that i had been very fortunate in kendal, and next week i am going to bradford to learn all about spinning and weaving and machinery. but what is success without you? if i make every dream come to pass, and have not charlotte, my heart will keep telling me, night and day, '_all for nothing, all for nothing_.'" "do not be so impatient. you are making trouble, and forespeaking disappointment. before you have learned all about manufacturing, and built your mill, before you are really ready to begin your life's work, many a change may have taken place in sandal-side. when julius comes at christmas i think he will ask sophia to marry him, and i think sophia will accept his offer. that marriage would open the way for our marriage." "only partly i fear. i can see that squire sandal has taken a dislike, and your mother was a little high with me when i saw her last." "partly your own fault, sir. why did you give up the ways of your fathers? the idea of mills and trading in these dales is such a new one." "but a man must move with his own age, charlotte. there is no prospect of another stuart rebellion. i cannot do the queen's service, and get rewarded as old christopher sandal did. and i want to go to parliament, and can't go without money. and i can't make money quick enough by keeping sheep and planting wheat. but manufacturing means money, land, influence, power." "father does not see these things as you do, steve. he sees the peaceful dales invaded by white-faced factory-hands, loud-voiced, quarrelling, disrespectful. all the old landmarks and traditions will disappear; also simple ways of living, calm religion, true friendships. every good old sentiment will be gauged by money, will finally vanish before money, and what the busy world calls 'improvements.' it makes him fretful, jealous, and unhappy." "that is just the trouble, charlotte. when a man has not the spirit of his age, he has all its unhappiness. but my greatest fear is, that you will grow weary of waiting for _our hour_." "i have told you that i shall not. there is an old proverb which says, 'trust not the man who promises with an oath.' is not my simple word, then, the best and the surest hope?" then she nestled close to his side, and began to talk of his plans and his journey, and to anticipate the time when he would break ground upon silver beck, and build the many-windowed factory that had been his dream ever since he had began to plan his own career. the wind rose, the rain fell in a down-pour before they reached the park-gates; but there was a certain joy in facing the wet breeze, and although they did not loiter, yet neither did they hurry. in both their hearts there was a little fear of the squire, but neither spoke of it. charlotte would not suppose or suggest any necessity for avoiding him, and steve was equally sensitive on the subject. when they arrived at seat-sandal the main entrance was closed, and stephen stood with her on the threshold until a man-servant opened slowly its ponderous panels. there was a bright fire burning in the hall, and lights were in the sconces on the walls. charlotte asked steve to come in and rest a while. she tried to avoid showing either fear or hurry, and steve was conscious of the same effort on his own part; but yet he knew that they both thought it well none of the family were aware of her return, or of his presence. she watched him descend the dripping steps into the darkness, and then went towards the fire. an unusual silence was in the house. she stood upon the hearthstone while the servant rebolted the door, and then asked,-- "is dinner served, noel?" "it be over, miss charlotte." so she went to her own room. it was chilly and dreary. the fire had been allowed to die down, and had only just been replenished. it was smoking also, and the candles on her toilet-table burned dimly in the damp atmosphere. she hurriedly changed her gown, and was going down-stairs, when a movement in sophia's room arrested her attention. it was very unusual for sophia to be up-stairs at that hour, and the fact struck her significantly. she knocked at the door, and was told rather irritably to "come in." "dear me, sophia! what is the matter? it feels as if there were something wrong in the house." "i suppose there is something wrong. father got a letter from harry by the late post, and he left his dinner untouched; and mother is in her room crying, of course. i do think it is a shame that harry is allowed to turn the house upside down whenever he feels like it." "perhaps he is in trouble." "he is always in trouble, for he is always busy making trouble. his very amusements mean trouble for all who have the misfortune to have any thing to do with him. julius told me that no man in the 'cameronians' had a worse name than harry sandal." "julius! the idea of julius talking badly about our harry, and to you! i wonder you listened to him. it was a shabby thing to do; it was that." "julius only repeated what he had heard, and he was very sorry to do so. he felt it to be conscientiously his duty." "bah! god save me from such a conscience! if julius had heard any thing good of harry, he would have had no conscientious scruples about silence; not he! i dare say julius would be glad if poor harry was out of his way." "charlotte sandal, you shall not say such very unladylike, such unchristianlike, things in my room. it is quite easy to see _whose_ company you have been in." "i have been with ducie. can you find me a sweeter or better soul?" "or a handsomer young man than her son?" "i mean that also, certainly. handsome, energetic, enterprising, kind, religious." "spare me the balance of your adjectives. we all know that steve is square on every side, and straight in every corner. don't be so earnest; you fatigue me to-night. i am on the verge of a nervous headache, and i really think you had better leave me." she turned her chair towards the fire as she spoke, and hardly palliated this act of dismissal by the faint "excuse me," which accompanied it. and charlotte made no remark, though she left her sister's room, mentally promising herself to keep away from it in the future. she went next to the parlor. the squire's chair was empty, and on the little stand at its side, the "gentleman's magazine" lay uncut. his slippers, usually assumed after dinner, were still warming on the white sheepskin rug before the fire. but the large, handsome face, that always made a sunshiny feeling round the hearth, was absent; and the room had a loneliness that made her heart fear. she waited a few minutes, looking with expectation towards a piece of knitting which was mrs. sandal's evening work. but the ivory needles and the colored wools remained uncalled for, and she grew rapidly impatient, and went to her mother's room. mrs. sandal was lying upon her couch, exhausted with weeping; and the squire sat holding his head in his hands, the very picture of despondency and sorrow. "can i come and speak to you, mother?" the squire answered, "to be sure you can, charlotte. we are glad to see you. we are in trouble, my dear." "is it harry, father?" "trouble mostly comes that way. yes, it is harry. he is in a great strait, and wants five hundred pounds, charlotte; five hundred pounds, dear, and he wants it at once. only six weeks ago he wrote in the same way for a hundred and fifty pounds. he is robbing me, robbing his mother, robbing sophia and you." "william, i wouldn't give way to temper that road; calling your own son and my son a thief. it's not fair," said mrs. sandal, with considerable asperity. "i must call things by their right names, alice. i call a cat, a cat; and i call our harry a thief; for i don't know that forcing money from a father is any better than forcing it from a stranger. it is only using a father's love as a pick-lock instead of an iron tool. that's all the difference, alice; and i don't think the difference is one that helps harry's case much. eh? what?" "dear me! it is always money," sighed charlotte. "your father knows very well that harry must have the money, charlotte. i think it is cruel of him to make every one ill before he gives what is sure to be given in the end. sophia has a headache, i dare say, and i am sure i have." "but i cannot give him this money, alice. i have not realized on my wool and wheat yet. i cannot coin money. i will not beg or borrow it. i will not mortgage an acre for it." "and you will let your only son the heir of sandal-side, go to jail and disgrace for five hundred pounds. i never heard tell of such cruelty. never, never, never!" "you do not know what you are saying, alice. tell me how i am to find five hundred pounds. eh? what?" "there must be ways. how can a woman tell?" "father, have i not got some money of my own?" "you have the accrued interest on the thousand pounds your grandmother left you. sophia has the same." "is the interest sufficient?" "you have drawn from it at intervals. i think there is about three hundred pounds to your credit." "sophia will have nearly as much. call her, father. surely between us we can arrange five hundred pounds. i shall be real glad to help harry. young men have so many temptations now, father. harry is a good sort in the main. just have a little patience with him. eh, father?" and the squire was glad of the pleading voice. glad for some one to make the excuses he did not think it right to make. glad to have the little breath of hope that charlotte's faith in her brother gave him. he stood up, and took her face between his hands and kissed it. then he sent a servant for sophia; and after a short delay the young lady appeared, looking pale and exceedingly injured. "did you send for me, father?" "yes, i did. come in and sit down. there is something to be done for harry, and we want your help, sophia. eh? what?" she pushed a chair gently to the table, and sat down languidly. she was really sick, but her air and attitude was that of a person suffering an extremity of physical anguish. the squire looked at her and then at charlotte with dismay and self-reproach. "harry wants five hundred pounds, sophia." "i am astonished he does not want five thousand pounds. father, i would not send him a sovereign of it. julius told me about his carryings-on." she could hardly have said any words so favorable to harry's cause. the squire was on the defensive for his own side in a moment. "what has julius to do with it?" he cried. "sandal-side is not his property, and please god it never will be. harry is one kind of a sinner, julius is another kind of a sinner. god almighty only knows which kind of sinner is the meaner and worse. the long and the short of it, is this: harry must have five hundred pounds. charlotte is willing to give the balance of her interest account, about three hundred pounds, towards it. will you make up what is lacking, out of your interest money? eh? what?" "i do not know why i should be asked to do this, i am sure." "only because i have no ready money at present. and because, however bad harry is, he is your brother. and because he is heir of sandal, and the honor of the name is worth saving. and because your mother will break her heart if shame comes to harry. and there are some other reasons too; but if mother, brother, and honor don't seem worth while to you, why, then, sophia, there is no use wasting words. eh? what?" "let father have what is needed, sophia. i will pay you back." "very well, charlotte; but i think it is most unjust, most iniquitous, as julius says"-- "now, then, don't quote julius to me. what right had he to be discussing my family matters, or sandal matters either, i wonder? eh? what?" "he is in the family." "is he? very well, then, i am still the head of the family. if he has any advice to offer, he can come to me with it. eh? what?" "father, i am as sick as can be to-night." "go thy ways then. mother and i are both poorly too. good-night, girls, both." and he turned away with an air of hopeless depression, that was far more pitiful than the loudest complaining. the sisters went away together, silent, and feeling quite "out" with each other. but sophia really had a nervous attack, and was shivery and sick with it. by the lighted candle in her hand, charlotte saw that her very lips were white, and that heavy tears were silently rolling down her wan cheeks. they washed all of charlotte's anger away; she forgot her resolution not to enter her sister's room again, and at its door she said, "let me stay with you till you can sleep, sophia; or i will go, and ask ann to make you a cup of strong coffee. you are suffering very much." "yes, i am suffering; and father knows how i do suffer with these headaches, and that any annoyance brings them on; and yet, if harry cries out at edinburgh, every one in seat-sandal must be put out of their own way to help him. and i do think it is a shame that our little fortunes are to be crumbled as a kind of spice into his big fortune. if harry does not know the value of money i do." "i will pay you back every pound. i really do not care a bit about money. i have all the dress i want. you buy books and music, i do not. i have no use for my money except to make happiness with it; and, after all, that is the best interest i can possibly get." "very well. then, you can pay harry's debts if it gives you pleasure. i suppose i am a little peculiar on this subject. last sunday, when the rector was preaching about the prodigal son, i could not help thinking that the sympathy for the bad young man was too much. i know, if i had been the elder brother, i should have felt precisely as he did. i don't think he ought to be blamed. and it would certainly have been more just and proper for the father to have given the feast and the gifts to the son who never at any time transgressed his commandments. you see, charlotte, that parable is going on all over the world ever since; going on right here in seat-sandal; and i am on the elder brother's side. harry has given me a headache to-night; and i dare say he is enjoying himself precisely as the jerusalem prodigal did before the swine husks, when it was the riotous living." "have a cup of coffee, sophy. i'll go down for it. you are just as trembly and excited as you can be." "very well; thank you, charlotte. you always have such a bright, kind face. i am afraid i do not deserve such a good sister." "yes, you do deserve all i can help or pleasure you in." and then, when the coffee had been taken, and sophia lay restless and wide-eyed upon her bed, charlotte proposed to read to her from any book she desired; an offer involving no small degree of self-denial, for sophia's books were very rarely interesting, or even intelligible, to her sister. but she lifted the nearest two, barret's "maga," and "the veiled prophet," and rather dismally asked which it was to be? "neither of them, charlotte. the 'maga' makes me think, and i know you detest poetry. i got a letter to-night from agnes bulteel, and it appears to be about professor sedgwick. i was so annoyed at harry i could not feel any interest in it then; but, if you don't object, i should like to hear you read it now." "object? no, indeed. i think a great deal of the old professor. what gay times father and i have had on the screes with him, and his hammer and leather bags! and, as agnes writes a large, round hand, and does not fresco her letters, i can read about the professor easily." respected miss sandal,--i have such a thing to tell you about professor sedgwick and our joe; hoping that the squire or miss charlotte may see him, and let him know that joe meant no harm at all. one hot forenoon lately, when we were through at home, an old gentlemanly make of a fellow came into our fold, and said, quite natural, that he wanted somebody to go with him on to the fells. we all stopped, and took a good look at him before anybody spoke; but at last father said, middling sharp-like,--he always speaks that way, does father, when we're busy,-- "we've something else to do here than go raking over the fells on a fine day like this with nobody knows who." he gave father a lile, cheerful bit of a laugh, and said he didn't want to hinder work; but he would give anybody that knew the fells well a matter of five shillings to go with him, and carry his two little bags. and father says to our joe, "away with thee! it's a crown more than ever thou was worth at home." so the strange man gave joe two little leather bags to carry; and joe thought he was going to make his five shillings middling easy, for he never expected he would find any thing on the fells to put into the bags. but joe was mistaken. the old gentleman, he said, went louping over wet spots and great stones, and scraffling over crags and screes, till you would have thought he was some kin to a herdwick sheep. charlotte laughed heartily at this point. "it is just the way sedgwick goes on. he led father and me exactly such a chase one day last june." "i dare say he did. i remember you looked like it. go on." after a while he began looking hard at all the stones and crags he came to; and then he took to breaking lumps off them with a queer little hammer he had with him, and stuffing the bits into the bags that joe was carrying. he fairly capped joe then. he couldn't tell what to make of such a customer. at last joe asked him why ever he came so far up the fell for little bits of stone, when he might get so many down in the dales? he laughed, and went on knapping away with his little hammer, and said he was a jolly-jist. "geologist she means, charlotte." "of course; but agnes spells it 'jolly-jist.'" "agnes ought to know better. she waited table frequently, and must have heard the word pronounced. go on, charlotte." he kept on at this feckless work till late in the afternoon, and by that time he had filled both bags full with odd bits of stone. joe said he hadn't often had a harder darrack after sheep at clipping-time than he had after that old man, carrying his leather bags. but, however, they got back to our house, and mother gave the stranger some bread and milk; and after he had taken it, and talked with father about sheep-farming and such like, he paid joe his five shillings like a man, and told him he would give him another five shillings if he would bring his bags full of stones down to skeàl-hill by nine o'clock in the morning. "are you sleepy sophy?" "oh, dear, no! go on." next morning joe took the bags, and started for skeàl-hill. it was another hot morning; and he hadn't gone far till he began to think that he was as great a fool as the jolly-jist to carry broken stones to skeàl-hill, when he could find plenty on any road-side close to the place he was going to. so he shook them out of the bags, and stepped on a gay bit lighter without them. when he got near to skeàl-hill he found old abraham atchisson sitting on a stool, breaking stones to mend roads with; and joe asked him if he could fill his leather bags from his heap. abraham told joe to take them that wasn't broken if he wanted stones; so joe told him how it was, and all about it. the old man was like to tottle off his stool with laughing, and he said, "joe take good care of thysen'; thou art over sharp to live very long in this world; fill thy bags, and make on with thee." "don't you remember old abraham, sophy? he built the stone dyke at the lower fold." "no, i do not remember, i think." "you are getting sleepy. shall i stop?" "no, no; finish the letter." when joe got to skeàl-hill, the jolly-jist had just got his breakfast, and they took joe into the parlor to him. he laughed all over when joe went in with the bags, and told him to set them down in a corner, and asked him if he would have some breakfast. joe had had his porridge, but he said he didn't mind; so he told them to bring in some more coffee and eggs, and ham and toasted bread; and joe got such a breakfast as isn't common with him, while the old gentleman was getting himself ready to go off in a carriage that was waiting at the door for him. when he came down-stairs he gave joe another five shillings, and paid for joe's breakfast, and for what he had eaten himself. then he told him to put the leather bags beside the driver's feet, and into the carriage he got, and laughed, and nodded, and away he went; and then joe heard them say he was professor sedgwick, a great jolly-jist. and joe thinks it would be a famous job if father could sell all of the stones on our fell at five shillings a bagful, and a breakfast at odd times. and would it not be so, miss sandal? but i'm not easy in my mind about joe changing the stones; though, as joe says, one make of stone is about the same as another. "sophia, you are sleepy now." "yes, a little. you can finish to-morrow." then she laid down the simple letter, and sat very still for a little while. her heart was busy. there is a solitary place that girdles our life into which it is good to enter at the close of every day. there we may sit still with our own soul, and commune with it; and out of its peace pass easily into the shadowy kingdom of sleep, and find a little space of rest prepared. so charlotte sat in quiet meditation until sophia was fathoms deep below the tide of life. sight, speech, feeling, where were they gone? ah! when the door is closed, and the windows darkened, who can tell what passes in the solemn temple of mortality? are we unvisited then? unfriended? uncounselled? "behold! the solemn spaces of the night are thronged by bands of tender dreams, that come and go over the land and sea; they glide at will through all the dim, strange realms of men asleep, and visit every soul." chapter vi. the day before christmas. "still to ourselves in every place consigned. our own felicity we make or find." "catch, then, oh, catch the transient hour! improve each moment as it flies. life's a short summer, man a flower; he dies, alas! how soon he dies!" there are days which rise sadly, go on without sunshine, and pass into night without one gleam of color. life, also, has these pallid, monotonous hours. a distrust of all things invades the soul, and physical inertia and mental languor make daily existence a simple weight. it was christmas-time, but the squire felt none of the elation of the season. he was conscious that the old festal preparations were going on, but there was no response to them in his heart. julius had arrived, and was helping sophia to hang the holly and mistletoe. but sandal knew that his soul shrank from the nephew he had called into his life; knew that the sound of his voice irritated him, that his laugh filled him with resentment, that his very presence in the house seemed to desecrate it, and to slay for him the very idea of home. he was sitting in the "master's room," wondering how the change had come about. but he found nothing to answer the wonder, because he was looking for some palpable wrong, some distinctive time or cause. he was himself too simple-hearted to reflect that it is seldom a great fault which destroys liking for a person. a great fault can be forgiven. it is small personal offences constantly repeated; little acts of meanness, and, above all, the petty plans and provisions of a selfish nature. besides which, the soul has often marvellous intuitions, unmasking men and things; premonitions, warnings, intelligences, that it cannot doubt and cannot explain. inside the house there was a pleasant air and stir of preparation; the rapid movements of servants, the shutting and opening of doors, the low laughter of gay hearts well contented with the time and the circumstances. outside, the mesmerizing snow was falling with a soft, silent persistence. the squire looked sadly at the white hills, and the white park, and the branches bending under their load, and the sombre sky, gray upon darker gray. last christmas the girls had relied entirely upon his help. he had found the twine, and driven the nails, and steadied the ladder when sophia's light form mounted it in order to hang the mistletoe. they had been so happy. the echo of their voices, their snatches of christmas carols, their laughter and merry badinage, was still in his heart. he remembered the impromptu lunch, which they had enjoyed so much while at work. he could see the mother come smiling in, with constant samples of the christmas cheer fresh out of the oven. he had printed the verses and mottoes himself, spent all the afternoon over them, and been rather proud of his efforts. charlotte had said, "they were really beautiful;" even sophia had admitted that "they looked well among the greens." but to-day he had not been asked to assist in the decorations. true, he had said, in effect, that he did not wish to assist; but, all the same, he felt shut out from his old pre-eminence; and he could not help regarding julius sandal as a usurper. these were drearisome christmas thoughts and feelings; and they found their climax in a pathetic complaint, "i never thought charlotte would have given me the go-by. all along she has taken my side, no matter what came up. oh, my little lass!" as if in answer to the heart-cry, charlotte opened the door. she was dressed in furs and tweeds, and she had the squire's big coat and woollen wraps in her hand. before he could speak, she had reached his chair, and put her arm across his shoulder, and said in her bright, confidential way, "come, father, let you and me have a bit of pleasure by ourselves: there isn't much comfort in the house to-day." "you say right, charlotte; you do so, my dear. where shall we go? eh? where?" "wherever you like best. there is no snow to hamper us yet. some of the servants are down from up-hill. ducie has sent mother a great spice-loaf and a fine christmas cheese." "ducie is a kind woman. i have known ducie ever since i knew myself. could we climb the fell-breast, charlotte? eh? what?" "i think we could. ducie will miss it, if you don't go and wish her 'a merry christmas.' you never missed grandfather latrigg. old friends are best, father." "they are that. is steve at home?" "he isn't coming home this christmas. i wasn't planning about steve, father. don't think such a thing as that of me." "i don't, charlotte. i don't think of charlotte sandal and of any thing underhand at the same time. i'm a bit troubled and out of sorts this morning, my dear." she kissed him affectionately for answer. she not only divined what a trial julius had become, but she knew also that his heart was troubled in far greater depths than julius had any power to stir. harry sandal was really at the root of every bitter moment. for harry had not taken the five hundred pounds with the creditable contrite humiliation of the repenting prodigal. it was even yet doubtful whether he would respond to his parents' urgent request to spend christmas at seat-sandal. and when there is one rankling wrong, which we do not like to speak of, it is so natural to relieve the heart by talking a great deal about those wrongs which we are less inclined to disguise and deny. in the great hall a sudden thought struck the squire; and he stood still, and looked in charlotte's face. "you are sure that you want to go, my dear? won't you be missed? eh? what?" she clasped his hand tighter, and shook her head very positively. "they don't want me, father. i am in the way." he did not answer until they had walked some distance; then he asked meaningly, "has it come to that? eh? what?" "yes, it has come to that." "i am very glad it isn't you. and i'm nettled at myself for ever showing him a road to slight you, charlotte." "if there is any slight between julius and me, father, i gave it; for he asked me to marry him, and i plainly told him no." "hear--you--but. i _am_ glad. you refused him? come, come, that's a bit of pleasure i would have given a matter of five pounds to have known a day or two since. it would have saved me a few good ratings. eh? what?" "why, father! who has been rating you?" "myself, to be sure. you can't think what set-downs i have given william sandal. do you mind telling me about that refusal, charlotte? eh? what?" "not a bit. it was in the harvest-field. he said he loved me, and i told him gentlemen did not talk that way to girls who had never given them the least encouragement; and i said i did not love him, and never, never could love him. i was very firm, father, perhaps a little bit cross; for i did not like the way he spoke. i don't think he admires me at all now." "i dare be bound he doesn't. 'firm and a little bit cross.' it wouldn't be a nice five minutes for julius. he sets a deal of store by himself;" and then, as if he thought it was his duty not to show too much gratification, he added, "i hope you were very civil, charlotte. a good asker should have a good nay-say. and you refused him? well, i _am_ pleased. mother never heard tell of it? eh? what?" "oh, no; i have told no one but you. at the long end you always get at my secrets, father." "we've had a goodish few together,--fishing secrets, and such like; but i must tell mother this one, eh? she _will_ go on about it. in the harvest-field, was it? i understand now why he walked himself off a day or two before the set day. and he is all for sophia now, is he? well, i shouldn't wonder if sophia will 'best' him a little on every side. you _have_ given me a turn, charlotte. i didn't think of a son-in-law yet,--not just yet. dear me! how life does go on! ever since the sheep-shearing it has been running away with me. life is a road on which there is no turning round, charlotte. oh, if there only were! if you could just run back to where you made the wrong turning! if you could only undo things that you have done! eh? what?" "not even god can make what has been, not to have been. when a thing is done, if it is only the taking of a walk, the walk is taken to all eternity." at the word "eternity," they stood on the brow of the hill which they had been climbing, and the squire said it again very solemnly. "eternity! how dreadful to spend it in repentance which can undo nothing! that is the most awful conception of the word 'eternity.' eh? what?" they were silent a moment, then sandal turned and looked westward. "it is mizzling already, charlotte; the snow will turn into rain, and we shall have a downpour. had we not better go home?" but charlotte painted in such glowing colors ducie's fireside, and the pipe, and the cosey, quiet dinner they would be sure to get there, that the squire could not resist the temptation. "for all will be at sixes and sevens at home," he commented, "and no peace for anybody, with greens and carols and what not. eh? what?" "and very likely, as it is christmas eve, you may be asked to give sophia away. so a nice dinner, and a quiet smoke, and an hour's nap will help you through to-night." and the thought in each heart, beyond this one, was "perhaps harry will be at home." nobody missed the fugitives. mrs. sandal was sure harry would come, and she was busy preparing his room with her own hands. the brightest fire, the gayest greens, the whitest and softest and best of every thing, she chose for harry's room. certainly they were not missed by julius and sophia. they were far too much interested in themselves and in their own affairs. from the first hour of his return to seat-sandal, sophia had understood that julius was her lover, and that the time for his declaration rested in the main with herself. when the christmas bells were ringing, when the house was bright with light and evergreens, and the very atmosphere full of happiness, she had determined to give him the necessary encouragement. but the clock of fate cannot be put back. when the moment arrives, the word is spoken or the deed done. both of them were prepared for the moment, and yet not just then prepared; for love still holds his great surprise somewhat in reserve. they were in the drawing-room. the last vase had been filled, the last wreath hung; and sophia looked at her beautiful hands, marked with the rim of the scissors, and stained with leaves and berries, in a little affected distress. julius seated himself on the sofa beside her. she trembled, but he looked at her almost triumphantly. over sophia's heart he knew his power. with the questioning, unwinking gaze of love his eyes sought hers, and he tenderly spoke her name, "_sophia_." she could answer only by her conscious silence. "my wife! mine in lives long forgotten." "o julius!" "always mine; missed in some existences, recovered in others, but bringing into every life with you my mark of ownership. see here." then he lifted her hand, and opening its palm upward, he placed his own in the same attitude beside it. "look into them both, sophia, and see how closely our line of fortune is alike. that is something, but behold." and he showed her a singular mark, which had in his own palm its precise counterpart. "is it not also in charlotte's palm? in others?" "no, indeed. among all the women on earth, only yours has this facsimile of my own. it is the soul mark upon the body. every educated hindoo can trace it; and all will tell you, that, if two individuals have it precisely alike, they are twin souls, and nothing can prevent their union." "did they explain it to you, julius?" "an oriental never explains. they apprehend what is too subtle for words. they know best just what they have never been told. sophia, this hand of yours fits mine. it is the key to it; the interpreter of my fate. give me my own, darling." to charlotte he would never have spoken in such a tone. she would have resented its claim and authority, and perceived that it was likely to be the first encroachment of a tyranny she did not intend to bow to. but sophia was easily deceived on this ground. she liked the mystical air it gave to the event; the gray sanction of unknown centuries to the love of to-day. they speculated and supposed, and were supremely happy. the usual lover wanders in the dreams of the future: they sought each other through the phantom visions of the past. and they were so charmed with the occupation, that they quite forgot the exigencies and claims of the present existence until the rattle of wheels, the stamping of feet, and a joyful cry from mrs. sandal recalled them to it. "it is harry," said sophia. "i must go to him, julius." he held her very firmly. "i am first. wait a moment. you must promise me once more: 'my life is your life, my love is your love, my will is your will, my interest is your interest; i am your second self.' will you say this sophia, as i say it?" and she answered him without a word. love knows how such speech may be. even when she had escaped from her lover, she was not very sorry to find that harry had gone at once to his own room; for he had driven through the approaching storm, and been thoroughly drenched. she was longing for a little solitude to bethink her of the new position in which she found herself; for, though she had a dreamy curiosity about her pre-existences, she had a very active and positive interest in the success and happiness of her present life. suddenly she remembered charlotte, and with the remembrance came the fact that she had not seen her since the early forenoon. but she immediately coupled the circumstance with the absence of the squire, and then she reached the real solution of the position in a moment. "they have gone to up-hill, of course. father always goes the day before christmas; and charlotte, no doubt, expected to find steve at home. i must tell julius about charlotte and steve. julius will not approve of a young man like steve in our family, and it ought not to be. i am sure father and mother think so." at this point in her reflections, she heard charlotte enter her own room, but she did not go to her. sophia had a dislike to wet, untidy people, and she was not in any particular flurry to tell her success. indeed, she was rather inclined to revel for an hour in the sense of it belonging absolutely to julius and herself. she was not one of those impolitic women, who fancy that they double their happiness by imparting it to others. she determined to dress with extraordinary care. the occasion warranted it, surely; for it was not only christmas eve, it was also her betrothal eve. she put on her richest garment, a handsome gown of dark blue silk and velvet. a spray of mistletoe-berries was in her black hair, and a glittering necklace of fine sapphires enhanced the beauty and whiteness of her exquisite neck and shoulders. she was delighted with the effect of her own brave apparel, and also a little excited with the course events had taken, or she never would have so far forgotten the privileges of her elder birth as to visit charlotte's room first on such an important personal occasion. charlotte was still wrapped in her dressing-gown, lazily musing before the crackling, blazing fire. her hands were clasped above her head, her feet comfortably extended upon the fender, her eyes closed. she had been a little tired with buffeting the storm; and the hot tea, which mrs. sandal had insisted upon as a preventative of cold, had made her, as she told sophia, "deliciously dozy." "but dinner will be ready in half an hour, and you have to dress yet, charlotte. how do i look?" "you look charming. how bright your eyes are, sophia! i never saw you look so well. how much julius will admire you to-night!" "as to that, julius always admires me. he says he used to dream about me, even before he saw me." "oh, you know that is nonsense! he couldn't do that. i dare say he dreams about you now, though. i should think he would like to." "you will have to hurry, charlotte." "i can dress in ten minutes if i want to." "i will leave you now." she hesitated a moment at the door, but she could not bring herself to speak of her engagement. she saw that charlotte was in one of her "no-matter-every-thing-right" moods, and knew she would take the important news without the proper surprise and enthusiasm. in fact, she perceived that harry's visit occupied her whole mind; for, as she stood a moment or two irresolute as to her own desires, charlotte talked eagerly of her brother. "well, i hope if harry is of so much importance in your eyes, you will dress decently to meet him. the rector is coming to dinner also." "i shall wear my blue gown. if i imitate you, i cannot be much out of the way. heigh-ho! heigh-ho! i hope harry will have a pleasant visit. we must do our best, sophia, to make him happy." "o charlotte, if you have nothing to talk about but harry, harry, harry, i am going! i am very fond of harry, but i don't pretend to be blind to harry's faults. remember how many disagreeable hours he has given us lately. and i must say that i think he was very ungrateful about the hundred and eighty pounds i gave him. he never wrote me a line of thanks." "you did not give it to harry, you loaned it to me. be just sophia. i have paid you fifteen pounds of it back already, and i shall not buy a single new dress until it is all returned. you will not lose a shilling, sophia." "how quixotic you can be! however, it is no use exciting ourselves to-night. one likes to keep the peace at yule-tide, and so i will bow down to your idol as much as i can conscientiously." charlotte made no answer. she had risen hastily, and with rather unnecessary vigor was rattling the ewer and basin, and plashing out the water. sophia came back into the room, arranged the glass at the proper angle to give her a last comprehensive review of herself; and this being quite satisfactory, she went away with a smiling complacency, and a subdued excitement of manner, which in some peculiar way revealed to charlotte the real position of affairs between her sister and julius sandal. "she might have told me." she dashed the water over her face at the implied complaint; and it was easy to see, from the impatient way in which she subsequently unbound her hair, and pulled the comb through it, and from the irritability of all her movements, that she felt the omission to be a slight, not only indicating something not quite pleasant in the past, but prefiguring also she knew not what disagreeable feelings for the future. "it is not sophia's fault," she muttered; "julius is to blame for it. i think he really hates me now. he has said to her, 'there is no need to tell charlotte, specially; it will make her of too much importance. i don't approve of charlotte in many ways.' oh, i know you, sir!" and with the thought she pulled the string of her necklace so impatiently that it broke; and the golden beads fell to her feet, and rolled hither and thither about the room. the incident calmed her. she finished her toilet in haste, and went down-stairs. all the rooms were lighted, and she saw julius and sophia pacing up and down the main parlor, hand in hand, so interested in their _sotto voce_ conversation as to be quite unconscious that she had stood a moment at the open door for their recognition. so she passed on without troubling them. she heard her mother's happy laugh in the large dining-room, and she guessed from its tone that harry was with her. mrs. sandal was beautifully dressed in black satin, and she held in her hand a handsome silver salver. evidently she had been about to leave the room with it, when detained by some remark of her son's; for she was half-way between the table and the door, her pretty, kindly face all alight with love and happiness. harry was standing on the hearth-rug, facing the room,--a splendidly handsome young fellow in a crimson and yellow uniform. he was in the midst of a hearty laugh, but when he saw charlotte there was a sudden and wonderful transformation in his face. it grew in a moment much finer, more thoughtful, wistful, human. he sprang forward, took her in his arms, and kissed her. then he held her from him a little, looked at her again, and kissed her again; and with that last kiss he whispered, "you good sister. you saved me, charlotte, with that five hundred pounds." "i would have given it had it been my all, it been fifty times as much, harry." there was no need to say another word. harry and charlotte understood each other, and harry turned the conversation upon his cousin. "this indian fellow, this sandal of the brahminical caste, what is he like, charley?" "he does not admire me, harry; so how can i admire him?" "then there must be something wrong with him in the fundamentals; a natural-born inability to admire what is lovely and good." "you mustn't say such a thing as that, harry. i am sure that sophia is engaged to him." "does father like him?" "not much; but julius is a sandal, after all, and"-- "after me, the next heir. exactly. it shall not be my fault, charley, if he does not stand a little farther off soon. i can get married too." "o harry, if you only would! it is your duty; and there is little emily beverley. she is so beautiful and good, and she adores you, harry." "dear little emmy. i used to love emmy a long time ago." "it would make father so happy, and mother and me too. and the beverleys are related to mother,--and isn't mother sweet. father was saying"-- at that moment the squire entered the room. his face was a little severe; but the moment his eyes fell upon charlotte and harry, every line of sternness was gone like a flash. harry's arm was round his sister's waist, her head against his shoulder; but in a moment he gently released himself, and went to his father. and in his nineteenth-century way he said what the erring son of old said, "father, i have not done right lately. i am very sorry." "say no more, harry, my lad. there shall be no back reckoning between you and me. you have been mixed up with a sight of follies, but you can over-get all that. you take after me in looks. up-sitting and down-sitting, you are my son. you come of a good kind; you have a kind heart and plenty of dint;[dint, energy.] now, then, make a fresh start, harry. oh, my dear, dear son!" the father's eyes were full of tears, his face shone with love, and he held the young man's hand in a clasp which forgave every thing in the past, and promised everything for the future. then julius and sophia came in, and there was barely time to introduce the young men before dinner was served. they disliked each other on sight; indeed, the dislike was anterior to sight, and may be said to have commenced when harry first heard how thoroughly at home julius had made himself at seat-sandal, and when julius first saw what a desirable estate and fine old "seat" harry's existence deprived him of. and in half an hour this general aversion began to particularize itself. the slim, suave youth, with his black eyes and soft speech, and small hands and feet, seemed to harry sandal in every respect an interloper. the saxon in this sandal was lost in the oriental. the two races were, indeed, distinctly evident in the two men in many ways, but noticeably in their eyes: harry's being large, blue, and wide open; those of julius, very black; and in their long, narrow setting and dreamy look, expressing centuries of tranquil contemplation. but the dinner passed off very pleasantly, more so than family festivals usually pass. after it the lovers went into private session to consider whether they should declare their new relationship during the evening, or wait until julius could have a private audience with the squire. sophia was inclined to the first course, because of the presence of the rector. she felt that his blessing on her betrothal would add a religious grace to the event, but julius was averse to speak on any matter so private to himself before harry sandal. he felt that he could neither endure his congratulations nor his dissent; that, in fact, he did not want his opinion on the matter at all. besides, he had determined to have but one discussion of the affair, and that must include all pertaining to sophia's rights and her personal fortune. while they were deciding this momentous question, the rector and charlotte were singing over the carols for the christmas service; the squire was smoking and listening; and harry was talking in a low voice to his mother. but after the rector had gone, it became very difficult to avoid a feeling of _ennui_ and restraint, although it was christmas eve. mrs. sandal soon went into the housekeeper's room to assist in the preparation of the yule hampers for the families of the men who worked on the estate. sandal fell into a musing fit, and soon appeared to be dozing; although charlotte saw that he occasionally opened his eyes, and looked at the whispering lovers, or else shot her a glance full of sympathetic intelligence. music has many according charms, and charlotte tried it, but with small success. julius and sophia had a song in their own hearts, and this night they knew no other. harry loved his sister very dearly, but he was not inclined to "carolling;" and the repression and constraint were soon evident through all the conventional efforts to be "merry." it was the squire who finally hit upon the circumstance which tided over the evening, and sent every one to bed in a ripple of laughter. for, when the piano was closed, he opened his eyes, and said, "sophia, your mother tells me she has had a very nice christmas present from the little maid you took such a liking to,--little agnes bulteel. it is a carriage hap made of sheepskins white as the snow, and from some new breed of sheep surely; for the wool is longer and silkier than ever i saw." "agnes bulteel!" cried charlotte. "o sophia! where are her last letters? i am sure father would like to hear about joe and the jolly-jist." "joe bulteel is no fool," said the squire warmly. "it is the way around here to laugh a bit at joe; but joe aims to do right, and he is a very spirity lad. what are you and sophia laughing at? eh? what?" "get the letters, sophia. julius and harry will enjoy them i know. harry must remember joe bulteel." "certainly. joe has carried my line and creel many a day. trout couldn't fool joe. he was the one to find plovers' eggs, and to spot a blaeberry patch. joe has some senses ordinary people do not have, i think. i should like to hear about joe and the _what_?" "the jolly-jist,--professor sedgwick really. joe has been on the fells with the professor." so they drew around the fire, and sophia went for the letters. she was a good reader, and could give the county peculiarities with all their quaint variations of mood and temper and accent. she was quite aware that the reading would exhibit her in an entirely new _rôle_ to julius, and she entered upon the task with all the confidence and enthusiasm which insured the entertainment. and as both professor sedgwick and joe bulteel were well known to the squire and harry, they entered into the joke also with all their hearts; and one peal of laughter followed another, as the squire's comments made many a distinct addition to the unconscious humor of the letters. at that point of the story where joe had triumphantly pocketed his last five shillings, and gone home reflecting on what a "famous job it would be to sell all the stones on their fell at five shillings a little bagful," mrs. sandal entered. a servant followed with spiced wine and dainty bits of cake and pastry; and then, after a merry interval of comment and refreshment, sophia resumed the narrative. all this happened at the end of may, miss sandal; and one day last august father went down lorton way, and it was gayly late when he got home. as he was sitting on his own side the fire, trying to loose the buttons of his spats, he said to joe, "i called at skeàl-hill on my road home." mother was knitting at her side of the hearth. she hadn't opened her mouth since father came home; nay, she hadn't so much as looked at him after the one hard glower that she gave him at first; but when he said he'd been at skeàl-hill, she gave a grunt, and said, as if she spoke to nobody but herself, "ay, a blind body might see that."--"i was speaking to joe," said father. "joe," said he again, "i was at skeàl-hill,"--mother gave another grunt then,--"and they told me that thy old friend the jolly-jist is back again. i think thou had better step down, and see if he wants to buy any more broken stones; old abraham has a fine heap or two lying aside kirgat." joe thought he had done many a dafter thing than take father at his word, whether he meant it or not; and so thought, so done, for next morning he took himself off to skeàl-hill. when he got there, and asked if the jolly-jist was stirring yet, one servant snorted, and another grunted, till joe got rather maddish; but at last one of them skipjacks of fellows, that wear a little jacket like a lass's bedgown, said he would see. he came back laughing, and said, "come this way, joe." well, our joe followed him till he stopped before a room door; and he gave a little knock, and then opened it, and says he, "joe, sir." joe wasn't going to stand that; and he said, "'joe, sir,' he'll ken its 'joe, sir,' as soon as he sees the face of me. and get out with thy 'joe, sir,' or i'll make thee laugh at the wrong side of that ugly face of thine." with that the fellow skipped out of our joe's way gayly sharp, and joe stepped quietly into the room. there the little old gentleman was sitting at a table writing,--gray hair, spectacles, white neck-cloth, black clothes,--just as if he had never either doffed or donned himself since he went away. but before joe could put out his hand, or say a civil word to him, he glinted up at joe through his spectacles very fierce like, and grunted out something about wondering how joe durst show his face again. well, that put the cap on all for poor joe. he had thought over what father said, and _how_ he said it, on his road down till he found himself getting rather mad about it; and the way they all snorted and laughed when he came to skeàl-hill made him madder; and that bedgown fellow, with his "joe, sir," made him madder than ever; but when the old jolly-jist--that he thought would be so fain to see him, if it was only for the sake of their sprogue on the fells together--when he wondered "how joe durst show his face there," it set joe rantin' mad, and he _did_ make a burst. at this point the squire was laughing so noisily that sophia had to stop; and his hearty _ha, ha, ha_! was so contagious, that harry and julius and charlotte, and even mrs. sandal, echoed it in a variety of merry peals. sophia was calmer. she sat by the lamp, pleasantly conscious of the amusement she was giving; and, considering that she had already laughed the circumstance out in her room, quite as well entertained as any of the party. in a few minutes the squire recovered himself. "let us have the rest now, sophia. i'd have given a gold guinea to have heard joe's 'burst.'" "show my face?" said joe; "and what should i show, then? if it comes to showing faces, i've a better face to show than ever belonged to one of your breed, if the rest of them are aught like the sample they have sent us. but if you must know," said joe, "i come of a stock that never would be frightened to show their face to a king, let alone an old noodles that calls himself a jolly-jist. and i defy the face of clay," said joe, "to show that any of us ever did aught he need to be ashamed of, wherever we show our faces. dare to show my face, eh?" said joe again, "my song! but this is a bonnie welcome to give a fellow that has come so far to see you such a hot morning." joe said a deal more of the same make; and all the time he was saying it, the old man laid himself back in his great chair, and kept twiddling his thumbs, and glancing up at joe with a half-smirk on his face, as if he had got something very funny before him. "joe is like all these shepherd lads," said the squire, "as independent as never was. they are a manly race, but the bulteels all come of a good kind." julius laughed scornfully, but the squire took him up very short. "you need not laugh, nephew. it is as i say. the bulteels are as good stock as the sandals; a fine old family, and, like the sandals, at home here when the conqueror came. joe would do the right thing i'll be bound. let us hear if he didn't, sophia." after a while joe stopped, for he had run himself very near short of wind; and he began rather to think shame of shouting and bellering so at an old man, and him as whisht as a trout through it all. and when joe pulled in, he only said, as quietly as ever was, that joe was a "natural curiosity." joe didn't know very well what this meant; but he thought it was sauce, and it had like to have set him off again; but he beat himself down as well as he could, and he said, "have you any thing against me? if you have, speak it out like a man; and don't sit there twiddling your thumbs, and calling folks out of their names in this road." then it came out plain enough. all this ill-nature, miss sandal, was just because poor joe hadn't brought him the same stones as he had gathered on the fells; and he said that changing them was either a very dirty trick, or a very clumsy joke. "trick," said joe. "_joke_, did you say? it was ratherly past a joke to expect me to carry a load of broken stones all the way here, when there was plenty on the spot. i'm not such a fool as you've taken me for," said joe. the jolly-jist took off his spectacles, and glowered at joe without them. then he put them on again, and glowered at joe with them; and then he laughed, and asked joe, if he thought there could be no difference in stones. "why!" answered joe, "you hardly have the face to tell me that one bag of stones isn't as good as another bag of stones; and surely to man you'll never be so conceited as to say that you can break stones better than old abraham atchisson, who breaks them for his bread, and breaks them all day long and every day." with that the old man laughed again, and told joe to sit down; and then he asked him what he thought made him take so much trouble seeking bits of stone on the fells, if he could get what he wanted on the road-side. "well," joe said, "if i must tell you the truth, i thought you were rather soft in the head; but it made no matter what i thought, so long as you paid me so well for going with you." as joe said this, it came into his head that it was better to flatter a fool than to fight him; and after all, that there might be something in the old man liking stones of his own breaking better than those of other folks' breaking. we all think the most of what we have had a hand in ourselves, don't we miss sandal? it's nothing but natural. and as soon as this run, through joe's head, he found himself getting middling sorry for the old man; and he said, "what will you give me to get you your own bits of stones back again?" he cocked up his ears at that, and asked if his "speciments," as he called them, were safe. "ay," said joe, "they are safe enough. nobody hereabout thinks a little lot of stones worth meddling with, so long as they don't lie in their road." with that the jolly-jist jumped up, and said joe must have something to eat and drink. then joe thought to himself, "come, come, we are getting back to our own menseful way again." but he would not stir a peg till he heard what he was to have for getting the stones again; for joe knew he would never hear the last of it, if he came home empty-handed. they made it all right very soon, however; and the old man went up-stairs, and brought down the two leather bags, and gave them to joe to carry, as if nothing had happened; and off they started, very like as they did before. the skeàl-hill folk all gathered together about the door to look after them, as if they had been a show; but they neither of them minded for that, but walked away as thick as inkle-weavers till they got to the foot of our great meadow, where the stones were all lying just as joe had turned them out of the bags, only rather grown over with grass. and as joe picked them up one by one, and handed them to the old jolly-jist, it did joe's heart good to see how pleased he looked. he wiped them on his coat-cuff, and wet them, and glowered at them through his spectacles, as if they were something good to eat, and he was very hungry; and then he packed them away into the bags till they were both chock full again. well, the bargain was, that joe should carry them back to skeàl-hill; so back they put, the jolly-jist watching his bags all the way, as if they were full of golden guineas, and our joe a thief. when they got there, he made joe take them right into the parlor; and the first thing he did was to call for some red wax and a light, and he clapped a great splatch of a seal on either bag; and then he looked at joe, and gave a little grunt of a laugh, and a smartish wag of the head, as much as to say, "do it again, joe, if you can." but after that he said, "here, joe, is five shillings for restoring my speciments, and here is another five shillings for showing me a speciment of human nature that i did not believe in until this day." [this story is told of professor sedgwick in broad _patois_ by alexander craig gibson, f.s.a.] "that is good," cried the squire, clapping his knee emphatically. "it was like the professor, and it was like joe bulteel. the story does them both credit. i am glad i heard it. alice, fill our glasses again." then he stood up, and looked around with a smile. "god's blessing on this house, and on all beneath its roof-tree! "wife and children, a merry christmas to you! "friends and serving hands, a merry christmas to you!" chapter vii. wooing and wedding. "she was made for him,--a special providence in his behalf." "like to like,--and yet love may be dear bought." "in time comes she whom fate sends." until after twelfth night the christmas festivities were continued; but if the truth had been admitted, the cumbrous ceremonials, the excessive eating and visiting, would have been pronounced by every one very tiresome. julius found it particularly so, for the festival had no roots in his boyhood's heart; and he did not include it in his dreams of pre-existence. "it is such semblance of good fellowship, such a wearisome pretence of good wishes that mean nothing," he said one day. "what value is there in such talk?" "well," answered the squire, "it isn't a bad thing for some of us to feel obliged once in a twelve months to be good-natured, and give our neighbors a kind wish. there are them that never do it except at christmas. eh? what?" "such wishes mean nothing." "nay, now, there is no need to think that kind words are false words. there is a deal of good sometimes in a mouthful of words. eh? what?" "and yet, sir, as the queen of the crocodiles remarked, 'words mend none of the eggs that are broken.'" "i know nothing about the queen of the crocodiles. but if you don't believe in words, julius, it is quite allowable at christmas time to put your good words into any substantial form you like. nobody will doubt a good wish that is father to a handsome gift; so, if you don't believe in good words, you have a very reliable substitute in good deeds. i saw how you looked when i said 'a merry christmas' to old simon gills, and you had to say the words after me. very well; send old simon a new plaid or a pound of tobacco, and he'll believe in your wish, and you'll believe in yourself. eh? what?" the days were full of such strained conversations on various topics. harry could say nothing which julius did not politely challenge by some doubtful inquiry. julius felt in every word and action of harry's the authority of the heir, and the forbearance of a host tolerant to a guest. he complained bitterly to sophia of the position in which he was constantly put. "your father and brother have been examining timber, and looking at the out-houses this morning, and i understand they were discussing the building of a conservatory for charlotte; but i was left out of the conversation entirely. is it fair, sophia? you and i are the next heirs, and just as likely to inherit as harry. more so, i may say, for a soldier's life is already sold, and harry is reckless and dissipated as well. i think i ought to have been consulted. i should not be in favor of thinning the timber. i dare say it is done to pay harry's bills; and thus, you see, it may really be we who are made to suffer. i don't think your father likes our marriage, dear one." "but he gave his consent, beloved." "i was very dissatisfied with his way of doing it. he might as well have said, 'if it has to be, it has to be; and there is no use fretting about it.' i may be wrong, but that is the impression his consent left on my mind. and he was quite unreasonable when i alluded to money matters. i would not have believed that your father was capable of being so disagreeably haughty. of course, i expected him to say something about our rights, failing harry's, and he treated them as if they did not exist. even when i introduced them in the most delicate way, he was what i call downright rude. 'julius,' he said, 'i will not discuss any future that pre-supposes harry's death.'" "father's sun rises and sets in harry, and it was like him to speak that way; he meant nothing against us. father would always do right. what i feel most is the refusal to give us our own apartments in seat-sandal. we do not want to live here all the time, but we ought to be able to feel that we have a certain home here." "yes, indeed. it is very important in my eyes to keep a footing in the house. possession is a kind of right. but never mind, sophia. i have always had an impression that this was my home. the first moment i crossed the threshold i felt it. all its rooms were familiar to me. people do not have such presentiments for nothing." there is a class of lovers who find their supremest pleasure in isolating themselves; who consider their own affairs an oasis of delight, and make it desert all around them. julius and sophia belonged to it. they really enjoyed the idea that they were being badly used. they talked over the squire's injustice, mrs. sandal's indifference to every one but harry, and charlotte's envy, until they had persuaded themselves that they were the only respectable and intelligent members of the family. naturally sophia's nature deteriorated under this isolating process. she grew secretive and suspicious. her love-affairs assumed a proportion which put her in false relations to all the rest of the world. it was unfortunate that they had come to a crisis during harry's visit, for of course harry occupied a large share of every one's interest. the squire took the opportunity to talk over the affairs of the estate with him, and this was not a kind of conversation they felt inclined to make general. it took them long solitary walks to the different "folds," and several times as far as kendal together. "am i one of the family, or am i not?" julius would ask sophia on such occasions; and then the discussion of this question separated them from it, sometimes for hours at a time. mrs. sandal hardly perceived the growth of this domestic antagonism. when harry was at seat-sandal, she lived and moved and had her being in harry. his food and drink, and the multitude of his small comforts; his friends and amusements; the renovation of his linen and hosiery; his hopes and fears, and his promotion or marriage, were enough to fill the mother's heart. she was by no means oblivious of sophia's new interests, she only thought that they could be put aside until harry's short visit was over; and charlotte's sympathies were also with harry. "julius and sophia do not want them, mother," she said, "they are sufficient unto themselves. if i enter a room pre-occupied by them, sophia sits silent over her work, with a look of injury on her face; and julius walks about, and kicks the stools out of his way, and simply 'looks' me out of their presence." after such an expulsion one morning, she put on her bonnet and mantle, and went into the park. she was hot and trembling with anger, and her eyes were misty with tears. in the main walk she met harry. he was smoking, and pacing slowly up and down under the bare branches of the oaks. for a moment he also seemed annoyed at her intrusion on his solitude; but the next one he had tucked her arm through his own, and was looking with brotherly sympathy into her flushed and troubled face. this morning charlotte felt it to be a great comfort to complain to him, to even cry a little over the breaking of the family bond, and the loss of her sister's affection. "i have always been so proud of sophia, always given up to her in every thing. when grandmother showed me the sapphire necklace, and said she was going to leave it to me because she loved me best, i begged her not to slight sophia in such a way as that,--sophia being the elder, you know, harry. i cried about it until she was almost angry with me. julius offered his hand to me first; and though i claim no merit for giving up what i do not want, yet, all the same, if i had wanted him i should have refused, because i saw that sophia had set her heart upon him. i should indeed, harry." "i believe you would, charlotte." "and somehow julius manages to give me the feeling that i am only in seat-sandal on his tolerance. many a time a day i have to tell myself that father is still alive, and that i have a right in my own home. i do not know how he manages to make me feel so." "in the same way that he conveys to me the impression that i shall never be squire of sandal-side. he has doomed me to death in his own mind; and i believe if i had to live with him, i should feel constrained to go and shoot myself." "i would come home, and get married, harry. there will be room enough and welcome enough for your wife in seat-sandal, especially if she be emily." "she will not be emily; for i love some one else far away better,--millions of times better than i love emily." "i am so glad, harry. have you told father?" "not yet. i do not think he will be glad, charlotte." "but why?" "there are many reasons." "such as?" "she is poor." "oh! that is bad, harry; because i know that we are not rich. but she is not your inferior? i mean she is not uneducated or unladylike?" "she is highly educated, and in all england there is not a more perfect lady." "then i can see no reason to think father will not be pleased. i am sure, harry, that i shall love your wife. oh, yes! i shall love her very dearly." then harry pressed her arm close to his side, and looked lovingly down into her bright, earnest face. there was no need of speech. in a glance their souls touched each other. "and so he asked you first, eh, charley?" "yes." "and you would not have him? what for charley?" "i did not like julius, and i did like some one else." "oh! oh! who is the some one else?" "guess, harry. he is very like you, very: fair and tall, with clear, candid, happy blue eyes; and brown hair curling close over his head. in the folds and in the fields he is a master. his heart is gentle to all, and full of love for me. he has spirit, dint, [dint, energy.] ambition, enterprise; and can work twenty hours out of the twenty-four to carry out his own plans. he is a right good fellow, harry." "a north-country man?" "certainly. do you think i would marry a stranger?" "cumberland born?" "who else?" "then it is steve latrigg, eh? well, charley, you might go farther, and fare worse. i don't think he is worthy of you." "oh, but i do!" "very few men are worthy of you." "only steve. i want you to like steve. harry." "certainly. seat-sandal folks and up-hill folks are always thick friends. and steve and i were boy chums. he is a fine fellow, and no mistake. i am glad he is to be my brother. i asked mother about him; and she said he was in yorkshire, learning how to spin and weave wool--a queer thing, charley." "not at all. he may just as well spin his own fleeces as sell them to yorkshiremen to spin." then they talked awhile of stephen's plans, and harry appeared to be much impressed with them. "it is a pity father does not join him, charley," he said. "every one is doing something of the kind now. land and sheep do not make money fast enough for the wants of our present life. the income of the estate is no larger than it was in grandfather's time; but the expenses are much greater, although we do not keep up the same extravagant style. i need money, too, need it very much; but i see plainly that father has none to spare. julius will press him very close." "what has julius to do with father's money?" "father must, in honor, pay sophia's portion. unfortunately, when the fellow was here last, father told him that he had put away from the estate one hundred pounds a year for each of his girls. under this promise, sophia's right with interest will be near three thousand pounds, exclusive of her share in the money grandmother left you. i am sorry to say that i have had something to do with making it hard for father to meet these obligations. and julius wants the money paid at the marriage. father, too, feels very much as i feel, and would rather throw it into the sea than give it to him; only _noblesse oblige_." the subject evidently irritated harry beyond endurance, and he suddenly changed it by taking from his pocket an ivory miniature. he gave it to charlotte, and watched her face with a glow of pleasant expectation. "why, harry!" she cried, "does so lovely a woman really exist?" he nodded happily, and answered in a voice full of emotion, "and she loves me." "it is the countenance of an angel." "and she loves me. i am not worthy to touch the hem of her garment, charley, but she loves me." then charlotte lifted the pictured face to her lips. their confidence was complete; and they did not think it necessary to talk it over, or to exact promises of secrecy from each other. the next day harry returned to his regiment, and sophia's affairs began to receive the attention which their important crisis demanded. in those days it was customary for girls to make their own wedding outfit, and there was no sewing-machine to help them. "mine is the first marriage in the family," sophia said, "and i think there ought to be a great deal of interest felt in it." and there was. grandmother sandal's awmries were opened for old laces and fine cambric, and petticoats and spencers of silks wonderful in quality and color, and guiltless of any admixture of less precious material. there were whole sets of many garments to make, and tucking and frilling and stitching were then slow processes. agnes bulteel came to assist; but the work promised to be so tedious, that the marriage-day was postponed until july. in the mean time, julius spent his time between oxford and sandal-side. every visit was distinguished by some rich or rare gift to his bride, and he always felt a pleasure in assuring himself that charlotte was consumed with envy and regret. he was very much in love with sophia, and quite glad she was going to marry him; and yet he dearly liked to think that he made charlotte sorry for her rejection of his love, and wistfully anxious for the rings and bracelets that were the portion of his betrothed. sophia soon found out that this idea flattered and pleased him, and it gave her neither shame nor regret to indorse it. she loved no one but julius, and she made a kind of merit in giving up every one for him. the sentiment sounded rather well; but it was really an intense selfishness, wearing the mask of unselfishness. she did not reflect that the daily love and duty due to others cannot be sinlessly withheld, or given to some object of our own particular choice, or that such a selfish idolatry is a domestic crime. it was a very unhappy time to charlotte. her mother was weary with many unusual cares, her father more silent and depressed than she had ever before seen him. the sunny serenity of her happy home was disturbed by a multitude of new elements, for an atmosphere of constant expectation gave a restless tone to its usual placid routine. and through all and below all, there was that feeling of money perplexity, which, where it exists, is no more to be hid than the subtle odor of musk, present though unseen. this year the white winter appeared to charlotte interminable in length. the days in which it was impossible to go out, full of sophia's sewing and little worries and ostentations; the windy, tempestuous nights, that swept the gathering drifts away; the cloudless moonlight nights, full of that awful, breathless quiet that broods in land-locked dales,--all of them, and all of nature's moods, had become inexpressibly, monotonously wearisome before the change came. but one morning at the end of march, there was a great west wind charged with heavy rains, and in a few hours the snow on all the fells had been turned into rushing floods, that came roaring down from every side into the valley. "'oh, wind! if winter comes, can spring be far behind?'" quoted charlotte, as she stood watching the white cascades. "it will be cuckoo time directly my dear; and the lambs will be bleating on the fells, and the yellow primroses blowing under all the hedges. i want to see the swallows take the storm on their wings badly this year. eh? what, charlotte?" "so do i, father. i never was so tired of the house before." "there's a bit of a difference lately, i think. eh? what?" charlotte looked at him; there was no need to speak. they both understood and felt the full misery of household changes that are not entirely happy ones; changes that bring unfaithfulness and ingratitude on one side, and resentful, wounded love on the other. and the worst of it all was, that it might have been so different. why had the lovers set themselves apart from the family, had secrets and consultations and interests they refused to share? how had it happened that sophia had come to consider her welfare as apart from, and in opposition to, that of the general welfare of seat-sandal? and when this feeling existed, it seemed unjust to charlotte that they should still expect the whole house and household to be kept in turmoil for the furtherance of their plans, and that every one should be made to contribute to their happiness. "after all, maybe it is a bit natural," said the squire with a sad air of apology. "i have noticed even the robins get angry if you watch them building their nests." "but they, at least, build their own nest, father. the cock-robin does not go to his parents, and the hen robin to her parents, and say, 'give us all the straw you can, and put it down at the foot of our tree; but don't dare to peep into the branches, or offer us any suggestions about the nest, or expect to have an opinion about our housekeeping.' selfishness spoils every thing, father. i think if a rose could be selfish it would be hideous." "i don't think a lover would make my charlotte forget her father and mother, and feel contempt for her home, and all in and about it that she does not want for herself. why, a stranger would think that sophia was never loved by any human heart before! they would think that she never had been happy before. nay, then, she sets more store by the few nick-nacks julius has given her than all i have bought her for twenty years. when yonder last bracelet came, she went on as if she had never seen aught of the kind in all her born days. yet i have bought her one or two that cost more money, and happen more love, than it did. eh? what, charlotte?" there were two large tears standing in his blue eyes, and two sprang into charlotte's to meet them. she clasped his hand tight, and after a minute's silence said,-- "i have a lover, father; the best a girl ever had. has he made any difference between you and me? only that i love you better. you are my first love; the very first creature i remember, father. one summer day you had me in your arms in the garden. i recollect looking at you and knowing you. i think it was at that moment my soul found me." "it was on a summer day, charlotte? eh? what?" "and the garden was all roses, father; red with roses,--roses full of scent. i can smell them yet. the sunshine, the roses, the sweet air, your face,--i shall never, never forget that moment, father." "nor i. i was a very happy man in those days, charlotte. young and happy, and full of hope. i thought my children were some new make of children. i could not have believed then, that they would ever give me a heartache, or have one themselves. and i had not a care. money was very easy with me then: now it is middling hard to bring buckle and tongue together." "when sophia is married, we can begin and save a little. mother and you and i can be happy without extravagances." "to be sure, we can; but the trouble is, my saving will be the losing of all i have to send away. it is very hard, charlotte, to do right at both ends. eh? what?" after this conversation, spring came on rapidly, and it was not long ere charlotte managed to reach up-hill. she had not seen ducie for several weeks, and she was longing to hear something of stephen. "but if ill had come, ill would have cried out, and i would have heard tell;" she thought, as she picked her way among the stones and _débris_ of the winter storms. the country was yet bare; the trees had no leaves, no nests, no secrets; but she could see the sap running into the branches, making them dark red, scarlet, or yellow as rods of gold. higher up, the pines, always green, took her into their shade; into their calm spirit of unchangeableness, their equal light, their keen aromatic air. then came the bare fell, and the raw north wind, and the low gray house, stretching itself under the leafless, outspreading limbs of the sycamores. in the valley, there had been many wild flowers,--tufts of violets and early primroses,--and even at up-hill the blackthorn's stiff boughs were covered with tiny white buds, and here and there an open blossom. ducie was in the garden at work; and as charlotte crossed the steps in its stone wall she lifted her head, and saw her. their meeting was free from all demonstration; only a smile, and a word or two of welcome, and yet how conscious of affection! how satisfied both women were! ducie went on with her task, and charlotte stood by her side, and watched her drop the brown seeds into the damp, rich earth; watched her clip the box-borders, and loosen the soil about the springing crocus bulbs. here and there tufts of snowdrops were in full bloom,--white, frail bells, looking as if they had known only cheerless hours and cold sunbeams, and wept and shrank and feared through them. as they went into the house, ducie gathered a few; but at the threshhold, charlotte turned, and saw them in her hand. a little fear and annoyance came into her face. "you a north-country woman, ducie," she said, "and yet going to bring snowdrops across the doorstone? i would not have believed such a thing of you. leave them outside the porch. be said, now." "it seems such a thing to think of flowers that way,--making them signs of sorrow." "you know what you said about your father and the plant,--'death-come-quickly.' i have heard snowdrops called 'flowers from dead-men's dale.' look at them. they are like a shrouded corpse. they keep their heads always turned down to the grave. it is ill-luck to bring them where there is life and love and warmth. it will do you no harm to mind me; so be said, ducie. besides, i wouldn't pull them anyway. there was little grace lewthwaite, she was always gathering the poor, innocent flowers just to fling them on the dusty road to be trodden and trampled to pieces; well, before she was twelve years old, she faded away too. perhaps even the prayers of mangled flowers may be heard by the merciful creator." "you do give me such turns, charlotte." but who ever reasons with a superstition? ducie simply obeyed charlotte's wish, and laid the pallid blooms almost remorsefully back upon the earth from which she had taken them. a strange melancholy filled her heart; although the servants were busy all around, and everywhere she heard the good-natured laugh, the thoughtless whistle, or the songs of hearts at ease. when she entered the houseplace she put the bright kettle on the hob, and took out her silver teapot and her best cups of lovely crown derby. and as she moved about in her quiet, hospitable way they began to talk of stephen. "was he well?"--"yes, he was well, but there were things that might be better. i thought when he went to bradford," continued ducie, "that he would at least be learning something that he might be the better of in the long end; and that in a mill he would over-get his notions about sheepskins being spun into golden fleeces. but he doesn't seem to get any new light that way, and up-hill is not doing well without him. fold and farm are needing the master's eye and hand; and it will be a poor lambing season for us, i think, wanting steve. and, deary me, charlotte, one word from you would bring him home!" charlotte stooped, and lifted the tortoise-shell cat, lying on the rug at her feet. she was not fond of cats, and she was only attentive to puss as the best means of hiding her blushes. ducie understood the small, womanly ruse, and waited no other answer. "what is the matter with the squire, charlotte? does he think that stephen isn't good enough to marry you? i'll not say that latrigg evens sandal in all things, but i will say that there are very few families that can even latrigg. we have been without reproach,--good women, honest men; not afraid of any face of clay, though it wore a crown above it." "dear ducie, there is no question at all of that. the trouble arose about julius sandal. father was determined that i or sophia should marry him, and he was afraid of steve standing in the way of julius. as for myself, i felt as if julius had been invited to seat-sandal that he might make his choice of us; and i took good care that he should understand from the first hour that i was not on his approbation. i resented the position on my own account, and i did not intend stephen to feel that he was only getting a girl who had been appraised by julius sandal, and declined." "you are a good girl, charlotte; and as for steve standing in the way of julius sandal, he will, perhaps, do that yet, and to some more purpose than sweet-hearting. i hear tell that he is very rich; but steve is not poor,--no, not by a good deal. his grandfather and i have been saving for him more than twenty years, and steve is one to turn his penny well and often. if you marry steve, you will not have to study about money matters." "poor or rich, i shall marry steve if he is true to me." "there is another thing, charlotte, a thing i talk about to no one; but we will speak of it once and forever. have you heard a word about steve's father? my trouble is long dead and buried, but there are some that will open the grave itself for a mouthful of scandal. what have you heard? don't be afraid to speak out." "i heard that you ran away with steve's father." "yes, i did." "that your father and mother opposed your marriage very much." "yes, that also is true." "that he was a handsome lad, called matt pattison, your father's head shepherd." "was that all?" "that it killed your mother." "no, that is untrue. mother died from an inflammation brought on by taking cold. i was no-ways to blame for her death. i was to blame for running away from my home and duty, and i took in full all the sorrowful wage i earned. steve's father did not live to see his son; and when i heard of mother's death, i determined to go back to father, and stay with him always if he would let me. i got to sandal village in the evening, and stayed with nancy bell all night. in the morning i went up the fell; it was a wet, cold morning, with gusts of wind driving the showers like a solid sheet eastward. we had a hard fight up the breast of the mountain; and the house looked bleak and desolate, for the men were all in the barn threshing, and the women in the kitchen at the butter-troughs. i stood in the porch to catch my breath, and take my plaid from around the child; and i heard father in a loud, solemn voice saying the collect,--father always spoke in that way when he was saying the confession or the collect,--and i knew very well that he would be standing at that east window, with his prayer-book open on the sill. so i waited until i heard the 'amen,' and then i lifted the latch and went in. he turned around and faced me; and his eyes fell at once upon little steve, who was a bonny lad then, more than three years old. 'i have come back to you, father,' i said, 'i and my little steve.'--'where is thy husband?' he asked. i said, 'he is in the grave. i did wrong, and i am sorry, father." "'then i forgive thee.' that was all he said. his eyes were fixed upon steve, for he never had a son of his own; and he held out his hands, and steve went straight to him; and he lifted the boy, and kissed him again and again, and from that moment he loved him with all his soul. he never cast up to me the wrong i had done; and by and by i told him all that had happened to me, and we never more had a secret between us, but worked together for one end; and what that end was, some day you may find out. i wish you would write a word or two to steve. a word would bring him home, dear." "but i cannot write it, ducie. i promised father there should be no love-making between us, and i would not break a word that father trusts in. besides, stephen is too proud and too honorable to have any underhand courting. when he can walk in and out seat-sandal in dayshine and in dark, and as every one's equal, he will come to see me. until then we can trust each other and wait." "what does the squire think of steve's plans? maybe, now, they are not very pleasant to him. i remember at the sheep-shearing he did not say very much." "he did not say very much because he never thought that steve was in earnest. father does not like changes, and you know how land-owners regard traders. and i'm sure you wouldn't even one of our shepherd-lads with a man that minds a loom. the brave fellows, travelling the mountain-tops in the fiercest storms to fold the sheep, or seek some stray or weakly lamb, are very different from the lank, white-faced mannikins all finger-ends for a bit of machinery; aren't they, ducie? and i would far rather see steve counting his flocks on the fells than his spinning-jennys in a mill. father was troubled about the railway coming to ambleside, and i do think a factory in sandal-side would make him heart-sick." "then steve shall never build one while sandal lives. do you think i would have the squire made heart-sick if i could make him heart-whole? not for all the woollen yarn in england. tell him ducie said so. the squire and i are old, old friends. why, we pulled primroses together in the very meadow steve thought of building in! i'm not the woman to put a mill before a friend, oh, no! and in the long end i think you are right, charlotte. a man had better work among sheep than among human beings. they are a deal more peaceable and easy to get on with. it is not so very hard for a shepherd to be a good man." "you speak as i like to hear you, ducie; but i must be going, for a deal falls to my oversight now." and she rose quickly from the tea-table, and as she tied on her bonnet, began to sing,-- "'god bless the sheep upon the fells! oh, do you hear the tinkling bells of sheep that wander on the fells? the tinkling bells the silence fills, sings cheerily the soul that wills; god bless the shepherd on the hills! god bless the sheep! their tinkling bells make music over all the fells; by _force_ and _gill_ and _tarn_ it swells, and this is what their music tells: god bless the sheep upon the fells.'" the melody was wild and simple, a little plaintive also; and charlotte sang it with a low, sweet monotony that recalled, one knew not how or why, the cool fragrance of the hillside, and the scent of wild flowers by running water. then she went slowly home, ducie walking to the pine-wood with her. there was a vague unrest and fear at her heart, she knew not why; for who can tell whence spring their thoughts, or what mover first starts them from their secret lodging-place? a sadness she could not fight down took possession of her; and it annoyed her the more, because she found every one pleasantly excited over a box of presents that had just arrived from india for sophia. she knew that her depression would be interpreted by some as envy and jealousy, and she resented the false position it put her in; and yet she found it impossible to affect the enthusiasm which was expected from her over the cashmere shawl and scarfs, the indian fans and jewelry, the carved ivory trinkets, the boxes full of eastern scents,--sandalwood and calamus, nard and attar of roses, and pungent gums that made the old "seat" feel like a little bit of asia. in a few days julius followed; he came to see the presents, and to read, with personal illustrations and comments, the letters that had accompanied them. sophia's ideas of her own importance grew constantly more pronounced; indeed, there was a certain amount of "claim" in them, which no one liked very well to submit to. and yet it was difficult to resist demands enforced by such remarks as, "it is the last time i shall ask for such a thing;" "one expects their own people to take a little interest in their marriage;" "i am sure julius and _his_ family have done all _they_ can;" "they seem to understand what a girl must feel and like at such an eventful time of her life," and so on, and so on, in variations suited to the circumstances or the occasion. every one was worn out before july, and every one felt it to be a relief when the wedding-day came. it was ushered in with the chiming of bells, and the singing of bride-songs by the village children. the village itself was turned upside down, and the house inside out. as for the gloomy old church, it looked like a festal place, with flowers and gay clothing and smiling faces. it was the express wish of sophia that none of the company should wear white. "that distinction," she said, "ought to be reserved for the bride;" and among the maids in pink and blue and primrose, she stood a very lily of womanhood. her diaphanous, floating robe of dacca muslin; her indian veil of silver tissue, filmy as light; her gleaming pearls and feathery fan, made her "a sight to dream of, not to tell." the service was followed by the conventional wedding-breakfast; the congratulations of friends, and the rattling away of the bridal-carriage to the "hurrahing" of the servants and the villagers; and the _tin-tin-tabula_ of the wedding-peals. before four o'clock the last guest had departed, and the squire stood with his wife and charlotte weary and disconsolate amid the remains of the feast and the dying flowers; all of them distinctly sensitive to that mournful air which accomplished pleasures leave behind them. the squire could say nothing to dispel it. he took his rod as an excuse for solitude, and went off to the fells. mrs. sandal was crying with exhaustion, and was easily persuaded to go to her room, and sleep. then charlotte called the servants, men and women, and removed every trace of the ceremony, and all that was unusual or extravagant. she set the simplest of meals; she managed in some way, without a word, to give the worried squire the assurance that all the folly and waste and hurryment were over for ever; and that his life was to fall back into a calm, regular, economical groove. he drank his tea and smoked his pipe to this sense, and was happier than he had been for many a week. "it is a middling good thing, alice," he said, "that we have only one more daughter to marry. i should think a matter of three or four would ruin or kill a man, let alone a mother. eh? what?" "that is the blessed truth, william. and yet it is the pride of my heart to say that there never was such a bride or such a bridal in sandal-side before. still, i am tired, and i feel just as if i had had a trouble. come day, go day; at the long end, life is no better than the preacher called it--_vanity_." "to be sure it is not. we laugh at a wedding, we cry at a burying, a christening brings us a feast. on the sabbath we say our litany; and as for the rest of the year, one day marrows another." "well, well, william sandal! maybe we will both feel better after a night's sleep. to-morrow is untouched." and the squire, looking into her pale, placid face, had not the heart to speak out his thought, which was, "nay, nay; we have mortgaged to-morrow. debt and fear, and the penalties of over-work and over-eating and over-feeling, will be dogging us for their dues by dayshine." chapter viii. the enemy in the household. "there is a method in man's wickedness, it grows up by degrees." "how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!" after the wedding, there were some weeks of that peaceful monotony which is the happiest vehicle for daily life,--weeks so uniform that charlotte remembered their events as little as she did their particular weather. the only circumstance that cast any shadow over them related to harry. his behavior had been somewhat remarkable, and the hope that time would explain it had not been realized at the end of august. about three weeks before sophia's marriage, harry suddenly wrote to say that he had obtained a three months' furlough, in order to go to italy with a sick friend. this letter, so utterly unexpected, caused some heart-burning and disappointment. sophia had calculated upon harry's fine appearance and splendid uniform as a distinct addition to her wedding spectacle. she also felt that the whole neighborhood would be speculating upon the cause of his absence, and very likely infer from it that he disapproved of julius; and the bare suspicion of such a slight made her indignant. julius considered this to be the true state of the case, though he promised himself "to find out all about mr. harry's affairs" as soon as he had the leisure and opportunity. "the idea of harry going as sick-nurse with any friend or comrade is absurd, sophia. however, we can easily take florence into our wedding-trip, only we must not let charlotte know of our intention. charlotte is against us, sophia; and you may depend upon it, harry meant to insult us by his absence." insult or not to the bride and bridegroom, it was a great disappointment to mrs. sandal. to see, to speak to harry was always a sure delight to her. the squire loved and yet feared his visits. harry always needed money; and lately his father had begun to understand, and for the first time in his life, what a many-sided need it was. to go to his secretary, and to find no gold pieces in its cash-drawer; and to his bank-book, and find no surplus credit there, gave the squire a feeling of blank amazement and heart-sick perplexity. he felt that such a change as that might prefigure other changes still more painful and frightsome. charlotte inclined to the same opinion as julius, regarding her brother's sudden flight to florence. she concluded that he had felt it impossible to congratulate his sister, or to simulate any fraternal regard for julius; and her knowledge of facts made her read for "sick friend" "fair friend." it was, indeed, very likely that the beautiful girl, whose likeness harry carried so near his heart, had gone to florence; and that he had moved heaven and earth to follow her there. and when his own love-affairs were pressing and important, how was it likely that he could care for those of julius and sophia? so, at intervals, they wondered a little about harry's peculiar movement, and tried hard to find something definite below the surface words of his short letters. otherwise, a great peace had settled over seat-sandal. its hall-doors stood open all day long, and the august sunshine and the garden scents drifted in with the lights and shadows. life had settled down into such simple ways, that it seemed to be always at rest. the hours went and came, and brought with them their little measure of duty and pleasure, both so usual and easy, that they took nothing from the feelings or the strength, and gave an infinite sense of peace and contentment. one august evening they were in the garden; there had been several hot, clear days, and the harvesters were making the most of every hour. the squire had been in the field until near sunset, and now he was watching anxiously for the last wain. "we have the earliest shearing in sandal-side," he said. "the sickle has not been in the upper meadows yet, and if they finish to-night it will be a good thing. it's a fine moon for work. _a fine moon, god bless her!_ hark! there is the song i have been waiting for, and all's well, charlotte." and they stood still to listen to the rumble of the wagon, and the rude, hearty chant that at intervals accompanied it:-- "blest be the day that christ was born! the last sheaf of sandal corn is well bound, and better shorn. hip, hip, hurrah!" "good-evening, squire." the speaker had come quickly around one of the garden hedges, and his voice seemed to fall out of mid-air. charlotte turned, with eyes full of light, and a flush of color that made her exceedingly handsome. "well-a-mercy! good-evening, stephen. when did you get home? nobody had heard tell. eh? what?" "i came this afternoon, squire; and as there is a favor you can do us, i thought i would ask it at once." "surely, stephen. what can i do? eh? what?" "i hear your harvest is home. can you spare us a couple of men? the wheat in low barra fields is ready for the sickle." "three men, four, if you want them. you cannot have too many sickles. cut wheat while the sun shines. eh? what? how is the lady at up-hill?" "mother is middling well, i'm obliged to you. i think she has failed though, since grandfather died." "it is likely. she has been too much by herself. you should stay at home, stephen latrigg. a man's duty is more often there than anywhere else. eh?" "i think you are right now, squire." and then he blundered into the very statement that he ought to have let alone. "and i am not going to build the mill, squire,--not yet, at least. i would not do any thing to annoy you for the world." the information was pleasant to sandal; but he had already heard it, in its least offensive way, through ducie and charlotte. steve's broad relinquishment demanded some acknowledgment, and appeared to put him under an obligation which he did not feel he had any right to acknowledge. he considered the building of a mill so near his own property a great social wrong, and why should he thank stephen latrigg for not committing it? so he answered coldly, "you must take your own way, stephen. i am an old man. i have had my say in my generation, maybe i haven't any right to meddle with yours. new men, new times." then being conscious that he was a little ungenerous he walked off to mrs. sandal, and left the lovers together. steve would have forgiven the squire a great deal more for such an opportunity, especially as a still kinder after-thought followed it. for he had not gone far before he turned, and called back, "bring steve into the house, charlotte. he will stay, and have a bit of supper with us, no doubt." perhaps the lovers made the way into the house a little roundabout. but sandal was not an unjust man; and having given them the opportunity, he did not blame them for taking it. besides he could trust charlotte. though the heavens fell, he could trust charlotte. during supper the conversation turned again to stephen's future plans. whether the squire liked to admit the fact or not, he was deeply interested in them; and he listened carefully to what the young man said. "if i am going to trust to sheep, squire, then i may as well have plenty to trust to. i think of buying the penghyll 'walk,' and putting a thousand on it." "my song, stephen!" "i can manage them quite well. i shall get more shepherds, and there are new ways of doing things that lighten labor very much. i have been finding out all about them. i think of taking three thousand fleeces, at the very least, to bradford next summer." "two hundred years ago somebody thought of harnessing a flock of wild geese for a trip to the moon. they never could do it. eh? what?" stephen laughed a little uncomfortably. "that was nonsense, squire." "it was 'almighty youth,' stephen. the young think they can do every thing. in a few years they do what they can and what they may. it is a blessed truth that the mind cannot stay long in a _bree_. it gets tired of ballooning, and comes down to hands and feet again. eh? what?" "i think you mean kindly, squire." the confidence touched him. "i do, steve. don't be in a hurry, my lad. there are some things in life that are worth a deal more than money,--things that money cannot buy. let money take a backward place." then he voluntarily asked about the processes of spinning and weaving wool, and in spite of his prejudices was a little excited over stephen's startling statements and statistics. indeed, the young man was so interesting, that sandal went with him to the hall-door, and stood there with him, listening to his graphic descriptions of the wool-rooms at the top of the great yorkshire mills. "i'd like well to take you through one, squire. fleeces? you would be wonder-struck. there are long staple and short staple; silky wool and woolly wool; black fleeces from the punjaub, and curly white ones from bombay; long warps from russia, short ones from buenos ayres; little spanish fleeces, and our own westmoreland and cumberland skins, that beat every thing in the world for size. and then to see them turned into cloth as fast as steam can do it! my word, squire, there never was magic or witchcraft like the steam and metal witchcraft of a yorkshire mill." "well, well, steve. i don't fret myself because i am set in stiller ways, and i don't blame those who like the hurryment of steam and metal. each of us has god's will to do, and our own race to run; and may we prosper." after this, steve, sometimes gaining and sometimes losing, gradually won his way back to the squire's liking. september proved to be an unusually fair month; and to the lovers it was full of happiness, for early in it their relation to each other was fully recognized; and stephen had gone in and out of the pleasant "seat," dayshine and dark, as the acknowledged lover of charlotte sandal. the squire, upon the whole, submitted gracefully: he only stipulated that for some time, indefinitely postponed, the subject of marriage was not to be taken into consideration. "i could not bear it any road. i could not bear it yet, stephen. wait your full time, and be glad to wait. so few young men will understand that to pluck the blossom is to destroy the fruit." towards the end of september, there was a letter from sophia dated florence. some letters are like some individuals, they carry with them a certain unpleasant atmosphere. none of sophia's epistles had been very satisfactory; for they were so short, and yet so definitely pinned to julius, that they were but commentaries on that individual. at paris she had simply asked julius, "what do _you_ think of paris?" and the opinion of julius was then given to seat-sandal confidently as the only correct estimate that the world was likely to get. at venice, rome, naples, her plan was identical; and any variation of detail simply referred to the living at different places, and how julius liked it, and how it had agreed with him. so when the florence letter came, there was no particular enthusiasm about it. the address assigned it to the squire, and he left it lying on the table while he finished the broiled trout and coffee before him. but it troubled charlotte, and she waited anxiously for the unpleasant words she felt sure were inside of it. yet there was no change on the squire's face, and no sign of annoyance, as he read it. "it is about the usual thing, alice. julius likes florence. it is called 'the beautiful.' julius thinks that it deserves the title. the wine in rome did not suit julius, but he finds the florence vintage much better. the climate is very delightful, julius is sure he will derive benefit from it; and so on, and so on, and so on." then there was a short pause, and a rapid turn of the sheet to glance at the other side. "oh, julius met harry yesterday! he--julius--does not think harry is doing right. 'harry always was selfish and extravagant, and though he did affront us on our wedding-day, julius thought it proper to call upon him. he--i mean harry--was with a most beautiful young girl. julius thinks father ought to write to him, and tell him to go back to his duty.'" these were the words, doubtful and suggestive, which made every heart in seat-sandal thoroughly uncomfortable. and yet charlotte stoutly said, "i would not mind sophia's insinuations, father and mother. she is angry at harry. harry has as much right in florence as sophia has. he told us he was going there. he has written to us frequently. suppose he was with a beautiful girl: is julius the only young man entitled to such a privilege? sophia is happy in her own way, and we do not envy nor interfere with her happiness; but why should we permit her to make us unhappy? throw the letter out of your memories, dear father and mother. it is only a piece of ill-nature. perhaps julius had been cross with her; and if sophia has a grievance, she never rests until she passes it on to some one." women still hold the divining-cup, and charlotte was not far wrong in her supposition. in spite of their twinship of soul, and in spite of that habit of loving which was involved in their belief "that they had been husband and wife in many a previous existence," mr. and mrs. julius sandal disagreed as conventionally as the ordinary husband and wife of one existence. the day on which the florence letter was written had been a very unhappy one for sophia. julius had quarrelled with her about some very trivial affair, and had gone out in a temper disgracefully at variance with the occasion for it; and sophia had sat all day nursing her wrath in her darkened room. she did not dress for the evening drive, for she had determined to "keep up" her anger until julius made her some atonement. but when he came home, she could not resist his air of confidence and satisfaction. he had quite forgotten the affair at the breakfast-table, and was only eager for her help and sympathy. "i have seen harry," he said. "very well. you came here to find him. i suppose i can see him also. i am sure i need to see some one. i have been neglected all day; suffering, lonely,"-- "sophia, you and i are here to look after our own affairs a little. if you are willing to help me, i shall be glad; if not"-- "you know i will help you in any thing i can, julius." then he kissed her, and she cried a little, and he kissed her again; and she dressed herself, and they went for a drive, and during it met harry, and brought him back to dine with them. julius was particularly pleasant to the unsuspicious soldier. he soon perceived that he was thoroughly disgusted with the rigor and routine of military life, and longing to free himself from its thraldom; and he encouraged him in the idea. "i wonder how you stand it, harry," he said sympathetically. "you see, julius, when i went into the army, i was so weary of sandal-side; and i liked the uniform, and the stir of an officer's life, and the admiration of the girls, and the whole _éclat_ of the thing. but when a man's time comes, and he falls so deeply in love that he cares for nothing on earth but one woman, then he hates whatever comes between himself and that woman." "naturally so. i suppose it is the young lady i saw you walking with this morning." and harry blushed like a girl as he gravely nodded his head. "does she live here?" "she will for the future." "and you must go back to your regiment?" "almost immediately." "too bad! too bad! why not leave the army?" "i--i have thought of that; but unless i returned to sandal-side, my father would be angry beyond every thing." "fathers cannot be autocrats--quite. you might sell out." "julius, you ought not to suggest such a thing. the temptation has been lurking in my own heart. i am sorry you have given it a voice. it would be a shameful thing to do unless father were willing." "i have a friend anxious for a commission. i should think a thousand pounds would make an exchange." "do not speak on the subject, julius." "very well. i was only supposing; a fellow-feeling, you know. i have married the girl i desired; and i am sorry for a young man who is obliged to leave a handsome mistress, and to feel that others may see her and talk to her while he cannot. it was only a supposition. do not mind it." but the germ of every wrong deed is the reflection whether it be possible. and after harry had gone away with the thought in his heart, julius sat musing over his own plans, and sophia wrote the letter which so unnecessarily and unkindly shadowed the pleasant life at seat-sandal. for though the squire pooh-poohed it, and charlotte professed indifference about it, and mrs. sandal kept assuring herself and others that "harry never, never would do any thing wrong or unkind, especially about a woman," every one was apprehensive and watchful. but at last, even suspicion tires of watching for events that never happen; and sophia sent other letters, and made no mention of harry; and the fear that had crouched at each home-heart slunk away into forgetfulness. into total forgetfulness. when harry voluntarily came home for christmas, no one coupled his visit with the remarks made by sophia four months previously. they had not expected to see him, and the news of his advent barely reached the house before he followed it; for there was a heavy snow-storm, and the mail was sent forward with difficulty. so mrs. sandal was reading the letter announcing his visit when she heard his voice in the hall, and the joyful cry of charlotte as she ran to meet him. and that night every one was too happy, too full of inquiry and information, to notice that harry was under an unusual restraint. it did not even strike charlotte until she awoke the next morning with all her faculties fresh and clear; then she felt, rather than understood, that there was something not quite right about harry. it was still snowing, and every thing was white; but the atmosphere of a quiet, happy christmas was in the house. there were smiling faces and good wishes at the breakfast-table, and the shifting lustres of blazing fires upon the dark walls and evergreens and wax-white mistletoe. and the wind brought a christmas greeting from the bells of furness and torver, and sandal-side peal sent it on to earlstower and coniston. after breakfast they all went to church; and harry saw, as in a dream, the sacred table spread with spotless cloth and silver cups and flagons, and the dim place decked with holly, and the smiling glance of welcome from his old acquaintances in the village. and he fell into a reverie which was not a christmas reverie, and had it suddenly broken by his sister singing high and clear the carol the angels sung on the hills of bethlehem,--"glory be to god on high!" and the tears sprang into his eyes, and he looked stealthily at his father and mother, who were reverently listening; and said softly to himself, "i wish that i had never been born." for he had come to tell his father news which he knew would shake the foundations of love and life; and he felt like a coward and a thief in delaying the explanation. "what right have i to this one day's more love?" he asked himself; and yet he could not endure to mar the holy, unselfish festival with the revelation of his own selfishness. as the day wore on, a sense of weariness and even gloom came with it. rich food and wine are by no means conducive to cheerfulness. the squire sloomed and slept in his chair; and finally, after a cup of tea, went to bed. the servants had a party in their own hall, and mrs. sandal and charlotte were occupied an hour or two in its ordering. then the mother was thoroughly weary; and before it was quite nine o'clock, harry and charlotte were left alone by the parlor fire. charlotte was a little dull also; for steve had found it impossible to get down the mountain during the storm, and she missed him, and was constantly inclined to fall into short silences. after one of them, she raised her eyes to harry's face, and was shocked by its expression. "harry," she said, leaning forward to take his hand, "i am sure you are in trouble. what is it?" "if i durst tell you, charlotte!" "whatever you have dared to do, you may dare to tell me, harry, i think." "i have got married." "well, where is the harm? is it to the lady whose picture you showed me?" "yes. i told you she was poor." "it is a great pity she is poor. i am afraid we are getting poor too. father was saying last week that he had been talking with squire beverley. emily is to have fifteen thousand pounds. father is feverishly anxious about you and emily. her fortune would be a great thing at sandal, and father likes her." "what is the use of talking about emily? i have been married to beatrice lanza since last september." "such a strange name! is it a scotch name?" "she is an italian." "harry sandal! what a shame!" "don't you think god made italians as well as englishmen?" "that is not the question. god made indians and negroes and all sorts of people. but he set the world in races, as he set races in families. he told the jews to keep to themselves. he was angry when they intermarried with others. it always brought harm. what kind of a person is an italian? they are papists, i know. the pope of rome is an italian. o harry, harry, harry! it will kill father and mother. but perhaps, as you met her in edinburgh, she is a protestant. the scotch are all protestants." "beatrice is a roman catholic, a very strict roman catholic. i had to marry her in a romish church." he said the words rather defiantly, for charlotte's attitude offended him; and he had reached that point when it was a reckless pleasure to put things at their worst. "then i am ashamed of you. the dear old rector! he married father and mother; he christened and confirmed you; you might be sure, that if you could not ask him to marry you, you had no business to marry at all." "you said her face was like an angel's, and that you would love her, charlotte." "oh, indeed! but i did not think the angel was an italian angel and a roman-catholic angel. circumstances alter cases. you, who have been brought up a good church-of-england gentleman, to go over to the pope of rome!" "i have not gone over to the pope of rome." "all the same, harry; all the same. and you know how father feels about that. father would fight for the church quicker than he would fight for his own house and land. why! the sandals got all of their millom estate for being good protestants; for standing by the hanoverian line instead of those popish stuarts. father will think you have committed an act of treason against both church and state, and he will be ashamed to show his face among the dale squires. it is too bad! too bad for any thing!" and she covered her face, and cried bitterly. "she is so lovely, so good"-- "nonsense! were there no lovely english girls? no good english girls? emily is ten times lovelier." "you know what you said." "i said it to please you." "charlotte!" "yes, i did,--at least, in a great measure. it is easy enough to call a pretty girl an angel; and as for my promise to love your wife, of course i expected you would choose a wife suitable to your religion and your birth. suppose you selected some outlandish dress,--an italian brigand's, for instance,--what would the neighboring gentlemen think of you? it would be an insult to their national costume, and they would do right to resent it. well, being who and what you are, you have no right to bring an italian woman into seat-sandal. it is an insult to every woman in the county, and they will make you feel it." "i shall not give them the opportunity. beatrice cannot live in this beastly climate." "the climate is wrong also? naturally. it would follow the religion and the woman. harry sandal, i wish i had died, ere my ears had heard such a shame and sorrow for my father and mother! where are you going to live, then?" "in florence. it is the birthplace of beatrice the city associated with all her triumphs." "god have mercy, harry! her triumphs! is she, then, an actress?" "she is a singer,--a wonderful singer; one to whom the world has listened with breathless delight." "a singing woman! and you have married her? it is an outrage on your ancestors, and on your parents and sisters." "i will not hear you speak in that way, charlotte. of course i married her. did you wish me to ruin and debase her? _that_, i suppose, you could have forgiven. my sin against the sandals and society is, that i married her." "no, sir; you know better. your sin is in having any thing whatever to do with her. there is not a soul in sandal that would have hesitated between ruin and marriage. if it had to be one or the other, then father and mother both, then i, then all your friends, would have said without hesitation, 'marry the woman.'" "i expected and hoped this would be your view of the situation. i could not give up beatrice, and i could not be a scoundrel to her." "you might have thought of another woman besides beatrice. is a sin against a mother a less sin than one against a strange woman? a mother is something sacred. to wound her heart is to throw a stone at her. you have committed a sort of sacrilege. and you are married. no entreaties can prevent, and no repentance can avail. oh, what a sorrow to darken all the rest of father's and mother's days! what right have you to spoil their lives, in order to give yourself a little pleasure? o harry! i never knew that you were selfish before." "i deserve all you say, charley, but i loved beatrice so much." "are you sure, even of that excuse? i heard you vow that you loved eliza pierson 'so much,' and fanny ulloch 'so much,' and emily beverley 'so much.' why did you not come home, and speak to me before it was too late? why come at all now?" "because i want to talk to you about money. i have sold out." "sold out? is there any more bad news? do you know what father paid for your commission? do you know how it hampered him to do it? that, in fact, he has never been quite easy about ready money since?" "i had to sell out. did i not tell you that beatrice could not live in this climate? she was very ill when she returned to italy. signor lanza was in great trouble about her." "signor lanza? her brother, i suppose." "you suppose wrong. he is her father." "for her, then, you have given up your faith, your country, your home, your profession, every thing that other men hold dear and sacred. do you expect father to support you? or is your wife to sing in italy?" "i think you are trying how disagreeable you can be, charlotte." "i am asking you honest questions in honest words." "i have the money from the sale of my commission." "it does not then strike you as dishonorable to keep it?" "no, father gave me it." "it appears to me, that if money was taken from the estate, let us say to stock a sheep-walk, and it was decided after three years' trial to give up the enterprise, and sell the sheep, that the money would naturally go back to the estate. when you came of age, father made you a very generous allowance. after a time you preferred that he should invest a large sum in a military commission for you; and you proposed to live upon your pay,--a thing you never have even tried to do. suddenly, you find that the commission will not suit your more recent plans, and you sell it. ought not the money to go back to the estate, and you to make a fresh arrangement with father about your allowance? that is my idea." "foolishness! and pray what allowance would my father make me, after the marriage i have contracted?" "now, you show your secret heart, harry. you know you have no right to expect one, and so you keep what is not yours. this sin also for the woman whom you have put before every sentiment of love and honor." "you were stubborn enough about steve latrigg." "i was honorable; i was considerate for father, and did not put stephen before him. do you think i would ever marry stephen against father's wish, or to the injury or suffering of any one whom i love? certainly i would marry no one else, but i gave father my word that i would wait for his sanction. when people do right, things come right for them. but if father had stood out twenty years, steve and i would have waited. ducie gave us the same advice. 'wait, children,' she said: 'i have seen many a wilful match, and many a run-away match, but never one, never one that prospered.'" "charley, i expected you to stand by me. i expected you to help me." "o harry, harry! how can i help? what can i do? there is nothing left but to suffer." "there is this: plead for me when i am away. my wife is sick in florence. i must go to her at once. the money i have from my commission is all i have. i am going to invest it in a little house and vineyard. i have found out that my real tastes are for a pastoral life." "ah, if you could only have found that out for father!" "circumstances may change." "that is, your father may die. i suppose you and your wife have talked over that probability. beatrice will be able to endure the climate then." "if i did not see that you were under very strong excitement, charlotte, i should be much offended by what you say. but you don't mean to hurt me. do you imagine that i feel no sorrow in leaving father and my mother and you and the old home? my heart is very sad to-night, charley. i feel that i shall come here no more." "then why go away? why, why?" "because a man leaves father and mother and every thing for the woman he loves. charley, help me." she shook her head sadly. "help me to break the trouble to father." "there is no 'breaking' it. it will break him. it will kill him. alas, it is the ungrateful child that has the power to inflict a slow and torturing death! poor father! poor mother! and it is i that must witness it. i, that would die to save them from such undeserved sorrow." then harry rose up angrily, pushed his chair impatiently away, and without a word went to his own room. in the morning the squire came down to breakfast in exceedingly high spirits. a scotchman would have called him "_fey_," and been certain that misfortune was at his heels. and charlotte looked at him in wondering pity, for harry's face was the face of a man determined to carry out his own will regardless of consequences. "come, come, harry," said the squire in a loud, cheerful voice, "you are moping, and eating no breakfast. charlotte will have to fill three times before it is 'cup down' with me. i think we will take dobbin, and go over to windermere in the tax-cart. the roads will be a bit sloppery, but dobbin isn't too old to splash through them at a rattling pace. he is a famous good old-has-been is dobbin. give me a suffolk punch for a roadster. i set much by them. eh? what?" "i must leave sandal this morning, sir." "sir me no sir, harry. 'father' will stand between you and me, i think. you must make a put-off for one day. i was at bowness last week, and they say such a winter for char-fishing was never seen. while i was on the lakeside, kit noble's boat came in. he had all of twenty dozen in the bottom of it. mr. wordsworth was there too, and he made a piece of poetry about 'the silvery lights playing over them;' and he took me to see a picture that a london gentleman painted of kit and his boat. you never saw fish out of the water look so fresh; their olive-green backs and vermillion bellies and dark-red fins were as natural as life. come harry, we will go and fetch over a few dozen. if you carry your colonel some, he will take the gift as an excuse for the day. eh? what?" "i think harry had better not go with you, father." "eh? what is the matter with you, charlotte? you are as nattert and cross as never was. where is your mother? i like my morning cup filled with a smile. it helps the day through." "mother isn't feeling well. she had a bad dream about harry and you, and she is making herself sick over it. she is all in a tremble. i didn't think mother was so foolish." "dreams are from somewhere beyond us, charlotte. there's them that visit us a-dreaming. i am not so wise as to be foolish. i believe in some things that are outside of my short wits. maybe we had better not go to windermere. we might be tempted into a boat, and dry land is a middling bit safer. eh? what?" charlotte felt as if she could endure her father's unsuspicious happiness no longer. it was like watching a little child smiling and prattling on the road to its mother's funeral. she put mrs. sandal's breakfast on a small tray, and with this in her hand went up-stairs, leaving harry and the squire still at the table. "charlotte is a bit hurrysome this morning," he said; and harry making no answer, he seemed suddenly to be struck with his attitude. he looked curiously at him a moment, and then lapsed into silence. "harry wants money." that was his first thought, and he began to calculate how far he was able to meet the want. even then, his only bitter reflection was, that harry should suppose it necessary to be glum about it. "a cheerful asker is the next thing to a cheerful giver;" and to such musings he filled his pipe, and with a shadow of offence on his large ruddy face went into "the master's room" to smoke. when kindly good-nature is snubbed, it feels it keenly; and there was a mist of tears in the squire's blue eyes when harry followed, and he turned them on him. and it was part of his punishment, that, even in the first flush of the pleasure of his sin, he felt all the pangs of remorse. "father?" "well, well, harry! i see you are wanting money again." "it will be the last time. i am married, and am going to italy to live." "eh? what?" the squire flushed hotly. his hand shook, his long clay pipe fell to the hearthstone, and was shattered to pieces. then a reckless desire to have the whole wrong out urged the unhappy son to a most cruel distinctness of detail. without wasting a word in explanation or excuse, he stated broadly that he had fallen in love with the famous singer, beatrice lanza, and had married her. he spared himself or his father nothing; he appeared to gather a hard courage as he spoke of her failing health, her hatred of england, her devotion to her own faith, and the necessity of his retirement to italy with her. he seemed determined to put it out of the power of any one to say worse of him than he had already said of himself. in conclusion he added, "i have sold my commission, and paid what i owed, and have very little money left. life, however, is not an expensive affair in the village to which i am going. if you will allow me two hundred pounds a year i shall be very grateful." "i will not give you one penny, sir." the words came thick and heavy, and with great difficulty; though the wretched father had risen, and was standing by the table, leaning hard with both hands upon it. he would not look at his son, though the young man went on speaking. he heard nothing that he said. in his ears there was the roaring of mighty waters. all the waves and the billows were going over him. for a few moments he struggled desperately with the black, advancing tide. his sight failed, it was growing dark. then he threw the last forces of life into one terrible cry, and fell, as a great tree falls, heavily to the ground. the cry rang through the house. the mother, trembling in her bed; charlotte, crouching upon the stairs, fearing and listening; the servants, chattering in the kitchen and the chambers,--all heard it, and were for a moment horrified by the agony and despair it expressed. but ere the awful echo had quite subsided, charlotte was at her father's side; in a moment afterwards, mrs. sandal, sobbing at every flying step, and still in her night-clothing, followed; and then servants from every quarter came rushing to the master's room. there was no time for inquiry or lamentation. harry and two of the men mounted swift horses in search of medical help. others lifted the insensible man, and carried him tenderly to his bed. in a moment the atmosphere of the house had changed. the master's room, which had held for generations nothing but memories of pastoral business and sylvan pleasures, had suddenly become a place of sorrow. the shattered pipe upon the hearthstone made charlotte utter a low, hopeless cry of pain. she closed the shutters, and put the burning logs upon the hearth safely together, and then locked the door. alas! alas! they had carried the master out, and in charlotte's heart there was a conviction that he would never more cross its threshold. after harry's first feelings of anguish and horror had subsided, he was distinctly resentful. he felt his father's suffering to be a wrong to him. he began to reflect that the day for such intense emotions had passed away. but he forgot that the squire belonged to a generation whose life was filled and ruled by a few strong, decided feelings and opinions that struck their roots deep into the very foundations of existence; a generation, also, which was bearing the brunt of the transition between the strong, simple life of the past, and the rapid, complex life of the present. thus the squire opposed to the indifference of the time a rigidity of habits, which, to even small events, gave that exceptional character which rarity once imparted. he felt every thing deeply, because every thing retained its importance to him. he had great reverence. he loved, and he hated. all his convictions and prejudices were for life. harry's marriage had been a blow at the roots of all his conscious existence. the sandals had always married in their own county, cumberland ladies of honorable pedigree, good daughters of the church of england, good housewives, gentle and modest women, with more or less land and gold as their dowry. emily beverley would have been precisely such a wife. and in a moment, even while harry was speaking, the squire had contrasted this beatrice lanza with her;--a foreigner,--an italian, of all foreigners most objectionable; a subject of the papal states; a member of the romish church; a woman of obscure birth, poor and portionless, and in ill-health; worse than all, a public woman, who had sung for money, and yet who had made harry desert his home and country and profession for her. and with this train of thought another ran parallel,--the shame and the wrong of it all. the disgrace to his wife and daughters, the humiliation to himself. each bitter thought beat on his heart like the hammer on the anvil. they fought and blended with each other. he could not master one. he felt himself being beaten to the ground. he made agonizing efforts to retain control over the surging wave of anguish, rising, rising, rising from his breast to his brain. and failing to do so, he fell with the mighty cry of one who, even in the death agony, protests against the victor. the news spread as if all the birds in the air carried it. there were a dozen physicians in seat-sandal before noon. there was a crowd of shepherds around it, waiting in silent groups for their verdict. all the afternoon the gentlemen of the dales were coming and going with offers of help and sympathy; and in the lonely parlor the rector was softly pacing up and down, muttering, as he walked, passages from the "order for the visitation of the sick":-- "o saviour of the world, who by thy cross and precious blood hast redeemed us, save us, and help us, we humbly beseech thee, o lord. "spare us good lord. spare thy people whom thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood. "shut not up thy tender mercies in displeasure; but make him to hear of joy and gladness. "deliver him from the fear of the enemy. lift up the light of thy countenance upon him. amen." chapter ix. esau. "to be weak is miserable, doing or suffering." "now conscience wakes despair that slumberd; wakes the bitter memory of what he was, what is, and what must be." it was the middle of february before harry could leave sandal-side. he had remained there, however, only out of that deference to public opinion which no one likes to offend; and it had been a most melancholy and anxious delay. he was not allowed to enter the squire's room, and indeed he shrank from the ordeal. his mother and charlotte treated him with a reserve he felt to be almost dislike. he had been so accustomed to consider mother-love sufficient to cover all faults, that he forgot there was a stronger tie; forgot that to the tender wife the husband of her youth--her lover, friend, companion--is far nearer and dearer than the tie that binds her to sons and daughters. also, he did not care to give any consideration to the fact, that both his mother and charlotte resented the kind of daughter and sister he had forced upon them. so there was little sympathy with him at seat-sandal, and he fancied that all the gentlemen of the neighborhood treated him with a perceptible coolness of manner. perhaps they did. there are social intuitions, mysterious in their origin, and yet hitting singularly near the truth. before circumstances permitted him to leave sandal-side, he had begun to hate the seat and the neighborhood, and every thing pertaining to it, with all his heart. the only place of refuge he had found had been up-hill. the day after the catastrophe he fought his way there, and with passionate tears and complaints told ducie the terrible story. ducie had some memories of her own wilful marriage, which made her tolerant with harry. she had also been accused of causing her mother's death; and though she knew herself to be innocent, she had suffered by the accusation. she understood harry's trouble as few others could have done; and though a good deal of his evident misery was on account of his separation from beatrice, ducie did not suspect this, and really believed the young man to be breaking his heart over the results of his rash communication. he was agreeably surprised, also, to find that stephen treated him with a consideration he had never done when he was a dashing officer, with all his own small world at his feet. for when any man was in trouble, steve latrigg was sure to take that man's part. he did not ask too particularly into the trouble. he had a way of saying to ducie, "there will be faults on both sides. if two stones knock against each other until they strike fire, you may be sure both of them have been hard, mother. any way, harry is in trouble, and there is none but us to stand up for him." but in spite of steve's constant friendship, and ducie's never-failing sympathy, harry had a bad six weeks. there were days during them when he stood in the shadow of death, with almost the horror of a parricide in his heart. long, lonely days, empty of every thing but anxiety and weariness. long, stormy days, when he had not even the relief of a walk to up-hill. days in which strangers slighted him. days in which his mother and charlotte could not even bear to see him. days in which he fancied the servants disliked and neglected him. he was almost happy one afternoon when stephen met him on the hillside, and said, "the squire is much better. the doctors think he is in no immediate danger. you might go to your wife, harry, i should say." "i am glad, indeed, to hear the squire is out of danger. and i long to go to my sick wife. i get little credit for staying here. i really believe, steve, that people accuse me of waiting to step into father's shoes. and yet if i go away they will say things just as cruel and untrue." but he went away before day-dawn next morning. charlotte came down-stairs, and served his coffee; but mrs. sandal was watching the squire, who had fallen into a deep sleep. charlotte wept much, and said little; and harry felt at that hour as if he were being very badly treated. he could scarcely swallow; and the intense silence of the house made every slight noise, every low word, so distinct and remarkable, that he felt the constraint to be really painful. "well," he said, rising in haste, "i may as well go without a kind word. i am not to have one, apparently." "who is here to speak it? can father? or mother? or i? but you have that woman." "good-by, charley." she bit her lips, and wrung her hands; and moaning like some wounded creature lifted her face, and kissed him. "good-by. fare you well, poor harry." a little purse was in his hand when she took her hand away; a netted silk one that he had watched the making of, and there was the glimmer of gold pieces through it. with a blush he put it in his pocket, for he was sorely pressed for money; and the small gift was a great one to him. and it almost broke his heart. he felt that it was all she could give him,--a little gold for all the sweet love that had once been his. his horse was standing ready saddled. 'osttler bill opened the yard-gate, and lifted the lantern above his head, and watched him ride slowly away down the lane. when he had gone far enough to drown the clatter of the hoofs he put the creature to his mettle, and bill waved the lantern as a farewell. then, as it was still dark, he went back to the stable and lay down to sleep until the day broke, and the servants began to open up the house. when harry reached ambleside it was quite light, and he went to the salutation inn, and ordered his breakfast. he had been a favorite with the landlady all his life long, and she attended to his comfort with many kindly inquiries and many good wishes. "and what do you think now, capt. sandal? here has been a man from up-hill with a letter for you." "is he gone?" "that he is. he would not wait, even for a bite of good victuals. he was dryish, though, and i gave him a glass of beer. then him and his little galloway took themselves off, without more words about it. here it is, and mr. latrigg's writing on it or i wasn't christened hannah stavely." harry opened it a little anxiously; but his heart lightened as he read,-- dear harry,--if you show the enclosed slip of paper to your old friend hannah stavely, she will give you a hundred pounds for it. that is but a little bit of the kindness in mother's heart and mine for you. at seat-sandal i will speak up for you always, and i will send you a true word as to how all gets on there. god bless the squire, and bring you and him together again! your friend and brother, stephen latrigg. and so harry went on his way with a lighter heart. indeed, he was not inclined at any time to share sorrow out of which he had escaped. every mile which he put between himself and sandal-side gave back to him something of his old gay manner. he began first to excuse himself, then to blame others; and in a few hours he was in very comfortable relations with his own conscience; and this, not because he was deliberately cruel or wicked, but because he was weak, and loved pleasure, and considered that there was no use in being sorry when sorrow was neither a credit to himself, nor a compliment to others. and so to italy and to love he sped as fast as money and steam could carry him. and on the journey he did his very best to put out of his memory the large, lonely, gray "seat," with its solemn, mysterious chamber of suffering, and its wraiths and memories and fearful fighting away of death. but on the whole, the hope which stephen had given him of the squire's final recovery was a too flattering one. there was, perhaps, no immediate danger of death, but there was still less prospect of entire recovery. he had begun to remember a little, to speak a word or two, to use his hands in the weak, uncertain way of a young child; but in the main he lay like a giant, bound by invisible and invincible bonds; speechless, motionless, seeking through his large, pathetic eyes the help and comfort of those who bent over him. he had quite lost the fine, firm contour of his face, his ruddy color was all gone; indeed, the country expression of "face of clay," best of all words described the colorless, still countenance amid the white pillows in the darkened room. as the spring came on he gained strength and intelligence, and one lovely day his men lifted him to a couch by the window. the lattices were flung wide open, that he might see the trees tossing about their young leaves, and the grass like grass in paradise, and hear the bees humming among the apple-blooms, and the sheep bleating on the fells. the earth was full of the beauty and the tranquillity of god. the squire looked long at the familiar sights; looked till his lips trembled, and the tears rolled heavily down his gray face. and then he realized all that he had suffered, he remembered the hand that had dealt him the blow. and while mrs. sandal was kissing away his tears, and speaking words of hope and love, a letter came from sophia. it was dated calcutta. julius had taken her there in the winter, and the news of her father's illness did not reach her for some weeks. but, as it happened, when charlotte's letter detailing the sad event arrived, julius was particularly in need of something to wonder over and to speculate about; and of all subjects, seat-sandal interested him most. to be master of the fine old place was his supreme ambition. he felt that he possessed all the qualities necessary to make him a leader among the dales gentlemen. he foresaw, through them, social influence and political power; and he had an ambition to make his reign in the house of sandal the era of a new and far more splendid dynasty. he had been lying in the shade, drinking iced coffee, and smoking. but as sophia read, he sat upright, and a look of speculation came into his eyes. "there is no use weeping, my love," he said languidly, "you will only dim your beauty, and that will do neither your father nor me any good. let us go to sandal. charlotte and mother must be worn out, and we can be useful at such a time. i think, indeed, our proper place is there. the affairs of the 'walks' and the farms must be attended to, and what will they do on quarter-day? of course harry will not remain there. it would be unkind, wrong, and in exceedingly bad taste." "poor, dear father! and oh, julius, what a disgrace to the family! a singer! how could harry behave so shamefully to us all?" "harry never cared for any mortal but himself. how disgracefully he behaved about our marriage; for this same woman's sake, i have no doubt. you must remember that i disapproved of harry from the very first. the idea of terminating a _liaison_ of that kind with a marriage! harry ought to be put out of decent society. you and i ought to be at seat-sandal now. charlotte will be pushing that stephen latrigg into the sandal affairs, and you know what i think of stephen latrigg. he is to be feared, too, for he has capabilities, and charlotte to back him; and charlotte was always underhand, sophia. you would not see it, but she was. order your trunks to be packed at once,--don't forget the rubies my mother promised you,--and i will have a conversation with the judge." judge thomas sandal was by no means a bad fellow. he had left sandal-side under a sense of great injustice, but he had done well to himself; and those who had done him wrong, had disappeared into the cloud of death. he had forgotten all his grievances, he had even forgotten the inflicters of them. he had now a kindly feeling towards sandal, and was a little proud of having sprung from such a grand old race. therefore, when julius told him what had happened, and frankly said he thought he could buy from harry sandal all his rights of succession to the estate, judge thomas sandal saw nothing unjust in the affair. the law of primogeniture had always appeared to him a most unjust and foolish law. in his own youth it had been a source of burning anger and dispute. he had always declared it was a shame to give launcelot every thing, and william and himself scarce a crumb off the family loaf. to his eldest brother, as his eldest brother, he had declined to give "honor and obedience." "william is a far finer fellow," he said one day to his mother; "far more worthy to follow father than launcie is. if there is any particular merit in keeping up the old seat and name, for goodness' sake let father choose the best of us to do it!" for such revolutionary and disrespectful sentiments he had been frequently in disgrace; and the end of the disputing had been his own expatriation, and the founding of a family of east-indian sandals. he heard julius with approval. "i think you have a very good plan," he said. "harry sandal, with his play-singing wife, would have a very bad time of it among the dalesmen. he knows it. he will have no desire to test the feeling. i am sure he will be glad to have a sum of ready money in lieu of such an uncomfortable right. as for the latriggs, my mother always detested them. sophia and you are both sandals; certainly, your claim would be before that of a charlotte latrigg." "harry, too, is one of those men who are always poor, always wanting money. i dare say i can buy his succession for a song." "no, no. give him a fair price. i never thought much of jacob buying poor esau out for a mess of pottage. it was a mean trick. i will put ten thousand pounds at bunder's in threadneedle street, london, for you. draw it all if you find it just and necessary. the rental ought to determine the value. i want you to have seat-sandal, but i do not want you to steal it. however, my brother william may not die for many a year yet; those dale squires are a century-living race." in accordance with these plans and intentions, sophia wrote. her letter was, therefore, one of great and general sympathy; in fact, a very clever letter indeed. it completely deceived every one. the squire was told that sophia and julius were coming, and his face brightened a little. mrs. sandal and charlotte forgot all but their need of some help and comfort which was family help and comfort, free of ceremony, and springing from the same love, hopes, and interests. stephen, however, foresaw trouble. "julius will get the squire under his finger," he said to charlotte. "he will make himself indispensable about the estate. as for sophia, she could always work mother to her own purposes. mother obeyed her will, even while she resented and disapproved her authority. so, charlotte, i shall begin at once to build latrigg hall. i know it will be needed. the plan is drawn, the site is chosen; and next monday ground shall be broken for the foundation." "there is no harm in building your house, steve. if father should die, mother and i would be here upon harry's sufferance. he might leave the place in our care, he might bring his wife to it any day." "and how could you live with her?" "it would be impossible. i should feel as if i were living with my father's--with the one who really gave father the death-blow." so when julius and sophia arrived at seat-sandal, the walls of latrigg hall were rising above the green sod. a most beautiful site had been chosen for it,--the lowest spur on the western side of the fell; a charming plateau facing the sea, shaded with great oaks, and sloping down into a little dale of lovely beauty. the plan showed a fine central building, with lower wings on each side. the wide porches, deep windows, and small stone balconies gave a picturesque irregularity to the general effect. this home had been the dream of stephen's manhood, and ducie also had urged him to its speedy realization; for she knew that it was the first step towards securing for himself that recognition among the county gentry which his wealth and his old family entitled him to. not that there was any intention of abandoning up-hill. both would have thought such a movement a voluntary insult to the family wraiths,--one sure to bring upon them disaster of every kind. up-hill was to be ducie's residence as long as she lived; it was to be always the home of the family in the hot months, and thus retain its right as an integral part and portion of the latriggs' hearth. "i have seen the plan of latrigg hall," said julius one day to sophia. "an absurdly fine building for a man of stephen's birth. what will he do with it? it will require as large an income as seat-sandal to support it." "stephen is rich. his grandfather left him a great deal of money. ducie will add considerably to the sum, and stephen seems to have the faculty of getting it. my mother says he is managing three 'walks,' and all of them are doing well." "nevertheless, i do not like him. 'in-law' kinsmen and kinswomen are generally detestable. look at my brothers-in-law, mr. harry sandal and mr. stephen latrigg; and my sisters-in-law, mrs. harry sandal and miss charlotte sandal; a pretty undesirable quartette i think." "and look at mine. for sisters-in-law, mahal and judith sandal; for brothers-in-law, william and tom sandal; a pretty undesirable quartette i think." julius did not relish the retort; for he replied stiffly, "if so, they are at least at the other end of the world, and not likely to trouble you. that is surely something in their favor." the first movement of the julius sandals in seat-sandal had been a clever one. "i want you to let us have the east rooms, dear mother," said sophia, on their arrival; "julius does feel the need of the morning sun so much." and though other rooms had been prepared, the request was readily granted, and without any suspicion of the motive which had dictated it. and yet they had made a very prudent calculation. occupying the east rooms gave them a certain prominence and standing in the house, for only guests of importance were assigned to them; and the servants, who are people of wise perceptions generally, took their tone from the circumstance. it seemed as if a spirit of dissatisfaction and quarrelling came with them. the maids all found out that their work was too heavy, and that they were worn out with it. sophia had been pitying them. "mrs. sandal does not mean to be hard, but she is so wrapped up in the squire she sees nothing; and miss charlotte is so strong herself, she really expects too much from others. she does not intend to be exacting, but then she is; she can't help it." and sitting over "a bit of hot supper" the chambermaid repeated the remark; and the housemaid said she only knew that she was traipsed off her feet, and hadn't been near hand her own folks for a fortnight; and the cook thought missis had got quite nattry. she had been near falling out with her more than once; and all the ill-nature was because she was fagged out, all day long and every day making some kind of little knick-shaw or other that was never eaten. not one remembered that the julius sandals had themselves considerably increased the work of the house; and that mrs. julius alone could find quite sufficient employment for one maid. since her advent, charlotte's room had been somewhat neglected for the fine guest-chambers; but it was upon charlotte all the blame of over-work and weariness was laid. insensibly the thought had its effect. she began to feel that for some reason or other she was out of favor; that her few wants were carelessly attended to, and that mrs. julius influenced the house as completely as she had done when she was miss sandal. she soon discovered, also, that repining was useless. her mother begged for peace at any cost. "put up with it," she said, "for a little while, charlotte. i cannot bear quarrelling. and you know how sophia will insist upon explaining. she will call up the servants, and 'fend and prove,' and make complaints and regrets, and in the long end have all on her own side. and i can tell you that ann has been queer lately, and elizabeth talks of leaving at martinmas. o charlotte! put up with things, my dear. there is only you to help me." charlotte could not resist such appeals. she knew she was really the hand to which all other hands in the house looked, the heart on which her father and mother leaned their weary hearts; still, she could not but resent many an unkind position, which sophia's clever tactics compelled her to take. for instance, as she was leaving the room one morning, sophia said in her blandest voice, "dear charlotte, will you tell ann to make one of those queen puddings for julius. he does enjoy them so much." ann did not receive the order pleasantly. "they are a sight of trouble, miss charlotte. i'll be hard set with the squire's fancies to-day. and there is as good as three dinners to make now, and i must say a queen's pudding is a bit thoughtless of you." and charlotte felt the injustice she was too proud to explain to a servant. but even to sophia, complaint availed nothing. "you must give extra orders yourself to ann in the future," she said. "ann accuses me of being thoughtless in consequence of them." "as if i should think of interfering in your duties, charlotte. i hope i know better than that. you would be the first to complain of my 'taking on' if i did, and i should not blame you. i am only a guest here now. but i am sure a little queen pudding is not too much to ask, in one's own father's house too. julius has not many fancies i am sure, but such a little thing." "julius can have all the fancies he desires, only do please order them from ann yourself." "well, i never! i am sure father and mother would never oppose a little pudding that julius fancies." does any one imagine that such trials as these are small and insignificant? they are the very ones that make the heart burn, and the teeth close on the lips, and the eyes fill with angry tears. they take hope out of daily work, and sunshine out of daily life, and slay love as nothing else can slay it. there was an evil spirit in the house,--a small, selfish, envious, malicious spirit; people were cross, and they knew not why; felt injured, and they knew not why; the days were harder than those dreadful ones when fire and candle were never out, and every one was a watcher in the shadow of death. as the season advanced, julius took precisely the position which stephen had foretold he would take. at first he deferred entirely to the squire; he received his orders, and then saw them carried out. very soon he forgot to name the squire in the matter. he held consultations with the head man, and talked with him about the mowing and harvesting, and the sale of lambs and fleeces. the master's room was opened, and julius sat at the table to receive tenants and laborers. in the squire's chair it was easy to feel that he was himself squire of sandal-side and torver. it was a most unhappy summer. evils, like weeds, grow apace. there was scarcely any interval between some long-honored custom and its disappearance. to-day it was observed as it had been for a lifetime; the next week it had passed away, and appeared to be forgotten. "such times i never saw," said ann. "i have been at sandal twenty-two years come martinmas, but i'm going to beverley next feast." "you'll not do it, ann. it's but talk." "nay, but i'm set on it. i have taken the 'fastening penny,' and i'm bound to make that good. things are that trying here now, that i can't abide them longer." all summer servants were going and coming at seat-sandal; the very foundations of its domestic life were broken up, and charlotte's bright face had a constant wrinkle of worry and annoyance. sophia was careful to point out the fact. "she has no housekeeping ability. every thing is in a mess. if i only durst take hold of things. but charlotte is such a spitfire, one does not like to offer help. i would be only too glad to put things right, but i should give offence," etc. "the poison of asps under the tongue," and a very little of it, can paralyze and irritate a whole household. mowing-time and shearing-time and reaping-time came and went, but the gay pastoral festivals brought none of their old-time pleasure. the men in the fields did not like julius in the squire's place, and they took no pains to hide the fact. then he came home with complaints. "they were idle. they were disrespectful. the crops had fallen short." he could not understand it; and when he had expressed some dissatisfaction on the matter, the head man had told him, to take his grumbling to god almighty. "an insolent race, these statesmen and dale shepherds," he added; "if one of them owns ten acres, he thinks himself as good as if he owns a thousand." "all well-born men, julius, all of them; are they not, charlotte? eh? what?" "so well born," answered charlotte warmly, "that king james the first set up a claim to all these small estates, on the plea that their owners had never served a feudal lord, and were, therefore, tenants of the crown. but the large statesmen went with the small ones. they led them in a body to a heath between kendal and stavely, and there over two thousand men swore, 'that as they had their lands by the sword, they would keep them by the same.' so you see, julius, they were gentlemen before the feudal system existed; they never put a finger under its authority, and they have long survived its fall." "well, for all that, they make poor servants." "there's men that want indian ryots or negro slaves to do their turn. i want free men at sandal-side as long as i am squire of that name." "they missed you sorely in the fields, father. it was not shearing-time, nor hay-time, nor harvest-time to any one in sandal this year. but you will stand in your meadows again--god grant it!--next summer. and then how the men will work! and what shouting there will be at the sight of you! and what a harvest-home we shall have!" and he caught her enthusiasm, and stood up to try his feet, and felt sure that he walked stronger, and would soon be down-stairs once more. and julius, whose eyes love did not blind, felt a little scorn for those who could not see such evident decay and dissolution. "it is really criminal," he said to sophia, "to encourage hopes so palpably false." for julius, like all selfish persons, could perceive only one side of a question, the side that touched his own side. it never entered his mind that the squire was trying to cheer and encourage his wife and daughter, and was privately quite aware of his own condition. sandal had not told him that he had received "the token," the secret message which every soul receives when the king desires his presence. he had never heard those solemn conversations which followed the reading of "the evening service," when the rector knelt by the side of his old friend, and they two talked with death as with a companion. so, though julius meddled much with sandal affairs, there was a life there into which he never entered. one evening in october, charlotte was walking with stephen. they had been to look at the new building, for every inch of progress was a matter of interest to them. as they came through the village, they perceived that farmer huet was holding his apple feast; for he was carrying from his house into his orchard a great bowl of spiced ale, and was followed by a merry company, singing wassail as they poured a little at the root of every tree:-- "here's to thee, good apple-tree! whence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow, whence thou may'st bear apples enou'; hats full, caps full, bushels full, sacks full. hurrah, then! hurrah, then! here's to thee, good apple-tree!" they waited a little to watch the procession round the orchard; and as they stood, julius advanced from an opposite direction. he took a letter from his pocket, which he had evidently been to the mail to secure, for charlotte watched him break the seal as he approached; and when he suddenly raised his head, and saw her look of amazement, he made a little bravado of the affair, and said, with an air of frankness, "it is a letter from harry. i thought it was best for his letters not to come to the house. the mail-bag might be taken to the squire's room, and who knows what would happen if he should see one of these," and he tapped the letter significantly with his long pointed fore-finger. "you should not have made such an arrangement as that, julius, without speaking to mother. it was cruel to harry. why should the villagers think that the sight of a letter from him would be so dreadful to his own people?" "i did it for the best, charlotte. of course, you will misjudge me." "ah! i know now why polly esthwaite called you, 'such a nice, kind, thoughtful gentleman as never was.' is the letter for you?" "mr. latrigg can examine the address if you wish." "mr. latrigg distinctly refuses to look at the letter. come, charlotte, the air is cold and raw;" and with very scant courtesy they parted. "what can it mean, steve, julius and harry in correspondence? i don't know what to think of such a thing. harry has only written once to me since he went away. there is something wrong in all this secrecy, you may depend upon it." "i would not be suspicious, charlotte. harry is affectionate and trusting. julius has written him letters full of sympathy and friendship; and the poor fellow, cut off from home and kindred, has been only too glad to answer. perhaps we should have written also." "but why did julius take that trouble? julius always has a motive for what he does. i mean a selfish motive. has harry written to you?" "only a few lines the very day he left. i have heard nothing since." the circumstance troubled charlotte far beyond its apparent importance. she could conceive of no possible reason for julius interfering in harry's life, and she had the feeling of a person facing a danger in the dark. julius was also annoyed at her discovery. "it precipitates matters," he said to sophia, "and is apparently an unlucky chance. but chance is destiny, and this last letter of harry's indicates that all things are very nearly ready for me. as for your sister, charlotte sandal, i think she is the most interfering person i ever knew." the air of the supper-table was one of reserve and offence. only sophia twittered and observed and wondered about all kinds of trivial things. "mother has so many headaches now. does she take proper care of herself, charlotte? she ought to take exercise. julius and i never neglect taking exercise. we think it a duty. no time do you say? mother ought to take time. poor, dear father was never unreasonable; he would wish mother to take time. what tasteless custards, charlotte! i don't think ann cares how she cooks now. when i was at home, and the eldest daughter, she always liked to have things nice. julius, my dear one, can you find any thing fit to eat?" and so on, and so on, until charlotte felt as if she must scream, or throw a plate down, or fly beyond the sight and sound of all things human. the next evening julius announced his intention of going abroad at once. "but i shall leave sophia to be a little society for mother, and i shall not delay an hour beyond the time necessary for travel and business." he spoke with an air of conscious self-denial; and as charlotte did not express any gratitude he continued, "not that i expect any thanks, sophia and i, but fortunately we find duty is its own reward." "are you going to see harry?" "i may do such a thing." "is he sick?" "no." "i hope he will not get sick while you are there." and then some passionate impulse took possession of her; her face glowed like a flame, and her eyes scintillated like sparks. "if any thing happens harry while you are with him, i swear, by each separate sandal that ever lived, that you shall account for it!" "oh, you know, sophia dear, this is too much! leave the table, my love. your sister must be"--and he tapped his forehead; while sophia, with a look of annihilating scorn, drew her drapery tight around her, and withdrew. "what did i say? what do i think? what terror is in my heart? oh, harry, harry, harry!" she buried her face in her hands, and sat lost in woeful thought,--sat so long that phoebe the table-maid felt her delay to be unkind and aggravating; especially when one of the chamber-maids came down for her supper, and informed the rulers of the servants' hall that "mrs. julius was crying up-stairs about miss charlotte falling out with her husband." "mercy on us! what doings we have to bide with!" and ann shook her check apron, and sat down with an air of nearly exhausted patience. "you can't think what a taking mr. julius is in. he's going away to-morrow." "for good and all?" "not he. he'll be back again. he has had a falling-out with miss charlotte." "poor lass! say what you will, she has been hard set lately. i never knew nor heard tell of her being flighty and fratchy before the squire's trouble." "good hearts are plenty in good times, ann skelton. miss charlotte's temper is past all the last few weeks, she is that off-and-on and changeable like and spirity. mrs. julius says she does beat all." "i don't pin my faith on what mrs. julius says. not i." in the east rooms the criticism was still more severe. julius railed for an hour ere he finally decided that he never saw a more suspicious, unladylike, uncharitable, unchristianlike girl than charlotte sandal! "i am glad to get away from her a little while," he cried; "how can she be your sister, sophia?" so glad was he to get away, that he left before charlotte came down in the morning. ann made him a cup of coffee, and received a shilling and some suave words, and was quite sure after them that "mr. julius was the finest gentleman that ever trod in shoe-leather." and julius was not above being gratified with the approbation and good wishes of servants; and it gave him pleasure to leave in the little hurrah of their bows and courtesies, their smiles and their good wishes. he went without delay straight to the small italian village in which harry had made his home. harry's letters had prepared him for trouble and poverty, but he had little idea of the real condition of the heir of sandal-side. a few bare rooms in some dilapidated palace, grim with faded magnificence, comfortless and dull, was the kind of place he expected. he found him in a small cottage surrounded by a barren, sandy patch of ground overgrown with neglected vines and vagabond weeds. the interior was hot and untidy. on a couch a woman in the firm grip of consumption was lying; an emaciated, feverish woman, fretful with acute suffering. a little child, wan and waxy-looking, and apparently as ill as its mother, wailed in a cot by her side. signor lanza was smoking under a fig-tree in the neglected acre, which had been a vineyard or a garden. harry had gone into the village for some necessity; and when he returned julius felt a shock and a pang of regret for the dashing young soldier squire that he had known as harry sandal. he kissed his wife with passionate love and sorrow, and then turned to julius with that mute look of inquiry which few find themselves able to resist. "he is alive yet,--much better, he says; and charlotte thinks he may be in the fields again next season." "thank god! my poor beatrice and her baby! you see what is coming to them?" "yes." "and i am so poor i cannot get her the change of air, the luxuries, the medicines, which would at least prolong life, and make death easy." "go back with me to sandal-side, and see the squire: he may listen to you now." "never more! it was cruel of father to take my marriage in such a way. he turned my life's joy into a crime, cursed every hour that was left me." "people used to be so intense--'a few strong feelings,' as mr. wordsworth says--too strong for ordinary life. we really can't afford to love and hate and suffer in such a teetotal way now; but the squire came from the middle ages. this is a dreadfully hot place, harry." "yes, it is. we were very much deceived in it. i bought it; and we dreamed of vineyards and milk and wine, and a long, happy, simple life together. nothing has prospered with us. we were swindled in the house and land. the signor knows nothing about vines. he was born here, and wanted to come back and be a great man." and as he spoke he laughed hysterically, and took julius into an inner room. "i don't want beatrice to hear that i am out of money. she does not know i am destitute. that sorrow, at least, i have kept from her." "harry, i am going to make you a proposal. i want to be kind and just to you. i want to put you beyond the need of any one's help. answer me one question truly. if your father dies, what will you do?" "you said he was getting better. for god's sake, do not speak of his death." "i am supposing a case. you would then be squire of sandal-side. would you return there with beatrice?" "ah, no! i know what those dalesmen are. my father's feelings were only their feelings intensified by his relation to me. they would look upon me as my father's murderer, and beatrice as an accessory to the deed." "still you would be squire of sandal-side." "mother would have to take my place, or charlotte. i have thought of that. i could not bear to sit in father's chair, and go up and down the house. i should see him always. i should hear continually that awful cry with which he fell. it fills, even here, all the spaces of my memory and my dreams. i cannot go back to sandal-side. nothing could take me back, not even my mother." "then listen, i am the heir failing you." "no, no: there is my son michael." julius was stunned for a moment. "oh, yes! the child is a boy, then?" "it is a boy. what were you going to say?" "i was going to ask you to sell your rights to me for ten thousand pounds. it would be better for you to have a sum like that in your hand at once, than to trust to dribbling remittances sent now and then by women in charge. you could invest that sum to noble purpose in america, become a citizen of the country, and found an american line, as my father has founded an indian one." "the poor little chap makes no difference. he is only born to die. and i think your offer is a good one. i am so worn out, and things are really desperate with me. i never can go back to england. i am sick to death of florence. there are places where beatrice might even yet recover. yes, for her sake, i will sell you my inheritance. can i have the money soon?" "this hour. i had the proper paper drawn up before i came here. read it over carefully. see if you think it fair and honorable. if you do, sign your name; and i will give you a check you can cash here in florence. then it will be your own fault if beatrice wants change of air, luxuries, and medicine." he laid the paper on the table, and harry sat down and pretended to read it. but he did not understand any thing of the jargon. the words danced up and down. he could only see "beatrice," "freedom from care," "power to get away from florence," and the final thought, the one which removed his last scruple, "lanza can have the cottage, and i shall be clear of him forever." without a word he went for a pen and ink, and wrote his name boldly to the deed of relinquishment. then julius handed him a check for ten thousand pounds, and went with him to the bank in order to facilitate the transfer of the sum to harry's credit. on the street, in the hot sunshine, they stood a few minutes. "you are quite satisfied, harry?" "you have saved me from despair. perhaps you have saved beatrice. i am grateful to you." "have i done justly and honorably by you?" "i believe you have." "then good-by. i must hasten home. sophia will be anxious, and one never knows what may happen." "julius, one moment. tell my mother to pray for me. and the same word to charlotte. poor charley! sophia"-- "sophia pities you very much, harry. sophia feels as i do. we don't expect people to cut their lives on a fifteenth-century pattern." then harry lifted his hat, and walked away, with a shadow still of his old military, up-head manner. and julius looked after him with contempt, and thought, "what a poor fellow he is! not a word for himself, or a plea for that wretched little heir in his cradle. there are some miserable kinds of men in this world. i thank god i am not one of them!" and the wretched esau, with the ten thousand pounds in his pocket? ah, god only knew his agony, his shame, his longing, and despair! he felt like an outcast. yes, even when he clasped beatrice in his arms, with promises of unstinted comforts; when she kissed him, with tender words and tears of joy,--he felt like an outcast. chapter x. the new squire. "a word was brought, unto him,--the king himself desired his presence." "the mystery of life he probes; and in the battling din of things that frets the feeble ear, he seeks and finds a harmony that tunes the dissonant strife to sweetest music." this year the effort to keep christmas in seat-sandal was a failure. julius did not return in time for the festival, and the squire was unable to take any part in it. there had been one of those sudden, mysterious changes in his condition, marking a point in life from which every step is on the down-hill road to the grave. one day he had seemed even better than usual; the next morning he looked many years older. lassitude of body and mind had seized the once eager, sympathetic man; he was weary of the struggle for life, and had _given up_. this change occurred just before christmas; and charlotte could not help feeling that the evergreens for the feast might, after all, be the evergreens for the funeral. one snowy day between christmas and new year, julius came home. before he said a word to sophia, she divined that he had succeeded in his object. he entered the house with the air of a master; and, when he heard how rapidly the squire was failing, he congratulated himself on his prudent alacrity in the matter. the next morning he was permitted an interview. "you have been a long time away, julius," said the squire languidly, and without apparent interest in the subject. "i have been a long journey." "ah! where have you been? eh?" "to italy." the sick man flushed crimson, and his large, thin hands quivered slightly. julius noted the change in him with some alarm; for, though it was not perhaps actually necessary to have the squire's signature to harry's relinquishment, it would be more satisfactory to obtain it. he knew that neither mrs. sandal nor charlotte would dispute harry's deed; but he wished not only to possess seat-sandal, but also the good-will of the neighborhood, and for this purpose he must show a clear, clean right to the succession. he had explained the matter to sophia, and been annoyed at her want of enthusiasm. she feared that any discussion relating to harry might seriously excite and injure her father, and she could not bring herself to advise it. but the disapproval only made julius more determined to carry out his own views; and therefore, when the squire asked, "where have you been?" he told him the truth; and oh, how cruel the truth can sometimes be! "i have been to italy." "to see"-- "harry? yes." then, without waiting to inform himself as to whether the squire wished the conversation dropped or continued, he added, "he was in a miserable condition,--destitute, with a dying wife and child." "child! eh? what?" "yes, a son; a little chap, nothing but skin and bone and black eyes,--an italian sandal." the squire was silent a few minutes; then he asked in a slow, constrained voice, "what did you do?" "harry sent for me in order that we might discuss a certain proposal he wished to make me. i have accepted it--reluctantly accepted it; but really it appeared the only way to help him to any purpose." "what did harry want? eh? what?" "he wanted to go to america, and begin a new life, and found a new house there; and, as he had determined never under any circumstances to visit sandal-side again, he asked me to give him the money necessary for emigration." "did you?" "yes, i did." "for what? what equivalent could he give you?" "he had nothing to give me but his right of succession. i bought it for ten thousand pounds. a sum of money like that ought to give him a good start in america. i think, upon the whole, he was very wise." "harry sandal sold my home and estate over my head, while i was still alive, without a word to me! god have mercy!" "uncle, he never thought of it in that light, i am sure." "that is what he did; sold it without a thought as to what his mother's or sister's wishes might be. sold it away from his own child. my god! the man is an immeasurable scoundrel; and, julius sandal, you are another." "sir?" "leave me. i am still master of sandal. leave me. leave my house. do not enter it again until my dead body has passed the gates." "it will be right for you first to sign this paper." "what paper? eh? what?" "the deed of harry's relinquishment. he has my money. i look to your honor to secure me." "you look the wrong road. i will sign no such paper,--no, not for twenty years of life." he spoke sternly, but almost in a whisper. the strain upon him was terrible; he was using up the last remnants of his life to maintain it. "that you should sign the deed is only bare honesty. i gave the money trusting to your honesty." "i will not sign it. it would be a queer thing for me to be a partner in such a dirty job. the right of succession to sandal, barring harry sandal, is not vested in you. it is in harry's son. whoever his mother may be, the little lad is heir of sandal-side; and i'll not be made a thief in my last hours by you. that's a trick beyond your power. now, then, i'll waste no more words on you, good, bad, or indifferent." he had, in fact, reached the limit of his powers, and julius saw it; yet he did not hesitate to press his right to sandal's signature by every argument he thought likely to avail. sandal was as one that heard not, and fortunately mrs. sandal's entrance put an end to the painful interview. this was a sorrow the squire had never contemplated, and it filled his heart with anxious misery. he strove to keep calm, to husband his strength, to devise some means of protecting his wife's rights. "i must send for lawyer moser: if there is any way out of this wrong, he will know the right way," he thought. but he had to rest a little ere he could give the necessary prompt instructions. towards noon he revived, and asked eagerly for stephen latrigg. a messenger was at once sent to up-hill. he found stephen in the barn, where the men were making the flails beat with a rhythm and regularity as exhilarating as music. stephen left them at once; but, when he told ducie what word had been brought him, he was startled at her look and manner. "i have been looking for this news all day: i fear me, steve, that the squire has come to 'the passing.' last night i saw your grandfather." "dreamed of him?" "well, then, call it a dream. i saw your grandfather. he was in this room; he was sorting the papers he left; and, as i watched his hands, he lifted his head and looked at me. i have got my orders, i feel that. but wait not now, i will follow you anon." in the "seat" there was a distinct feeling of consummating calamity. the servants had come to a state of mind in which the expectation was rather a relief. they were only afraid the squire might rally again. in mrs. sandal's heart there was that resentful resignation which says to sorrow, "do thy worst. i am no longer able to resist, or even to plead." charlotte only clung to her dream of hope, and refused to be wakened from it. she was sure her father had been worse many a time. she was almost cross at ducie's unusual visit. about four o'clock steve had a long interview with the squire. charlotte walked restlessly to and fro in the corridor; she heard steve's voice, strong and kind and solemn, and she divined what promises he was making to the dying man for herself and for her mother. but even her love did not anticipate their parting words,-- "farewell, stephen. yet one word more. if harry should come back--what of harry? eh? what?" "i will stand by him. i will put my hand in his hand, and my foot with his foot. they that wrong harry will wrong me, they that shame harry will shame me. i will never call him less than a brother, as god hears me speak." a light "that never was on sea or sky" shone in sandal's fast dimming eyes, and irradiated his set gray countenance. "stephen, tell him at death's door i turned back to forgive him--to bless him. i stretch--out--my hand--to--him." at this moment charlotte opened the door softly, and waved stephen towards her. "your mother is come, and she says she must see the squire." and then, before stephen could answer, ducie gently put them both aside. "wait in the corridor, my children," she said: "none but god and sandal must hear my farewell." with the words, she closed the door, and went to the dying man. he appeared to be unconscious; but she took his hand, stroked it kindly, and bending down whispered, "william, william sandal! do you know me?" "surely it is ducie. it is growing dark. we must go home, ducie. eh? what?" "william, try and understand what i say. you will go the happier to heaven for my words." and, as they grew slowly into the squire's apprehension, a look of amazement, of gratitude, of intense satisfaction, transfigured the clay for the last time. it seemed as if the departing soul stood still to listen. he was perfectly quiet until she ceased speaking; then, in a strange, unearthly tone, he uttered one word, "happy." it was the last word that ever parted his lips. between shores he lingered until the next daybreak, and then the loving watchers saw that the pallid wintry light fell on the dead. how peaceful was the large, worn face! how tranquil! how distant from them! how grandly, how terribly indifferent! to squire william sandal, all the noisy, sorrowful controversies of earth had grown suddenly silent. the reading of the squire's will made public the real condition of affairs. julius had spoken with the lawyer previously, and made clear to him his right in equity to stand in the heir's place. but the squires and statesmen of the dales heard the substitution with muttered dissents, or in a silence still more emphatic of disapproval. ducie and mrs. sandal and charlotte were shocked and astounded at the revelation, and there was not a family in sandal-side who had that night a good word for julius sandal. he thought it very hard, and said so. he had not forced harry in any way. he had taken no advantage of him. harry was quite satisfied with the exchange, and what had other people to do with his affairs? he did not care for their opinion. "that for it!" and he snapped his fingers defiantly to every point of the compass. but, all the same, he walked the floor of the east rooms nearly all night, and kept sophia awake to listen to his complaints. sophia was fretful and sleepy, and not as sympathetic with "the soul that halved her own," as centuries of fellow-feeling might have claimed; but she had her special worries. she perceived, even thus early, that as long as the late squire's widow was in the seat, her own authority would be imperfect. "of course, she did not wish to hurry her mother; but she would feel, in her place, how much more comfortable for all a change would be. and mother had her dower-house in the village; a very comfortable home, quite large enough for charlotte and herself and a couple of maids, which was certainly all they needed." where did such thoughts and feelings spring from? were they lying dormant in her heart that summer when the squire drove home his harvest, and her mother went joyfully up and down the sunny old rooms, always devising something for her girls' comfort or pleasures? in those days how proud sophia had been of her father and mother! what indignation she would have felt had one suggested that the time was coming when she would be glad to see a stranger in her father's place, and feel impatient to say to her mother, "step down lower; i would be mistress in your room"! alas! there are depths in the human heart we fear to look into; for we know that often all that is necessary to assuage a great grief, or obliterate a great loss, is the inheritance of a fine mansion, or a little money, or a few jewels, or even a rich garment. and as soon as the squire was in his grave, julius and sophia began to discuss the plans which only a very shallow shame had made them reticent about before. indeed, it soon became necessary for others, also, to discuss the future. people soon grow unwelcome in a house that is not their own; and the new squire of sandal-side was eager to so renovate and change the place that it would cease to remind him of his immediate predecessors. the sandals of past centuries were welcome, they gave dignity to his claims; but the last squire, and his son harry sandal, only reminded him of circumstances he felt it more comfortable to forget. so, during the long, dreary days of midwinter, he and sophia occupied themselves very pleasantly in selecting styles of furniture, and colors of draperies, and in arranging for a full suite of oriental rooms, which were to perpetuate in pottery and lacquerware, indian bronzes and mattings, chinese screens and cabinets, the anglo-indian possessor of the old cumberland estate. even pending these alterations, others were in progress. every family arrangement was changed in some respect. the hour for breakfast had been fixed at what julius called a civilized time. this, of course, delayed every other meal; yet the servants, who had grumbled at over-work under the old authority, had not a complaint to make under the new. for the present master and mistress of sandal were not people who cared for complaints. "if you can do the work, ann, you may stay," said sophia to the dissatisfied cook; "if not, the squire will pay you your due wages. he has a friend in london whose cook would like a situation in the country." after which explanation ann behaved herself admirably, and never found her work hard, though dinner was two hours later, and the supper dishes were not sent in until eleven o'clock. but, though julius had succeeded in bringing his table so far within his own ideas of comfort, in other respects he felt his impotence to order events. every meal-time brought him in contact with the widow sandal and with charlotte; and neither sophia, nor yet himself, had felt able to request the late mistress to resign her seat at the foot of the table. and sophia soon began to think it unkind of her mother not to see the position, and voluntarily amend it. "i do really think mother might have some consideration for me, julius," she complained. "it puts me in such a very peculiar position not to take my place at my own table; and it is so trying and perplexing for the servants,--making them feel as if there were two mistresses." "and always the calm, scornful face of your sister charlotte at her side. do you notice with what ostentatious obedience and attention she devotes herself to your mother?" "she thinks that she is showing me my duty, julius. but people have some duties toward themselves." "and towards their husbands." "certainly. i thank heaven i have always put my husband first." and she really glanced upwards with the complacent air of one who expected heaven to imitate men, and "praise her for doing well unto herself." "this state of things cannot go on much longer, sophia." "certainly it cannot. mother must look after her own house soon." "i would speak to her to-day, sophia. she has had six weeks now to arrange her plans, and next month i want to begin and put the house into decent condition. i think i will write to london this afternoon, and tell jeffcott to send the polishers and painters on the th of march." "mother is so slow about things, i don't think she will be ready to move so early." "oh, i really can't stand them any longer! i can't indeed, sophia, and i won't. i did not marry your mother and sister, nor yet buy them with the place. your mother has her recognized rights in the estate, and she has a dower-house to which to retire; and the sooner she goes there now, the better. you may tell her i say so." "you may as well tell her yourself, julius." "do you wish me to be insulted by your sister charlotte again? it is too bad to put me in such a position. i cannot punish two women, even for such shameful innuendos as i had to take when she sat at the head of the table. you ought to reflect, too, that the rooms they occupy are the best rooms in the house,--the master's rooms. i am going to have the oak walls polished, in order to bring out the carvings; and i think we will choose green and white for the carpets and curtains. the present furniture is dreadfully old-fashioned, and horribly full of old memories." "well, then, i shall give mother to understand that we expect to make these changes very soon." "depend upon it, the sooner your mother and charlotte go to their own house, the better for all parties. for, if we do not insist upon it, they will stay and stay, until that latrigg young man has his house finished. then charlotte will expect to be married from here, and we shall have all the trouble and expense of the affair. oh, i tell you, sophia, i see through the whole plan! but reckoning without me, and reckoning with me, are different things." this conversation took place after a most unpleasant lunch. julius had come to it in a fretful, hypercritical mood. he had been calculating what his proposed changes would cost, and the sum total had given him a slight shock. he was like many extravagant people, subject to passing spells of almost contemptible economy; and at that hour the proposed future outlay of thousands did not trouble him so much as the actual penny-half-penny value of his mother-in-law's lunch. he did not say so, but in some way the feeling permeated the table. the widow pushed her plate aside, and sipped her glass of wine in silence. charlotte took a pettish pleasure in refusing what she felt she was unwelcome to. both left the table before julius and sophia had finished their meal; and both, as soon as they reached their rooms, turned to each other with faces hot with indignation, and hearts angry with a sense of shameful unkindness. charlotte spoke first. "what is to be done, mother? i cannot see you insulted, meal after meal, in this way. let us go at once. i have told you it would come to this. we ought to have moved immediately,--just as soon as julius came here as master." "my house in the village has been empty for three years. it is cold and damp. it needs attention of every kind. if we could only stay here until stephen's house was finished: then you could be married." "o mother dear, that is not possible! you know steve and i cannot marry until father has been dead at least a year. it would be an insult to father to have a wedding in his mourning year." "if your father knows any thing, charlotte, he knows the trouble we are in. he would count it no insult." "but all through the dales it would be a shame to us. steve and i would not like to begin life with the ill words or ill thoughts of our neighbors." "what shall i do? charlotte, dear, what shall i do?" "let us go to our own home. better to brave a little damp and discomfort than constant humiliation." "this is my home, my own dear home! it is full of memories of your father and harry." "o mother, i should think you would want to forget harry!" "no, no, no! i want to remember him every hour of the day and night. how could i pray for him, if i forgot him? little you know how a mother loves, charlotte. his father forgave him: shall i be less pitiful?--i, who nursed him at my breast, and carried him in my arms." charlotte did not answer. she was touched by her mother's fidelity, and she found in her own heart a feeling much akin to it. their conversation reverted to their unhappy position, and to the difficulty of making an immediate change. for not only was the dower-house in an untenantable state, but the weather was very much against them. the gray weather, the gloomy sky, the monotonous rains, the melting snow, the spiteful east wind,--by all this enmity of the elements, as well as by the enmity in the household, the poor bereaved lady was saddened and controlled. the wretched conversation was followed by a most unhappy silence. both hearts were brooding over their slights and wrongs. day by day charlotte's life had grown harder to bear. sophia's little flaunts and dissents, her astonishments and corrections, were almost as cruel as the open hatred of julius, his silence, his lowering brows, and insolence of proprietorship. to these things she had to add the intangible contempt of servants, and the feeling of constraint in the house where she had been the beloved child and the one in authority. also she found the insolence which stephen had to brave every time he called upon her just as difficult to bear as were her own peculiar slights. julius had ceased to recognize him, had ceased to speak of him except as "that person." every visit he made charlotte was the occasion of some petty impertinence, some unmistakable assurance that his presence was offensive to the master of seat-sandal. all these things troubled the mother also, but her bitterest pang was the cruelty of sophia. a slow, silent process of alienation had been going on in the girl ever since her engagement to julius: it had first touched her thoughts, then her feelings; now its blighting influence had deteriorated her whole nature. and in her mother's heart there were sad echoes of that bitter cry that comes down from age to age, "oh, my son absalom, absalom! my son, my son!" "o sophia! oh, my child, my child! how can you treat me so? what have i done?" she was murmuring such words to herself when the door was opened, and sophia entered. it was characteristic of the woman that she did not knock ere entering. she had always jealously guarded her rights to the solitude of her own room; and, even when she was a school-girl, it had been an understood household regulation that no one was to enter it without knocking. but now that she was mistress of all the rooms in seat-sandal, she ignored the simple courtesy towards others. consequently, when she entered, she saw the tears in her mother's eyes. they only angered her. "why should the sorrows of others darken her happy home?" sophia was one of those women whom long regrets fatigue. as for her father, she reflected, "that he had been well nursed, decorously buried, and that every propriety had been attended to. it was, in her opinion, high time that the living--julius and herself--should be thought of." the stated events of life--its regular meals, its trivial pleasures--had quite filled any void in her existence made by her father's death. if he had come back to earth, if some one had said to her, "he is here," she would have been far more embarrassed than delighted. the worldly advantages built upon the extinction of a great love! sophia could contemplate them without a blush. she came forward, shivering slightly, and stirred the fire. "how cold and dreary you are! mother, why don't you cheer up and do something? it would be better for you than moping on the sofa." "suppose julius had died six weeks ago, would you think of 'cheering up,' sophia?" "charlotte, what a shameful thing to say!" "precisely what you have just said to mother." "supposing julius dead! i never heard such a cruel thing. i dare say it would delight you." "no, it would not; for julius is not fit to die." "mother, i will not be insulted in my own house in such a way. speak to charlotte, or i must tell julius." "what have you come to say, sophia?" "i came to talk pleasantly, to see you, and"-- "you saw me an hour or two since, and were very rude and unkind. but if you regret it, my dear, it is forgiven." "i do not know what there is to forgive. but really, charlotte and you seem so completely unhappy and dissatisfied here, that i should think you would make a change." "do you mean that you wish me to go?" "if you put words into my mouth." "it is not worth while affecting either regret or offence, sophia. how soon do you wish us to leave?" the dowager mistress of sandal-side had stood up as she asked the question. she was quite calm, and her manner even cold and indifferent. "if you wish us to go to-day, it is still possible. i can walk as far as the rectory. for your father's sake, the rector will make us welcome.--charlotte, my bonnet and cloak!" "mother! i think such threats very uncalled for. what will people say? and how can poor julius defend himself against two ladies? i call it taking advantage of us." "'taking advantage?' oh, no! oh, no!--charlotte, my dear, give me my cloak." the little lady was not to be either frightened or entreated; and she deigned julius--who had been hastily summoned by sophia--no answer, either to his arguments or his apologies. "it is enough," she cried, with a slight quiver in her voice, "it is enough! you turn me out of the home he gave me. do you think that the dead see not? know not? you will find out, you will find out." and so, leaning upon charlotte's arm, she walked slowly down the stairway, and into the dripping, soaking, gloomy afternoon. it was indeed wretched weather. a thick curtain of mist filled all the atmosphere, and made of daylight only a diluted darkness, in which it was hard to distinguish the skeletons of the trees which winter had stripped. the mountains had disappeared; there was no sky; a veil of chilling moisture and depressing gloom was over every thing. but neither charlotte nor her mother was at that hour conscious of such inoffensive disagreeables. they were trembling with anger and sorrow. in a moment such a great event had happened, one utterly unconceived of, and unprepared for. half an hour previous, the unhappy mother had dreaded the breaking away from her old life, and had declined to discuss with charlotte any plan tending to such a consummation. then, suddenly, she had taken a step more decided and unusual than had ever entered charlotte's mind. the footpath through the park was very wet and muddy. every branch dropped water. they were a little frightened at what they were doing, and their hearts were troubled by many complex emotions. but fortunately the walk was a short one, and the shortest way to the rectory lay directly through the churchyard. without a word mrs. sandal took it; and without a word she turned aside at a certain point, and through the long, rank, withered grasses walked straight to the squire's grave. it was yet quite bare; the snow had melted away, and it had a look as desolate as her own heart. she stood a few minutes speechless by its side; but the painfully tight clasp in which she held charlotte's hand expressed better than any words could have done the tension of feeling, the passion of emotion, which dominated her. and charlotte felt that silence was her mother's safety. if she spoke, she would weep, perhaps break down completely, and be unable to reach the shelter of the rectory. the rector was walking about his study. he saw the two female forms passing through the misty graveyard, and up to his own front door; but that they were mrs. sandal and charlotte sandal, was a supposition beyond the range of his life's probabilities. so, when they entered his room, he was for the moment astounded; but how much more so, when charlotte, seeing her mother unable to frame a word, said, "we have come to you for shelter and protection!" then mrs. sandal began to sob hysterically; and the rector called his housekeeper, and the best rooms were quickly opened and warmed, and the sorrowful, weary lady lay down to rest in their comfort and seclusion. charlotte did not find their friend as unprepared for the event as she supposed likely. private matters sift through the public mind in a way beyond all explanation, and "there had been a general impression," he said, "that the late squire's widow was very ill done to by the new squire." charlotte did not spare the new squire. all his petty ways of annoying her mother and herself and stephen; all his small economies about their fire and food and comforts; all his scornful contempt for their household ways and traditions; all that she knew regarding his purchase of harry's rights, and its ruthless revelation to her dying father,--all that she knew wrong of julius, she told. it was a relief to do it. while he had been their guest, and afterwards while they had been his guests, her mouth had been closed. week after week she had suffered in silence. the long-restrained tide of wrong flowed from her lips with a strange, pathetic eloquence; and, as the rector held her hands, his own were wet with her fast-falling tears. at last she laid her head against his shoulder, and wept as if her heart would break. "he has been our ruin," she cried, "our evil angel. he has used harry's folly and father's goodness and sophia's love--all of them--for his own selfish ends." "he is a bad one. he should be hanged, and cheap at it! hear him, talking of having lived so often! god have mercy! he is not worthy of one life, let alone of two." at this juncture, julius himself entered the room. neither of its occupants had heard his arrival, and he saw charlotte in the abandon of her grief and anger. she would have risen, but the rector would not let her. "sit still, charlotte," he said. "he has done his do, and you need not fear him any more. and dry your tears, my dearie; learn while you are young to squander nothing, not even grief." then he turned to julius, and gave him one of those looks which go through all disguises into the shoals and quicksands of the heart; such a look as that with which the tamer of wild beasts controls his captive. "well, squire, what want you?" "i want justice, sir. i am come here to defend myself." "very well, i am here to listen." self-justification is a vigorous quality: julius spoke with eloquence, and with a superficial show of right. the rector heard him patiently, offering no comment, and permitting no disputation. but, when julius was finished, he answered with a certain stern warmth, "say what you will, squire, you and i are of two ways of thinking. you are in the wrong, and you will be hard set to prove yourself in the right; and that is as true as gospel." "i am, at least, a gentleman, rector; and i know how to treat gentlewomen." "gentle-man! gentle-sinner, let me say! will satan care whether you be a peasant, or a star-and-garter gentleman? tut, tut! in my office i know nothing about gentlemen. there are plenty of gentlemen with beelzebub; and they will ring all eternity for a drop of water, and never find a servant to answer them." "sir, though you are a clergyman, you have no right to speak to me in such a manner." "because i am a clergyman, i have the right. if i see a man sleeping while the devil rocks his cradle, have i not the right to say to him, 'wake up, you are in danger'? let me tell you, squire, you have committed more than one sin. go home, and confess them to god and man. above all, turn down a leaf in your bible where a fool once asked, 'who is my neighbor?' keep it turned down, until you have answered the question better than you have been doing it lately." "none of my neighbors can say wrong of me. i have always done my duty to them. i have paid every one what i owe"-- "not enough, squire; not enough. follow on, as hosea says, to love them. don't always give them the white, and keep the yolk for yourself. you know your duty. haste you back home, then, and do it." "i will not be put off in such a way, sir. you must interfere in this matter: make these silly women behave themselves. i cannot have the whole country-side talking of my affairs." "me interfere! no, no! i am not in your livery, squire; and i won't fight your quarrels. sir, my time is engaged." "i have a right"-- "my time is engaged. it is my hour for reading the evening service. stay and hear it, if you desire. but it is a bad neighborhood, where a man can't say his prayers quietly." and he stood up, walked slowly to his reading-desk, and began to turn the leaves of the book of common prayer. then julius went out in a passion, and the rector muttered, "the devil may quote scripture, but he does not like to hear it read. come, charlotte, let us thank god, thank him twice, nay, thrice, not alone for the faith of christ jesus, but also for the legacy of christ jesus. oh, child, amid earth's weary restlessness and noisy quarrels, how rich a legacy,"-- "'peace i leave with you. my peace i give unto you.'" chapter xi. sandal and sandal. "time will discover every thing; it is a babbler, and speaks even when no question is put." "run, spindles! run, and weave the threads of doom." next morning very early, stephen had a letter from charlotte. he was sitting at breakfast with ducie when the rector's boy brought it; and it came, as great events generally come, without any premonition or heralding circumstance. ducie was pouring out coffee; and she went on with her employment, thinking, not of the letter stephen was opening, but of the malt, and of the condition of the brewing-boiler. an angry exclamation from stephen made her lift her eyes to his face. "my word, stephen, you are put out! what's to do?" "julius has turned mrs. sandal and charlotte from house and home, yesterday afternoon. they are at the rectory. i am going, mother." "stop a moment, steve. this is now my affair." stephen looked at his mother with amazement. her countenance, her voice, her whole manner, had suddenly changed. an expression of angry purpose was in her wide-open eyes and firm mouth, as she asked, "can you or jamie, or any of the men, drive me to kendal?" "to-day?" "i want to leave within an hour." "the rain down-pours; and it is like to be worse yet, if the wind does not change." "if it were ten times worse, i must to kendal. i am much to blame that i have let weather stop me so far and so long. while dame nature was busy about her affairs, i should have been minding mine. deary me, deary me!" "if you are for kendal, then i will drive. the cart-road down the fell is too bad to trust you with any one but myself. can we stop a moment at the rectory on our road?" "we can stop a goodish bit. i have a deal to say to the parson. have the tax-cart ready in half an hour; for there will be no betterness in the weather until the moon--god bless her!--is full round; and things are past waiting for now." in twenty minutes ducie was ready. the large cloak and hood of the daleswoman wrapped her close. she was almost indistinguishable in its folds. the rector met her with a little irritation. it was very early to be disturbed, and he thought her visit would refer, doubtless, to some trivial right between her son and charlotte sandal; besides which, he had made up his mind to discuss the sandal affairs with no one. but ducie had spoken but a few moments before a remarkable change took place in his manner. he was bending eagerly forward, listening to her half-whispered words with the greatest interest and amazement. as she proceeded, he could scarcely control his emotion; and very soon all other expressions were lost in one of a satisfaction that was almost triumph. "i will keep them here until you return," he answered; "but let me tell you, ducie, you have been less quick to do right than i thought of you." "the fell has been a hard walk for an old woman, the cart-road nearly impassable until this rain washed away the drifts; but i did not neglect my duty altogether, neither, parson. moser was written to six weeks since, and he has been at work. maybe, after all, no time has been lost. i'll away now, if you will call stephen. don't let mrs. sandal 'take on' more than you can help;" and, as stephen lifted the reins, "you think it best to bring all here?" "far away best. god speed you!" he watched them out of sight,--his snowy hair and strong face and black garments making a vivid picture in the misty, drippy doorway,--and then, returning to his study, he began his daily walk up and down its carpeted length, with a singularly solemn elation. ere long, the thoughtful stride was accompanied by low, musical mutterings, dropping from his lips in such majestic cadences that his steps involuntarily fell to their music in a march-like rhythm. "daughter of justice, wronged nemesis, thou of the awful eyes, whose silent sentence judgeth mortal life,-- thou with the curb of steel, which proudest jaws must feel, stayest the snort and champ of human strife. under thy wheel unresting, trackless, all our joys and griefs befall; in thy full sight our secret things go on; step after step, thy wrath follows the caitiff's path, and in his triumph breaks his vile neck bone. to all alike, thou meetest out their due, cubit for cubit, inch for inch,--stern, true." at the word "true" he paused a moment, and touched with his finger an old black volume on one of the book-shelves. "'stern, true,' whether euripides says 'cubit for cubit,' or moses 'an eye for an eye,' or solomon that 'he that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.' stern, true; for surely that which a man sows he shall also reap." after a while he went up-stairs and talked with mrs. sandal and charlotte. they were much depressed and very anxious, and had what charlotte defined "a homeless feeling." "but you must be biddable, charlotte," said the rector; "you must remain here until stephen returns. ducie had business that could not wait, and who but stephen should drive her? when he comes back, we will all look to it. you shall not be very long out of your own home; and, in the mean time, how welcome you are here!" "it seems such a weary time, sir; so many months that we have been in trouble." "it was all night long, once, with some tired, fearful ones 'toiling in rowing;' but in the fourth watch came christ and help to them. it is nigh hand--the 'fourth watch'--with you; so be cheerful." yet it was the evening of the sixth day before ducie and stephen returned. it was still raining heavily, and ducie only waited a moment or two at the rectory gate. charlotte was amazed to see the old clergyman hasten through the plashing shower to speak to her. "surely ducie's business must have a great deal of interest to the rector, mother: he has gone out to speak to her, and such weather too." "ducie was always a favorite with him. i hope, now that her affairs have been attended to, ours may receive some care." charlotte answered only by a look of sympathy. it had seemed to her a little hard that their urgent need must wait upon ducie's business; that stephen should altogether leave them in their extremity; that her anxious inquiries and suggestions, her plans and efforts about their new home, should have been so coldly received, and so positively put aside until ducie and stephen came back. and she had a pang of jealousy when she saw the rector, usually so careful of his health, hasten with slippered feet and uncovered head, through the wet, chilling atmosphere, to speak to them. he came back with a radiant face, however, and charlotte could hear him moving about his study; now rolling out a grand march of musical greek syllables from homer or euripides, anon breaking into some familiar verse of christian song. and, when tea was served, he went up-stairs for the ladies, and escorted them to the table with a manner so beaming and so happily predictive that charlotte could not but catch some of its hopeful spirit. just as they sat down to the tea-table, the wet, weary travellers reached up-hill. with a sigh of pleasure and content, ducie once more passed into its comfortable shelter; and never had it seemed to her such a haven of earthly peace. her usually placid face bore marks of strong emotion; she was physically tired; and stephen was glad to see her among the white fleeces of his grandfather's big chair, with her feet outstretched to the blazing warmth of the fire, and their cosey tea-service by her side. always reticent with him, she had been very tryingly so on their journey. no explanation of it had been given; and he had been permitted to pass his time among the looms in ireland's mill, while she and the lawyer were occupied about affairs to which even his signature was not asked. as they sat together in the evening, she caught his glance searching her face tenderly; and she bent forward, and said, "kiss me, stephen, my dear lad. i have seen this week how kind and patient, how honorable and trustful, thou art. well, then, the hour has come that will try thy love to the uttermost. but wise or unwise, all that has been done has been done with good intent, and i look for no word to pain me from thy mouth. stephen, what is thy name?" "stephen latrigg." "nay, but it isn't." stephen blushed vividly; his mother's face was white and calm. "i would rather be called latrigg than--the other name, than by my father's name." "has any one named thy father to thee?" "charlotte told me what you and she said on the matter. she understood his name to be pattison. we were wondering if our marriage could be under my adopted name, that was all, and things like it." ducie was watching his handsome face as he spoke, and feeling keenly the eager deprecation of pain to herself, mingling with the natural curiosity about his own identity, which the cloud upon his early years warranted. she looked at him steadily, with eyes shining brightly through tears. "your name is not pattison, neither is it latrigg. when you marry charlotte sandal, it must be by your own true name; and that is stephen sandal." "stephen sandal, mother?" "yes. you are the son of launcelot sandal, the late squire's eldest brother." "then, mother, then i am--what am i, mother?" "you are squire of sandal-side and torver. no living man but you has a right to the name, or the land, or to seat-sandal." "i should have known this before, mother." "i think not. we had, father and i, what we believed good reasons, and kind reasons, for holding our peace. but times and circumstances have changed; and, where silence was once true friendship and kindness, it is now wrong and cruelty. many years ago, stephen, when i was young and beautiful, launcelot sandal loved me. and my father and launcelot's father loved each other as david and jonathan loved. they were scarcely happy apart; and not even to please the proud mistress charlotte, would the squire loosen the grip of heart and hand between them. but your father was more under his mother's influence: proud lad as he was, he feared her; and when she discovered his love for me, there was such a scene between them as no man will go through twice in his lifetime. i have no excuse to make for marrying him secretly except the old, old one, stephen. i loved him, loved him as women have loved, and will love, from the beginning to the end of time." "dear mother, there was no wrong in that. but why did you let the world think you loved a man beneath you? an uneducated shepherd like my reputed father? that wronged not only you, but those behind and those after you." "we were afraid of many things, and we wished to spare the friendship between our fathers. there were many other reasons, scarcely worth repeating now." "and what became of the shepherd?" "he was not cumberland born. he came from the cheviot hills, and was always fretting for the border life: so he gladly fell in with the proposal your father made him. one summer morning he said he was going to herd the lambs on latrigg fell, but he went to egremont. your father had gone there a week before; but he came back that night, and met me at ravenglass. we were married in egremont church, by parson sellafield, and went to whitehaven, where we lived quietly and happily for many a week. pattison witnessed our marriage, and then, with gold in his pocket, took the border road. he went to moffat and wed the girl he loved, and has been shepherding on loch fell ever since." "he is alive, then?" "he is at the salutation inn at ambleside to-night. so, also, is parson sellafield, and the man and woman with whom we staid in whitehaven, and in whose house you were born and lived until your fourth year. they are called chisholm, and have been at up-hill many times." "i remember them." "and i did not intend that they should forget you." "i have always heard that launcelot sandal was drowned." "you have always heard that your father was drowned? that was near by the truth. while in whitehaven, he wrote to his brother tom, who was living and doing well in india. when his answer came, we determined to go to calcutta; but i was not in a state of health fit for such a journey as that then was. so it was decided that your father should go first, and get a home ready for me. he left in the 'lady liddel,' and she was lost at sea. your father was in an open boat for many days, and died of exhaustion." "who told you so, mother?" "the captain lived to reach his home again, and he brought me his watch and ring and last message. he never saw your face, my lad, he never saw your face." a silence of some minutes ensued. ducie had long ceased to weep for her dead love, but he was unforgotten. her silence was not oblivion: it was a sanctuary where lights were burning round the shrine, over which the wings of affection were folded. "when my father was gone, then you came back to up-hill?" "no: i did not come back until you were in your fourth year. then my mother died, and i brought you home. at the first moment you went straight to your grandfather's heart; and that night, as you lay asleep upon his knee, i told him the truth, as i tell it to you this night. and he said to me, 'ducie, things have settled a bit lately. the squire has got over his trouble about launcie; and young william is the acknowledged heir, and the welcome heir. he is going to marry alice morecombe at the long last, but it will make a big difference if launcelot's son steps in where nobody wants him. now, then,' he said, 'i will tell thee a far better way. we will give this dear lad my own name, none better in old cumbria; and we will save gold, and we will make gold, to put it to the very front in the new times that are coming. and he will keep my name on the face of the earth, and so please the great company of his kin behind him. and it will be far better for him to be the top-sheaf of the latriggs, than to force his way into seat-sandal, where there is neither love nor welcome for him.' "and i thought the same thing, stephen; and after that, our one care was to make you happy, and to do well to you. that you were a born sandal, was a great joy to him, for he loved your father and your grandfather; and, when harry came, he loved him also, and he liked well to see you two on the fells together. often he called me to come and look at you going off with your rods or guns; and often he said, 'both fine lads, ducie, but our steve is the finer.'" "oh, mother, i cannot take harry's place! i love harry, and i did not know how much until this hour"-- "stop a bit, stephen. when harry grew up, and went into the army, your grandfather wasn't so satisfied with what he had done. 'here's a fine property going to sharpers and tailors and italian singing-women,' he used to say; and he felt baddish about it. and yet he loved squire william, as he had loved his father, and mistress alice and harry and sophia and charlotte; why, he thought of them like his own flesh and blood. and he could not bear to undo his kindness. and he could not bear to tell squire william the truth, for he knew well that he would undo it. so one day he sent for lawyer moser; and the two of them together found out a plan that seemed fair, for both sandal and latrigg. "you were to remain stephen latrigg, unless it was to ward off wrong or ruin in sandal-side. but if ever the day came when sandal needed latrigg, you were to claim your right, and stand up for sandal. such a state of things as harry brought about, my father never dreamed of. he would not have been able to think of a man selling away his right to a place like seat-sandal; and among all the villains he ever knew, or heard tell of, he couldn't have picked out one to lead him to such a villain as julius sandal. so, you see, he left no special directions for such a case, and i was a bit feared to move in too big a hurry; and, maybe, i was a bit of a coward about setting every tongue in sandal-side talking about me and my bygone days. "but, when the squire died, i thought from what charlotte told me of the julius sandals, that there would have to be a change; and when i saw your grandfather sorting the papers for me, and heard that mistress alice and charlotte had been forced to leave their home, i knew that the hour for the change had struck, and that i must be about the business. moser was written to soon after the funeral of squire william. he has now all the necessary witnesses and papers ready. he is at ambleside with them, and to-morrow morning they will have a talk with mr. julius at seat-sandal." "i wonder where harry sandal is." "after you, comes harry. your grandfather did not forget him. there is a provision in the will, which directs, that if, for any cause not conceivable by the testator, harry sandal must resign in favor of stephen sandal, then the land and money devised to you, as his heir, shall become the property of harry sandal. in a great measure you would only change places, and that is not a very hard punishment for a man who cared so little for his family home as harry did. so you see, stephen, you must claim your rights in order to give harry his." the facts of this conversation opened up endlessly to the mother and son, and hour after hour it was continued without any loss of interest. but the keenest pleasure his new prospects gave stephen referred itself to mrs. sandal and charlotte. he could now reinstate them in their old home and in their old authority in it. for the bright visions underneath his eyelids, he could not sleep,--visions of satisfied affection, and of grief and humiliation crowned with joy and happiness and honor. it had been decided that stephen should drive his mother to the rectory in the morning, and there they were to wait the result of moser's interview with julius. the dawning came up with sunshine; the storm was over, the earth lay smiling in that "clear shining after rain," which is so exhilarating and full of promise. the sky was as blue, the air as fresh, fell and wood, meadow and mountain, as clean and bright as if they had just come new from the fingers of the almighty. ducie was handsomely dressed in dark violet-colored satin, and stephen noticed with pride how well her rich clothing and quiet, dignified manner became her; while ducie felt even a greater pride in the stately, handsome young man who drove her with such loving care down latrigg fell that eventful morning. julius was at breakfast when the company from ambleside were shown into the master's room in seat-sandal. the lawyer sent in his card; and julius, who knew him well, was a trifle annoyed by the visit. "it will be about your mother's income, sophia," he said, as he viciously broke the egg he was holding; "now mind, i am not going to yield one inch." "why should you, julius? i am sure we have been blamed and talked over enough. we never can be popular here." "we don't want to be popular here. when we have refurnished the house, we will bring our company from oxford and london and elsewhere. we will have fine dinners and balls, hunting-parties and fishing-parties; and, depend upon it, we shall very soon have these shepherd lords and gentlemen begging for our favor." "oh, you don't know them, julius! they would not break bread with us if they were starving." "very well. what do i care?" but he did care. when the wagoners driving their long teams pretended not to hear his greeting, for the jingling of their bells, he knew it was pretence, and the wagoners' aversion hurt him. when the herdsmen sauntered away from his path, and preferred not to talk to him, he felt the bitterness of their dislike, though they were only shepherds. when the gentlemen of the neighborhood looked straight before them, and did not see him in their path, he burned with an indignation he would have liked well to express. but no one took the trouble to offend him by word or deed, and a man cannot pick a quarrel with people for simply letting him alone. sophia's opinion recalled one or two of these events that were particularly galling; and he finished his breakfast in a sulky, leisurely fashion, to such reflections as they evoked. then, with a cigar in his mouth, he went to the master's room to see moser. he had been told that other parties were there also, but he did not surmise that their business was identical. yet he noticed the clergyman on entering, and appeared inclined to attend to his request first; but as he courteously waved his claim away, and retired to the other end of the room, julius said curtly,-- "well, mr. moser, good-morning, sir." the lawyer was pretending to be absorbed in the captions of the papers in his hand, for he was offended at being kept waiting so long: "as if a bite of victuals was of more ado than business that could bring matthew moser all the road from kendal." "good-morning, mr. sandal." the omission of "squire," and the substitution of "mr.," annoyed julius very much, though he had not a suspicion of the lawyer's errand; and he corrected the mistake with a bland smile on his lips, and an angry light in his eyes. moser, in reply, selected one particular paper, and put it into the hand of julius. "acting for squire sandal, i would be a middling bad sort of a lawyer to give you his name. eh?" "you are talking in riddles, sir." "eh! but i always read my riddles, mr. sandal. i am here to take possession of house and land, for the real heir of sandal-side." "i bought his right, as you know very well. you have harry sandal's own acknowledgment." "eh? but you see, harry sandal never had a penny-worth of right to sell. launcelot sandal left a son, and for him i am acting. eh?" "launcelot sandal was drowned. he never married." "eh, but he did!--parson sellafield, what do you say about that?" "i married him on july , --, at egremont church. there," pointing to matt pattison, "is the witness. here is a copy of the license and the 'lines.' they are signed, 'launcelot sandal' and 'ducie latrigg.'" "confusion!" "eh? no, no! there's not a bit of confusion, mr. sandal. it is all as clear as the multiplication table, and there is nothing clearer than that. launcelot sandal married ducie latrigg; they had one son, stephen sandal, otherwise known as stephen latrigg: proofs all ready, sir, not a link missing, mr. sandal. when will you vacate? the squire is inclined to be easy with you, and not to back-reckon, unless you force him to do so." "this is a conspiracy, moser." "conspiracy! eh? ugly word, mr. sandal. an actionable word, i may say." "it is a conspiracy. you shall hear from me through some respectable lawyer." "in the mean time, mr. sandal, i have taken, as you will see, the proper legal steps to prevent you wasting any more of the sandal revenues. every shilling you touch now, you will be held responsible for. also," and he laid another paper down, "you are hereby restrained from removing, injuring, or in any way changing, or disposing of, the present furniture of the seat. the squire insists specially on this direction, and he kindly allows you seven days to remove your private effects. a very reasonable gentleman is squire sandal." without further courtesies they parted; and the deposed squire locked the room-door, lifted the various documents, and read them with every sense he had. then he went to sophia; and at that hour he was almost angry with her, although he could not have told how, or why, such a feeling existed. when he opened the door of the parlor, her first words were a worry over the non-arrival, by mail, of some floss-silks, needful in the bird's-nest she was working for a fire-screen. "they have not come, julius," she cried, with a face full of inquiry and annoyance. "they? who?" "the flosses for my bird's-nest. the eggs must be in white floss." "the bird's nest can go to jericho, or calcutta, or into the fire. we are ordered to leave seat-sandal in seven days." "i would not be so absurd, julius, so unfeeling, so ungentlemanly." "well, then, my soul," and he bowed with elaborate grace, "stephen latrigg, squire of sandal-side, orders us to leave in seven days. can you be ready?" she looked into the suave, mocking, inscrutable face, shrugged her shoulders, and began to count her stitches. julius had many varieties of ill-humor. she regarded this statement only as a new phase of his temper; but he soon undeceived her. with a pitiless exactness he went over his position, and, in doing so, made the hopelessness of his case as clear to himself as it was to others. and yet he was determined not to yield without a struggle; though, apart from the income of sandal, which he could not reach, he had little money and no credit. the story, with all its romance of attachment and its long trial of faithful secrecy, touched the prejudices and the sympathies of every squire and shepherd between duddon and esk and windermere. stephen came to his own, and they received him with open arms. but for julius, there was not a "seat" in the dales, nor a cottage on the fells, no, nor a chair in any of the local inns, where he was welcome. he stood his social excommunication longer than could have been expected; and, even at the end, his surrender was forced from him by the want of money, and the never-ceasing laments of sophia. she was clever enough to understand from the first, that fighting the case was simply "indulging julius in his temper;" and she did not see the wisdom of spending what little money they had in such a gratification. "you have been caught in your own trap, julius," she said aggravatingly. "very clever people often are. it is folly to struggle. you had better ask stephen to pay you back the ten thousand pounds. i think he ought to do that. it is only common honesty." but stephen had not the same idea of common honesty as sophia had. he referred julius to harry. "harry, indeed! harry who is in new york making ducks and drakes of your money, julius,--trying to buy shares and things that he knows no more of than he knows of greek. it's a shame!" and sophia burst into some genuine tears over the reflection. still the idea, on a less extravagant basis, seemed possible to steve. he began to think that it would be better to compromise matters with the julius sandals; better to lose a thousand pounds, or even two thousand pounds, if, by doing so, he could at once restore mrs. sandal and charlotte to their home. and he was on the point of making a proposition of this kind, when it was discovered that julius and his wife had silently taken their departure. "it is a hopeless fight against destiny," said julius. "when the purse is empty, any cause is weak. i have barely money to take us to calcutta, sophia. it is very disagreeable to go there, of course; but my father advised this step, and i shall remind him of it. he ought, therefore, to re-arrange my future. it is hard enough for me to have lost so much time carrying out his plans. and i should write a letter to your mother before you go, if i were you, sophia. it is your duty. she ought to have her cruel behavior to you pointed out to her." sophia did her duty. she wrote a very clever letter, which really did make both her mother and sister wretchedly uncomfortable. charlotte held it in her hand with a heartache, wondering whether she had indeed been as envious and unjust and unkind as sophia felt her to have been; and mrs. sandal buried her face in her sofa pillow, and had a cry over her supposed partiality and want of true motherly feeling. "they had been so misunderstood, julius and she,--wilfully misunderstood, she feared; and they were being driven to a foreign land, a deadly foreign land, because charlotte and stephen had raised against them a social hatred they had not the heart to conquer. if they defended themselves, they must accuse those of their own blood and house, and they were not mean enough to do such a thing as that. oh, no! sophia sandal had always done her duty, and always would do it forever." and broad statements are such confusing, confounding things, that for one miserable hour the mother and sister felt as mean and remorseful as sophia and julius could desire. then the rector read the letter aloud, and dived down into its depths as if it was a knotty text, and showed the two simple women on what false conditions all of its accusations rested. at the same time julius wrote a letter also. it was to harry sandal,--a very short letter, but destined to cause nearly six years of lonely, wretched wandering and anxious sorrow. dear harry,--there is great trouble about that ten thousand pounds. it seems you had no right to sell. "money on false pretences," i think they call it. i should go west, far west, if i were you. your friend, julius sandal. he read it to sophia, and she said, "what folly! let harry return home. you have heard that he comes into the latrigg money. very well, let him come home, and then you can make him pay you back. harry is very honorable." "there is not the slightest chance of harry paying me back. if he had a million, he wouldn't pay me back. harry spoke me fair, but i caught one look which let me see into his soul. he hated me for buying his right. with my money in his hand, he hated me. he would toss his hat to the stars if he heard how far i have been over-reached. next to charlotte sandal, i hate harry sandal; and i am going to send him a road that he is not likely to return. i don't intend stephen and harry to sit together, and chuckle over me. besides, your mother and charlotte are surely calculating upon having 'dear harry' and 'poor harry' at home again very soon. i have no doubt charlotte is planning about that emily beverley already. for harry is to have latrigg hall when it is finished, i hear." "really? is that so? are you sure?" "harry is to have the new hall, and all of old latrigg's gold and property." "julius, would it not be better to try and get around harry? we could stay with him. i cannot endure calcutta, and i always did like harry." "and i always detested him. and he always detested me. no, my sweet sophia, there is really nothing for us but a decent lodging-house on the shady side of the chowringhee road. my father can give me a post in 'the company,' and i must get as many of its rupees as i can manage. go through the old rooms, and bid them farewell, my soul. we shall not come back to seat-sandal again in this chapter of our eternity." and with a mocking laugh he turned away to make his own preparations. "but why go in the night, julius? you said to-night at eleven o'clock. why not wait until morning?" "because, beloved, i owe a great deal of money in the neighborhood. stephen can pay it for me. i have sent him word to do so. why should we waste our money? we have done with these boors. what they think of us, what they say of us, shall we mind it, my soul, when we drive under the peopuls and tamarinds at barrackpore, or jostle the crowds upon the moydana, or sit under the great stars and listen to the tread of the chokedars? all fate, sophia! all fate, soul of my soul! what is sandal-side? nothing. what is calcutta? nothing. what is life itself, my own one? only a little piece out of something that was before, and will be after." * * * * * who that has seen the cumberland moors and fells in july can ever forget them?--the yellow broom and purple heather, the pink and white waxen balls of the rare vacciniums, the red-leaved sundew, the asphodels, the cranberries and blueberries and bilberries, and the wonderful green mosses in all the wetter places; and, above and around all, the great mountain chains veiled in pale, ethereal atmosphere, and rising in it as airy and unsubstantial as if they could tremble in unison with every thrill of the ether above them. it was thus they looked, and thus the fells and the moors looked, one day in july, eighteen months after the death of squire william sandal,--his daughter charlotte's wedding-day. from far and near, the shepherd boys and lasses were travelling down the craggy ways, making all the valleys ring to their wild and simple songs, and ever and anon the bells rung out in joyful peals; and from up-hill to seat-sandal, and around the valley to latrigg hall, there were happy companies telling each other, "oh, how beautiful was the bride with her golden hair flowing down over her dress of shining white satin!" "and how proud and handsome the bridegroom!" "and how lovely in their autumn days the two mothers! mistress alice sandal leaning so confidently upon the arm of the stately mrs. ducie sandal." "and how glad was the good rector!" little work, either in field or house or fellside, was done that day; for, when all has been said about human selfishness, this truth abides,--in the main, we do rejoice with those who rejoice, and we do weep with those who weep. the old seat was almost gay in the sunshine, all its windows open for the wandering breezes, and its great hall doors set wide for the feet of the new squire and his bride. for they were too wise to begin their married life by going away from their home; they felt that it was better to come to it with the bridal benediction in their ears, and the sunshine of the wedding-day upon their faces. the ceremony had been delayed some months, for stephen had been in america seeking harry; seeking him in the great cities and in the lonely mining-camps, but never coming upon his foot steps until they had been worn away into forgetfulness. at last the rector wrote to him, "return home, stephen. we are both wrong. it is not human love, but god love, that must seek the lost ones. if you found harry now, and brought him back, it would be too soon. when his lesson is learned, the heart of god will be touched, and he will say, 'that will do, my son. arise, and go home.'" and when mrs. sandal smiled through her tears, for the hope's sake, he took her hand, and added solemnly, "be confident and glad, you shall see harry come joyfully to his own home. oh, if you could only listen, angels still talk with men! raphael, the affable angel, loves to bring them confidences. god also speaks to his children in dreams, and by the oracles that wait in darkness. if we know not, it is because we ask not. but i know, and am sure, that harry will return in joy and in peace. and if the dead look over the golden bar of heaven upon their earthly homes, barf latrigg, seeing the prosperity of the two houses, which stand upon his love and his self-denial, will say once more to his friend, 'william, i did well to sandal.'" country lodgings by mary russell mitford between two and three years ago, the following pithy advertisement appeared in several of the london papers:-- "country lodgings.--apartments to let in a large farm-house, situate in a cheap and pleasant village, about forty miles from london. apply (if by letter post-paid) to a. b., no. , salisbury-street, strand." little did i think, whilst admiring in the broad page of the morning chronicle the compendious brevity of this announcement, that the pleasant village referred to was our own dear aberleigh; and that the first tenant of those apartments should be a lady whose family i had long known, and in whose fortunes and destiny i took a more than common interest! upton court was a manor-house of considerable extent, which had in former times been the residence of a distinguished catholic family, but which, in the changes of property incident to our fluctuating neighbourhood, was now "fallen from its high estate," and degraded into the homestead of a farm so small, that the tenant, a yeoman of the poorest class, was fain to eke out his rent by entering into an agreement with a speculating belford upholsterer, and letting off a part of the fine old mansion in the shape of furnished lodgings. nothing could be finer than the situation of upton, placed on the summit of a steep acclivity, looking over a rich and fertile valley to a range of woody hills; nothing more beautiful than the approach from belford, the road leading across a common between a double row of noble oaks, the ground on one side sinking with the abruptness of a north-country burn, whilst a clear spring, bursting from the hill side, made its way to the bottom between patches of shaggy underwood and a grove of smaller trees; a vine-covered cottage just peeping between the foliage, and the picturesque outline of the court, with its old-fashioned porch, its long windows, and its tall, clustered chimneys towering in the distance. it was the prettiest prospect in all aberleigh. the house itself retained strong marks of former stateliness, especially in one projecting wing, too remote from the yard to be devoted to the domestic purposes of the farmer's family. the fine proportions of the lofty and spacious apartments, the rich mouldings of the ceilings, the carved chimney-pieces, and the panelled walls, all attested the former grandeur of the mansion; whilst the fragments of stained glass in the windows of the great gallery, the half-effaced coats of arms over the door-way, the faded family portraits, grim black-visaged knights, and pale shadowy ladies, or the reliques of mouldering tapestry that fluttered against the walls, and, above all, the secret chamber constructed for the priest's hiding-place in days of protestant persecution, for in darker ages neither of the dominant churches was free from that foul stain,--each of these vestiges of the manners and the history of times long gone by appealed to the imagination, and conspired to give a mrs. radcliffe-like, castle-of-udolpho-sort of romance to the manor-house. really, when the wind swept through the overgrown espaliers of that neglected but luxuriant wilderness, the terraced garden; when the screech-owl shrieked from the ivy which clustered up one side of the walls, and "rats and mice, and such small deer," were playing their pranks behind the wainscot, it would have formed as pretty a locality for a supernatural adventure, as ever decayed hunting lodge in the recesses of the hartz, or ruined fortress on the castled rhine. nothing was wanting but the ghost, and a ghost of any taste would have been proud of such a habitation. less like a ghost than the inhabitant who did arrive, no human being well could be. mrs. cameron was a young widow. her father, a scotch officer, well-born, sickly, and poor, had been but too happy to bestow the hand of his only child upon an old friend and fellow-countryman, the principal clerk in a government office, whose respectable station, easy fortune, excellent sense, and super-excellent character, were, as he thought, and as fathers, right or wrong, are apt to think, advantages more than sufficient to counterbalance a disparity of years and appearance, which some daughters might have thought startling,--the bride being a beautiful girl of seventeen, the bridegroom a plain man of seven-and-fifty. in this case, at least, the father was right. he lived long enough to see that the young wife was unusually attached to her kind and indulgent husband, and died, about a twelve-month after the marriage, with the fullest confidence in her respectability and happiness. mr. cameron did not long survive him. before she was nineteen the fair helen cameron was a widow and an orphan, with one beautiful boy, to whom she was left sole personal guardian, an income being secured to her ample for her rank in life, but clogged with the one condition of her not marrying again. such was the tenant, who, wearied of her dull suburban home, a red brick house in the middle of a row of red brick houses; tired of the loneliness which never presses so much upon the spirits as when left solitary in the environs of a great city; pining for country liberty, for green trees, and fresh air; much caught by the picturesque-ness of upton, and its mixture of old-fashioned stateliness and village rusticity; and, perhaps, a little swayed by a desire to be near an old friend and correspondent of the mother, to whose memory she was so strongly attached, came in the budding spring time, the showery, flowery month of april, to spend the ensuing summer at the court. we, on our part, regarded her arrival with no common interest. to me it seemed but yesterday since i had received an epistle of thanks for a present of one of dear mary howitt's charming children's books,--an epistle undoubtedly not indited by the writer,--in huge round text, between double pencil lines, with certain small errors of orthography corrected in a smaller hand above; followed in due time by postscripts to her mother's letters, upon one single line, and the spelling much amended; then by a short, very short note, in french; and at last, by a despatch of unquestionable authenticity, all about doves and rabbits,--a holiday scrawl, rambling, scrambling, and uneven, and free from restraint as heart could desire. it appeared but yesterday since helen graham was herself a child; and here she was, within two miles of us, a widow and a mother! our correspondence had been broken off by the death of mrs. graham when she was about ten years old, and although i had twice called upon her in my casual visits to town during the lifetime of mr. cameron; and although these visits had been most punctually returned, it had happened, as those things do happen in dear, provoking london, where one is sure to miss the people one wishes most to see, that neither party had ever been at home; so that we had never met, and i was at full liberty to indulge in my foolish propensity of sketching in my mind's eye a fancy portrait of my unknown friend. il penseroso is not more different from l'allegro than was my anticipation from the charming reality. remembering well her mother's delicate and fragile grace of figure and countenance, and coupling with that recollection her own unprotected and solitary state, and somewhat melancholy story, i had pictured to myself (as if contrast were not in this world of ours much more frequent than congruity) a mild, pensive, interesting, fair-haired beauty, tall, pale, and slender;--i found a hebe, an euphrosyne,--a round, rosy, joyous creature, the very impersonation of youth, health, sweetness, and gaiety, laughter flashing from her hazel eyes, smiles dimpling round her coral lips, and the rich curls of her chestnut hair,--for having been fourteen months a widow, she had, of course, laid aside the peculiar dress,--the glossy ringlets of her "bonny brown hair" literally bursting from the comb that attempted to confine them. we soon found that her mind was as charming as her person. indeed, her face, lovely as it was, derived the best part of its loveliness from her sunny temper, her frank and ardent spirit, her affectionate and generous heart. it was the ever-varying expression, an expression which could not deceive, that lent such matchless charms to her glowing and animated countenance, and to the round and musical voice sweet as the spoken voice of malibran, or the still fuller and more exquisite tones of mrs. jordan, which, true to the feeling of the moment, vibrated alike to the wildest gaiety and the deepest pathos. in a word, the chief beauty of helen cameron was her sensibility. it was the perfume to the rose. her little boy, born just before his father's death, and upon whom she doated, was a magnificent piece of still life. calm, placid, dignified, an infant hercules for strength and fair proportions, grave as a judge, quiet as a flower, he was, in point of age, exactly at that most delightful period when children are very pleasant to look upon, and require no other sort of notice whatsoever. of course this state of perfection could not be expected to continue. the young gentleman would soon aspire to the accomplishments of walking and talking--and then!--but as that hour of turmoil and commotion to which his mamma looked forward with ecstacy was yet at some months distance, i contented myself with saying of master archy, with considerably less than the usual falsehood, that which everybody does say of only children, that he was the finest baby that ever was seen. we met almost every day. mrs. cameron was never weary of driving about our beautiful lanes in her little pony-carriage, and usually called upon us in her way home, we being not merely her oldest, but almost her only friends; for lively and social as was her temper, there was a little touch of shyness about her, which induced her rather to shun than to covet the company of strangers. and indeed the cheerfulness of temper, and activity of mind, which made her so charming an acquisition to a small circle, rendered her independent of general society. busy as a bee, sportive as a butterfly, she passed the greater part of her time in the open air, and having caught from me that very contagious and engrossing passion, a love of floriculture, had actually undertaken the operation of restoring the old garden at the court--a coppice of brambles, thistles, and weeds of every description, mixed with flowering shrubs, and overgrown fruit-trees--to something like its original order. the farmer, to be sure, had abandoned the job in despair, contenting himself with growing his cabbages and potatoes in a field hard by. but she was certain that she and her maid martha, and the boy bill, who looked after her pony, would weed the paths, and fill the flower-borders in no time. we should see; i had need take good care of my reputation, for she meant her garden to beat mine. what progress helen and her forces, a shatter-brain boy who did not know a violet from a nettle, and a london-bred girl who had hardly seen a rose-bush in her life, would have made in clearing this forest of underwood, might easily be foretold. accident, however, that frequent favourer of bold projects, came to her aid in the shape of a more efficient coadjutor. late one evening the fair helen arrived at our cottage with a face of unwonted gravity. mrs. davies (her landlady) had used her very ill. she had taken the west wing in total ignorance of there being other apartments to let at the court, or she would have secured them. and now a new lodger had arrived, had actually taken possession of two rooms in the centre of the house; and martha, who had seen him, said he was a young man, and a handsome man--and she herself a young woman unprotected and alone!--it was awkward, very awkward! was it not very awkward? what was she to do? nothing could be done that night; so far was clear; but we praised her prudence, promised to call at upton the next day, and if necessary, to speak to this new lodger, who might, after all, be no very formidable person; and quite relieved by the vent which she had given to her scruples, she departed in her usual good spirits. early the next morning she re-appeared. "she would not have the new lodger disturbed for the world! he was a pole. one doubtless of those unfortunate exiles. he had told mrs. davies that he was a polish gentleman desirous chiefly of good air, cheapness, and retirement. beyond a doubt he was one of those unhappy fugitives. he looked grave, and pale, and thoughtful, quite like a hero of romance. besides, he was the very person who a week before had caught hold of the reins when that little restive pony had taken fright at the baker's cart, and nearly backed bill and herself into the great gravel-pit on lanton common. bill had entirely lost all command over the pony, and but for the stranger's presence of mind, she did not know what would have become of them. surely i must remember her telling me the circumstance? besides, he was unfortunate! he was poor! he was an exile! she would not be the means of driving him from the asylum which he had chosen for all the world!--no! not for all my geraniums!" an expression which is by no means the anti-climax that it seems--for in the eyes of a florist, and that florist an enthusiast and a woman, what is this rusty fusty dusty musty bit of earth, called the world, compared to a stand of bright flowers? and finding, upon inquiry, that m. choynowski (so he called himself) had brought a letter of recommendation from a respectable london tradesman, and that there was every appearance of his being, as our fair young friend had conjectured, a foreigner in distress, my father not only agreed that it would be a cruel attempt to drive him from his new home, (a piece of tyranny which, even in this land of freedom, might, i suspect, have been managed in the form of an offer of double rent, by that grand despot, money,) but resolved to offer the few attentions in our poor power, to one whom every look and word proclaimed him to be, in the largest sense of the word, a gentleman. my father had seen him, not on his visit of inquiry, but on a few days after, bill-hook in hand, hacking away manfully at the briers and brambles of the garden. my first view of him was in a position even less romantic, assisting a belford tradesman to put up a stove in the nursery. one of mrs. cameron's few causes of complaint in her country lodgings had been the tendency to smoke in that important apartment. we all know that when those two subtle essences, smoke and wind, once come to do battle in a wide, open chimney, the invisible agent is pretty sure to have the best of the day, and to drive his vapoury enemy at full speed before him. m. choynowski, who by this time had established a gardening acquaintance, not merely with bill and martha, but with their fair mistress, happening to see her, one windy evening, in a paroxysm of smoky distress, not merely recommended a stove, after the fashion of the northern nations' notions, but immediately walked into belford to give his own orders to a respectable ironmonger; and they were in the very act of erecting this admirable accessary to warmth and comfort (really these words are synonymous) when i happened to call. i could hardly have seen him under circumstances better calculated to display his intelligence, his delicacy, or his good-breeding. the patience, gentleness, and kind feeling, with which he contrived at once to excuse and to remedy certain blunders made by the workmen in the execution of his orders, and the clearness with which, in perfectly correct and idiomatic english, slightly tinged with a foreign accent, he explained the mechanical and scientific reasons for the construction he had suggested, gave evidence at once of no common talent, and of a considerate-ness and good-nature in its exercise more valuable than all the talent in the world. if trifling and every-day occurrences afford, as i believe they do, the surest and safest indications of character, we could have no hesitation in pronouncing upon the amiable qualities of m. choynowski. in person he was tall and graceful, and very noble-looking. his head was particularly intellectual, and there was a calm sweetness about the mouth that was singularly prepossessing. helen had likened him to a hero of romance. in my eyes he bore much more plainly the stamp of a man of fashion--of that very highest fashion which is too refined for finery, too full of self-respect for affectation. simple, natural, mild, and gracious, the gentle reserve of his manner added, under the circumstances, to the interest which he inspired. somewhat of that reserve continued even after our acquaintance had ripened into intimacy. he never spoke of his own past history, or future prospects, shunned all political discourse, and was with difficulty drawn into conversation upon the scenery and manners of the north of europe. he seemed afraid of the subject. upon general topics, whether of literature or art, he was remarkably open and candid. he possessed in an eminent degree the talent of acquiring languages for which his countrymen are distinguished, and had made the best use of those keys of knowledge. i have never met with any person whose mind was more richly cultivated, or who was more calculated to adorn the highest station. and here he was wasting life in a secluded village in a foreign country! what would become of him after his present apparently slender resources should be exhausted, was painful to imagine. the more painful, that the accidental discovery of the direction of a letter had disclosed his former rank. it was part of an envelope addressed, "a monsieur monsieur le comte choynowski," and left as a mark in a book, all except the name being torn off. but the fact needed no confirmation. all his habits and ways of thinking bore marks of high station. what would become of him? it was but too evident that another calamity was impending over the unfortunate exile. although most discreet in word and guarded in manner, every action bespoke his devotion to his lovely fellow inmate. her wishes were his law. his attentions to her little boy were such as young men rarely show to infants except for love of the mother; and the garden, that garden abandoned since the memory of man, (for the court, previous to the arrival of the present tenant, had been for years uninhabited,) was, under his exertions and superintendence, rapidly assuming an aspect of luxuriance and order. it was not impossible but helen might realise her playful vaunt, and beat me in my own art after all. john (our gardening lad) was as near being jealous as possible, and, considering the estimation in which john is known to hold our doings in the flower way, such jealousy must be accepted as the most flattering testimony to his rival's success. to go beyond our garden was, in john's opinion, to be great indeed! every thought of the count choynowski was engrossed by the fair helen; and we saw with some anxiety that she in her turn was but too sensible of his attentions, and that everything belonging to his country assumed in her eyes an absorbing importance. she sent to london for all the books that could be obtained respecting poland; ordered all the journals that interested themselves in that interesting though apparently hopeless cause; turned liberal,--she who had been reared in the lap of conservatism, and whom my father used laughingly to call the little tory;--turned radical, turned republican,--for she far out-soared the moderate doctrines of whiggism in her political flights; denounced the emperor nicholas as a tyrant; spoke of the russians as a nation of savages; and in spite of the evident uneasiness with which the polish exile listened to any allusion to the wrongs of his country, for he never mingled in such discussions, omitted no opportunity of proving her sympathy by declaiming with an animation and vehemence, as becoming as anything so like scolding well could be, against the cruelty and wickedness of the oppressors of that most unfortunate of nations. it was clear that the peace of both was endangered, perhaps gone; and that it had become the painful duty of friendship to awaken them from their too bewitching dream. we had made an excursion, on one sunny summer's day, as far as the everley hills. helen, always impassioned, had been wrought into a passionate recollection of her own native country, by the sight of the heather just bursting into its purple bloom; and m. choynowski, usually so self-possessed, had been betrayed into the expression of a kindred feeling by the delicious odour of the fir plantations, which served to transport him in imagination to the balm-breathing forests of the north. this sympathy was a new, and a strong bond of union between two spirits but too congenial; and i determined no longer to defer informing the gentleman, in whose honour i placed the most implicit reliance, of the peculiar position of our fair friend. detaining him, therefore, to coffee, (we had taken an early dinner in the fir grove,) and suffering helen to go home to her little boy, i contrived, by leading the conversation to capricious wills, to communicate to him, as if accidentally, the fact of her forfeiting her whole income in the event of a second marriage.--he listened with grave attention. "is she also deprived," inquired he, "of the guardianship of her child?" "no. but as the sum allowed for the maintenance is also to cease from the day of her nuptials, and the money to accumulate until he is of age, she would, by marrying a poor man, do irreparable injury to her son, by cramping his education. it is a grievous restraint." he made no answer. and after two or three attempts at conversation, which his mind was too completely pre-occupied to sustain, he bade us good-night, and returned to the court. the next morning we heard that he had left upton and gone, they said, to oxford. and i could not help hoping that he had seen his danger, and would not return until the peril was past. i was mistaken. in two or three days he returned, exhibiting less self-command than i had been led to anticipate. the fair lady, too, i took occasion to remind of this terrible will, in hopes, since he would not go, that she would have had the wisdom to have taken her departure. no such thing; neither party would move a jot i might as well have bestowed my counsel upon the two stone figures on the great gateway. and heartily sorry, and a little angry, i resolved to let matters take their own course. several weeks passed on, when one morning she came to me in the sweetest confusion, the loveliest mixture of bashfulness and joy. "he loves me!" she said; "he has told me that he loves me!" "well?" "and i have referred him to you. that clause----" "he already knows it." and then i told her, word for word, what had passed. "he knows of that clause, and he still wishes to marry me! he loves me for myself! loves me, knowing me to be a beggar! it is true, pure, disinterested affection!" "beyond all doubt it is. and if you could live upon true love----" "oh, but where _that_ exists, and youth, and health, and strength, and education, may we not be well content to try to earn a living together? think of the happiness comprised in that word! i could give lessons;--i am sure that i could. i would teach music, and drawing, and dancing--anything for him! or we could keep a school here at upton--anywhere with him!" "and i am to tell him this?" "not the words!" replied she, blushing like a rose at her own earnestness; "not those words!" of course, it was not very long before m. le comte made his appearance. "god bless her, noble, generous creature!" cried he, when i had fulfilled my commission. "god for ever bless her!" "and you intend, then, to take her at her word, and set up school together?" exclaimed i, a little provoked at his unscrupulous acceptance of her proffered sacrifice. "you really intend to keep a lady's boarding-school here at the court?" "i intend to take her at her word, most certainly," replied he, very composedly; "but i should like to know, my good friend, what has put it into her head, and into yours, that if helen marries me she must needs earn her own living? suppose i should tell you," continued he, smiling, "that my father, one of the richest of the polish nobility, was a favourite friend of the emperor alexander; that the emperor nicholas continued to me the kindness which his brother had shown to my father, and that i thought, as he had done, (gratitude and personal attachment apart,) that i could better serve my country, and more effectually ameliorate the condition of my tenants and vassals, by submitting to the russian government, than by a hopeless struggle for national independence? suppose that i were to confess, that chancing in the course of a three-years' travel to walk through this pretty village of yours, i saw helen, and could not rest until i had seen more of her;--supposing all this, would you pardon the deception, or rather the allowing you to deceive yourselves? oh, if you could but imagine how delightful it is to a man, upon whom the humbling conviction has been forced, that his society is courted and his alliance sought for the accidents of rank and fortune, to feel that he is, for once in his life, honestly liked, fervently loved for himself, such as he is, his own very self,--if you could but fancy how proud he is of such friendship, how happy in such love, you would pardon him, i am sure you would; you would never have the heart to be angry. and now that the imperial consent to a foreign union--the gracious consent for which i so anxiously waited to authorize my proposals--has at length arrived, do you think," added the count, with some seriousness, "that there is any chance of reconciling this dear helen to my august master? or will she still continue a rebel?" at this question, so gravely put, i laughed outright "why really, my dear count, i cannot pretend to answer decidedly for the turn that the affair might take; but my impression--to speak in that idiomatic english, more racy than elegant, which you pique yourself upon understanding--my full impression is, that helen having for no reason upon earth but her interest in you, _ratted_ from conservatism to radicalism, will for the same cause lose no time in ratting back again. a woman's politics, especially if she be a young woman, are generally the result of feeling rather than of opinion, and our fair friend strikes me as a most unlikely subject to form an exception to the rule. however, if you doubt my authority in this matter, you have nothing to do but to inquire at the fountain-head. there she sits, in the arbour. go and ask." and before the words were well spoken, the lover, radiant with happiness, was at the side of his beloved. the lost dahlia. by mary russell mitford if to have "had losses" be, as affirmed by dogberry in one of shakspeare's most charming plays, and corroborated by sir walter scott in one of his most charming romances--(those two names do well in juxtaposition, the great englishman! the great scotsman!)--if to have "had losses" be a main proof of credit and respectability, then am i one of the most responsible persons in the whole county of berks. to say nothing of the graver matters which figure in a banker's book, and make, in these days of pounds, shillings, and pence, so large a part of the domestic tragedy of life--putting wholly aside all the grander transitions of property in house and land, of money on mortgage, and money in the funds--(and yet i might put in my claim to no trifling amount of ill luck in that way also, if i had a mind to try my hand at a dismal story)--counting for nought all weightier grievances, there is not a lady within twenty miles who can produce so large a list of small losses as my unfortunate self. from the day when, a tiny damsel of some four years old, i first had a pocket-handkerchief to lose, down to this very night--i will not say how many years after--when, as i have just discovered, i have most certainly lost from my pocket the new cambric kerchief which i deposited therein a little before dinner, scarcely a week has passed without some part of my goods and chattels being returned missing. gloves, muffs, parasols, reticules, have each of them a provoking knack of falling from my hands; boas glide from my neck, rings slip from my fingers, the bow has vanished from my cap, the veil from my bonnet, the sandal from my foot, the brooch from my collar, and the collar from my brooch. the trinket which i liked best, a jewelled pin, the first gift of a dear friend, (luckily the friendship is not necessarily appended to the token,) dropped from my shawl in the midst of the high road; and of shawls themselves, there is no end to the loss. the two prettiest that ever i had in my life, one a splendid specimen of glasgow manufacture--a scarlet hardly to be distinguished from cashmere--the other a lighter and cheaper fabric, white in the centre, with a delicate sprig, and a border harmoniously compounded of the deepest blue, the brightest orange, and the richest brown, disappeared in two successive summers and winters, in the very bloom of their novelty, from the folds of the phaeton, in which they had been deposited for safety--fairly blown overboard! if i left things about, they were lost. if i put them away, they were lost. they were lost in the drawers--they were lost out. and if for a miracle i had them safe under lock and key, why, then, i lost my keys! i was certainly the most unlucky person under the sun. if there was nothing else to lose, i was fain to lose myself--i mean my way; bewildered in these aberleigh lanes of ours, or in the woodland recesses of the penge, as if haunted by that fairy, robin good-fellow, who led hermia and helena such a dance in the midsummer night's dream. alas! that there should be no fairies now-a-days, or rather no true believers in fairies, to help us to bear the burthen of our own mortal carelessness. it was not quite all carelessness, though! some ill luck did mingle with a great deal of mismanagement, as the "one poor happ'orth of bread" with the huge gallon of sack in the bill of which poins picked falstaff's pocket when he was asleep behind the arras. things belonging to me, or things that i cared for, did contrive to get lost, without my having any hand in the matter. for instance, if out of the variety of "talking birds," starlings, jackdaws, and magpies, which my father delights to entertain, any one particularly diverting or accomplished, more than usually coaxing and mischievous, happened to attract my attention, and to pay me the compliment of following at my heels, or perching upon my shoulder, the gentleman was sure to hop off. my favourite mare, pearl, the pretty docile creature which draws my little phaeton, has such a talent for leaping, that she is no sooner turned out in either of our meadows, than she disappears. and dash himself, paragon of spaniels, pet of pets, beauty of beauties, has only one shade of imperfection--would be thoroughly faultless, if it were not for a slight tendency to run away. he is regularly lost four or five times every winter, and has been oftener cried through the streets of belford, and advertised in the county newspapers, than comports with a dog of his dignity. now, these mischances clearly belong to that class of accidents commonly called casualties, and are quite unconnected with any infirmity of temperament on my part. i cannot help pearl's proficiency in jumping, nor dash's propensity to wander through the country; neither had i any hand in the loss which has given its title to this paper, and which, after so much previous dallying, i am at length about to narrate. the autumn before last, that is to say, above a year ago, the boast and glory of my little garden was a dahlia called the phoebus. how it came there, nobody very distinctly knew, nor where it came from, nor how we came by it, nor how it came by its own most appropriate name. neither the lad who tends our flowers, nor my father, the person chiefly concerned in procuring them, nor i myself, who more even than my father or john take delight and pride in their beauty, could recollect who gave us this most splendid plant, or who first instructed us as to the style and title by which it was known. certes never was blossom fitlier named. regular as the sun's face in an almanack, it had a tint of golden scarlet, of ruddy yellow, which realised shakspeare's gorgeous expression of "flame-coloured." the sky at sunset sometimes puts on such a hue, or a fire at christmas when it burns red as well as bright. the blossom was dazzling to look upon. it seemed as if there were light in the leaves, like that coloured-lamp of a flower, the oriental poppy. phoebus was not too glorious a name for that dahlia. the golden-haired apollo might be proud of such an emblem. it was worthy of the god of day; a very phoenix of floral beauty. every dahlia fancier who came into our garden or who had an opportunity of seeing a bloom elsewhere; and, sooth to say, we were rather ostentatious in our display; john put it into stands, and jars, and baskets, and dishes; dick stuck it into dash's collar, his own button-hole, and pearl's bridle; my father presented it to such lady visiters as he delighted to honour; and i, who have the habit of dangling a flower, generally a sweet one, caught myself more than once rejecting the spicy clove and the starry jessamine, the blossomed myrtle and the tuberose, my old fragrant favourites, for this scentless (but triumphant) beauty; everybody who beheld the phoebus begged for a plant or a cutting; and we, generous in our ostentation, willing to redeem the vice by the virtue, promised as many plants and cuttings as we could reasonably imagine the root might be made to produce*--perhaps rather more; and half the dahlia growers round rejoiced over the glories of the gorgeous flower, and speculated, as the wont is now, upon seedling after seedling to the twentieth generation. * it is wonderful how many plants may, by dint of forcing, and cutting and forcing again, be extracted from one root. but the experiment is not always safe. nature sometimes avenges herself for the encroachments of art, by weakening the progeny. the napoleon dahlia, for instance, the finest of last year's seedlings, being over-propagated, this season has hardly produced one perfect bloom, even in the hands of the most skilful cultivators. alas for the vanity of human expectations! february came, the twenty-second of february, the very st. valentine of dahlias, when the roots which have been buried in the ground during the winter are disinterred, and placed in a hotbed to put forth their first shoots previous to the grand operations of potting and dividing them. of course the first object of search in the choicest corner of the nicely labelled hoard, was the phoebus: but no phoebus was forthcoming; root and label had vanished bodily! there was, to be sure, a dahlia without a label, which we would gladly have transformed into the missing treasure; but as we speedily discovered a label without a dahlia, it was but too obvious that they belonged to each other. until last year we might have had plenty of the consolation which results from such divorces of the name from the thing; for our labels, sometimes written upon parchment, sometimes upon leather, sometimes upon wood, as each material happened to be recommended by gardening authorities, and fastened on with packthread, or whip-cord, or silk twist, had generally parted company from the roots, and frequently become utterly illegible, producing a state of confusion which most undoubtedly we never expected to regret: but this year we had followed the one perfect system of labels of unglazed china, highly varnished after writing on them, and fastened on by wire; and it had answered so completely, that one, and one only, had broken from its moorings. no hope could be gathered from that quarter. the phoebus was gone. so much was clear; and our loss being fully ascertained, we all began, as the custom is, to divert our grief and exercise our ingenuity by different guesses as to the fate of the vanished treasure. my father, although certain that he had written the label, and wired the root, had his misgivings about the place in which it had been deposited, and half suspected that it had slipt in amongst a basket which we had sent as a present to ireland; i myself, judging from a similar accident which had once happened to a choice hyacinth bulb, partly thought that one or other of us might have put it for care and safety in some such very snug corner, that it would be six months or more before it turned up; john, impressed with a high notion of the money-value of the property and estimating it something as a keeper of the regalia might estimate the most precious of the crown jewels, boldly affirmed that it was stolen; and dick, who had just had a démêlé with the cook, upon the score of her refusal to dress a beef-steak for a sick greyhound, asserted, between jest and earnest, that that hard-hearted official had either ignorantly or maliciously boiled the root for a jerusalem artichoke, and that we, who stood lamenting over our regretted phoebus, had actually eaten it, dished up with white sauce. john turned pale at the thought. the beautiful story of the falcon, in boccaccio, which the young knight killed to regale his mistress, or the still more tragical history of couci, who minced his rival's heart, and served it up to his wife, could not have affected him more deeply. we grieved over our lost dahlia, as if it had been a thing of life. grieving, however, would not repair our loss; and we determined, as the only chance of becoming again possessed of this beautiful flower, to visit, as soon as the dahlia season began, all the celebrated collections in the neighbourhood, especially all those from which there was any chance of our having procured the root which had so mysteriously vanished. early in september, i set forth on my voyage of discovery--my voyages, i ought to say; for every day i and my pony-phaeton made our way to whatever garden within our reach bore a sufficiently high character to be suspected of harbouring the good dahlia phoebus. monday we called at lady a.'s; tuesday at general b's; wednesday at sir john c's; thursday at mrs. d's; friday at lord e's; and saturday at mr. f.'s. we might as well have staid at home; not a phoebus had they, or anything like one. we then visited the nurseries, from brown's, at slough, a princely establishment, worthy of its regal neighbourhood, to the pretty rural gardens at south warnborough, not forgetting our own most intelligent and obliging nurseryman, mr. sutton of reading--(belford regis, i mean)--whose collection of flowers of all sorts is amongst the most choice and select that i have ever known. hundreds of magnificent blossoms did we see in our progress, but not the blossom we wanted. there was no lack, heaven knows, of dahlias of the desired colour. besides a score of "orange perfections," bearing the names of their respective growers, we were introduced to four princes of orange, three kings of holland, two williams the third, and one lord roden.* * the nomenclature of dahlias is a curious sign of the times. it rivals in oddity that of the racing calendar. next to the peerage, shakspeare and homer seem to be the chief sources whence they have derived their appellations. thus we have hectors and dioedes of all colours, a very black othello, and a very fair desdemona. one beautiful blossom, which seems like a white ground thickly rouged with carmine, is called "the honourable mrs. harris;" and it is droll to observe how punctiliously the working gardeners retain the dignified prefix in speaking of the flower. i heard the other day of a _serious_ dahlia grower who had called his seedlings after his favourite preachers, so that we shall have the reverend edward so-and-so, and the reverend john such-an-one, fraternising with the profane ariels and imogenes, the giaours and me-doras of the old catalogue. so much the better. floriculture is amongst the most innocent and humanising of all pleasures, and everything which tends to diffuse such pursuits amongst those who have too few amusements, is a point gained for happiness and for virtue. we were even shown a bloom called the phoebus, about as like to our phoebus "as i to hercules." but the true phoebus, "the real simon pure," was as far to seek as ever. learnedly did i descant with the learned in dahlias over the merits of my lost beauty. "it was a cupped flower, mr. sutton," quoth i, to my agreeable and sympathising listener; (gardeners _are_ a most cultivated and gentlemanly race;) "a cupped dahlia, of the genuine metropolitan shape; large as the criterion, regular as the springfield rival, perfect as dodd's mary, with a long bloom stalk like those good old flowers, the countess of liverpool and the widnall's perfection. and such a free blower, and so true! i am quite sure that there is not so good a dahlia this year. i prefer it to 'corinne,' over and over." and mr. sutton assented and condoled, and i was as near to being comforted as anybody could be, who had lost such a flower as the phoebus. after so many vain researches, most persons would have abandoned the pursuit in despair. but despair is not in my nature. i have a comfortable share of the quality which the possessor is wont to call perseverance--whilst the uncivil world is apt to designate it by the name of obstinacy--and do not easily give in. then the chase, however fruitless, led, like other chases, into beautiful scenery, and formed an excuse for my visiting or revisiting many of the prettiest places in the county. two of the most remarkable spots in the neighbourhood are, as it happens, famous for their collections of dahlias--strathfield-saye, the seat of the duke of wellington, and the ruins of reading abbey. nothing can well be prettier than the drive to strathfield-saye, passing, as we do, through a great part of heckfield heath,* a tract of wild woodland, a forest, or rather a chase, full of fine sylvan beauty--thickets of fern and holly, and hawthorn and birch, surmounted by oaks and beeches, and interspersed with lawny glades and deep pools, letting light into the picture. nothing can be prettier than the approach to the duke's lodge. and the entrance to the demesne, through a deep dell dark with magnificent firs, from which we emerge into a finely wooded park of the richest verdure, is also striking and impressive. but the distinctive feature of the place (for the mansion, merely a comfortable and convenient nobleman's house, hardly responds to the fame of its owner) is the grand avenue of noble elms, three quarters of a mile long, which leads to the front door. * it may be interesting to the lovers of literature to hear that my accomplished friend mrs. trollope was "raised," as her friends the americans would say, upon this spot. her father, the rev. william milton, himself a very clever man, and an able mechanician and engineer, held the living of heckfield for many years. it is difficult to imagine anything which more completely realises the poetical fancy, that the pillars and arches of a gothic cathedral were borrowed from the interlacing of the branches of trees planted at stated intervals, than this avenue, in which nature has so completely succeeded in outrivalling her handmaiden art, that not a single trunk, hardly even a bough or a twig, appears to mar the grand regularity of the design as a piece of perspective. no cathedral aisle was ever more perfect; and the effect, under every variety of aspect, the magical light and shadow of the cold white moonshine, the cool green light of a cloudy day, and the glancing sunbeams which pierce through the leafy umbrage in the bright summer noon, are such as no words can convey. separately considered, each tree (and the north of hampshire is celebrated for the size and shape of its elms) is a model of stately growth, and they are now just at perfection, probably about a hundred and thirty years old. there is scarcely perhaps in the kingdom such another avenue. on one side of this noble approach is the garden, where, under the care of the skilful and excellent gardener, mr. cooper, so many magnificent dahlias are raised, but where, alas! the phoebus was not; and between that and the mansion is the sunny, shady paddock, with its rich pasture and its roomy stable, where, for so many years, copenhagen, the charger who carried the duke at waterloo, formed so great an object of attraction to the visiters of strathfield-saye.* then came the house itself and then i returned home. well! this was one beautiful and fruitless drive. the ruins of reading abbey formed another as fruitless, and still more beautiful. * copenhagen--(i had the honour of naming one of mr. cooper's dahlias after him--a sort of _bay_ dahlia, if i may be permitted the expression)--copenhagen was a most interesting horse. he died last year at the age of twenty- seven. he was therefore in his prime on the day of waterloo, when the duke (then and still a man of iron) rode him for seventeen hours and a half, without dismounting. when his grace got off, he patted him, and the horse kicked, to the great delight of his brave rider, as it proved that he was not beaten by that tremendous day's work. after his return, this paddock was assigned to him, in which he passed the rest of his life in the most perfect comfort that can be imagined; fed twice a-day, (latterly upon oats broken for him,) with a comfortable stable to retire to, and a rich pasture in which to range. the late amiable duchess used regularly to feed him with bread, and this kindness had given him the habit, (especially after her death,) of approaching every lady with the most confiding familiarity. he had been a fine animal, of middle size and a chestnut colour, but latterly he exhibited an interesting specimen of natural decay, in a state as nearly that of nature as can well be found in a civilised country. he had lost an eye from age, and had become lean and feeble, and, in the manner in which he approached even a casual visiter, there was something of the demand of sympathy, the appeal to human kindness, which one has so often observed from a very old dog towards his master. poor copenhagen, who, when alive, furnished so many reliques from his mane and tail to enthusiastic young ladies, who had his hair set in brooches and rings, was, after being interred with military honours, dug up by some miscreant, (never, i believe, discovered,) and one of his hoofs cut off, it is to be presumed, for a memorial, although one that would hardly go in the compass of a ring. a very fine portrait of copenhagen has been executed by my young friend edmund havell, a youth of seventeen, whose genius as an animal painter, will certainly place him second only to landseer. whether in the "palmy state" of the faith of rome, the pillared aisles of the abbey church might have vied in grandeur with the avenue at strathfield-saye, i can hardly say; but certainly, as they stand, the venerable arched gateway, the rock-like masses of wall, the crumbling cloisters, and the exquisite finish of the surbases of the columns and other fragments, fresh as if chiselled yesterday, which are re-appearing in the excavations now making, there is an interest which leaves the grandeur of life, palaces and their pageantry, parks and their adornments, all grandeur except the indestructible grandeur of nature, at an immeasurable distance. the place was a history. centuries passed before us as we thought of the magnificent monastery, the third in size and splendour in england, with its area of thirty acres between the walls--and gazed upon it now! and yet, even now, how beautiful! trees of every growth mingling with those grey ruins, creepers wreathing their fantastic garlands around the mouldering arches, gorgeous flowers flourishing in the midst of that decay! i almost forgot my search for the dear phoebus, as i rambled with my friend mr. malone, the gardener, a man who would in any station be remarkable for acuteness and acquirement, amongst the august remains of the venerable abbey, with the history of which he was as conversant as with his own immediate profession. there was no speaking of smaller objects in the presence of the mighty past! gradually chilled by so much unsuccess, the ardour of my pursuit began to abate. i began to admit the merits of other dahlias of divers colours, and actually caught myself committing the inconstancy of considering which of the four princes of orange i should bespeak for next year. time, in short, was beginning to play his part as the great comforter of human afflictions, and the poor phoebus seemed as likely to be forgotten as a last year's bonnet, or a last week's newspaper--when, happening to walk with my father to look at a field of his, a pretty bit of upland pasture about a mile off, i was struck, in one corner where the manure for dressing had been deposited, and a heap of earth and dung still remained, to be spread, i suppose, next spring, with some tall plant surmounted with bright flowers. could it be?--was it possible?--did my eyes play me false?--no; there it was, upon a dunghill--the object of all my researches and lamentations, the identical phoebus! the lost dahlia! the london visitor by mary russell mitford being in a state of utter mystification, (a very disagreeable state, by-the-bye,) i hold it advisable to lay my unhappy case, in strict confidence, in the lowest possible whisper, and quite in a corner, before my kind friend, patron, and protector, the public, through whose means--for now-a-days every body knows everything, and there is no riddle so dark but shall find an oedipus to solve it--i may possibly be able to discover whether the bewilderment under which i have been labouring for the last three days be the result of natural causes, like the delusions recorded in dr. brewster's book, or whether there be in this little south of england county of ours, year , a revival of the old science of gramarye, the glamour art, which, according to that veracious minstrel, sir walter scott, was exercised with such singular success in the sixteenth century by the ladye of branksome upon the good knight, william of deloraine, and others his peers. in short, i want to know---- but the best way to make my readers understand my story, will be to begin at the beginning. i am a wretched visitor. there is not a person in all berkshire who has so often occasion to appeal to the indulgence of her acquaintance to pardon her sins of omission upon this score. i cannot tell how it happens; nobody likes society better when in it, or is more delighted to see her friends; but it is almost as easy to pull a tree of my age and size up by the roots, as it is to dislodge me in summer from my flowery garden, or in the winter from my sunny parlour, for the purpose of accepting a dinner invitation, or making a morning call. perhaps the great accumulation of my debts in this way, the very despair of ever paying them all, may be one reason (as is often the case, i believe, in pecuniary obligations) why i so seldom pay any; then, whether i do much or not, i have generally plenty to do; then again, i so dearly love to do nothing; then, summer or winter, the weather is commonly too cold for an open carriage, and i am eminently a catch-cold person; so that between wind and rain, business and idleness, no lady in the county with so many places that she ought to go to, goes to so few: and yet it was from the extraordinary event of my happening to leave home three days following, that my present mystification took its rise. thus the case stands. last thursday morning, being the rd day of this present month of june, i received a note from my kind friend and neighbour, mrs. dunbar, requesting very earnestly that my father and myself would dine that evening at the hall, apologising for the short notice, as arising out of the unexpected arrival of a guest from london, and the equally unexpected absence of the general, which threw her (she was pleased to say) upon our kindness to assist in entertaining her visitor. at seven o'clock, accordingly, we repaired to general dunbar's, and found our hostess surrounded by her fine boys and girls, conversing with a gentleman, whom she immediately introduced to us as mr. thompson. mr. thompson was a gentleman of about---- pshaw! nothing is so unpolite as to go guessing how many years a man may have lived in this most excellent world, especially when it is perfectly clear, from his dress and demeanour, that the register of his birth is the last document relating to himself which he would care to see produced. mr. thompson, then, was a gentleman of no particular age; not quite so young as he had been, but still in very tolerable preservation, being pretty exactly that which is understood by the phrase an old beau. he was of middle size and middle height, with a slight stoop in the shoulders; a skin of the true london complexion, between brown and yellow, and slightly wrinkled: eyes of no very distinct colour; a nose which, belonging to none of the recognised classes of that many-named feature, may fairly be called anonymous; and a mouth, whose habitual mechanical smile (a smile which, by the way, conveyed no impression either of gaiety or of sweetness) displayed a set of teeth which did great honour to his dentist. his whiskers and his wig were a capital match as to colour; and altogether it was a head calculated to convey a very favourable impression of the different artists employed in getting it up. his dress was equally creditable to his tailor and his valet, "rather rich than gaudy," (as miss byron said of sir charles grandison,) except in the grand article of the waistcoat, a brocade brodé of resplendent lustre, which combined both qualities. his shoes were bright with the new french blacking, and his jewellery, rings, studs, brooches, and chains (for he wore two, that belonging to his watch, and one from which depended a pair of spectacles, folded so as to resemble an eye-glass,) were of the finest material and the latest fashion. in short, our new acquaintance was an old beau. he was not, however, that which an old beau so frequently is, an old bachelor. on the contrary, he spoke of mrs. thompson and her parties, and her box at the opera (he did not say on what tier) with some unction, and mentioned with considerable pride a certain mr. browne, who had lately married his eldest daughter; browne, be it observed, with an _e_, as his name (i beg his pardon for having misspelt it) was thomson without the _p_; there being i know not what of dignity in the absence of the consonant, and the presence of the vowel, though mute. we soon found that both he and mr. browne lent these illustrious names to half a score of clubs, from the athenaeum downward. we also gathered from his conversation that he resided somewhere in gloucester place or devonshire place, in wimpole street or harley street, (i could not quite make out in which of those respectable double rows of houses his domicile was situate,) and that he contemplated with considerable jealousy the manner in which the tide of fashion had set in to the south-west, rolling its changeful current round the splendid mansions of belgrave square, and threatening to leave this once distinguished quartier as bare and open to the jesters of the silver-fork school as the ignoble precincts of bloomsbury. it was a strange mixture of feeling. he was evidently upon the point of becoming ashamed of a neighbourhood of which he had once been not a little proud. he spoke slightingly of the regent's park, and eschewed as much as possible all mention of the diorama and the zoological, and yet seemed pleased and flattered, and to take it as a sort of personal compliment, when mrs. dunbar professed her fidelity to the scene of her youthful gaiety, cavendish square and its environs. he had been, it seemed, an old friend of the general's, and had come down partly to see him, and partly for the purpose of a day's fishing, although, by some mistake in the wording of his letter, his host, who did not expect him until the next week, happened to be absent. this, however, had troubled him little. he saw the general often enough in town. angling was his first object in the country; and as the fine piece of water in the park (famous for its enormous pike) remained _in statu quo_, and edward dunbar was ready to accompany and assist him, he had talked the night before of nothing but his flies and his rods, and boasted, in speaking of ireland, the classic land of modern fishermen, of what he meant to do, and what he had done--of salmon caught in the wilds of connemara, and trout drawn out amid the beauties of killarney. fishing exploits, past and future, formed the only theme of his conversation during his first evening at the hall. on that which we spent in his company, nothing could be farther from his inclination than any allusion, however remote, to his beloved sport. he had been out in the morning, and we at last extorted from edward dunbar, upon a promise not to hint at the story until the hero of the adventure should be fairly off, that, after trying with exemplary patience all parts of the mere for several hours without so much as a nibble, a huge pike, as mr. thompson asserted, or, as edward suspected, the root of a tree, had caught fast hold of the hook. if pike it were, the fish had the best of the battle, for, in a mighty jerk on one side or the other (the famous dublin tackle maintaining its reputation, and holding as firm as the cordage of a man-of-war,) the unlucky angler had been fairly pulled into the water, and soused over head and ears. how his valet contrived to reinstate his coëffure, unless, indeed, he travelled with a change of wigs, is one of those mysteries of an old beau's toilet which pass female comprehension. of course there was no further mention of angling. our new acquaintance had quite subjects enough without touching upon that. in eating, for instance, he might fairly be called learned. mrs. dunbar's cuisine was excellent, and he not only praised the different dishes in a most scientific and edifying manner, but volunteered a recipe for certain little mutton pies, the fashion of the season. in drinking he was equally at home. edward had produced his father's choicest hermitage and lachryma, and he seemed to me to know literally by heart all the most celebrated vintages, and to have made pilgrimages to the most famous vineyards all over europe. he talked to helen dunbar, a musical young lady, of grisi and malibran; to her sister caroline, a literary enthusiast, of the poems of the year, "ion," and "paracelsus;" to me he spoke of geraniums; and to my father of politics--contriving to conciliate both parties, (for there were whigs and tories in the room,) by dubbing himself a liberal conservative. in short, he played his part of man of the world perfectly to his own satisfaction, and would have passed with the whole family for the very model of all london visitors, had he not unfortunately nodded over certain verses which he had flattered miss caroline into producing, and fallen fast asleep during her sister's cavatina; and if his conversation, however easy and smooth, had not been felt to be upon the whole rather vapid and prosy. "just exactly," said young edward dunbar, who, in the migration transit between eton, which he had left at easter, and oxford, which he was to enter at michaelmas, was plentifully imbued with the aristocratic prejudices common to each of those venerable seats of learning "just exactly what in the fitness of things the talk of a mr. thompson ought to be." the next afternoon i happened to be engaged to the lady margaret gore, another pleasant neighbour, to drink tea; a convenient fashion, which saves time and trouble, and is much followed in these parts during the summer months. a little after eight i made my appearance in her saloon, which, contrary to her usual polite attention, i found empty. in the course of a few minutes she entered, and apologised for her momentary absence, as having been caused by a london gentleman on a visit at the house, who arriving the evening before, had spent all that morning at the side of loddon fishing, (where, by the way, observed her ladyship, he had caught nothing,) and had kept them waiting dinner. "he is a very old friend of ours," added lady margaret; "mr. thompson, of harley street, whose daughter lately married mr. browne of gloucester place," and, with the word, entered mr. thompson in his own proper person. was it or was it not the mr. thompson of the day before? yes! no!---- no! yes! it would have been, only that it could not be. the alibi was too clearly proved: lady margaret had spent the preceding evening with _her_ mr. thompson in one place, and i myself with _my_ mr. thompson in another. different they must be, but oh, how alike! i am too short-sighted to be cognizant of each separate feature. but there it was, the same common height and common size, and common physiognomy, wigged, whiskered, and perfumed to a hair! the self-same sober magnificence of dress, the same cut and colour of coat, the same waistcoat of brocade brodé--of a surety they must have employed one identical tailor, and one measure had served for both! chains, studs, brooches, rings--even the eye-glass spectacles were there. had he (this he) stolen them? or did the thompsons use them alternately, upon the principle of ride and tie? in conversation the similarity was even more striking--safe, civil, prosy, dosy, and yet not without a certain small pretension. the mr. thompson of friday talked as his predecessor of thursday had done, of malibran and grisi, "paracelsus" and "ion," politics and geraniums. he alluded to a recipe (doubtless the famous recipe for mutton pies) which he had promised to write out for the benefit of the housekeeper, and would beyond all question have dosed over one young lady's verses, and fallen asleep to another's singing, if there had happened to be such narcotics as music and poetry in dear lady margaret's drawing-room. mind and body, the two mr. thompsons were as alike as two peas, as two drops of water, as two emperor-of-morocco butterflies, as two death's-head moths. could they have been twin brothers, like the dromios of the old drama? or was the vicinity of the regent's park peopled with cockney anglers--thompsons whose daughters had married brownes? the resemblance haunted me all night. i dreamt of brownes and thompsons, and to freshen my fancy and sweep away the shapes by which i was beset, i resolved to take a drive. accordingly, i ordered my little phaeton, and, perplexed and silent, bent my way to call upon my fair friend, miss mortimer. arriving at queen's-bridge cottage, i was met in the rose-covered porch by the fair frances. "come this way, if you please," said she, advancing towards the dining-room; "we are late at luncheon to-day. my friend, mrs. browne, and her father, mr. thompson, our old neighbours when we lived in welbeck street, have been here for this week past, and he is so fond of fishing that he will scarcely leave the river even to take his meals, although for aught i can hear he never gets so much as a bite." as she ceased to speak, we entered: and another mr. thompson--another, yet the same, stood before me. it was not yet four o'clock in the day, therefore of course the dress-coat and the brocade waistcoat were wanting; but there was the man himself, thompson the third, wigged, whiskered, and eye-glassed, just as thompson the first might have tumbled into the water at general dunbar's, or thompson the second have stood waiting for a nibble at lady margaret's. there he sat evidently preparing to do the agreeable, to talk of music and of poetry, of grisi and malibran, of "ion" and "paracelsus," to profess himself a liberal conservative, to give recipes for pates, and to fall asleep over albums. it was quite clear that he was about to make this display of his conversational abilities; but i could not stand it. nervous and mystified as the poor frenchman in the memorable story of "monsieur tonson," i instinctively followed his example, and fairly fled the field. jesse cliffe by mary russell mitford living as we do in the midst of rivers, water in all its forms, except indeed that of the trackless and mighty ocean, is familiar to our little inland county. the slow majestic thames, the swift and wandering kennett, the clear and brimming loddon, all lend life and verdure to our rich and fertile valleys. of the great river of england--whose course from its earliest source, near cirencester, to where it rolls calm, equable, and full, through the magnificent bridges of our splendid metropolis, giving and reflecting beauty,* presents so grand an image of power in repose--it is not now my purpose to speak; nor am i about to expatiate on that still nearer and dearer stream, the pellucid loddon,--although to be rowed by one dear and near friend up those transparent and meandering waters, from where they sweep at their extremest breadth under the lime-crowned terraces of the old park at aberleigh, to the pastoral meadows of sandford, through which the narrowed current wanders so brightly--now impeded by beds of white water-lilies, or feathery-blossomed bulrushes, or golden flags--now overhung by thickets of the rich wayfaring tree, with its wealth of glorious berries, redder and more transparent than rubies--now spanned from side to side by the fantastic branches of some aged oak;--although to be rowed along that clear stream, has long been amongst the choicest of my summer pleasures, so exquisite is the scenery, so perfect and so unbroken the solitude. even the shy and foreign-looking kingfisher, most gorgeous of english birds, who, like the wild indian retiring before the foot of man, has nearly deserted our populous and cultivated country, knows and loves the lovely valley of the loddon. * there is nothing finer in london than the view from waterloo-bridge on a july evening, whether coloured by the gorgeous hues of the setting sun reflected on the water in tenfold glory, or illuminated by a thousand twinkling lights from lamps, and boats, and houses, mingling with the mild beams of the rising moon. the calm and glassy river, gay with unnumbered vessels; the magnificent buildings which line its shores; the combination of all that is loveliest in art or in nature, with all that is most animating in motion and in life, produce a picture gratifying alike to the eye and to the heart--and the more exhilarating, or rather perhaps the more soothing, because, for london, so singularly peaceful and quiet. it is like some gorgeous town in fairyland, astir with busy and happy creatures, the hum of whose voices comes floating from the craft upon the river, or the quays by the water side. life is there, and sound and motion; but blessedly free from the jostling of the streets, the rattling of the pavement, the crowd, the confusion, the tumult, and the din of the work-a-day world. there is nothing in the great city like the scene from waterloo bridge at sunset. i see it in my mind's eye at this instant. it is not, however, of the loddon that i am now to speak. the scene of my little story belongs to a spot quite as solitary, but far less beautiful, on the banks of the kennett, which, a few miles before its junction with the thames, passes through a tract of wild, marshy country--water-meadows at once drained and fertilised by artificial irrigation, and totally unmixed with arable land; so that the fields being for the most part too wet to admit the feeding of cattle, divided by deep ditches, undotted by timber, unchequered by cottages, and untraversed by roads, convey in their monotonous expanse (except perhaps at the gay season of haymaking) a feeling of dreariness and desolation, singularly contrasted with the picturesque and varied scenery, rich, glowing, sunny, bland, of the equally solitary loddon meadows. a large portion of these english prairies, comprising a farm called the moors, was, at the time of which i write, in the occupation of a wealthy yeoman named john cobbam, who, the absentee tenant of an absentee landlord, resided upon a small property of his own about two miles distant, leaving the large deserted house, and dilapidated outbuildings, to sink into gradual decay. barns half unthatched, tumble-down cart-houses, palings rotting to pieces, and pigsties in ruins, contributed, together with a grand collection of substantial and dingy ricks of fine old hay--that most valuable but most gloomy looking species of agricultural property--to the general aspect of desolation by which the place was distinguished. one solitary old labourer, a dreary bachelor, inhabited, it is true, a corner of the old roomy house, calculated for the convenient accommodation of the patriarchal family of sons and daughters, men-servants and maid-servants, of which a farmer's household consisted in former days; and one open window, (the remainder were bricked up to avoid taxes,) occasionally a door ajar, and still more rarely a thin wreath of smoke ascending from one of the cold dismal-looking chimneys, gave token that the place was not wholly abandoned. but the uncultivated garden, the grass growing in the bricked court, the pond green with duckweed, and the absence of all living things, cows, horses, pigs, turkeys, geese, or chickens--and still more of those talking, as well as living things, women and children--all impressed on the beholder that strange sensation of melancholy which few can have failed to experience at the sight of an uninhabited human habitation. the one solitary inmate failed to relieve the pressing sense of solitude. nothing but the ringing sound of female voices, the pleasant and familiar noise of domestic animals, could have done that; and nothing approaching to noise was ever heard in the moors. it was a silence that might be felt. the house itself was approached through a long, narrow lane, leading from a wild and watery common; a lane so deeply excavated between the adjoining hedge-rows, that in winter it was little better than a water-course; and beyond the barns and stables, where even that apology for a road terminated, lay the extensive tract of low, level, marshy ground from whence the farm derived its title; a series of flat, productive water-meadows, surrounded partly by thick coppices, partly by the winding kennett, and divided by deep and broad ditches; a few pollard willows, so old that the trunk was, in some, riven asunder, whilst in others nothing but the mere shell remained, together with here and there a stunted thorn, alone relieving the monotony of the surface. the only regular inhabitant of this dreary scene was, as i have before said, the old labourer, daniel thorpe, who slept in one corner of the house, partly to prevent its total dilapidation, and to preserve the valuable hayricks and the tumble-down farm buildings from the pillage to which unprotected property is necessarily exposed, and partly to keep in repair the long line of boundary fence, to clean the graffages, clear out the moat-like ditches, and see that the hollow-sounding wooden bridges which formed the sole communication by which the hay wagons could pass to and from the distant meadows, were in proper order to sustain their ponderous annual load. daniel thorpe was the only accredited unfeathered biped who figured in the parish books as occupant of the moors; nevertheless that swampy district could boast of one other irregular and forbidden but most pertinacious inhabitant--and that inhabitant was our hero, jesse cliffe. jesse cliffe was a lad some fifteen or sixteen years of age--there or thereabout; for with the exact date of his birth, although from circumstances most easily ascertained, even the assistant-overseer did not take the trouble to make himself acquainted. he was a parish child born in the workhouse, the offspring of a half-witted orphan girl and a sturdy vagrant, partly tinker, partly ballad-singer, who took good care to disappear before the strong arm of justice, in the shape of a tardy warrant and a halting constable, could contrive to intercept his flight. he joined, it was said, a tribe of gipsies, to whom he was suspected to have all along belonged; and who vanishing at the same time, accompanied by half the linen and poultry of the neighbourhood, were never heard of in our parts again; whilst the poor girl whom he had seduced and abandoned, with sense enough to feel her misery, although hardly sufficient to be responsible for the sin, fretted, moaned, and pined--losing, she hardly knew how, the half-unconscious light-heartedness which had almost seemed a compensation for her deficiency of intellect, and with that light-heartedness losing also her bodily strength, her flesh, her colour, and her appetite, until, about a twelvemonth after the birth of her boy, she fell into a decline and died. poor jesse, born and reared in the workhouse, soon began to evince symptoms of the peculiarities of both his parents. half-witted like his mother, wild and roving as his father--it was found impossible to check his propensity to an out-of-door life. from the moment, postponed as long as possible in such establishments, in which he doffed the petticoat--a moment, by the way, in which the obstinate and masterful spirit of the ungentle sex often begins to show itself in nurseries of a far more polished description;--from that moment may jesse's wanderings be said to commence. disobedience lurked in the habit masculine. the wilful urchin stood, like some dandy apprentice, contemplating his brown sturdy legs, as they stuck out from his new trowsers, already (such was the economy of the tailor employed on the occasion) "a world too _short_," and the first use he made of those useful supporters was to run away. so little did any one really care for the poor child, that not being missed till night-fall, or sought after till the next morning, he had strayed far enough, when, at last picked up, and identified by the parish mark on his new jacket, to be half frozen, (it was mid-winter when his first elopement happened,) half-starved, half-drowned, and more than half-dead of fatigue and exhaustion. "it will be a lesson!" said the moralising matron of the workhouse, as, after a sound scolding, she fed the little culprit and put him to bed. "it will be a lesson to the rover!" and so it proved; for, after being recruited by a few days' nursing, he again ran away, in a different direction. when recovered the second time, he was whipped as well as fed--another lesson which only made the stubborn recusant run the faster. then, upon his next return, they shut him up in a dark den appropriately called the black-hole, a restraint which, of course, increased his zest for light and liberty, and in the first moment of freedom--a moment greatly accelerated by his own strenuous efforts in the shape of squalling, bawling, roaring, and stamping, unparalleled and insupportable, even in that mansion of din--in the very instant of freedom he was off again; he ran away from work; he ran away from school; certain to be immersed in his dismal dungeon as soon as he could be recaught; so that his whole childhood became a series of alternate imprisonments and escapes. that he should be so often lost was, considering his propensities and the proverbial cunning of his caste, not, perhaps, very remarkable. but the number of times and the variety of ways, in which, in spite of the little trouble taken in searching for him, he was sent back to the place from whence he came, was really something wonderful. if any creature in the world had cared a straw for the poor child, he must have been lost over and over: nobody did care for him, and he was as sure to turn up as a bad guinea. he has been cried like _found_ goods in belford market: advertised like a strayed donkey in the _h----shire courant_; put for safe keeping into compters, cages, roundhouses, and bridewells: passed, by different constables, through half the parishes in the county; and so frequently and minutely described in handbills and the _hue and cry_, that by the time he was twelve years old, his stature, features, and complexion were as well known to the rural police as those of some great state criminal. in a word, "the lad _would_ live;" and the aberleigh overseers, who would doubtless have been far from inconsolable if they had never happened to hear of him again, were reluctantly obliged to make the best of their bargain. accordingly, they placed him as a sort of boy of all-work at "the shop" at hinton, where he remained, upon an accurate computation, somewhere about seven hours; they then put him with a butcher at langley, where he staid about five hours and a-half, arriving at dusk, and escaping before midnight: then with a baker at belford, in which good town he sojourned the (for him) unusual space of two nights and a day; and then they apprenticed him to master samuel goddard, an eminent dealer in cattle leaving his new master to punish him according to law, provided he should run away again. run away of course he did; but as he had contrived to earn for himself a comfortably bad character for stupidity and laziness, and as he timed his evasion well--during the interval between the sale of a bargain of devonshire stots, and the purchase of a lot of scotch kyloes, when his services were little needed--and as master samuel goddard had too much to do and to think of, to waste his time and his trouble on a search after a heavy-looking under-drover, with a considerable reputation for laziness, jesse, for the first time in his life, escaped his ordinary penalties of pursuit and discovery--the parish officers contenting themselves by notifying to master samuel goddard, that they considered their responsibility, legal as well as moral, completely transferred to him in virtue of their indentures, and that whatever might be the future destiny of his unlucky apprentice, whether frozen or famished, hanged or drowned, the blame would rest with the cattle-dealer aforesaid, to whom they resolved to refer all claims on their protection, whether advanced by jesse himself or by others. small intention had jesse cliffe to return to their protection or their workhouse! the instinct of freedom was strong in the poor boy--quick and strong as in the beast of the field, or the bird of the air. he betook himself to the moors (one of his earliest and favourite haunts) with a vague assurance of safety in the deep solitude of those wide-spreading meadows, and the close coppices that surrounded them: and at little more than twelve years of age he began a course of lonely, half-savage, self-dependent life, such as has been rarely heard of in this civilised country. how he lived is to a certain point a mystery. not by stealing. that was agreed on all hands--except indeed, so far as a few roots of turnips and potatoes, and a few ears of green corn, in their several seasons, may be called theft. ripe corn for his winter's hoard, he gleaned after the fields were cleared, with a scrupulous honesty that might have read a lesson to peasant children of a happier nurture. and they who had opportunities to watch the process, said that it was curious to see him bruise the grain between large stones, knead the rude flour with fair water, mould his simple cakes, and then bake them in a primitive oven formed by his own labour in a dry bank of the coppice, and heated by rotten wood shaken from the tops of the trees, (which he climbed like a squirrel,) and kindled by a flint and a piece of an old horse-shoe:--such was his unsophisticated cookery! nuts and berries from the woods; fish from the kennett--caught with such tackle as might be constructed of a stick and a bit of packthread, with a strong pin or needle formed into a hook; and perhaps an occasional rabbit or partridge, entrapped by some such rough and inartificial contrivance, formed his principal support; a modified, and, according to his vague notions of right and wrong, an innocent form of poaching, since he sought only what was requisite for his own consumption, and would have shunned as a sin the killing game to sell. money, indeed, he little needed. he formed his bed of fern or dead grass, in the deepest recesses of the coppice--a natural shelter; and the renewal of raiment, which warmth and decency demanded, he obtained by emerging from his solitude, and joining such parties as a love of field sports brought into his vicinity in the pursuit of game--an inspiring combination of labour and diversion, which seemed to awaken something like companionship and sympathy even in this wild boy of the moors, one in which his knowledge of the haunts and habits of wild animals, his strength, activity, and actual insensibility to hardship or fatigue, rendered his services of more than ordinary value. there was not so good a hare-finder throughout that division of the county; and it was curious to observe how completely his skill in sportmanship overcame the contempt with which grooms and gamekeepers, to say nothing of their less fine and more tolerant masters, were wont to regard poor jesse's ragged garments, the sunburnt hair and skin, the want of words to express even his simple meaning, and most of all, the strange obliquity of taste which led him to prefer kennett water to kennett ale. sportsmanship, sheer sportsmanship, carried him through all! jesse was, as i have said, the most popular hare-finder of the country-side, and during the coursing season was brought by that good gift into considerable communication with his fellow creatures: amongst the rest with his involuntary landlord, john cobham. john cobham was a fair specimen of an english yeoman of the old school--honest, generous, brave, and kind; but in an equal degree, ignorant, obstinate and prejudiced. his first impression respecting jesse had been one of strong dislike, fostered and cherished by the old labourer daniel thorpe, who, accustomed for twenty years to reign sole sovereign of that unpeopled territory, was as much startled at the sight of jesse's wild, ragged figure, and sunburnt face, as robinson crusoe when he first spied the track of a human foot upon _his_ desert island. it was natural that old daniel should feel his monarchy, or, more correctly speaking, his vice-royalty, invaded and endangered; and at least equally natural that he should communicate his alarm to his master, who sallied forth one november morning to the moors, fully prepared to drive the intruder from his grounds, and resolved, if necessary, to lodge him in the county bridewell before night. but the good farmer, who chanced to be a keen sportsman, and to be followed that day by a favourite greyhound, was so dulcified by the manner in which the delinquent started a hare at the very moment of venus's passing, and still more by the culprit's keen enjoyment of a capital single-handed course, (in which venus had even excelled herself,) that he could not find in his heart to take any harsh measures against him, for that day at least, more especially as venus seemed to have taken a fancy to the lad--so his expulsion was postponed to another season; and before that season arrived, poor jesse had secured the goodwill of an advocate far more powerful than venus--an advocate who, contrasted with himself, looked like ariel by the side of caliban, or titania watching over bottom the weaver. john cobham had married late in life, and had been left, after seven years of happy wedlock, a widower with five children. in his family he may be said to have been singularly fortunate, and singularly unfortunate. promising in no common degree, his sons and daughters, inheriting their mother's fragile constitution as well as her amiable character, fell victims one after another to the flattering and fatal disease which had carried her off in the prime of life; one of them only, the eldest son, leaving any issue; and his little girl, an orphan, (for her mother had died in bringing her into the world,) was now the only hope and comfort of her doting grandfather, and of a maiden sister who lived with him as housekeeper, and, having officiated as head-nurse in a nobleman's family, was well calculated to bring up a delicate child. and delicate in all that the word conveys of beauty--delicate as the virgins of guido, or the angels of correggio, as the valley lily or the maiden rose--was at eight years old, the little charmer, phoebe cobham. but it was a delicacy so blended with activity and power, so light and airy, and buoyant and spirited, that the admiration which it awakened was wholly unmingled with fear. fair, blooming, polished, and pure, her complexion had at once the colouring and the texture of a flower-leaf; and her regular and lovely features--the red smiling lips, the clear blue eyes, the curling golden hair, and the round yet slender figure--formed a most rare combination of childish beauty. the expression, too, at once gentle and lively, the sweet and joyous temper, the quick intellect, and the affectionate heart, rendered little phoebe one of the most attractive children that the imagination can picture. her grandfather idolised her; taking her with him in his walks, never weary of carrying her when her own little feet were tired--and it was wonderful how many miles those tiny feet, aided by the gay and buoyant spirit, would compass in the course of the day; and so bent upon keeping her constantly with him, and constantly in the open air, (which he justly considered the best means of warding off the approach of that disease which had proved so fatal to his family,) that he even had a pad constructed, and took her out before him on horseback. a strange contrast formed the old farmer, so gruff and bluff-looking--with his stout square figure, his weather-beaten face, short grey hair, and dark bushy eyebrows--to the slight and graceful child, her aristocratic beauty set off by exactly the same style of paraphernalia that had adorned the young lady janes and lady marys, mrs. dorothy's former charge, and her habitual grace of demeanour adding fresh elegance to the most studied elegancies of the toilet! a strange contrast!--but one which seemed as nothing compared with that which was soon to follow: for phoebe, happening to be with her grandfather and her great friend and playmate venus, a jet-black greyhound of the very highest breed, whose fine limbed and shining beauty was almost as elegant and aristocratic as that of phoebe herself;--the little damsel, happening to be with her grandfather when, instigated by daniel thorpe's grumbling accusation of broken fences and i know not what, he was a second time upon the point of warning poor jesse off the ground--was so moved by the culprit's tattered attire and helpless condition, as he stood twirling, between his long lean fingers, the remains of what had once been a hat, that she interceded most warmly in his behalf. "don't turn him off the moors, grandpapa," said phoebe, "pray don't! never mind old daniel! i'm sure he'll do no harm;--will you, jesse? venus likes him, grandpapa; see how she puts her pretty nose into his hand; and venus never likes bad people. how often i have heard you say that. and _i_ like him, poor fellow! he looks so thin and so pitiful. do let him stay, dear grandpapa!" and john cobham sat down on the bank, and took the pitying child in his arms, and kissed and blessed her, and said, that, since she wished it, jesse _should_ stay; adding, in a sort of soliloquy, that he hoped she never would ask him to do what was wrong, for he could refuse her nothing. and jesse--what did he say to these, the first words of kindness that he had ever heard from human lips? or rather, what did he feel? for beyond a muttered "thankye," speak he could not, but gratitude worked strongly in the poor boy's heart: gratitude!--so new, so overpowering, and inspired by one so sweet, so lovely, so gentle as his protectress, as far as he was concerned, all-powerful; and yet a mere infant whom he might protect as well as serve! it was a strange mixture of feelings, all good, and all delightful; a stirring of impulses, a quickening of affections, a striking of chords never touched before. substitute the sacred innocence of childhood for the equally sacred power of virgin purity, and his feelings of affectionate reverence, of devoted service and submission, much resembled those entertained by the satyr towards "the holy shepherdess," in fletcher's exquisite drama.* _our_ "rough thing, who never knew manners nor smooth humanity," could not have spoken nor have thought such words as those of the satyr; but so far as our english climate and his unfruitful territory might permit, he put much of the poetry into action. sluggish of intellect, and uncouth of demeanour, as the poor lad seemed, it was quite wonderful how quickly he discovered the several ways in which he might best please and gratify his youthful benefactress. * that matchless pastoral, "the faithful shepherdess," is so much less known than talked of, that subjoin the passage in question. one more beauti can hardly be found in the wide range of english poetry. _satyr_. through yon same bending plain that flings his arms down to the main; and through these thick woods, have i run, whose depths have never kiss'd the sun; since the lusty spring began, all to please my master, pan, have i trotted without rest to get him fruit; for at a feast he entertains, this coming night, his paramour, the syrinx bright. [_he sees clorin and stands amazed_. but behold a fairer sight! by that heavenly form of thine, brightest fair, thou art divine, sprung from great, immortal race of the gods; for in thy face shines more awful majesty, than dull, weak mortality dare with misty eyes behold and live! therefore on this mould slowly do i bend my knee, in worship of thy deity. deign it, goddess, from my hand to receive whate'er this land, from her fertile womb doth send of her choice fruits; and but lend belief to that the satyr tells: fairer by the famous wells to this present day ne'er grew, never better nor more true. here be grapes whose lusty blood is the learned poet's good; sweeter yet did never crown the head of bacchus; nuts more brown than the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em. deign, oh fairest fair, to take 'em! for these black-eyed dryope hath often times commanded me, with my clasped knee to climb; see how well the lusty time hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red, such as on your lips is spread. here be berries for a queen, some be red, and some be green; these are of that luscious sweet, the great god pan himself doth eat; all these, and what the woods can yield, the hanging mountain, or the field, i freely offer, and ere long will bring you more, more sweet and strong; till when, humbly leave i take, lest the great pan do awake, that sleeping lies in a deep glade, under a broad beech's shade. i must go,--i must run swifter than the fiery sun. _clorin_. and all my fears go with thee! what greatness or what private hidden power is there in me to draw submission from this rude man and beast? sure i am mortal; the daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal, and she that bore me mortal: prick my hand and it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and the self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink makes me a-cold. my fear says i am mortal. yet i hare heard (my mother told it me, and now i do believe it) if i keep my virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, no goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, satyr, or other power, that haunts the groves, shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion draw me to wander after idle fires, or voices calling me in dead of night to make me follow, and so tempt me on through mire and standing pools to find my swain else why should this rough thing, who never knew manners nor smooth humanity, whose herds are rougher than himself, and more misshapen, thus mildly kneel to me? &c. &c. _beaumont and fletcher's works_, (seward's edition,) vol. iii. p. -- . how we track milton's exquisite comus in this no less exquisite pastoral drama! and the imitation is so beautiful, that the perception of the plagiarism rather increases than diminishes the pleasure with which we read either deathless work. republican although he were, the great poet sits a throned king upon parnassus, privileged to cull flowers where he listeth in right of his immortal laurel- crown. phoebe loved flowers; and from the earliest tuft of violets ensconced under the sunny southern hedge, to the last lingering sprig of woodbine shaded by some time-hallowed oak, the blossoms of the meadow and the coppice were laid under contribution for her posies. phoebe had her own little garden; and to fill that garden, jesse was never weary of seeking after the roots of such wild plants as he himself thought pretty, or such as he found (one can hardly tell how) were considered by better judges to be worthy of a place in the parterre. the different orchises, for instance, the white and lilac primrose, the golden oxslip, the lily of the valley, the chequered fritillary, which blows so freely along the banks of the kennett, and the purple campanula which covers with equal profusion the meadows of the thames, all found their way to phoebe's flower-plats. he brought her in summer evenings glow-worms enough to form a constellation on the grass; and would spend half a july day in chasing for her some glorious insect, dragon-fly, or bee-bird, or golden beetle, or gorgeous butterfly. he not only bestowed upon her sloes, and dew-berries, and hazel-nuts "brown as the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em," but caught for her the squirrel itself. he brought her a whole litter of dormice, and tamed for her diversion a young magpie, whose first effort at flattery was "pretty phoebe!" but his greatest present of all, most prized both by donor and receiver, (albeit her tender heart smote her as she accepted it, and she made her faithful slave promise most faithfully to take nests no more,) was a grand string of birds' eggs, long enough to hang in festoons round, and round, and round her play-room, and sufficiently various and beautiful to gratify more fastidious eyes than those of our little heroine. to collect this rope of variously-tinted beads--a natural rosary--he had sought the mossy and hair-lined nest of the hedge-sparrow for her turquoise-like rounds; had scrambled up the chimney-corner to bear away those pearls of the land, the small white eggs of the house-martin; had found deposited in an old magpie's nest the ovals of the sparrow-hawk, red and smooth as the finest coral; had dived into the ground-mansion of the skylark for her lilac-tinted shells, and groped amongst the bushes for the rosy-tinted ones of the woodlark; climbed the tallest trees for the sea-green eggs of the rooks; had pilfered the spotted treasures from the snug dwelling which the wren constructed in the eaves; and, worst of all--i hardly like to write it, i hardly care to think, that jesse could have committed such an outrage,--saddest and worst of all, in the very midst of that varied garland might be seen the brown and dusky egg, as little showy as its quaker-like plumage, the dark brown egg, from which should have issued that "angel of the air," the songstress, famous in every land, the unparagoned nightingale. it is but just towards jesse to add, that he took the nest in a mistake, and was quite unconscious of the mischief he had done until it was too late to repair it. of course these gifts were not only graciously accepted, but duly returned; cakes, apples, tarts, and gingerbread, halfpence in profusion, and now and then a new shilling, or a bright sixpence--all, in short, that poor phoebe had to bestow, she showered upon her uncouth favourite, and she would fain have amended his condition by more substantial benefits: but authoritative as she was with her grandfather in other instances, in this alone her usual powers of persuasion utterly failed. whether infected by old daniel's dislike, (and be it observed, an unfounded prejudice, that sort of prejudice for which he who entertains it does not pretend to account even to himself is unluckily not only one of the most contagious feelings in the world, but one of the most invincible:) whether farmer cobham were inoculated with old daniel's hatred of jesse, or had taken that very virulent disease the natural way, nothing could exceed the bitterness of the aversion which gradually grew up in his mind towards the poor lad. that venus liked him, and phoebe liked him, added strength to the feeling. he would have been ashamed to confess himself jealous of their good-will towards such an object, and yet most certainly jealous he was. he did not drive him from his shelter in the moors, because he had unwarily passed his word--his word, which, with yeomanly pride, john cobham held sacred as his bond--to let him remain until he committed some offence; but, for this offence, both he and daniel watched and waited with an impatience and irritability which contrasted strangely with the honourable self-restraint that withheld him from direct abuse of his power. for a long time, daniel and his master waited in vain. jesse, whom they had entertained some vague hope of chasing away by angry looks and scornful words, had been so much accustomed all his life long to taunts and contumely, that it was a great while before he became conscious of their unkindness; and when at last it forced itself upon his attention, he shrank away crouching and cowering, and buried himself in the closest recesses of the coppice, until the footstep of the reviler had passed by. one look at his sweet little friend repaid him twenty-fold; and although farmer cobham had really worked himself into believing that there was danger in allowing the beautiful child to approach poor jesse, and had therefore on different pretexts forbidden her visits to the moors, she did yet happen in her various walks to encounter that devoted adherent oftener than would be believed possible by any one who has not been led to remark, how often in this best of all possible worlds, an earnest and innocent wish does as it were fulfil itself. at last, however, a wish of a very different nature came to pass. daniel thorpe detected jesse in an actual offence against that fertile source of crime and misery, the game laws. thus the affair happened. during many weeks, the neighbourhood had been infested by a gang of bold, sturdy pilferers, roving vagabonds, begging by day, stealing and poaching by night--who had committed such extensive devastations amongst the poultry and linen of the village, as well as the game in the preserves, that the whole population was upon the alert; and the lonely coppices of the moors rendering that spot one peculiarly likely to attract the attention of the gang, old daniel, reinforced by a stout lad as a sort of extra-guard, kept a most jealous watch over his territory. perambulating the outside of the wood one evening at sunset, he heard the cry of a hare; and climbing over the fence, had the unexpected pleasure of seeing our friend jesse in the act of taking a leveret still alive from the wire. "so, so, master jesse! thou be'st turned poacher, be'st thou?" ejaculated daniel, with a malicious chuckle, seizing, at one fell grip, the hare and the lad. "miss phoebe!" ejaculated jesse, submitting himself to the old man's grasp, but struggling to retain the leveret; "miss phoebe!" "miss phoebe, indeed!" responded daniel; "she saved thee once, my lad, but thy time's come now. what do'st thee want of the leveret, mon? do'st not thee know that 'tis part of the evidence against thee? well, he may carry that whilst i carry the snare. master'll be main glad to see un. he always suspected the chap. and for the matter of that so did i. miss phoebe, indeed! come along, my mon, i warrant thou hast seen thy last o' miss phoebe. come on wi' thee." and jesse was hurried as fast as daniel's legs would carry him to the presence of farmer cobham. on entering the house (not the old deserted homestead of the moors, but the comfortable dwelling-house at aberleigh) jesse delivered the panting, trembling leveret to the first person he met, with no other explanation than might be comprised in the words, "miss phoebe!" and followed daniel quietly to the hall. "poaching, was he? taking the hare from the wire? and you saw him? you can swear to the fact?" quoth john cobham, rubbing his hands with unusual glee. "well, now we shall be fairly rid of the fellow! take him to the chequers for the night, daniel, and get another man beside yourself to sit up with him. it's too late to disturb sir robert this evening. to-morrow morning we'll take him to the hall. see that the constable's ready by nine o'clock. no doubt but sir robert will commit him to the county bridewell." "oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed phoebe, darting into the room with the leveret in her arms, and catching the last words. "oh, grandpapa! poor jesse!" "miss phoebe!" ejaculated the culprit "oh, grandfather, it's all my fault," continued phoebe; "and if anybody is to go to prison, you ought to send me. i had been reading about cowper's hares, and i wanted a young hare to tame: i took a fancy for one, and told poor jesse! and to think of his going to prison for that!" "and did you tell him to set a wire for the hare, phoebe?" "a wire! what does that mean?" said the bewildered child. "but i dare say," added she, upon farmer cobham's explaining the nature of the snare, "i dare say that the poachers set the wire, and that he only took up the hare for me, to please my foolish fancy! oh, grandpapa! poor jesse!" and phoebe cried as if her heart would break. "god bless you, miss phoebe!" said jesse. "all this is nonsense!" exclaimed the unrelenting fanner. "take the prisoner to the chequers, daniel, and get another man to keep you company in sitting up with him. have as much strong beer as you like, and be sure to bring him and the constable here by nine o'clock to-morrow morning." "oh, grandfather, you'll be sorry for this! i did not think you had been so hard-hearted!" sobbed phoebe. "you'll be very sorry for this." "yes, very sorry, that he will. god bless you, miss phoebe," said jesse. "what! does he threaten? take him off, daniel. and you, phoebe, go to bed and compose yourself. heaven bless you, my darling!" said the fond grandfather, smoothing her hair, as, the tears still chasing each other down her cheeks, she stood leaning against his knee. "go to bed and to sleep, my precious! and you, sally, bring me my pipe:" and wondering why the fulfilment of a strong desire should not make him happier, the honest farmer endeavoured to smoke away his cares. in the meanwhile, old daniel conducted jesse to the chequers, and having lodged him safely in an upper room, sought out "an ancient, trusty, drouthy crony," with whom he sate down to carouse in the same apartment with his prisoner. it was a dark, cold, windy, october night, and the two warders sate cosily by the fire, enjoying their gossip and their ale, while the unlucky delinquent placed himself pensively by the window. about midnight the two old men were startled by his flinging open the casement. "miss phoebe! look! look!" "what? where?" inquired daniel. "miss phoebe!" repeated the prisoner; and, looking in the direction to which jesse pointed, they saw the flames bursting from farmer cob-ham's house. in a very few seconds they had alarmed the family, and sprung forth in the direction of the fire; the prisoner accompanying them, unnoticed in the confusion. "luckily, master's always insured to the value of all he's worth, stock and goods," quoth the prudent daniel. "miss phoebe!" exclaimed jesse: and even as he spoke he burst in the door, darted up the staircase, and returned with the trembling child in his arms, followed by aunt dorothy and the frightened servants. "grandpapa! dear grandpapa! where is grandpapa? will no one save my dear grand-papa?" cried phoebe. and placing the little girl at the side of her aunt, jesse again mounted the blazing staircase. for a few moments all gave him up for lost but he returned, tottering under the weight of a man scarcely yet aroused from heavy sleep, and half suffocated by the smoke and flames. "miss phoebe! he's safe, miss phoebe!--down, venus, down--he's safe, miss phoebe! and now, i sha'n't mind going to prison, 'cause when i come back you'll be living at the _moors_. sha'n't you, miss phoebe? and i shall see you every day!" one part of this speech turned out true and another part false--no uncommon fate, by the way, of prophetic speeches, even when uttered by wiser persons than poor jesse. phoebe did come to live at the moors, and he did not go to prison. on the contrary, so violent was the revulsion of feeling in the honest hearts of the good yeoman, john cobham, and his faithful servant, old daniel, and so deep the remorse which they both felt for their injustice and unkindness towards the friendless lad, that there was considerable danger of their falling into the opposite extreme, and ruining him by sudden and excessive indulgence. jesse, however, was not of a temperament to be easily spoilt. he had been so long an outcast from human society that he had become as wild and shy as his old companions of the fields and the coppice, the beasts of the earth and the birds of the air. the hare which he had himself given to phoebe was easier to tame than jesse cliffe. gradually, very gradually, under the gentle influence of the gentle child, this great feat was accomplished, almost as effectually, although by no means so suddenly, as in the well-known case of cymon and iphigenia, the most noted precedent upon record of the process of reaching the head through the heart. venus, and a beautiful welsh pony called taffy, which her grandfather had recently purchased for her riding, had their share in the good deed; these two favourites being placed by phoebe's desire under jesse's sole charge and management; a measure which not only brought him necessarily into something like intercourse with the other lads about the yard, but ended in his conceiving so strong an attachment to the animals of whom he had the care, that before the winter set in he had deserted his old lair in the wood, and actually passed his nights in a vacant stall of the small stable appropriated to their use. from the moment that john cobham detected such an approach to the habits of civilised life as sleeping under a roof, he looked upon the wild son of the moors as virtually reclaimed, and so it proved. every day he became more and more like his fellow-men. he abandoned his primitive oven, and bought his bread at the baker's. he accepted thankfully the decent clothing necessary to his attending miss phoebe in her rides round the country. he worked regularly and steadily at whatever labour was assigned to him, receiving wages like the other farm servants; and finally it was discovered that one of the first uses he made of these wages was to purchase spelling-books and copy-books, and enter himself at an evening school, where the opening difficulties being surmounted, his progress astonished every body. his chief fancy was for gardening. the love, and, to a certain point, the knowledge of flowers which he had always evinced increased upon him every day;--and happening to accompany phoebe on one of her visits to the young ladies at the hall, who were much attached to the lovely little girl, he saw lady mordaunt's french garden, and imitated it the next year for his young mistress in wild flowers, after such a fashion as to excite the wonder and admiration of all beholders. from that moment jesse's destiny was decided. sir robert's gardener, a clever scotchman, took great notice of him and offered to employ him at the hall; but the moors had to poor jesse a fascination which he could not surmount. he felt that it would be easier to tear himself from the place altogether, than to live in the neighbourhood and not there. accordingly he lingered on for a year or two, and then took a grateful leave of his benefactors, and set forth to london with the avowed intention of seeking employment in a great nursery-ground, to the proprietor of which he was furnished with letters, not merely from his friend the gardener, but from sir robert himself. n. b. it is recorded that on the night of jesse's departure, venus refused her supper and phoebe cried herself to sleep. time wore on. occasional tidings had reached the moors of the prosperous fortunes of the adventurer. he had been immediately engaged by the great nurseryman to whom he was recommended, and so highly approved, that in little more than two years he became foreman of the flower department; another two years saw him chief manager of the garden; and now, at the end of a somewhat longer period, there was a rumour of his having been taken into the concern as acting partner; a rumour which received full confirmation in a letter from himself, accompanying a magnificent present of shrubs, plants, and flower-roots, amongst which were two dahlias, ticketed 'the moors' and 'the phoebe,' and announcing his intention of visiting his best and earliest friends in the course of the ensuing summer. still time wore on. it was full six months after this intimation, that on a bright morning in october, john cobham, with two or three visiters from belford, and his granddaughter phoebe, now a lovely young woman, were coursing on the moors. the townspeople had boasted of their greyhounds, and the old sportsman was in high spirits from having beaten them out of the field. "if that's your best dog," quoth john, "why, i'll be bound that our snowball would beat him with one of his legs tied up. talk of running such a cur as that against snowball! why there's phoebe's pet venus, snowball's great grandam, who was twelve years old last may, and has not seen a hare these three seasons, shall give him the go-by in the first hundred yards. go and fetch venus, daniel! it will do her heart good to see a hare again," added he, answering the looks rather than the words of his granddaughter, for she had not spoken, "and i'll be bound to say she'll beat him out of sight he won't come in for a turn." upon venus's arrival, great admiration was expressed at her symmetry and beauty; the grayness incident to her age having fallen upon her, as it sometimes does upon black greyhounds, in the form of small white spots, so that she appeared as if originally what the coursers call "ticked." she was in excellent condition, and appeared to understand the design of the meeting as well as any one present, and to be delighted to find herself once more in the field of fame. her competitor, a yellow dog called smoaker, was let loose, and the whole party awaited in eager expectation of a hare. "soho!" cried john cobham, and off the dogs sprang; venus taking the turn, as he had foretold, running as true as in her first season, doing all the work, and killing the hare, after a course which, for any part smoaker took in it, might as well have been single-handed. "look how she's bringing the hare to my grandfather!" exclaimed phoebe; "she always brings her game!" and with the hare in her mouth, carefully poised by the middle of the back, she was slowly advancing towards her master, when a stranger, well dressed and well mounted, who had joined the party unperceived during the course, suddenly called "venus!" and venus started, pricked up her ears as if to listen, and stood stock still. "venus!" again cried the horseman. and venus, apparently recognising the voice, walked towards the stranger, (who by this time had dismounted,) laid the hare down at his feet, and then sprang up herself to meet and return his caresses. "jesse! it must be jesse cliffe!" said phoebe, in a tone which wavered between exclamation and interrogatory. "it can be none other," responded her grandfather. "i'd trust venus beyond all the world in the matter of recognising an old friend, and we all know that except her old master and her young mistress, she never cared a straw for anybody but jesse. it must be jesse cliffe, though to be sure he's so altered that how the bitch could find him out, is beyond my comprehension. it's remarkable," continued he in an under tone, walking away with jesse from the belford party, "that we five (counting venus and old daniel) should meet just on this very spot--isn't it? it looks as if we were to come together. and if you have a fancy for phoebe, as your friend sir robert says you have, and if phoebe retains her old fancy for you, (as i partly believe maybe the case,) why my consent sha'nt be wanting. don't keep squeezing my hand, man, but go and find out what she thinks of the matter." five minutes after this conversation jesse and phoebe were walking together towards the house: what he said we have no business to inquire, but if blushes may be trusted, of a certainty the little damsel did not answer "no." file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions (www.canadiana.org)) the path of duty, and other stories, by h. s. caswell, montreal: john lovell, and st. nicholas street. . contents. clara roscom; or, the path of duty;-- page. chapter i. a sudden bereavement chapter ii. success at school chapter iii. clara at mrs. wentworth's boarding school chapter iv. governess in mr. leighton's family chapter v. willie leighton's return from england chapter vi. an evening party chapter vii. failing health of clara's mother chapter viii. a bright dream and peaceful end chapter ix. friendly attentions chapter x. a surprise chapter xi. embarrassing interviews chapter xii. a new england home chapter xiii. new occupations chapter xiv. school at mill town chapter xv. a happy re-union chapter xvi. miss simmond's story chapter xvii. penitent and forgiven chapter xviii. a new joy chapter xix. uncle charles chapter xx. lights and shadows chapter xxi. reconciled chapter xxii. clara's marriage chapter xxiii. a pleasing incident terry dolan the faithful wife emma ashton thoughts on autumn wandering davy looking on the dark side edward barton the weary at rest the rainy afternoon the student's dream uncle ephraim story of a log cabin hazel-brook farm old rufus the diamond ring the unfortunate man the old schoolhouse arthur sinclair the snow storm the new year earnest harwood; or, the adopted son chapter i. a sudden bereavement. "awake, my dear child, awake!" these were the words i heard: i started up, gazing in a bewildered manner into the face of my mother, who had, with some difficulty, succeeded in arousing me from the sweet, healthful sleep of childhood. my mother drew nigh to me and whispered, "my dear clara, your papa is dying." with a frightened cry, i threw my arms around her neck, and begged her to tell me what had happened. i was unable to comprehend the meaning of her words. since my earliest recollection, my father had never experienced a day's illness, and so the reader may be able to form some idea of the shock occasioned by her words--uttered, as they were, at the hour of midnight. when my mother had succeeded in soothing me, in some degree, to calmness, she informed me, in a voice choked with sobs, which, for my sake, she tried to suppress, that my father had, two hours since, been stricken with apoplexy, in so severe a form that his life was despaired of. she further informed me that his attending physician thought he would not live to see the light of another morning. well do i remember the nervous terror with which i clung to my mother as we entered my father's apartment, and the icy chill which diffused itself over my body, as i gazed upon the fearfully changed features of my father. i had never before seen death in any form. i believe the first view of death is more or less terrible to every child; it certainly was terrible for me to first view death imprinted upon the countenance of a fond father. i have ever since thought that my father recognized me when my mother led me to his bed-side; but power of utterance was gone. it was a fearful trial to me, who had seen but ten years of life. after the first shock, a strange calm took possession of me. though many years have passed since that period, i remember, as though it were but yesterday, how i sat during those long hours, scarcely for an instant removing my eyes from my father's face, but shed not a tear; for, after the first burst of grief, tears refused to come to my relief. just as the day began to dawn i heard the physician say, in a whisper, to a kind neighbor who stood by, i think he is going. at that moment my father opened his eyes, and, looking upward with a pleasant smile, expired without a struggle. i could never clearly remember how i passed the intervening days between my father's death and burial. i have an indistinct recollection of the hushed voices and soft footsteps of friends and neighbors, who kindly came to aid in performing the last offices of love and friendship to the remains of my departed father. i also remember being led by my almost heart-broken mother into the darkened room, where lay the lifeless body of my father, now prepared for the grave; but i have a more vivid recollection of standing with my mother beside an open grave, and hearing our pastor, in a solemn voice, utter the words, "earth to earth--ashes to ashes--dust to dust." oh! the falling of that first earth upon my father's coffin, shall i ever forget the sound? child as i was, it seemed to me that my heart would break; but tears, the first i had shed since my father's death, came to my relief. those blessed tears. i may well call them blessed, since the physician afterwards told my mother that they saved either my reason or my life. kind friends besought my mother and me to allow ourselves to be conveyed home and not await the filling up of the grave. but no. we could not leave the spot till the last earth was thrown upon the grave, and a mound covered with grassy sods was to be seen, where a little before was only a mournful cavity. then indeed we felt that he was gone, and that we must return to our desolate home--the home which ever before his presence had filled with joy and gladness. i must pass over, with a few words only, the first year of our bereavement, as even now i shudder to recall the feeling of loneliness and desolation which took possession of us, when we found ourselves left alone in the home where everything reminded us so strongly of the departed one. there was a small apartment adjoining our usual sitting-room which my father was wont to call his study, and, being fond of books, he used there to pass much of his leisure time. it was quite a long time after his death before my mother could enter that apartment. she said to me one day, "will you go with me, clara, to your father's study?" i replied, "can you go _there_, mamma?" "yes, dear," said my mother, and led the way to the door. no one had entered that room since my father left it on the last night of his life, the door having been locked on the day succeeding his death. as my mother softly turned the key and opened the door, it seemed almost that we stood in my father's presence, so vividly did the surroundings of that room recall him to our minds. there stood his table and chair, and his writing desk stood upon the table, and several books and papers were scattered carelessly upon the table. the last book he had been reading lay open as he had left it; it was a volume of whitfield's sermons; it was a book which my father valued highly, and is now a cherished keep-sake of my own. my mother seemed quite overcome with grief. i know she had striven daily to conceal her grief when in my presence, for she knew how i grieved for my father; and she was aware that her tears would only add to my sorrow, so for my sake it was that she forced herself to appear calm--almost cheerful; but upon this occasion her grief was not to be checked. she bowed her head upon the table, while convulsive sobs shook her frame. i tried, in my childish way, to comfort her. i had never seen her so much moved since my father's death. when she became more composed, she rose, and i assisted her in dusting and arranging the furniture of the room; and after this first visit to the room, we no longer avoided entering it. since quite a young man my father had been employed as book-keeper in a large mercantile house in the city of philadelphia, where we resided. as he had ever proved trustworthy and faithful to the interests of his employers, they had seen fit, upon his marriage, to give him an increase of salary, which enabled him to purchase a small, but neat and convenient dwelling in a respectable street in philadelphia, where we had lived in the enjoyment of all the comforts, and with many of the luxuries of life, to the time of the sad event which left me fatherless and my mother a widow. i had never, as yet, attended any school. my mother had been my only teacher, and as her own education had been thorough, she was amply qualified for the task. chapter ii. success at school. about a year after my father's death, my mother decided upon sending me to school, as she thought i was becoming too sedate and serious for a child only eleven years of age. i had never been very familiar with the neighbouring children of my own age, and after the death of my father i cared still less for their companionship. my chief enjoyment was in the society of my mother; and as we kept no servant, i found many ways of making myself useful to her; and every afternoon she devoted two or three hours to my lessons and needlework. thus passed away the first year after our great sorrow, when, as i have already said, my mother decided upon sending me to school. it seemed to me, at the time, quite a formidable undertaking--this going to school. i had never been separated from my mother, and the five hours to be spent daily in the school-room seemed to my childish mind a very long time. i had ever been shy and diffident in the presence of strangers, and the idea of entering a large school a stranger to both teacher and pupils, was very unpleasant to me. but when i found it to be my mother's wish that i should go, i endeavoured to overcome my reluctance, and assisted my mother in her preparations for entering me as a pupil at the beginning of the ensuing term. it was with a feeling of timidity that i accompanied my mother through several streets to the school taught by miss edmonds. my mother accompanied me to relieve me from any awkwardness i might feel in presenting myself for admission. it was a select school for girls. as my education had thus far been entirely conducted by my mother, i had of course, never been subjected to the rules of a school-room; and i must confess that i had formed an idea of school teachers in general that was not at all flattering. i fancied them all to be old, sour and cross--a mere walking bundle of rules and regulations, and i was quite unprepared to see the sweet-looking young lady who answered to my mother's summons at the door. surely, thought i, this young lady cannot be miss edmonds; and when my mother enquired if such were her name and she replied in the affirmative, i thought going to school might not be so bad after all. after giving miss edmonds my name and age, my mother held some conversation with her regarding my studies, and left me with an encouraging smile. i felt all my timidity return when i thought of entering the school-room with miss edmonds, but her kind and friendly manner reassured me. the school consisted of about thirty girls, many of them older than myself. i had feared that my attainments would be inferior to those of the youngest of the pupils, and i was equally pleased and surprised when miss edmonds, after a long and careful examination in regard to my acquirements, placed me in one of the higher classes. there was to me an irresistible attraction in the countenance and manner of my teacher; and, from the first moment i saw her i loved her. although her home is now far distant from mine, and we have not met for many years, i love her as dearly now as when she took me by the hand when a child of eleven years. she conducted her school in a very systematic and orderly manner, and was very particular to require perfect recitations from her pupils; but as i possessed a retentive memory, i found my tasks much lighter than did many of my classmates. when i had been about a year at school, miss edmonds offered a prize, in the class to which i belonged, to the young lady who should write the most able composition upon a given subject. the prize was to be a small gold pencil-case, and was to be awarded at the close of the summer term. the closing day at length came; there was much suppressed excitement when we were called to order that morning. as we expected no visitors till the afternoon, we spent the morning mostly in reviewing our various studies. by two o'clock our school-room was crowded. we first passed a very searching examination in the different studies we had pursued during the past year. i believe we passed our examination in a manner creditable both to our teacher and to ourselves. the reading of our compositions was reserved, as the closing exercise. the compositions, with the name of the writer, were read by miss edmonds. each person present was at liberty to write down each name as it was read by our teacher, annexing to it the numbers one, two or three, according to their opinion of the merits of the composition, each desk being furnished with paper, pens and ink for the purpose. when the compositions had all been read, the slips of paper were collected and handed to our pastor, who was to read aloud the fortunate name with the greatest number of ones annexed. what then was my amazement and that of all present when our pastor, after carefully examining the papers, rose and said,--"miss clara roscom will please come forward, and receive from the hands of miss edmonds the reward of so much merit." i remember i felt a nervous dread of crossing the large school-room alone, when i knew every eye would be directed to me. composing myself by a strong effort, i rose and walked up to the raised platform, where at her desk sat miss edmonds, with our pastor and several other friends. as i bowed low in acknowledgement of the gift, miss edmonds, with a few kind words, dismissed me to my seat. i heard many flattering remarks among our assembled friends; but the proudest moment of all, to me, was when i gained my mother's side and she said to me in a low voice, "my dear clara, this seems to me a token that you will prove a blessing to your poor widowed mother." miss edmonds often remarked that i made wonderful progress in my studies, and these commendations, coming from my teacher, incited me to still greater diligence. i take no credit to myself for superior talent, but i certainly did my best, for, be it remembered, i was studying to please my dear mother, who often said to me, "you must, my dear clara, make the best of your opportunities for improvement, as the time may come when your education may be your only means of support." my mother often regretted that we did not own a piano, for she was very anxious that i should study music; but our means did not justify the purchase of an instrument, and she thought that lessons without the necessary practice would be useless. the parents of miss edmonds resided in the city. they had once been wealthy, but owing to those reverses to which all are liable they had become reduced in circumstances, so much so that miss edmonds gladly turned to account the superior education she had received in their prosperous days, and she had for some time been a teacher when i became a member of her school. my mother happened to mention to miss edmonds one day her regret that i was unable to take music-lessons, for want of opportunity for the needful practice, when she informed my mother that she still retained her piano out of the wreck of their former affluence, and that, if she wished me to take lessons, i was at liberty to practice daily upon it. my mother accepted for me the kind offer, and i at once began taking lessons. i remained four years under the instruction of miss edmonds, with much profit to myself. at the end of this time, mr. edmonds removed with his family to the city of new york, having through the influence of friends, obtained the situation of cashier in one of the banks in that city. it was a severe trial for miss edmonds to resign the school where she was so much beloved by her pupils; but she thought it her duty to accompany her parents to their new home. chapter iii. clara at mrs. wentworth's boarding school. as it was my mother's intention to give me a thoroughly good education, she began, after the departure of miss edmonds, to consider the propriety of sending me to a noted seminary for young ladies, about two hundred miles from philadelphia, as she learned from various sources of the excellence of the institution. there was but one difficulty in the way, and that was the money needful for defraying my expenses. at my father's death, he left us the owners of the house we occupied, and a sum of money, though not a large one, in the savings' bank. up to the time of which i speak, we had only drawn the annual interest of our money, while the principal remained untouched, my mother having obtained needle-work to eke out our small income; but, in order that i should finish my education according to the wishes of my mother, as well as my own, a portion of the principal must be withdrawn. after some reflection upon the subject, my mother decided that a good education might prove of more value to me than money, so a portion of the money was drawn, and we began the preparations for my departure from home. it was the high reputation which the school sustained that influenced my mother in her decision to send me so far from home. there was a lady residing in the near vicinity of the school who had been a loved school-mate of my mother in their youthful days. my mother wrote to her upon the subject and received a very friendly reply, informing her that, owing to their own early friendship, she would be most happy to fill a mother's place to me, so long as i should wish to remain at school. i should have been much elated at the proposed journey had it not been for the thought of leaving my mother, who had ever been my confidant and adviser. my mother also felt keenly the coming departure, although she strove to conceal her feelings as much as possible. i strongly objected to leaving her alone, but we had as yet been unable to devise any plan to avoid so doing. my mother would have rented a portion of our dwelling, but it was not adapted for the convenience of two families, neither could she endure the disquiet of keeping boarders. "clara," said my mother one day, as we sat at work, "i think i will send for aunt patience to come and stay with me during your absence." she laughed outright at the look of dismay with which i regarded her, occasioned by the recollection which i retained of a visit she paid us when i was eight years of age. she was a maiden lady somewhat advanced in years, possessed of a very kind heart and many excellent qualities; but the name of patience seemed to me a misapplication in her case, for she certainly possessed but a small quantity of that valuable article. early in life she had passed through many trials, which might have tended to sour her disposition. i remember that during the visit referred to, my mother had occasion to spend a day from home, leaving me in care of aunt patience. it seemed a very long day to me. like all children, i was restless and troublesome, and to one unaccustomed to the care of children it was doubtless very annoying. during the day i received a severe box on the ear from aunt patience, for saying to her in an outburst of childish anger, when provoked by her continued fault-finding, "i don't know what makes them call you aunt patience, for you scold all the time." she informed my mother of it upon her return, and she gave me a reproof for allowing myself to speak disrespectfully to my relative; although, while listening to the relation of the difficulty by aunt patience, she found it extremely difficult to repress a smile. however, my mother both loved and respected her, and thought she could live very comfortably with her during my absence; indeed my mother thought her quite a desirable companion, for, setting aside her irritability at petty annoyances, she was a woman of good sense, and was well informed upon most subjects, so i gladly joined in the invitation which my mother sent her, to come and make our house her home for an indefinite period. as she lived only a day's journey by railway from philadelphia, she arrived a week before i left home. she did not like the idea of my mother spending so much money in sending me to school. to all of her remarks upon the subject my mother replied pleasantly, for she was her own aunt, and she would not treat her with disrespect. during the few days i remained at home after her arrival, i formed a much more favorable opinion of aunt patience than i had done during her visit in the days of my childhood; and when i observed how kind she was to my mother i found it easy to love her. i felt very sad the morning i bade adieu to my mother and aunt patience, to go into the world alone. my mother had before given me many kind counsels regarding my future conduct, now she only said, as she embraced me at parting, "my dear daughter, i trust you will improve your time and talents, and conduct yourself in a manner that will not disappoint your mother." as aunt patience bade me good-bye, she said, with a countenance of much solemnity, "you must remember, clara, all the advice i have given you." sad as i felt, i could not repress a smile, for during the past week her advices regarding my future conduct had been so numerous, that it would have required a memory more retentive than mine to have remembered them all; but i knew they were intended for my good, and i readily promised to try and observe them. i wish not to weary the reader by giving a detailed account of my journey. i arrived safely at my destination, and met with a very cordial welcome at the house of mrs. armitage, my mother's friend; two days later i became a member of the celebrated school for young ladies, taught at that time by mrs. wentworth, aided by competent assistance. mrs. wentworth was a widow lady, of superior education and noble mind. i spent four happy years in this institution, having visited my mother but once during the time. it was very pleasant for me to find myself once more at home, with the opportunity for rest and relaxation, after four years, application to books. during my absence, my mother and aunt patience had lived very quietly, they saw but little company, and were much occupied with their needles as a means of support. during the first three years of my absence my mother enjoyed good health, but, during my last year at school, she was visited by a long and painful illness, through which she was attended, with the utmost kindness and attention, by her aunt; my mother being unwilling to recall me from school, if it were possible to avoid it; and she had been obliged, on account of her illness, to withdraw most of the sum remaining in the savings' bank. on my return home i found her enjoying a tolerable degree of health, but i feared that such close application to her needle had been too much for one whose constitution was naturally delicate. she seemed like one weary both in mind and body. after my arrival, however, she seemed to regain her usual cheerfulness, and in a short time seemed quite herself again. it was now i felt it my duty to turn the education which my mother had been at so much pains to give me to account by teaching, in order to assist her, and also to obtain a support for myself. we had decided to offer aunt patience a home for the remainder of her life, indeed i felt that i owed her a debt of gratitude for her past kindness to my mother. we therefore told her that so long as we possessed a home, we would gladly share it with her, provided she felt contented to remain with us. she at first demurred a little, as she was aware that our means were limited; but when my mother told her that she would not know what to do without her, it seemed to set her mind at rest, and she gladly assented to our proposal, and it was settled that for the future her home was to be with us. i had as yet settled upon no definite plan in regard to teaching. my mother wished me to apply for the situation of governess in a family, as she thought that position would command a higher salary, and would prove less laborious than a situation in a school. about this time we noticed in a daily paper an advertisement for a governess, wanted in the family of a mr. leighton, residing in the suburbs of the city; the salary offered was liberal, and i thought, with my mother, that i had best apply for the situation. chapter iv. governess in mr. leighton's family. it was with a feeling of trepidation, such as i never before experienced, that i ascended the steps of the splendid residence of mr. leighton. when i found myself at the door, my courage well nigh failed me, but without giving myself much time for reflection, i rang the door bell. after some little delay the door was opened by a domestic, of whom i enquired if i could see mrs. leighton. the servant replied that she did not know, but that she would see if her mistress was disengaged. "what name?" enquired the servant, "miss roscom," i replied. the servant ushered me into the parlor, and left the room. being left alone, i amused myself by taking a survey of the apartment. it was evident that i had entered the abode of luxury and wealth. the sofas and chairs were covered with rich velvet, while satin curtains draped the windows. an elegant and costly piano occupied one corner of the room; the walls were adorned by costly pictures, and on the marble centre-table were many books in elegant bindings; and rare and exquisite ornaments were scattered with lavish profusion. upon the entrance of a tall, and, as i thought at the time, rather haughty-looking lady, i rose, bowed and continued standing, as she said,-- "my servant informs me your name is miss roscom." i replied in the affirmative, and added, "i have the pleasure, i presume, of addressing mrs. leighton?" the lady acknowledged her claim to that name, and i continued,--"seeing your advertisement for a governess, i have made bold to apply for the situation." the lady bent upon me a searching look, as she replied,-- "pray be seated miss, and we will converse upon the matter." i gladly obeyed her request that i should be seated, for i felt nervous and agitated. after a moment's silence she addressed me, saying,-- "you look rather young, for the responsible duties of a governess." i replied that i was not yet nineteen years of age, that i had not as yet been engaged in teaching, having only myself left school three months since,--but that i found it necessary that i should do something for my own support and that of my widowed mother,--and that i would gladly do my utmost to give satisfaction, could i obtain a situation. mrs. leighton, after a moment's thought, said,--"although you are young for the position, your countenance pleases me, and i feel inclined to give you a trial." she then informed me that my pupils would consist of two girls, the eldest twelve, the other ten years of age, also a little boy of seven. she added, "i had almost forgotten to enquire if you have brought any references?" whereupon i handed her the certificate of qualifications given me by mrs. wentworth when i left school. she looked pleased as she replied, "your being for four years a member of mrs. wentworth's school is in itself a recommendation." i also handed her the names of several ladies well known in the city, telling her she was at liberty to make any enquiries of them she might think proper. she replied that she felt almost certain she would engage me, but that she would send me a decided answer in the course of two or three days. i thanked her, and, bidding her good morning, set out on my return home, much elated with the success of this my first application. the salary offered by mrs. leighton was a weighty consideration to me, and although aware that my duties would often prove unpleasant and irksome, i felt that i could endure much with the consciousness that i was assisting my dear mother. my mother advised me not to be too sanguine as i might not obtain the situation; but, on the third day after my application, my suspense was relieved by receiving a note from mrs. leighton, saying that she would gladly engage me, if i still wished for the situation; and she named an early day when she wished me to enter upon my duties. i replied that i gladly accepted the situation, and would be ready to begin duties at the day appointed. now that i had accepted the position, i began to experience many doubts as to my success in the undertaking. i had no knowledge as yet of the dispositions of the children that were to be committed to my care, not having even seen them; but my mother told me i was wrong to allow such thoughts to trouble me, and that the blessing of god would surely rest upon my labors so long as i continued in the path of duty. i therefore cast away all my desponding fears, and hastened the preparations for my departure to the home of the leightons. i was kindly received by mrs. leighton upon my arrival; and, when we were seated in the parlor, she summoned the children for the purpose of introducing them to me. "my dears," said she, addressing the children, "this is miss roscom, your governess." then, turning to me, she introduced them each by name. i must confess that i was not prepossessed in favor of the eldest of the girls. she was very tall for her age; she had a dark complexion, with very black eyes and hair, and had, as it seemed to me, rather a forbidding expression of countenance. she also gave me, as i thought, rather pert replies to the few remarks i addressed to her. there was not the slightest resemblance between her and her younger sister; her name was georgania. there was something peculiarly attractive in the countenance and manner of bertha, or birdie, as she was called by all the family. she was indeed a child formed to attract the admiration and love of all who saw her. her complexion would have appeared almost too pale but for the rose-tint on either cheek; she had beautiful eyes of a dark blue, and her soft brown hair fell in luxuriant curls upon her shoulders. she came forward as her mother called her name and placed her hand in mine. i thought at the time that i had never before seen so lovely and engaging a child. the little boy, lewis, was a manly looking little fellow for his age, although i feared, from his countenance that he might possess a temper and a will not easy to be controlled. he somewhat resembled his sister georgania, as his complexion and eyes were dark; but he had a more pleasing expression of countenance. when mrs. leighton had dismissed the children from the room, she turned to me, remarking that probably i would like to retire for a time to my own room, she called one of the servants and requested her to show me to my apartment. as i was leaving the parlor she informed me that tea would be ready at half-past six o'clock. the room appropriated to my use was very pleasant, and was also tastefully furnished. at the tea-table i was introduced to mr. leighton, whom i had not before seen. i was very much pleased by his manner, which had none of that patronizing condescension with which the rich so often address the poor. i found him a gentleman, in the truest sense of the word. after tea, mr. leighton requested me to favor them with some music. accordingly i seated myself at the piano and played several pieces, with which he seemed much pleased. he remarked that they were quite at a loss for music since their eldest daughter, laura, left home for school, as their two youngest daughters had but recently commenced taking lessons. as i rose from the piano, mrs. leighton enquired if i sang. i replied that i sometimes sang to oblige my friends. she asked if i would favor them with a song. resuming my seat, i began the first song which occurred to my mind. it chanced to be that much-admired song, by foster, called "willie, we have missed you." when i concluded i was surprised to find mrs. leighton in tears. she informed me, by way of apology, that their eldest son's name was willie, and that he had been absent for some months in england, on account of the death of a wealthy uncle, who had made him his heir. she remarked, further, that he was the life of their dwelling, and they had indeed missed him very much. i said that i was sorry to have given her pain. she replied that the song had afforded her a pleasure, although, said she, "i could not refrain from tears while thinking of my absent willie." in order to change the subject, mr. leighton remarked that they were fortunate in securing a governess who could both sing and play, as he was very fond of music. when i left mrs. wentworth's school i was called an excellent performer on the piano, for i was very fond of music, and had devoted much time to practice. we also enjoyed some very pleasant conversation during the evening, and the more i saw of mr. and mrs. leighton i felt disposed to like them. when i retired to my own room i kneeled and thanked my heavenly father for directing me to a home where i had a prospect of being useful and happy. it is not my intention to give a detailed account of the events of the next two years; and a few words must suffice for that period of time. if i had trials of temper to endure from my pupils,--and who ever yet was a governess and had not,--i also enjoyed much pleasure in their society. the eldest of my pupils gave me more trouble than did both the others. her memory was not retentive; she had also a certain listlessness of manner during lessons which was at times very annoying. but it was a very pleasant task to instruct birdie; she drank in knowledge eagerly, and possessed an excellent memory. in music she made astonishing progress, for a child of her years; and she was of a most affectionate disposition, which made the duty of imparting knowledge to her doubly pleasant. the progress of little lewis was equal to that of most boys of his age. i found less trouble with him than i had at first anticipated. i found him to be a child that would never be controlled by harshness, but he was easily restrained by kindness. as often as i could do so conveniently i visited my mother and aunt patience. aunt patience seemed happier than i had ever before seen her. i think the quiet of her home tended to soften her somewhat irritable temper. chapter v. willie leighton's return from england. soon after i became a resident in the dwelling of mr. leighton, they received a letter from willie, informing them that the estate of his deceased relative could not be finally arranged in less time than a year, perhaps longer; and he thought that instead of returning to philadelphia he would enter a college in england, and devote the intervening time to study. his parents could not object, knowing it to be for his interest, as he had not, when a boy taken very kindly to study. a year passed away, and willie did not return, but they received frequent letters from him. near the close of the second year he wrote, informing them that he intended leaving england on the tenth of the month following, as the matters pertaining to the property left him were now satisfactorily arranged. about this time laura returned home from school, having finished her term of study. mrs. leighton intended sending georgania to the same institution where laura studied, but she was not to go till the coming autumn. she wished, however, that i should remain with them till birdie and lewis should be old enough to send from home. i had been very, _very_ kindly treated in the home of mrs. leighton, and had become strongly attached to my pupils, especially the two younger of them; and i was glad of the opportunity of remaining near to my mother. as the time drew near when they looked for the return of willie, all the family were busy with their preparations for giving him a joyous welcome. when i observed the eagerness with which they looked forward to his return, i could not at times help feeling a pang of regret that i had neither brother nor sister of my own. had it not been for my surviving parent, i should have felt entirely alone in the world. not that i envied the leightons--far from it--but i could not help sometimes contrasting my position in life with theirs. they being blessed with the love of fond parents, brothers and sisters, along with the possession of abundant wealth, and every comfort which tends to form a happy home; while i was a poor, fatherless girl, obliged to labor for my own support and that of my mother. i could not help thinking how different all might have been had the life of my father been spared. i do not think that i was usually of an unhappy disposition; on the contrary, i was inclined to be hopeful and cheerful; but i believe with the best of us, the happiness of others more favoured than ourselves will give rise to a feeling of sadness. the time soon arrived when, according to the letter they had received from willie, they might daily expect his arrival. none of the family were able to settle their minds upon any employment, and it was with the greatest difficulty that i could obtain the attention of my pupils during the time appointed for their daily lessons, and, being aware of the cause, i could hardly blame them. their suspense was at length ended by the arrival of willie. never shall i forget the joy which was depicted upon the countenance of little lewis when suddenly he burst into my room, exclaiming, "oh! miss roscom, our dear, _dear_ brother willie has come at last! don't you wish you had a brother willie too?" had he known the pang which his childish remark occasioned me he certainly would never have made it. with much difficulty i kept back my tears and tried to appear as much pleased as the child evidently wished me to be. i had been accustomed, since my residence in the family, to spend my evening mostly with them in the parlor; but on that evening i remained in my own room, feeling that i should be an intruder upon that family reunion. i took up a book and endeavored to interest myself in its pages. i could distinctly hear the joyous murmur of voices from below, varied by bursts of laughter, not loud, but strikingly mirthful. i soon heard light footsteps ascending the stairs; the next moment birdie rushed in, exclaiming, "mamma says she has been so much occupied that she had almost forgotten you; but she says you must come down at once; you mustn't sit here alone when we are all so happy." i begged to be excused from going down, saying that they would probably prefer being left to themselves on this evening of willie's return. "oh!" said she, "papa and mamma both expect you to go down." fearful of giving offence, and after making some slight alterations in my dress, i accompanied birdie down stairs and entered the parlor. i believe most persons feel a kind of embarrassment when meeting for the first time one of whom they have long heard much. i was sensible of this feeling when i entered the parlor that evening. willie rose as i entered the room, and mrs. leighton, coming forward, said,-- "miss roscom, allow me to introduce to you my son willie." i felt much relieved by this unceremonious introduction. for a time we engaged in general conversation. the manner of willie was so genial and pleasant that i at once felt at ease in his society. i had often thought that birdie resembled no other member of the family, but that was before i saw willie. he had the same complexion, the same cast of countenance, with the same smile, only in a more mature and masculine form. after an hour spent in social conversation, he said some music would be very welcome to him, it was so long since he had enjoyed that pleasure in their own home. laura immediately went to the piano, and sang two or three songs which she knew to be favourites of his. willie invited me to play, but i begged him to excuse me for the time being, as he had three sisters present, who all played more or less. after his sisters had each in their turn favored him with some music, he rose, and taking the vacant seat at the piano, asked if we would not like to hear an english song. his sisters laughed heartily, thinking him to be only in jest; but their amusement changed to wonder and admiration when, after running his fingers lightly over the keys, he began playing a soft and melodious prelude. it seemed that when a boy of fifteen, he had as a sort of amusement learned the rudiments of music, but he had not begun with any settled purpose of making progress in the study, and had soon become tired of it. what then was their surprise to hear him sing with much taste and skill, to a beautiful accompaniment, a song he had learned in england. he explained, that while in england, a class-mate of his, who was an excellent musician, had given him lessons; and that after a time he had become very fond of it, and had practised much during his leisure hours. it was easy to see that willie was almost idolized by all the family. during the evening mrs. leighton could scarcely take her eyes from the face of her son, and they all eagerly listened to his every word: and any one who saw the noble-looking young man, could not wonder at their affection for him. when he rose from the piano, birdie and lewis begged for one more song, but mrs. leighton reminded them that it was late, and that their brother must be fatigued. and soon after prayers, the happy family separated for the night. chapter vi. an evening party. previous to the return home of laura and willie, the leightons had seen but little company for a family of their wealth and social position; but now, instead of the heretofore quiet evenings, their superb parlors were thronged with acquaintances and friends, for both willie and laura had been favourites with both young and old. laura had intended giving a large party, but had deferred it till willie should return home; and soon after his arrival the invitations were sent, and preparations were commenced for the contemplated party. i did not expect, neither did i wish, to be included among the guests. i had never attended a fashionable party in my life; and i thought, even were i favoured with an invitation, that i should feel strangely out of place amid so much display of wealth and fashion as i should be sure to meet with at a party given by one of the most wealthy and influential families in the city. i was much surprised when i received from laura a very cordial invitation to attend her party. i at first declined the invitation, saying that i was unaccustomed to any thing of the kind, and that as most of the guests would be strangers to me, i should prefer not attending; but when mr. and mrs. leighton expressed their wish that i should attend the party, i overcame my reluctance and consented. the evening at length came, and although i anticipated but little pleasure from the party, i felt a degree of restlessness and expectation when the appointed evening arrived. my wardrobe was not furnished with any superfluities in the way of dress, and my command of money was not sufficient to allow of any extravagance in apparel. laura kindly offered to present me with a beautiful silk dress for the occasion, but i delicately, though firmly, declined the gift, for i wished not to appear otherwise than in my true position. i therefore selected the most appropriate dress i possessed for the occasion; it was quite plain, though of rich material. the only ornament i wore was a pearl necklace, which had been a bridal gift to my mother. laura assisted me in making my toilette, and insisted that i should allow her to place a few natural flowers in my hair, and to please her i consented to wear them. laura looked very lovely in the costly dress purchased for the occasion; she also wore a set of diamond ornaments, which her father had presented to her on her return from school. as soon as we had finished our toilettes, we descended to the drawing-room, where mr. and mrs. leighton had already taken their places, as it was near the hour when they might expect their guests to begin to assemble. i went down thus early to avoid the unpleasantness of entering the brilliantly lighted drawing-room after it should be filled with guests. i had requested of the leightons that i might receive as few introductions as possible under the circumstances. truly it was a brilliant assembly which soon filled those spacious apartments. among the guests who first arrived were a mr. and mrs. lawton, with their daughter, to whom laura gave me an introduction. their kind attentions and lively conversation soon dispelled the feeling of embarrassment with which i first found myself in the company of so many wealthy and distinguished people. dancing was soon introduced. dancing was an accomplishment which i had never learned, as my mother disapproved of the amusement. willie seemed disappointed when he invited me to become his partner for the quadrille then forming, and i replied that i did not dance. when he learned that i did not dance he introduced to me a young gentleman by the name of shirley, who was seated near us, and who, for some reason or other, did not join the dancers. mr. shirley's conversational powers were extremely good, and we engaged in conversation for some time, in the course of which i enquired why he refrained from dancing? a shade of sadness passed over his countenance as he replied,-- "when a mere youth i was very fond of the amusement, and devoted much time to the practice of it. i believe it is the only thing which i ever knowingly did against the wishes of my parents; but my fondness for dancing amounted almost to a passion, and i often frequented the giddy ball-room when i knew that i was grieving my fond parents by so doing. my father and mother considered dancing a sinful amusement; but as my inclination to follow it was so strong, they finally forbore to admonish me further. "when i was about twenty years of age my mother died. i was then residing at a distance from home. when mother's illness became alarming, i was summoned home. i was tenderly attached to my mother, and my grief was overwhelming when i saw that she must die. a short time before her death, she said to me one day, when we chanced to be left alone, 'my dear son, there is one subject upon which i wish to speak with you, 'ere i leave you for ever. you know i have ever considered dancing to be a sinful amusement. there may be no sin in the simple act of dancing, but it is an amusement which certainly has a tendency to evil. i know that you very much enjoy it, but you are now capable of serious reflection, and allow me to ask you if you feel in a suitable frame of mind for prayer and meditation when you retire to your room after having spent the evening in the frivolous amusement of dancing?' this was an argument which i could neither gainsay nor resist, and coming as it did from the lips of my dying mother, i was much affected by it. before leaving my mother's room, i solemnly promised her that i would never again participate in the amusement of dancing, and that promise i have most sacredly kept. i now often wonder that i could ever have been so fond of an amusement which at the best affords so little real enjoyment to its votaries. i trust you will pardon the liberty which i have taken in talking so long of myself to you, an entire stranger; but when you enquired my reason for not joining in the dance, something in your countenance impelled me to be thus candid in my answer." we remained for some time longer in conversation, and i really began to enjoy the party. there were several ladies and gentlemen seated near us, engaged also in conversation, and i could not avoid hearing much that passed among them. presently i heard a lady enquire of a mrs. kingsley, a lady to whom i had been introduced in the early part of the evening,-- "who is that young lady with whom mr. shirley has been so long conversing?" "oh!" she replied, "she is _only_ the governess in mrs. leighton's family. a _person_, as i am informed, of good education, but very poor, and obliged to teach as a means of support for herself and mother, who is a widow." why should i have felt so indignant at those words, which, if maliciously intended, were certainly true? i suppose the attentions i was receiving at this my first party were causing me to forget my true position. the lady who had first spoken remarked further to mrs. kingsley,-- "don't you think her very pretty--almost beautiful? i think i never before saw so intelligent a countenance." mrs. kingsley replied,-- "i see nothing so very intelligent in her countenance, and if you consider her pretty, i must say that i am astonished at your taste; indeed i think her quite common-looking. i almost wonder that the leightons should have made her a guest at a party with their friends; but then miss laura is kind-hearted, and i presume invited her out of pity--those _poor people_ have so few pleasures." "hush! she may hear you." and they changed the subject. i had, however, heard quite enough to spoil my enjoyment for the rest of the evening. i was young and inexperienced then, and this was my first, though by no means my last, lesson in those distinctions which the world draws between the rich and the poor. had i possessed a little more knowledge of the world i should better have understood the matter, knowing as i did, that mrs. kingsley had an unmarried daughter present, of uncertain age, with a fair prospect of remaining for some time longer in her state of single blessedness. i forbear describing miss kingsley, and will only say that if mrs. kingsley thought me common-looking, i, on the contrary, thought her daughter, miss kingsley, to be very uncommon-looking. after the remarks to which i had been an unwilling listener, i derived very little pleasure from the party. i mentally said, if my poverty is to be made a subject of conversation in parties like this, i wish never to attend another; and i was heartily glad when the gay assembly departed, at two o'clock in the morning. thus ended my first party, which would have afforded me much enjoyment had i not chanced to hear those annoying remarks from mrs. kingsley. the party given by the leightons was soon succeeded by others among their numerous acquaintances. to several of those parties i was favored with invitations, which i invariably declined, for i had decided to attend no more fashionable parties. at length, when urged by the leightons to give my reasons for steadily refusing all invitations, i informed them of the remarks i had overheard from mrs. kingsley on the night of laura's party. never shall i forget the look of scorn and contempt with which willie leighton listened as i related the circumstance; but he made no remark, as he knew mrs. kingsley to be one of his mother's most intimate friends. mrs. leighton remarked that mrs. kingsley possessed many good qualities, although she was sometimes inclined to make malicious remarks. chapter vii. failing health of clara's mother. i soon had a far more serious cause for disquiet than the remarks of mrs. kingsley or any one else could have occasioned. i had many times during the past year feared that my mother's health was failing. she looked thin and pale, and seemed to lack her usual activity in performing her household duties. i frequently enquired if she were ill, and she had ever replied that she was quite well; only it might be a little fatigued. but the truth could no longer be concealed. my mother was ill, and that seriously. she still attended to her daily occupations, but she was greatly changed; she seemed during the past few weeks to have grown thin almost to attenuation. she was very pale, except at times there was a feverish glow upon her cheeks. i was then too young to detect, as i should now do, the insidious approach of that foe to human life, consumption. going one day to visit my mother, i was so struck by the change so visible in her countenance, i privately asked aunt patience if she did not feel alarmed for my mother? she burst into tears, and was for some time unable to reply. i had never before seen aunt patience so much affected. i begged of her to tell me if there was any real cause for alarm, for i had hoped she would be able to dispel all my fears in regard to my mother. regaining her composure, she told me that consumption was hereditary in my mother's family. i had never before chanced to hear it mentioned, but aunt patience now informed me that several of the family had fallen victims to that disease, and that she feared it had already fastened upon my mother. "i am glad," she said, "that you have spoken to me upon the subject. i have long wished to make known my feelings to you, but i shrank from giving you pain. i have been unable to persuade your mother to call a physician. she imagines herself better; but i can see but too plainly that such is not the case." i forebore mentioning the subject to my mother at that time; indeed i could not have done so. i was now thoroughly alarmed--almost terrified, and it was with a heavy heart that i returned to the dwelling of mrs. leighton. i had frequently spoken to mrs. leighton of my mother's failing health, and i now felt it my duty to resign my position as governess, for a time at least, and return to my mother, that she might be relieved from all care. when i returned to mrs. leighton's on the evening in question, i again spoke to her upon the subject, saying that i feared i should be obliged to resign my situation in her family and return to my mother, who evidently needed my attention. mrs. leighton expressed much sympathy for me in my trouble, saying that i ought by all means to hasten to my mother; but added that she did not wish me to resign my position, as she was willing to wait for me for any length of time i might find it necessary to remain at home. she said, further, that laura would be quite willing to give some attention to the children during my absence; and she tried to cheer me up, saying that she trusted my mother would soon be better. i too tried to be hopeful, but the impression that my mother was to die had taken deep hold of my mind. i visited my mother the next evening, and, to avoid surprising her by suddenly returning home, i informed her that i intended spending a few weeks at home, as i needed rest from teaching, and that laura would attend to the children during the time i should remain at home. my mother seemed so cheerful that evening that i began to hope that i might have been too much alarmed; but, when i had opportunity for speaking privately with aunt patience, her words confirmed my worst fears. she informed me that at her earnest solicitation my mother had that day summoned a physician; that he had prescribed some medicine for her, and given her some advice in regard to diet, walking or riding in the open air, &c. she further informed me that she had herself spoken privately to the physician, requesting him to tell her candidly what he thought of my mother's case. he replied,-- "as you have asked me a plain question, i think it my duty to give you a candid answer. i know not," continued the physician, "how it might have been had i been called six months ago, but now i fear the case of mrs. roscom is beyond the reach of medicine. i will gladly do my utmost for her, but i fear that a few months, it may be a few weeks, will terminate her life." this was _fearful_ tidings to me, as i had strongly hoped that the opinion of the physician would have been more favorable. when i became outwardly composed, i rejoined my mother, in company with aunt patience. my mother was not aware that aunt patience had held any conversation with the physician regarding her illness. she seemed much pleased at the prospect of my return home. i informed her, before leaving, that she might expect my return in the course of two or three days. she failed rapidly from this time; and, shortly after i returned to my home, was obliged to give up all employment, however light. we often reminded her of the physician's wish, that she should walk in the open air; but it was seldom she felt equal to the task of walking even a short distance. mrs. leighton and laura often called, and brought many little delicacies to tempt the appetite of my invalid mother. mrs. leighton told my mother that she would be happy to send her carriage as often as she felt strong to ride out. my mother replied that on fine days she would gladly avail herself of her kind offer; and, so as long as my mother was able, the carriage was sent every fine day to give her the benefit of a short ride in the open air. i presume that, on ordinary occasions, i should have felt some embarrassment in receiving a visit from mrs. leighton and laura in my home, which appeared so humble, compared to their own elegant residence; but now it never cost me a thought, for, in the presence of a great sorrow, all trifling considerations vanish away. it was in the month of may that i returned home, and by the last of june my mother was entirely confined to her room, and much of the time to her bed. she suffered much from nervous restlessness, and at times her cough was very distressing. she would allow no one, as yet, to sit with her during the night, but i gained her consent that i might sleep on a lounge which stood in her room. there was no end to the kindness we received from the leightons; no day passed without some one of the family calling to enquire for my mother. soon after this time my mother appeared much better. she was able to sit up more than formerly, and her cough was far less troublesome. i remember one day saying to aunt patience, when we chanced to be alone, that i began to think my mother would yet recover, she seemed so much better. "my dear clara," she replied, "i hope your mother may recover; but you must not build hopes which i fear will never be realised. this seeming change for the better is only one of these deceitful turns of her disease by which so many are deceived. i do not wish to alarm you needlessly, but i dare not cherish any hopes of her recovery." the idea that my mother would die had been impressed upon my mind from the first; yet, when i observed her improved appearance, i thought that the physician, as well as ourselves, might have been deceived. chapter viii. a bright dream and peaceful end. the seeming favorable turn of my mother's disease proved, as aunt patience had feared, of but short duration. she was soon again almost entirely confined to her bed; except that, in the after-noons for the sake of the change, she would recline for a short time upon the sofa in the parlor. but this was only for a few days, and then she was unable to leave her own apartment. as i have said so little regarding my own feelings, in view of my mother's death, the reader may be led to think that i felt less keenly than i might have been supposed to do. if i have said little, it is for the reason that i have no words adequate to describe what my feelings were at the time. i felt stunned as by a heavy blow; and it seemed to me if my mother died i certainly could not live. i had yet to learn that grief does not kill--that is, not suddenly. i have often since looked back to that time, and felt deeply humbled, while thinking how little i felt resigned to the will of heaven. i could not then, as i have since done, recognize the hand of a kind and loving father in the stroke. i could only feel that my mother was leaving me, and all was darkness beyond. i now scarcely ever left my mother's room, except when aunt patience would almost compel me for a short time, to retire to my own apartment, that i might obtain a little rest. but the thought that soon i would have no mother was ever present to my mind, and i wished to remain with her as long as she might be spared to me. about three weeks previous to my mother's death, aunt patience urgently requested me one afternoon to retire to my own room and seek some rest, saying i looked entirely worn out. after obtaining from her a promise that she would not allow me to sleep too long, i complied. my room seemed very cool and refreshing that sultry afternoon, and, lying down upon my bed, i soon sank into a profound slumber, which continued for three or four hours. upon my going down stairs, i was surprised at the lateness of the hour, and enquired of aunt patience why she had not called me? she replied that as my mother had seemed quite comfortable, she thought it best to let me enjoy a sound sleep. i persuaded aunt patience to retire to rest soon after tea, as i intended watching that night by my mother. thus far we had ourselves been able to attend to the wants of my mother, without assistance, as it pleased her better that either aunt patience or i should attend to her; but we had lately allowed a friend to sleep in the house, as we did not like to be left alone. that evening, after my mother had partaken of a little light refreshment, she seemed inclined to sleep. i took up a book and tried to become interested in its pages. as my mother now seemed to enjoy a peaceful slumber, i remember i thought her dreams must have been happy ones, for i often noticed a smile upon her countenance. i think she had slept nearly two hours, when she awoke, and requested me to give her a drink. i supported her upon my arm as i held to her lips a glass in which i had mixed some wine and water. laying her gently back upon her pillows i enquired if i could do anything farther for her comfort? she replied that she felt quite comfortable; and, thinking that she might again fall asleep, i resumed my reading. after remaining quiet for sometime she softly called my name. as i stepped hastily to her bed-side, she said,-- "come and sit near me, clara, i have something to say to you." obedient to her request, i drew my chair near to her bedside, and seated myself. she clasped my hand in both hers, as she said,-- "my dear clara, i have long wished to ask you if you are aware that i must soon leave you?" as she said these words the grief of my overburdened heart defied control, and, burying my face in her pillows i sobbed convulsively. this sudden near approach to death sent an icy chill over my whole being. "you must endeavor to compose yourself, my daughter," said my mother, "and listen to me." i tried to restrain my tears as my mother continued. "i have long wished to talk with you, but have deferred it from time to time, through fear of giving you pain; but i now feel it an imperative duty to converse with you upon the subject. allow me to tell you a dream which visited me in the slumber from which i awoke a few minutes since. in my dream i seemed to be walking alone on a calm summer's evening, without any definite object in view. when i had walked for a considerable distance the scene suddenly changed, and i found myself walking by the banks of a placid river. looking forward, i observed a person advancing to meet me, whom i at once knew to be your father. my joy was great at the prospect of meeting him; for in my dream i recollected that he had been long dead. i enquired of him how it happened that i met him there? he replied, 'i saw you coming when you were yet a long way off, and feared you might lose your way.' turning back in the direction from whence he had come, he turned towards me, with a pleasant smile, and said, 'follow me.' as we walked onward, i observed that the river by which we walked seemed gradually to become more narrow the further we advanced. he continued to walk onward for some time, a little in advance of me, when suddenly stopping, he turned to me and said, 'my dear alice, look across to the other side of the river, and behold the place which is now my home.' the breadth of the river had continued to lessen, till it was now only a narrow line of water which separated us from the opposite shore. i looked as he directed me, and, oh! clara, i can find no words by which to describe to you what i saw. it so far surpassed anything pertaining to this world that i am unable to give you any description of it. i felt an intense desire to cross the narrow stream which separated me from the beautiful place. i enquired of your father if i could not with him cross the stream and enter those golden gates, which i could plainly see before me. he replied, 'no, my dear alice, every one must cross this river _alone_. you must go back for a brief period, as you have yet a mission to perform before taking your final leave of earth. you must comfort the sorrowing heart of our child 'ere you leave her. tell her of the home which i now inherit, where there is also a place prepared for you and for her, if you so live as to be found worthy to enter those gates which you see before you.' he then said, 'i must now leave you, and you must return to our clara for a few brief days, when you will be summoned to rejoin me in yonder blissful abode.' i turned to make some further remark to him, but he had gone from my sight, and i awoke with my mind deeply impressed by my dream. but now," added my mother, to me, "the bitterness of death is already past. it is for you only that i grieve. i trust however, that instead of grieving immoderately for your mother you will endeavor to discharge your duty in whatever position it may please god to place you, and so live that whenever you may be called from this world it may be to meet your mother in heaven. since my illness my mind has been much exercised regarding my own state as a sinner; for be assured, clara, that, in the near prospect of death, we find in ourselves much that is unworthy, which had before escaped our notice while in the enjoyment of health. but i am now happy while i tell you that all is peace with me. i now feel willing to depart whenever it is the will of my heavenly father to call me hence, and i feel confident that in a very few days i shall be summoned from earth. i am sorry to see you grieve," said my mother, for i was weeping bitterly; "endeavor to derive consolation from what i have said; and be thankful that when i leave you it will be to rejoin your dear father where there is neither sorrow nor sighing." seeing that my tears agitated my mother, i succeeded in checking them, and assumed an air of composure, which i was far from feeling. after the above conversation with me, my mother enjoyed a night of tranquil repose. i now felt the certainty of her death, and prayed for strength to meet the sorrow which that event would bring to me. so calm and peaceful were the last days of my mother's life that we could hardly recognize the presence of the king of terrors, till the damps of death were gathering upon her brow. she died at sunset on a mild evening in september. she had passed the day almost entirely free from pain. toward evening she slept for an hour; on waking, she said to me,-- "my dear child, i think the hour of my departure has arrived. i feel that i am dying." i now observed that look upon the countenance of my mother which tells us that a loved friend is no longer ours. she requested me to call aunt patience, which i instantly did. i also sent a hasty summons to her physician, although it was needless, for she was even then entering the dark valley. the physician soon arrived, and after one look at my mother, said to me, in a low voice,-- "my dear miss roscom, as a physician, i can be of no further use, but as a friend, i will remain with you." the physician was an old and valued friend, being the same who had stood by the death-bed of my father, and he deeply sympathized with me in this, my second bereavement. as i stood by my mother, my grief was not noisy; it was far too deep and powerful for that. outwardly, i was quite calm. my mother had endeavored to prepare my mind for this hour. i had also prayed for strength to meet it with fortitude and resignation; but those who have stood by the dying bed of a fond mother may understand my sorrow. my mother was spared much of the suffering which attends the last moments of many. she seemed to be softly breathing her life away. after lying for some time tranquil and quiet, she suddenly opened her eyes and looked from one to the other of us. as they rested upon me, she made a sign that i should go nearer to her. "weep not, my dear child," said she, in a whisper; "be faithful, and you will yet meet me in heaven." she also addressed a few words of like import to aunt patience. suddenly, she raised her hands, and, as she looked upward, with a smile upon her countenance, we heard a sigh--and her spirit had returned unto god who gave it. i was borne from the apartment in a state of insensibility, and, when i awoke to consciousness, the doctor and aunt patience were standing at my bedside. after administering a quieting draught, the physician left us, saying to aunt patience that she must try and induce me to sleep, as that would help to restore my shattered nerves. aunt patience sat by me during the long hours of that night, but it was not until the day began to dawn that i sank into a heavy slumber, from which i did not awake until a late hour in the morning. on first awaking, it seemed to me that i had had a frightful dream; but, as my mind became more clear, i realized the sad truth that my mother was no more. i heard a footstep enter my room, and soon a familiar voice addressed me, saying,-- "my dear clara, i have come to see if i can be of any assistance to you in your sorrow." it was mrs. leighton who had thus entered my room, she having hastened to our dwelling as soon as she learned of my mother's death. i could not at first reply to her kind words; i could only weep. she did not force me to talk, but, gently as a mother could have done, did she bathe my fevered brow and throbbing temples. telling me to remain quiet for a few moments, she left the room, and soon returned, bearing a cup of tea, which she insisted upon my drinking. she assisted me to dress, and opened a window to admit the cool morning air. i tearfully thanked her for those kind attentions. she insisted that i should lean upon her for support, as we descended the stairs, and indeed i felt scarcely able to walk without assistance. on going below, i found several kind friends, who had remained with aunt patience to render their assistance in any office of friendship we might require. mrs. leighton accompanied me to the room where lay the lifeless remains of my mother. i folded back the snowy napkin which covered her face, and gazed long upon those dear features, now stamped with the seal of death. as i gazed upon her now peaceful countenance, i felt that to wish her back again would be almost a sin. i also derived much comfort from the consoling words of mrs. leighton. i cannot dwell longer upon these sorrows. when i stood at my mother's grave, and looked down upon her coffin, after it had been lowered into the earth, i almost wished that i too were resting by her side. since that period i have experienced other sorrows; but the sharpest pang i have ever felt, was when i turned away from the graves where rested the remains of both father and mother. as i have before mentioned, aunt patience had, in the course of her life, passed through many trying vicissitudes, and, previous to her death, my mother had considered that we could make no better return for the debt of gratitude we owed her than by making provision for her old age. i say, with good reason, that we owed her a debt of gratitude, for, during her residence with us, she had shown the utmost kindness to both my mother and myself. and when my mother's health failed her, the care and attentions of aunt patience were unceasing. with a view of making provision for aunt patience, my mother had made arrangements that our house should be sold, and the money deposited for her future benefit. in making this arrangement, my mother wished me to accept of a portion of the money which the sale of the house would bring; but i declined, saying that, as she had given me a good education, i was amply able to support myself, so long as i was blessed with health. my mother assented to the arrangement, saying that i could draw money from the deposit should i ever have occasion so to do. we remained for two months in our lonely home, after the death of my mother; at the end of which time the new owner took possession of the dwelling. aunt patience had decided upon going to reside with a relative who lived in massachusetts, and the interest of the money, deposited for her use, was to be regularly remitted to her. we disposed of the furniture, with the exception of a few cherished articles, which i reserved for myself; these the purchaser kindly allowed me to leave in one of the upper rooms till i might wish to remove them. the same day that aunt patience set out on her journey to massachusetts, i returned to mrs. leighton. chapter ix. friendly attentions. it was well for me that my mind was actively employed; had it been otherwise i should have continually brooded over my sorrows. as it was, when engaged with my duties in the school-room, my thoughts would wander to those two graves in the church-yard, and my tears would fall upon the book from which i was listening to a recitation from my pupils. georgania having left home, i had only birdie and lewis as pupils. much pity did those affectionate children evince for me when they could not but observe my grief. birdie would often say,-- "please, miss roscom, do not grieve so much; we all love you dearly, and will be very kind to you." and lewis, who could never bear to see my tears, would say,-- "i will be a little brother to you, miss roscom, so please don't cry any more." to please my pupils, i endeavored to appear cheerful; but truly the heart knoweth its own bitterness. one thought, however, afforded me some consolation, and that was, that i was obeying my mother's dying injunction, by striving to do my duty in the position in which i was placed. as days and months passed away, i, in some measure, regained my usual cheerfulness, although i was nowise inclined to forget my mother. a year had now passed since i saw her laid in the grave. i often visited her resting-place, and there i renewed my resolve to follow her precepts; and many a time, kneeling by her grave did i implore wisdom from on high to enable me to follow the counsels i had so often received from those lips, now sealed in silence. it seemed to me, at such times, that i almost held communion with the spirit of my mother. i experienced much kindness from every member of mr. leighton's family. i spent my leisure time mostly in my room. they did not, of course, invite me to join parties, but they would often urge me to join a few friends in their own parlor; but i always replied that my deep mourning must be my excuse. i had no taste for company or mirth. one afternoon the leightons had gone to join a picnic party some two miles from the city. they had invited me to accompany them, but as usual i declined. i felt sad and lonely that long afternoon, and, being left entirely alone, i could not prevent my thoughts from recurring to the past. i thought of all the happy, careless days of my childhood; then my memory ran back to the night, when, at ten years of age, i stood by the death-bed of my father. with the eye of memory, i again saw my mother, as she stood bowed with grief at the grave of my father; and now i was left alone to mourn for both father and mother. memory also fondly turned to miss edmonds, my first teacher. i felt that to see her again would indeed be happiness; but i knew not where miss edmonds then resided. the last time i had heard from her she contemplated going south, as governess in a gentleman's family. then came the memory of the happy years i passed in mrs. wentworth's school. where now were the many friends i had then known and loved? as these thoughts passed in quick succession through my mind, i could not refrain from weeping; and, as i was under no restraint from the presence of others, my tears seemed almost a luxury. i know not how long my fit of weeping might have continued had not one of the domestics entered the room, and informed me that a poor woman was in the kitchen seeking charity. "i thought," said the girl, "as the other ladies are all away, you might give her a trifle, for she seems very needy." hastily drying my tears, i went down to the kitchen, where i found a young woman, who would have been very pretty but for the look of want and suffering depicted upon her countenance. it was evident, from her appearance, that she was not an habitual beggar. as i approached her, she seemed much embarrassed, as she said,-- "sure an' its mesilf that never expected to come to this at all, at all." "my poor woman," said i, "you appear to have been unfortunate." "an' its mesilf that has been misfortunate," she replied, as the tears gathered in her fine, dark eyes. she continued,-- "there was never a happier couple than dinnis o'flaherty an' i the day the praste made us one. but, after a while, the wages got low, and the times were hard wid us. 'polly,' says dinnis to me one day, 'will you be afther goin' to ameriky wid me?' 'dinnis,' says i, 'wherever it plases you to go its i, polly mcbrine, that's ready and willin' to follow.' we sailed in the _st. pathrick_, and tin days afther i saw my darlin' dinnis buried in the salt say. he fell sick wid a faver, and all me prayers for his life could not save him; an' here i am, a lone widdy, in a shtrange land, without a penny in me pocket, nor a place to lay me head." here the poor woman's grief choked her utterance, and, covering her face with her hands, she wept aloud. i requested the domestic to bring her some food, which she ate like one famishing. i placed in her hand money sufficient to secure her from want for two or three days at least. i did not in the least doubt her story, for her countenance bore the impress of sincerity. when she left, i requested her to call again in two or three days, as i felt certain that mrs. leighton would assist her in obtaining some employment. she left me with many thanks, and blessing me after the manner of her country. chapter x. a surprise. after tea i felt that i must walk out in the air, as i was suffering from a severe headache. i made my way to the church-yard, and sought the graves of my parents; and, seating myself at the headstone of my mother's grave, i remained for a long time wrapped in profound meditation. i know not how long i remained thus, for i took no note of time; but when i raised my head at the sound of approaching footsteps, the shades of evening were gathering around me. it was willie leighton whose footsteps had aroused me from my reverie. "my dear clara," he began. but when i looked up with a little surprise at his familiar use of my christian name, it being the first time he had thus addressed me, he colored slightly, and said,-- "i beg pardon, miss roscom, for thus intruding upon your solitude, but, finding you absent on our return, i came to seek you and, with your permission, to escort you home. i think you do wrong to come to this lonely place to cherish a sorrow which seems to me to be almost unreasonable. i would not have you forget your parents; but, surely, if they are permitted to look down upon you from their home in heaven, they would not wish to see you thus debar yourself from society and all the innocent pleasures of youth. the dews of evening," said he, "are beginning to fall, and i must insist upon your return home." on our way home i could not help a feeling of uneasiness lest willie's attentions to me should displease the family. i had allowed him to accompany me home, as i could not have done otherwise without absolute rudeness; yet i feared that, in so doing, i should displease his friends. my uneasiness increased as, upon entering the house, i thought i detected a shade of displeasure in the manner of mrs. leighton toward me. if willie noticed anything of the kind, he _seemed_ unconscious of it, for he made several efforts to engage us in conversation; but, for some reason or other, no one, except himself, seemed inclined to be social that evening. i felt very much depressed in spirits, for i attributed their silence to displeasure because willie had accompanied me home, and, at an early hour, i bade them good night, and retired to my own apartment. after reading, as was my custom, a chapter in my bible, and commending myself to the care of heaven, i sought my pillow; but hour after hour passed away and sleep refused to visit my eyes. again and again i mentally asked myself what had i done to merit the coldness which mrs. leighton had shown in her manner to me? it was not my fault that willie had sought me, and in a kind and gentlemanly manner escorted me home; and i only attributed his attention to that respect which the _real_ gentleman ever accords to a lady, be she rich or poor. i, however, decided that in future i should receive no attentions from willie. the leightons were kind, but extremely proud, and i feared that the pleasure willie had lately evinced in my society had displeased them, although his attentions had been nothing more than a person socially inclined might be expected to show to one dwelling beneath the same roof. again did the remark made by mrs. kingsley occur to my mind, and i firmly decided that, if mrs. leighton was displeased, she should have no further cause for displeasure, for i too was possessed of a proud spirit. the dawn of the new day glimmered in the east 'ere sleep closed my eyes, and then my slumbers were disturbed by unpleasant dreams. one dream, in particular, i still remember. i seemed, in my dream, to be a homeless wanderer i know not whither. i had left the limits of the city and was walking in the open country, on a road that seemed strange and unfamiliar to me. at length such a feeling of loneliness and misery overpowered me that i felt unable to proceed further. seating myself by the roadside, i burst into tears. raising my eyes, i observed a female figure approaching me, which i soon recognized as my mother. she drew near, and, laying her hands upon my head, as if in blessing, said,-- "fear not, my beloved daughter, only continue in the path of duty and all will yet be well." with a cry of joy, i sprang forward to embrace her, and awoke to find the sun shining dimly through the partially closed blinds of my window. i felt fatigued and nervous, after passing such a restless night. i was startled by the pale and haggard countenance which my mirror reflected that morning. i had scarcely finished my toilet when the breakfast bell rang, and i hastened down stairs, where the family were already assembled around the breakfast table. whatever of displeasure mrs. leighton might have felt the previous evening seemed to have vanished with the light of morning. perhaps, thought i, her displeasure existed only in my own imagination, after all. noticing my pale countenance, she enquired if i was ill? i replied that i had a slight headache, owing to my not having slept well. she kindly offered to excuse me from attending to my pupils that morning, but i told her that i felt quite able to attend to my usual duties. in the course of the day i mentioned to her the case of the poor woman who had called the day previous. she replied that, after seeing her and making some enquiries regarding her capability, she would speak to a friend of hers, who was in want of a servant, and she had no doubt she could influence her friend to engage her, should she consider her a suitable person. accordingly, when mrs. o'flaherty called, two or three days after, mrs. leighton questioned her in regard to her capability as a servant. she replied that she had had considerable experience as a servant in genteel families, previous to her marriage in the old country. mrs. leighton requested her to call again shortly, saying that she hoped to be able to find her a situation. mrs. leighton further informed her that, if the lady engaged her, it must be entirely on her own recommendation; and that she hoped she would prove herself faithful and trustworthy. she replied,-- "an' its mesilf that'll be afther doin' me best to plaze the leddy, mem." and, with many thanks, she left the house. mrs. leighton was much interested by the intelligent countenance and honest, truthful manner of the woman, and she accordingly so strongly enlisted the sympathies of her friend, mrs. wallingford, that she agreed to give her a trial. mrs. o'flaherty seemed very thankful when she called, soon after, and mrs. leighton informed her that she had obtained a situation for her. mrs. leighton also furnished her with money sufficient to purchase some plain, but decent clothing, and a few days after she entered upon her duties in the dwelling of mrs. wallingford, who afterwards frequently remarked to mrs. leighton that she had much reason to thank her for providing her with the best servant she had ever engaged. chapter xi. embarrassing interviews. my time passed in the usual daily routine of duties. about this time georgania returned to spend a few weeks at home. though much improved in personal appearance, she was far from being a pleasant companion. her manner, to me, was exceedingly haughty, almost contemptuous. she seemed to have entirely forgotten my unwearied pains in laying the foundation of her education. i could never understand the reason of her dislike to me. the feeling must always have existed, though kept in check during the time she had been my pupil. i think the rest of the family must have noticed her unpleasant manner to me; and, i have no doubt, remonstrated with her upon the subject. i was of a proud, sensitive nature, and the many slights, in an indirect way, which i suffered from her roused my indignation, and i was revolving the idea in my mind of seeking another home, when an event occurred which caused my departure from the home of the leightons sooner than i anticipated. on the morning of the day of which i speak, laura was unable to get out, as she was suffering from a cold. she was very anxious to execute some shopping that morning, and asked me if i would undertake to make her purchases, as i knew exactly what she wanted. i gladly assented, and, as i passed the sitting-room, on my way up stairs, i heard willie say,-- "i too have business up town, and i will drive miss roscom to the store where she is to make her purchases, and call for her on my return." mrs. leighton replied in a low, but changed voice,-- "why not send james, the coachman; it is more proper." i did not wait to hear willie's reply, but, when i came down, prepared for going out, the coachman was in waiting with the carriage. i was glad that willie was not to accompany me, for, since the evening he had escorted me home, i had carefully avoided his society. i was sitting that evening in the garden, in a kind of arbor, covered with weeping-vines. i was deeply interested in the volume i held in my hand, and was much surprised when willie suddenly entered the arbor, and took a seat by my side. i made a hasty movement to rise and leave the arbor, when he addressed me saying,-- "why is it, miss roscom, that you constantly avoid me, and treat me with such marked coolness? i am sure i have not merited such treatment. i have long sought an opportunity to speak with you alone, and now you must hear me. allow me to tell you that i have long loved you, with a deep and true affection. will you not become my wife, and thereby render me the happiest of mortals?" i was so much surprised by this unexpected declaration that it was some moments before i could collect my thoughts sufficiently to reply. i at length said,-- "although deeply sensible of the honor you have done me, i must say in reply, that i can never become your wife." he regarded me with unfeigned surprise as he said,-- "then you do not love me, clara. i had hoped that i was not wholly indifferent to you." i replied,-- "as i believe you have addressed me with candor, i will answer you in the same manner. i do love you; and, were i guided by my own heart in the matter, my reply to your honorable proposal would have been different. but there are insurmountable barriers to our union." "name them," was his reply. "mr. leighton," i answered. "whether or not you are aware of the fact, that i am unable to say; but i _know_ that your family would never consent to your marriage with their governess. they may respect and treat me kindly in my present position, but would never be willing to receive me as a daughter. it will, therefore, be wiser for you to place your affections upon some one in your own position in life." "am i not," replied willie, "free to follow my own wishes in the matter? what care i for those butterflies of fashion, whose highest enjoyment is to shine in the gay assembly or crowded ball room. my heart's devotion must be given to one who possesses true nobility of mind. should my parents refuse their consent to our marriage, then shall i feel justified in following the dictates of my own heart. i have never disobeyed my parents, and have endeavored to be guided by their counsels, but in this matter i must act in accordance with my own affection and judgment. in everything except wealth you are my equal, and i have enough for us both. allow me to tell my parents that my happiness rests upon their consent to our marriage; and, should they withhold their consent, i will marry you and abide the consequences, for i am certain they will soon be sensible of their error." being anxious to terminate the interview, i replied,-- "i must answer you, mr. leighton, in the manner which i consider will be best for us both. never will i consent to become the wife of any man, and, by so doing, alienate him from his parents. i have experienced nothing but kindness from all your family, and i cannot take a step which will bring sorrow and disquiet into your heretofore happy home. be advised by me and never allude to this subject again. i can be your friend, but not your wife. i intend, as soon as circumstances permit, to seek another home. remember me as a friend only, and whatever my own feelings may be, i shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that i have acted wisely and for the best." his countenance expressed extreme agitation, as, rising, he said,-- "you have made me very unhappy, miss roscom. i will remain silent for the present; but go not away from here, as that would destroy my only hope." when i entered the house, i heard the excited voices of mrs. leighton, laura, and georgania in the parlor. i heard mrs. leighton say, as i passed the door of the parlor,-- "are you sure, georgania, that you understood aright?" "quite sure, mamma," she replied; "i plainly heard willie ask her to become his wife; how i _hate_ her; and the thought of willie's loving her almost causes me to hate him." "hush!" exclaimed mrs. leighton; "i will investigate this matter myself." i hurried up to my room. i knew there was trouble in store for me, and i felt strong to meet it; for my own conscience acquitted me of any wrong-doing. after some little time had passed, i heard the footsteps of mrs. leighton ascending the stairs; and a moment after she rapped at my door. i opened the door and invited her to enter, and be seated. she then seated herself, and sat for some moments in silence. her countenance expressed both sorrow and anger, for, up to this time, i believed that mrs. leighton had loved me. i waited for mrs. leighton to open the subject, for i well knew what had brought her to my room, and i cared not how soon she made known the object of her visit. at length she said,-- "it seems to me, miss roscom, that you have rendered a very base return for my kindness." as she seemed waiting my reply, i said,-- "will you have the goodness, mrs. leighton, to explain your words, for i am unable to comprehend their meaning?" her voice expressed much displeasure as she answered: "i was not aware that my words required any explanation; but, if they do, it shall be given in few words. how dare you so far forget your own position, and ours, as to entice my son into making a proposal of marriage to one so much his inferior as you must know yourself to be?" should i live a hundred years i can never forget the shock her words gave me. i fairly trembled with anger. rising to my feet, i looked her steadily in the face, as i said,-- "that your words are false, as well as heartless, i need not tell you, as you are already aware of the fact. i appeal to you if i have ever in any way courted the society of willie. if he has asked me to become his wife, is it through any fault of mine? but you need give yourself no uneasiness upon the subject, for i have already told willie that i will never become the wife of any man whose friends would look upon me as their inferior. for, though poor, and obliged to labor for my bread, i possess a spirit equally proud with your own, and that spirit your insulting words have roused. when you accuse me of enticing willie into making a proposal of marriage, you well know that your accusation is false and without foundation." "i suppose," said mrs. leighton, after a short silence, "that you will see the propriety of seeking another home." "you might," i replied, "have saved yourself the trouble of reminding me of this, as i intend, this night, to leave your house. i intend to show you that i shall prove no hindrance to your son's marrying in accordance with your wishes. allow me to express my heart-felt thanks for your past kindness to me; but we must now part." mrs. leighton's anger, by this time, was beginning to cool. "i am perfectly willing," said she, "that you should remain here till you can obtain another situation. when i spoke of your seeking another home, i wished not that you should understand that i wished you to leave immediately." i thanked her, but said "i preferred going at once." she enquired whither i intended going? i replied that there were several families residing in the city who had known and loved my mother, who would gladly shelter her orphan daughter. mrs. leighton owed me, at the time, one hundred dollars of my salary; as i had not required the money, i had left it in her hands. leaving the room, she soon returned with the money in her hand, and pressed me to accept of fifty dollars over and above what was owing me. i thanked her, but said i wished to accept only of what was my just due. as she refused to receive back the money, i laid it upon the table, and began making my preparations for leaving her house. in less than an hour my trunks were packed, and i was ready to go. laura and georgania, i think purposely avoided me, for i did not see them before leaving. i felt grieved when i parted with birdie and lewis, for i had become strongly attached to them. lewis used often to say that boys never ought to cry; crying, he said, was only for girls and babies; but he must have forgotten himself on this occasion, for he cried bitterly when i bade him good-bye. as i turned from my pupils, mrs. leighton came forward and extended her hand to me. i could not refuse the hand that had so often administered to the wants of my dying mother. neither of us uttered a word. we shook hands in silence, and i passed from the house, and entered the carriage which was in waiting for me. there was a family by the name of burnside, with whom i had been intimate from childhood; to them i intended going, and in a few minutes i was set down at their door. it chanced to be mrs. burnside herself who answered my ring at the door. in a few brief words i informed her of the circumstances which had caused me to leave mrs. leighton so suddenly; at the same time, asking her if she was willing to afford me a home for a short time, till i could obtain another situation? "my dear clara," she replied, "to my home you are freely welcome for any length of time you may wish to remain. to-morrow we will talk further of the matter, but not another word to-night, for you look very much fatigued." the family consisted of mr. and mrs. burnside, and an aunt of mrs. burnside's, who resided with them. they had two daughters, but they had both married and removed a long distance from their early home. mrs. burnside offered to conduct me to my room, which offer i gladly accepted, for i wished to be alone. the excitement which had sustained me through the events of the past few hours had now subsided; and, when left alone in my room, i sat down to reflect calmly upon my situation. i could not but feel justified in the step i had taken; but i could not avoid a feeling of uneasiness when i reflected that i was now homeless. i did not wish to remain long with mrs. burnside, as i well knew they would accept of no compensation from me; and, for that reason, i felt the necessity of obtaining another situation as soon as possible; but i could come to no decision till after conversing with mrs. burnside upon the subject. after kneeling and imploring the protection and guidance of my heavenly father, i retired to rest, and, as i was worn out by the exciting events of the evening, sleep soon furnished a welcome relief from all anxious thoughts. i was greeted kindly by mr. and mrs. burnside the next morning, when we met at the breakfast table. the aunt, being somewhat of an invalid, did not usually take her morning meal with the family. the only allusion to my circumstances was made by mr. burnside, who said i had better defer any conversation upon the subject for the present, and that, in the meantime, he wished me to consider his house as my home. about eleven o'clock that morning, as i was sitting in the room with mrs. russell, mrs. burnside's aunt, the servant came up to inform me that a young gentleman was in the parlor, who wished to see me. looking at the card which the girl handed me, i read the name of willie leighton. i was sorry to wound his feelings; but, when i left their dwelling, i firmly resolved that i would never intentionally meet with willie again. i therefore requested the servant to inform mr. leighton that i was engaged. it was no easy matter for me to send this message to _him_; but my pride sustained me. two or three weeks passed quietly away. during this time, birdie and lewis twice came to see me, but whether by permission or by stealth i could not determine, and i would not enquire. willie called repeatedly, but i never granted him an interview, as i deemed it best for both that we should not meet. i shall never cease to remember with gratitude the kindness i received from mr. and mrs. burnside, and, as i wished not to abuse their hospitality, i thought it advisable, when some two months had passed away, to devise some means of earning my own support. they would have assisted me in obtaining a situation in philadelphia; but i wished to leave my native city, and see if new scenes and new friends would not have a beneficial effect upon my mind. i had now no remaining tie to bind me to philadelphia. i grieved, it is true, at the thought of leaving the place which contained the graves of my parents. nevertheless, i felt myself to be in the path of duty, while preparing to leave my native city. chapter xii. a new england home. i knew i had an uncle living in the state of new hampshire, whom i had not seen since i was twelve years of age--he having visited us at that time. he was my mother's only brother, and to him i decided to go. i once thought of going to aunt patience, but finally gave up the idea. i retained a very distinct recollection of my uncle. i remembered that he and my mother had strongly resembled each other, although he was ten years her senior. when quite young he had married a very worthy woman, and their union was blessed by two children, a son and daughter; but they had laid them both in the grave at an early age; therefore they were now childless. i had never seen my aunt, but my heart turned toward them, and my resolution was soon taken to visit them. they resided about three miles from the village of littleton, in new hampshire. the only obstacle in the way of my wishes was the long journey from philadelphia to new hampshire. i felt reluctant to undertake so long a journey alone. this obstacle was unexpectedly removed by the arrival of a mr. and mrs. egmont, from the state of ohio; they were relatives of mrs. burnside, and were journeying to the eastern states, to visit some friends who resided there. mr. burnside mentioned to them my desire to visit my uncle in new hampshire, and they gladly consented that i should accompany them on their journey. as they intended remaining but a few days in philadelphia, i was obliged to hasten the preparations for my departure. i could not but observe the hand of a kind providence in directing mr. and mrs. egmont to visit philadelphia at this particular time. on the evening preceding my departure i paid a farewell visit to the graves of my parents, and i shed some very bitter tears when i reflected that i might never again stand by this loved spot. i exacted a promise from mrs. burnside that, should any of the leightons make enquiries concerning me, she would not inform them of my destination. we left philadelphia at a very early hour the next morning, and, after a very long and somewhat tedious journey, arrived in safety at the busy village of littleton. mr. egmont conducted me to an hotel till he could make the necessary enquiries for finding my uncle. i knew he resided about three miles from the village, but was unable to say in what direction. mrs. egmont invited me to accompany them to their friends, who lived in the village, and rest before seeking my uncle; but, as i had arrived so near the termination of my journey, i wished to reach the home of my uncle without further delay. after accompanying mrs. egmont to their friends, mr. egmont returned to the hotel, where i awaited him. i was seated near a window, in the sitting-room, and heard him making enquiries of one and another for mr. wayland my uncle. no one seemed to know anything of the person he sought. as the landlord passed that way, he turned to him and enquired if he knew a farmer in that vicinity by the name of wayland? he replied that, having resided only for a short time in littleton, his acquaintance did not, as yet, extend beyond the limits of the village, and that he knew of no such person. i was beginning to fear that my uncle had removed to some other place, as i had not heard anything from him for a considerable time, when a ragged-looking boy, apparently about twelve years of age, made his way up to mr. egmont, and said-- "i can tell you where mr. wayland lives. he lives about three miles from here, on the waterford road. i knows you see, for i worked for him this fall, pickin' pertaters." giving the boy a piece of silver as he thanked him for his information, mr. egmont came to inform me that, when i had partaken of the dinner he had ordered for me, he would accompany me to the home of my uncle. the lad before mentioned had given mr. egmont so accurate a description of my uncle's residence that, when we came in view of the square, old-fashioned farm-house, described by the boy, we at once knew it to be my uncle's home. as we came in sight of the house, the question--how will they receive me?--arose in my mind; but the recollection which i retained of my uncle was of so pleasing a character that i had little doubt of meeting with a cordial welcome. as we drew near, i observed an elderly-looking man in the yard, engaged in mending some farming implement. from the appearance of the place, it seemed that the front entrance was but little used, the front door and blinds being closely shut. i was at that time wholly unacquainted with the habits and customs of country people. as we drove up to the gate, the man i had before observed, paused in his employment, and regarded us, as i thought, with no little surprise. surely, thought i, this man cannot be my uncle wayland. at the time of his visit to my mother he was a young and fine-looking man; but the man i now beheld was bowed as it were by age, and his hair was nearly white. i should have remembered that since i had seen him he had laid both of his loved children in the grave. true it is that sorrow causes premature old age; but, upon a second look at his countenance, i could clearly trace his resemblance to my mother. his eyes, when he raised them to look at us, so strongly resembled hers that my own filled with tears, which i hastily wiped away. alighting from the carriage, mr. egmont addressed my uncle, saying,-- "have i the pleasure of speaking to mr. wayland?" he replied in the affirmative, and added,-- "i know not whether or not i am addressing an old acquaintance; but your countenance is not familiar to me." mr. egmont replied,-- "i am not aware that we have ever met before; but this young lady who is your niece, miss roscom, has travelled in company with myself and wife, and i wished to leave her in your home before resigning my care of her." my uncle seemed overjoyed at seeing me. he assisted me to alight, and embraced me with true affection. he immediately conducted me into the house, and introduced me to my aunt. she was a middle-aged, kindly-looking woman; and i also received from her a cordial welcome to their home. they invited mr. egmont to remain till after tea, but he declined, saying that he had promised to return to their friends as soon as possible. after some conversation with my uncle and aunt, they advised me to retire to my room and seek rest, after the fatigues of my long journey; and i gladly followed my aunt up the stairs, to a neat bed-room, tastefully furnished. i was weary both in body and mind, and, lying down upon my bed, i soon sank into a sound sleep. when i awoke, daylight was rapidly fading before the shadows of evening. i hastened down stairs, fearful that i had kept my uncle and aunt waiting for their tea. i enquired of my aunt if such were the case? she replied saying,-- "i gave the hired men their supper at the usual hour, but your uncle and i have waited to take our tea with you." can it be possible, thought i, that they take their meals with their hired servants? i had yet to learn the different usages of life in the city of philadelphia and in a farm-house in the new england states. i wisely said nothing to my aunt of what was passing in my mind. tea being over, we passed the remainder of the evening in social conversation. we had much to say, mutually of family matters. i told them many particulars connected with the death of my mother, of which i had never informed them by letter. they also told me much concerning their deceased children. their son had died at the age of fifteen. as he had a decided taste for books, my uncle intended giving him an education, instead of training him to the life of a farmer. for a year previous to his death he attended school in massachusetts. returning home to spend his vacation, his parents thought his health was impaired, but attributed it to hard study, for he was naturally studious. they were hopeful that relaxation from study, with exercise in the open air, would soon restore him to his usual health. but their hopes were not to be realized; even then had death marked him for his prey; and consumption, which was hereditary in his father's family, soon laid him in the grave. three months after the grave had closed over their beloved son, walter, their daughter, caroline, fell a victim to a malignant fever, which at that time prevailed in the neighborhood, and they saw her too laid in the grave, at the early age of twelve years--thus leaving them childless and sorrowing. we shed many tears while conversing of our mutual sorrows; and it was quite a late hour for the simple habits of their household when we separated for the night. chapter xiii. new occupations. when going down stairs the next morning i was surprised, the hour was so early, at finding my uncle and aunt, with their two farm servants, already seated at the breakfast table. i must confess that these two farm servants seemed to me strangely out of place, sitting thus familiarly at the same table with their master and mistress. my uncle introduced them to me, by the names of mr. barnes and mr. hawkins, their christian names being solomon and obadiah, and by those names they were mostly called in my uncle's family. solomon, was a good humored looking man of some thirty years of age; he had, i afterwards learned, been for some years in my uncle's employ. obadiah was a youth of about seventeen years of age. his extreme bashfulness in the presence of strangers in general, and of ladies in particular, caused him to appear very awkward. added to this, he was, to use a common term, very homely in his personal appearance. his hair was very light, almost white; his eyes too were of a very light color, and uncommonly large and prominent. he was also freckled, and very much sunburned. he seemed very much over-grown, and his general appearance suggested the idea that he must be in his own way--a position of which he seemed painfully conscious. he had a most unpleasant habit of keeping his eyes constantly in motion. as i was seated directly opposite to him at the breakfast table, i found it very difficult to restrain my inclination to laughter, for i could not raise my eyes without encountering one of those furtive glances. the idea occurred to me that he was meditating on some means of escape from the table, and it was with much difficulty that i maintained a becoming gravity. i was very glad, however, when my uncle made some remark which provoked a general laugh; but i am ashamed to acknowledge that i looked to see what effect a smile would have upon the countenance of obadiah; but my curiosity, however, was not to be gratified, for, judging by his appearance, his thoughts were of too serious a nature to admit laughter. i was glad when breakfast was over, and i am certain that obadiah was more than glad. my aunt, like most of the farmers' wives in the vicinity, had no assistance in performing her household work, except in very busy seasons. i begged of her to allow me to assist her, although i feared that i should appear very awkward in the performance of duties to which i was so little accustomed. my aunt at first refused, saying i was not accustomed to kitchen-work. but when i begged to be allowed to try my hand in assisting her, she brought me one of her large, checked aprons, which she advised me to put on. thus attired, i washed and wiped the breakfast dishes, and arranged them in her spotless cupboard, saying to her that, while i remained an inmate of her house, she must allow me to assist her to the best of my ability, adding that i should be much happier if allowed to assist in her labors, than otherwise. seeing me so anxious, my aunt allowed me to take my own way in the matter. i succeeded much better than i had feared; and when the morning's work was finished, my aunt laughingly said that, with a little practice, she thought i should make a very useful kitchen-maid. in the afternoon she invited me to accompany her to the room which had been her daughter's. the room was tastefully, though not richly furnished. "this," said my aunt, "was caroline's room from her childhood. i have never allowed anything to be disturbed in the room since her death, except that i occasionally air and dust it. i suppose i am somewhat childish and fanciful; but it would pain me to see this room occupied by another." over the mantel-piece--for almost every room in my uncle's house contained a fire-place--there hung a picture of my cousin caroline, taken six months previous to her death. i drew nigh to look at the picture. one glance told me that she had indeed been a beautiful child. the picture was enclosed in a beautiful frame of leather-work, which had been the work of her own hands. i gazed long upon the fair picture, fondly hoping that the loss her friends had sustained, by her death, was her eternal gain, by being thus early removed from a world of sin and sorrow to her home in heaven. opening a drawer in a small bureau, my aunt told me to look at her school-books. by examining the books i was convinced that she must have been a child of no ordinary capacity, for her age. i also examined some of her apparel, with many other articles, which had been presents to her from friends. seeing the tears, which i found impossible to repress, my aunt became so much affected that i made some pretext for hastening our departure from the room; and, when we went down stairs, i endeavored to turn our conversation to some cheerful subject, to divert her mind from her sorrow, which had been vividly recalled by our visit to that lonely room. the view which my uncle's residence afforded of the surrounding country was very pleasing to the beholder. whatever way the eye turned, it rested upon well-cultivated farms, on which were erected comfortable and, in many instances, handsome and commodious dwellings. in the distance, the summits of the white mountains were distinctly visible, they being about twenty miles distant from my uncle's residence. mr. and mrs. egmont, according to promise, paid us a visit before leaving littleton. my uncle and aunt were much pleased by their friendly and social manner; and, when they took their leave, we parted from them with sincere regret. they left littleton soon after, on their homeward journey. three weeks had now passed since my arrival at my uncle's home, and i found myself daily becoming more and more attached to my kind uncle and aunt. obadiah appeared to feel much more at his ease in my presence than at the first. when i learned that he was an orphan-boy and had no home, i felt a deep sympathy for him; but still, when i encountered one of those glances, i often found it very difficult to avoid laughter. i learned from my aunt that he, being left an orphan, had been put to work at a very early age; and, consequently, had had but few advantages for study and improvement. he could read tolerably, and write a little. my aunt was of the opinion that notwithstanding his peculiarities, he was possessed of good common sense, and would make good progress in study if he had any one to render him the necessary assistance. i at once offered to assist him in his studies, and proposed to him that he should spend a portion of the long evenings in study. he seemed at the first to be somewhat startled by my proposition; but, seeing that i was in earnest, gladly consented, and forthwith commenced his studies. my aunt cautioned me about laughing, if he should chance to make comical blunders; and it was well that she did so, for some of his blunders were laughable in the extreme; but "forewarned is forearmed." after a time i learned that he really possessed an intellect of no mean order. he soon made rapid progress in study. he seemed fully to appreciate the pains i took in teaching him, and endeavored, by many little acts of kindness, to show his gratitude to me. soon after my arrival, my aunt, one day, said to me,-- "i hope you will feel happy with us; for i wish you to consider our house as your home for the future. you know not," she continued, "how glad i am of your company, and how your presence cheers us; we will gladly adopt you as our daughter, if you can be happy with us." i thanked her with tears in my eyes, and added that i was very happy in receiving so warm a welcome to their home, and would gladly do my utmost to fill a daughter's place to them. i further informed my aunt that i should be very happy to consider her house as my home, but that i should prefer teaching, as soon as i could find a desirable situation, as such had been my intention when i left philadelphia. but when i mentioned the subject to my uncle, he seemed much hurt that i should think of such a thing. i told him that the wish to teach did not proceed from any feeling of discontent in my home, but that i thought it wrong to remain idle, while possessing an education which qualified me for usefulness. he replied that if i felt anxious to teach, we would talk about it the following spring; but, said he, you must think no more about it for this winter, at any rate; and so the subject was suffered to drop. we led a very quiet life at my uncle's that winter. we saw but little company, except that occasionally the wife of some neighboring farmer would drop in to take a social cup of tea with my aunt. there was a maiden lady residing in the village of littleton who was always a welcome visitor at my uncle's residence,--her name was miss priscilla simmonds. she was somewhat advanced in years, and of a very mild and prepossessing appearance. upon the death of her parents, which took place many years before, she was left the owner and sole tenant of the house in which she lived. she lived entirely alone, and was considered a very valuable person in the village. she seemed, upon all occasions, to adapt herself readily to surrounding circumstances. at merrymakings, no one was so lively or social as miss simmonds: in the chamber of sickness, no hand so gentle and no step so light as hers; and when death visited a household, her services were indispensible. although occupying a humble position in life, she was very much respected by all who knew her. very few there were in the vicinity but could recall some act of kindness from miss simmonds, rendered either to themselves or their friends; and many there were who could remember the time when her hands had prepared the form of some loved relative for its last resting-place in the grave. thus was miss simmonds bound to the hearts of the people of littleton, as by a strong cord. in person she was tall; she had fine dark eyes, and her hair was lightly sprinkled with grey. from the expression which her countenance wore at times, i gathered the idea that she had, at some period of her life, experienced some deep sorrow. i one day enquired of my aunt if such were not the case. she gave me an evasive reply, and, perceiving that she wished to avoid the subject, i made no further enquiries. i trust the reader will pardon this digression from my story. in the course of the winter my uncle gave a party, to afford me an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the young people of the place. if the party lacked some of the forms and ceremonies practised in the city drawing-rooms upon like occasions, it certainly was not wanting in real enjoyment. chapter xiv. school at mill town. i believe there is no season more favorable to sober reflection than when we find ourselves alone, after mingling for a time in a scene of mirth and gaiety. after the departure of our guests, and my uncle and aunt had retired to rest, i indulged in a long fit of musing, as i sat alone by the kitchen-fire. in the silence and loneliness of the hour, my thoughts turned to my former home, and to the circumstances which had caused me to leave it; and although i had resolved to think no more of willie leighton, somehow or other, on this occasion, i found my thoughts wandering to him and to the seeming fatality which had separated us. the only living relatives of whom i had any knowledge were my uncle and aunt, and the before-mentioned aunt of my mother. but a circumstance which i had heard my father mention in my childhood had of late often recurred to my mind. i recollected often hearing my father speak of a twin-brother, and that they had been left orphans at the age of eight years; also, that he, my father, had been adopted by a gentleman residing about fifty miles from the city of philadelphia, who had given him a very good business education, and had procured for him a situation in the city when he became of suitable age. but the case had been different with his brother charles. he too had been adopted, but by a very different kind of man from the one who had received my father. he did not give him sufficient education to qualify him for mercantile business, and at the time that mr. williams procured a situation for my father in the city, his brother charles was apprenticed to learn the art of printing. he had, it seemed, entertained a dislike to the employment from the first, which increased to such a degree that he ran away from his employer; and instead of returning to his former home, he left the city. he was then fifteen years of age. my father had never been able to gain any tidings from him, and at length came to the conclusion that he must be dead. i know not why it was, but of late this circumstance had haunted my mind continually. the idea seemed to fix itself in my mind that i should yet see this long-lost uncle. i tried to banish the thought as an absurdity, but was unable to do so. as the idea returned to my mind with such frequency, i ceased trying to banish it, and prayed that what i now thought to be an idle fancy might prove a happy reality. how cheering to us is the return of spring, after the deep snows and severe frosts of winter. i very much enjoyed the sugar-making season at my uncle's farm. i derived all the more pleasure from its being to me such a novelty. although quite happy in my uncle's home, i still wished to carry out my former design of teaching, and as the season advanced, i again spoke to my uncle and aunt upon the subject. they were at first very unwilling to yield their consent; but, as they perceived that i was really anxious about the matter, they yielded their assent to my wishes. about five miles west of my uncle's farm was the small village of mill town, so called from the number of different mills erected on the fine water-privilege it contained. as the village was small, it contained but two schools; one a public school, and the other a select school, which had for three years been taught by a young lady from the state of maine, who had relatives residing at mill town. but miss landon, for such was the lady's name, intended returning to her home in maine in the month of june. i had formed a very pleasant acquaintance with this young lady during the winter, and she strongly advised me to secure her pupils, if i wished to teach, promising to use her influence to aid me in obtaining pupils; and, owing to her kindness, i had no difficulty in obtaining a sufficient number of pupils for opening a school. i was very glad to obtain a situation so near my home, that i might be able to visit my uncle and aunt at least once every week, and spend my sabbaths with them. "after all," said my uncle, "i don't know but you are right in wishing to teach, and i dare say, will be happier thus employed than otherwise." accordingly, i opened my school about the middle of june, with twenty-five pupils. i had made arrangements to board in the house of the minister, who resided in the village. his name was mr. northwood, or parson northwood, as he was usually called by the villagers. he was very much respected on account of his many excellent qualities both as pastor and friend. his family consisted of himself, his wife, and two little girls, who attended my school. i was highly pleased with my school at mill town. my pupils were mostly girls between the ages of ten and fifteen years. i had one class of quite young boys, whose parents preferred a select to a public school. many years have passed since i was wont to summon those loved pupils around me in that little school-room. since that period, when far removed from those scenes, and surrounded by circumstances widely different, memory oft recalled those pupils in that new england village. about this time i received a letter from aunt patience. the letter informed me that her health was somewhat impaired, and that she sensibly felt the approaching infirmities of age. i knew not her exact age, but i was certain that she must be considerably advanced in years. she stated that she was quite happy in her home, but added,-- "my dear clara, i had thought to have ended my days with your dear mother; and when the thought comes home to my mind, that she is now no more, it makes me very sad." i was happy to know that, owing to the provision made for her, aunt patience enjoyed all the comforts of life. since her removal to massachusetts we had not often corresponded; but, as often as i did write, i enclosed a small sum from my own earnings, lest the interest of the deposit should prove insufficient for all her wants. my mother left with me the injunction that, should my own life be spared, never to forget aunt patience in her old age: and i would cheerfully have endured any privation myself, if, by so doing, i could have added to her happiness; for the injunction of my dying mother i regarded as most sacred. i closed my school for the summer holidays, and i was, as well as my pupils, glad to be released from the school-room during the sultry weather which prevails in the month of august. chapter xv. a happy re-union. upon my return home, my uncle said he thought i should enjoy a change of air and scene for a time as he fancied i was looking pale and thin. i replied that i felt quite well, and felt no wish to leave my home during vacation. however, about this time, a party was formed among my acquaintances for visiting the white mountains, and they were anxious that i should make one of their number; and, as my uncle and aunt strongly advised me to go, i at length consented. the sublime scenery of the white mountains has been so often and so ably described by tourists, that any description from me would be superfluous. upon our arrival at the profile house, we found it so much crowded with guests that we had no little difficulty in obtaining accommodation. when one party left, the vacancy was almost immediately filled up by fresh arrivals of pleasure-seekers. every one seemed highly to enjoy themselves, and time passed swiftly away. i was one evening seated on the piazza, engaged in a very pleasant conversation with several ladies and gentlemen, who, like me, had sought the piazza to enjoy the refreshing coolness of the evening air, after an intensely hot day. i noticed a carriage approaching in which several persons were seated. i did not at first pay much attention, as the arrival of strangers was a matter of very frequent occurrence; but, as the carriage drew nigh, my attention was riveted by a lady seated therein. she made some smiling remark as one of the gentlemen stepped from the carriage and assisted her to alight. that smile was sufficient--it was the very smile of miss edmonds, the same happy smile which had so pleased my fancy years ago. the seven years which had passed since i had seen her had somewhat changed her countenance; but her smile was the same. as she took the arm of the gentleman who accompanied her, and ascended the steps of the piazza, i stepped forward and spoke to her as any stranger might accost another in a place of public resort. i wished to see if she would recognize me. she replied to me only as she might have done to any other stranger, but without the least sign of recognition. perceiving that she did not recognize me, i went near to her and said,-- "can it be possible, miss edmonds, that you have forgotten your old pupil, clara roscom?" in a moment i was clasped in her arms and felt her kisses upon my cheek. turning to the gentleman whose arm she had left, she said,-- "allow me, miss roscom, to introduce to you mr. harringford, my husband." i acknowledged the introduction as well as my feelings of joyful excitement would admit of, for i knew of no other friend whose presence would afford me so much happiness as she with whom i had so unexpectedly met. seeing that she looked very much fatigued, i conducted her at once to my own apartment. she was very anxious to learn all that had befallen me since we parted in philadelphia, but i insisted upon her resting before entering upon the long conversation which we anticipated enjoying together. when miss edmonds, or mrs. harringford as i must now call her, had somewhat recovered from her fatigue, we derived mutual satisfaction from a long and confidential conversation. in giving me a brief sketch of her life during the time we had been separated, mrs. harringford said,-- "on going to new york, i obtained a situation as governess, which, for various reasons, i did not like, and i decided upon seeking another situation. i chanced about this time to meet with a lady whose home was in south carolina. her husband had business which required his presence in the city of new york, and he had prevailed upon her to accompany him. the lady had, some years before, formed a slight acquaintance with mrs. leonard, the lady in whose house i was employed as governess, and when she visited the city she sought out mrs. leonard, and their former acquaintance was resumed. during one of her visits i happened to hear her remark that a friend of hers, residing in greenville, s. c., had commissioned her if possible to find her a governess for her three little daughters, who would be willing to remain for some years, and the salary she offered was very liberal. instantly my resolution to go south was taken. as i had anticipated, i had some difficulty in obtaining the consent of my parents to my undertaking, but, when they found that my heart was really set on going, they at length consented. i felt no fears regarding the journey, as i was to accompany mr. and mrs. carlton on their homeward journey, and they promised to see me safely at my new home. it is needless for me to dwell upon particulars. i spent more than four years in the family of mr. leslie, where i went as governess. i was kindly treated by them, and shall ever remember them with gratitude. during the last six months of my residence with the leslies, i became acquainted with mr. harringford, who is now my husband. he was transacting some business in greenville, which detained him for a considerable time. i often met him at parties. we were mutually pleased with each other, and, when he left greenville, i was his promised wife. my home is now at jackson, in tennessee, where mr. harringford resided previous to our marriage. "i felt a strong desire to visit my parents, at new york, this summer; and, as mr. harringford had heard much of the beautiful scenery of the white mountains, he persuaded me to accompany him to new hampshire for the purpose of visiting them, and to that circumstance i owe the happiness of again meeting with you. i have ever remembered you as the bashful school girl i left in philadelphia, and when i found you so much changed you cannot wonder that i failed to recognize you." in my turn i narrated to mrs. harringford the events of my life since we parted. her tears flowed often as she listened to the particulars of my mother's death, for she had much loved any mother. i kept nothing back, not even the circumstance which had caused me to leave mrs. leighton. the intimate friendship existing between us made it easy for me to speak freely to mrs. harringford. she informed me that she intended visiting philadelphia before returning south, as she had many old friends residing there. as she contemplated visiting the leightons, i exacted from her a promise that she would conceal from them her knowledge of my residence. i had never once heard from them since leaving philadelphia. mrs. burnside was the only one with whom i had corresponded; and i had requested her to avoid mentioning the leightons in her letters to me. but of late i had felt a strong desire to hear from them, and i requested mrs. harringford to give me some account of the family in the letter she proposed writing from philadelphia. the party of young friends who had accompanied me from littleton were quite ready to return at the expiration of a week; but mrs. harringford intended remaining a week longer, and she was very anxious that i should remain with her. i therefore allowed my friends to return without me. i wished to enjoy the society of mrs. harringford as long as possible, for i thought it quite probable that we might never meet again. we spent a happy week together after the return of my friends to littleton. the only shadow upon our happiness was the thought--how soon we must be parted, perhaps for life. from all i observed of mr. harringford i thought him to be worthy, in every respect, of the bride he had won. happy days pass swiftly by, and the morning soon arrived when we must bid each other adieu. before we parted, mrs. harringford drew a costly diamond ring from her finger, and, placing it upon mine, said,-- "wear this, my dear clara, for my sake; and, when you look upon it think of me, who will often think of you, and will pray for your happiness both here and here-after." the moment of parting had arrived. we parted on the piazza of the profile house; they to proceed on their journey, and i to return to my uncle and aunt. i have never since met with mrs. harringford. the ring she gave me at parting still encircles my finger, and when i gaze upon it i often think of the loved friend who placed it there. i received an affectionate welcome from my uncle and aunt upon my return, and i was truly glad to find myself once more at home. mrs. harringford had promised to take an early opportunity of writing to me, and i had requested her to give me some account of the leightons. separate from other causes, i felt anxious to hear from birdie and lewis, for i was strongly attached to those two affectionate children. a letter from her arrived in due time. after giving me information of many of my former friends, she said,-- "and now, clara, it only remains for me to give you an account of my visit to mrs. leighton, although i fear i shall give you pain instead of pleasure by so doing. when i called on mrs. leighton, i was struck with surprise at her changed appearance. you doubtless remember, clara, what beautiful hair mrs. leighton had. you will scarcely credit me when i inform you that it is now thickly sprinkled with grey. she appeared like one who struggled with some secret sorrow. an air of sadness seemed to reign in the home, where formerly all was joy and happiness. mrs. leighton so strongly urged us to spend the night with them that we could not refuse. laura was absent, visiting some friends in the country. georgania and bertha were both absent, attending school. lewis has not yet been sent from home, but attends school in the city. he has grown a fine, manly-looking boy. he made many enquiries of me, if i had seen or heard from you? i was sorry that i was not at liberty to tell him how lately i had seen you, for i am sure that it would have afforded him much pleasure. my enquiry for willie caused a pained expression to cross the countenance of both mr. and mrs. leighton. mr. leighton replied briefly by saying, 'willie is at present in england.' later in the evening, when the gentlemen had gone out, mrs. leighton said to me,--'as you are an old friend, mrs. harringford, i will explain to you the cause of willie's absence. you doubtless remember clara roscom who was a former pupil of yours. after you left philadelphia, she completed her education at a distant boarding school, and soon after her return home i engaged her as governess in my family. we soon learned to love and respect miss roscom, on account of her many excellent qualities, and we treated her very kindly. she left us to attend to her mother during the illness which terminated in her death, and after that event she again returned to us. but, to tell you all in a few words, willie fell in love with her, and asked her to become his wife. when i first learned the fact i suppose i made use of some rather strong language to miss roscom, so much so that she left my house that very night. she remained for a short time with a mrs. burnside, who resides in the city and then left philadelphia, and we have never since been able to gain any knowledge of her residence. if mrs. burnside knows anything of her she gives no information upon the subject. i have no doubt that she is governed by miss roscom's direction, for she possessed a proud spirit. i regret some things i said to her, but the thought of willie, our pride, uniting himself by marriage to our governess put me almost beside myself with indignation. but willie was so blinded by his love for her that all considerations of family or wealth were as nothing to him. when he learned that miss roscom had left the city, and he found himself unable to learn anything of her, he became embittered towards us all. he soon after declared his intention of returning to england; but what grieves me most of all is, that he will hold no correspondence with us since leaving home. he has now been ten months absent. we have written to him again and again, but have received no reply.' as she concluded, mrs. leighton burst into a flood of tears, which, for some time, she was unable to check. you may believe me, clara, when i tell you that you are happier today, while attending to the duties of your school, than is mrs. leighton, in her luxurious home." such was, in substance, the information which mrs. harringford's letter afforded me. i almost regretted having sought the information, for it made me very unhappy. it grieved me much to learn that willie was self-exiled from his home and friends. chapter xvi. miss simmonds' story. the fifteenth of september found me again installed in my position as teacher in my school at mill town. i still continued to board in the family of parson northwood. i retained all my former pupils, with the addition of several new ones. miss simmonds had often invited me to pay her a visit in her home at littleton, but i had as yet found no convenient opportunity for so doing. one friday evening i decided to pay the long promised visit, and remain over the sabbath with miss simmonds. she seemed very glad to see me, and gave me a friendly welcome to her humble home. but, humble as it was, it presented a picture of neatness and cozy comfort. after tea, and when her light household duties had all been carefully performed, we seated ourselves by a cheerful fire in her little sitting-room, and prepared to spend the long evening in social conversation. i had always been very fond of the company of miss simmonds. her conversational powers were very good, and she was sufficiently well informed to render her a very agreeable companion. as the night closed in, one of those violent storms of wind and rain came on, which are so frequent in the eastern states during the month of november. the beating of the storm without caused our warm and well-lighted room to seem all the more cheerful. as the evening advanced i observed that miss simmonds grew thoughtful; and, although she endeavored to be social, it was evident that her mind was occupied by something else than the subject of conversation. after a short silence, she addressed me suddenly, saying,-- "i feel inclined, clara, to relate a story to you, which at least has the merit of truth; for it is a chapter from my own life." i gladly assented to listen to her story, for since i first met miss simmonds i had entertained an idea that there was something of romance attached to her life. "thirty years ago," began miss simmonds, "i was not the faded, care-worn woman which you now see before you. i was born in this village. my parents were poor but industrious people. they were blessed with two children, myself, and a brother, who was two years younger than i; but, ere he reached the age of ten, we were called to lay him in the grave, leaving me the sole comfort and joy of my bereaved parents. they had very much loved my little brother; and, when death claimed him, all the love which he would have shared with me, had he lived, was lavished upon me. there is little in my childhood and youth worthy of notice, as we occupied an humble sphere in life. i suppose you will hardly credit me, clara, when i tell you that, at the age of sixteen i was called beautiful. it was something to which i had given but little thought; but the ear of youth is ever open to flattery, and i must confess that my vanity was flattered by being called beautiful by the residents of the then small village of littleton. "when i was about eighteen years of age," continued miss simmonds, "a young lawyer, by the name of almont, opened an office in this village, for the practice of his profession. he came among us suddenly, and he informed those with whom he first made acquaintance, that he had formerly resided in massachusetts. many wondered at his locating himself here, as the village was then but small, and offered few inducements to professional men. "he was very affable and pleasing in his address, and soon made the acquaintance of many of the young people of the village, and we soon found him to be a very agreeable addition to our pic-nic excursions and other parties for pleasure and amusement. he paid marked attention to me from the time when we first became acquainted; and, to shorten my story, after an acquaintance of six months, he asked me to become his wife. i am now an old woman, clara, and need not blush to tell you that i had learned to love him with a deep affection, and i yielded a willing assent, provided that my parents approved. true, i had no knowledge of his connections or former life; but since his residence in our village, his conduct had been irreproachable, and he was fast gaining the respect and confidence of all who knew him. there was something very attractive in his personal appearance; he seemed to have seen much of the world, for so young a man, for he spoke in a familiar manner of many distant scenes and places. when he sought my hand in marriage, my parents did not object. he was gaining quite a lucrative practice both in littleton and adjacent places, and he declared his intention of making littleton his permanent home. doubtless, this influenced my parents to favor his suit, as the thought of my settling in my native village was very pleasing to them. he was very much flattered by society, and i was all the more pleased to find myself the object of his choice. when our engagement became known, i had good reason for believing myself to be envied by many of my female acquaintances. neither they nor i were aware how soon their envy was to be turned to pity. an early day was appointed for our marriage, and my poor parents exerted themselves to give me a suitable wedding outfit. about this time, mr. almont had business which obliged him to leave littleton for a short time. when he bade me adieu i felt a foreboding of evil; and, after he had gone, i experienced a depression of spirits, for which i could not account. but, when he had been a week absent, and i received from him a cheerful letter, informing me of his return in a few days, i strove to banish my sad thoughts and busied myself in preparing my wedding outfit. going one day to the post office, with the expectation of finding there a letter from mr. almont, i received this instead." as she spoke, miss simmonds unfolded a letter, which i had observed her take from a drawer before commencing her story. it read thus:-- "boston, june th, --. "to miss priscilla simmonds: although you are, personally, a stranger to me, i nevertheless take the liberty of addressing you. by the merest chance i learned your name and residence, also, that you are shortly to be united in marriage to mr. george almont, a lawyer from the city of boston. "i felt it an imperative duty, before that event shall take place, to inform you that i am the wedded wife of the same george almont, whom you are about to marry. he came to boston about five years since, having, as he said, just completed his studies in the city of new york. he opened an office in this city for the practice of his profession; and, as his external appearance was pleasing, he soon gained an entrance into good society. i need not inform you that he was likely to make a favorable impression upon the mind of a young lady just entering society. he rose rapidly in his profession; and although my parents were wealthy, when they saw how deeply i was attached to him, they did not object to my receiving his addresses, as he bid fair to rise to a position of wealth and influence. it is needless, as well as painful, for me to dwell upon the subject. two years after he first came to boston we were married. we soon removed to our own dwelling, which was a wedding gift to me, from my father. for a time he treated me with the utmost kindness and affection. but you may believe me, miss simmonds, when i inform you that he has been a dissipated, unprincipled man from his youth. his seemingly correct habits had merely been put on, for the purpose of gaining him an entrance into respectable society. when he began to treat me with indifference and neglect, for a long time i bore it in silence; but i was at length forced to acquaint my parents of the matter. my father soon took measures to ascertain what manner of life he had led while pursuing his studies in new york; and the information he gained was very discreditable to mr. almont. but my parents advised me, as we were married, to try if, by kindness, i could not reclaim him from his evil ways. i willingly followed their advice, for i still loved him; but, i suppose the restraint which for a time he had imposed upon himself made him all the more reckless when he returned to his evil courses. he soon seemed to lose all respect for me as well as for himself; and his conduct became so vicious that my father recalled me to his home, and forbade mr. almont from ever again entering his dwelling. i could, i presume, have obtained a divorce from him with little difficulty, but i shrank from the publicity attached to such a course. i still reside with my father and mother. mr. almont left boston soon after i returned to my parents. we heard nothing of him for some time; but we lately heard from a reliable source that he was residing in littleton, in new hampshire, and also of his approaching marriage. nothing but a sense of duty would have induced me to make this communication to you. i would save another young life from being shadowed by the same cloud which has darkened mine. should you doubt the truth of what i have written, you can easily satisfy yourself, by either visiting this city in person, or causing any of your relatives so to do. enclosed you will find the street and number of my residence. i sincerely hope you will receive this communication in the spirit in which it is written, and that is, one of kindness, and a desire to save you from the sorrows which i have experienced. "yours truly, "malvina almont." miss simmonds continued,-- "you may be able to imagine, but i cannot describe the effect produced upon my mind by the perusal of this letter. i felt stupefied and bewildered. how i reached my home i could never tell. i entered the house just as my father and mother were sitting down to their noon-day meal. as soon as my mother caught sight of me she enquired of me what was the matter? i suppose the agony of my mind was depicted upon my countenance. without a word, i placed the letter in her hand, which, after perusing, she handed to my father. the natural temper of my father was rash and impulsive, and the contents of that letter exasperated him beyond control. he used many bitter words, and threatened dire vengeance upon young almont, should he ever again enter our dwelling. my mother begged of him to desist, saying that if he were indeed guilty, as the letter proved him to be, his sin would certainly bring its own punishment. when we had succeeded in quieting the anger of my father, we were able to converse upon the matter in a calm and rational manner. we finally decided that my father should read the letter to mr. almont upon his return, and see what effect it would produce upon him. three days later he came. he entered our dwelling and accosted us with his usual bland and smiling manner. in a short time, my father turned and said,--'during your absence, mr. almont, my daughter has received a most unaccountable letter which i wish to read to you, hoping you may be able to explain it.' the paleness which overspread his countenance on hearing my father's words put to flight the hope i had cherished that he would be able to prove the letter a falsehood. without any further remark, my father read the letter to him, word for word. as he concluded he said,--'and now, mr. almont, unless you are prepared to prove the information contained in this letter to be untrue, i wish you immediately to leave my dwelling, and, if you take my advice, you will also leave this village, for i cannot abide the sight of a wretch such as this letter proves you to be, and your silence be as testimony to its truth. begone! i say, from the humble, but, heretofore, happy home, which your baseness has darkened by sorrow.' as my father uttered these words, he stamped with his foot, and pointed to the door. without a word, mr. almont left the house, and on the day following, we learned that he had left littleton, and gone no one knew whither. many surmises arose concerning his sudden departure, for it was well known that we were engaged to be married, but no one had any knowledge of the facts of the matter. when the wonder had subsided, which any unusual event occasions in a small village, the subject was suffered to rest. i felt stricken as by a sudden blow. i felt no interest in life, but i endeavored, when in the presence of my parents, to assume a cheerfulness which was far from being the real state of my mind. "to a few and tried friends only did we make known the real truth of the circumstances attending the departure of mr. almont from littleton. time passed on. those who knew my sorrows respected them, and the name of george almont ceased to be mentioned among our acquaintances. but it was something which i could never cease to remember. i had loved george almont as one of my nature can love but once in her life, and, when i learned that i had been deceived in regard to his true character, the knowledge was very bitter to me. i loved him still--not as he really was, but i still loved the memory of what i had supposed him to be, when i gave him my affection. there are few lessons in life more bitter to either man or woman than to find themselves deceived by one to whom they have given their best affections. for a time i yielded to a bitter and desponding spirit. i excluded myself from all society, and brooded in solitude over my sorrow. i so far yielded to this unhealthy tone of mind that i gave up attending church, and i caused my parents much grief and anxiety by the sullen and apathetic state of mind in which i indulged. "during the winter which succeeded the events of which i have spoken, there was a series of special meetings held in the congregational church in this village. a general interest was manifested in the subjects of religion by both old and young. many of those who had been my former companions were hopefully converted. i had formerly been of a gay and lively disposition, fond of dress and amusement. the subject of religion was one to which i had scarcely ever given a thought. the world and its pleasures occupied my whole heart, and, when the world disappointed me, i knew not where to turn for comfort. true, i had, from a child, attended to the outward forms of religion, but my heart was untouched and i now see that it required a great earthly sorrow to turn my thoughts heavenward. i at first refused to attend the meetings of which i have spoken, though often strongly urged to do so, but, one evening, my parents so strongly urged me to accompany them to hear an aged minister from another state that i at length consented to go. it is a matter of thankfulness to me this day that i attended that meeting. as i have said, the minister was an old man, his hair was white as snow. there was something remarkably pleasant and venerable in his appearance. no one who heard his voice and gazed upon his mild countenance, could doubt that they listened to a good man. during the first prayer, on that evening, my heart became softened and subdued, and when he gave out his text, from matthew xi. chap., , and two following verses, i listened to him with rapt attention. it seemed almost that he understood my individual case. in the course of his sermon, he said:--'i presume there are few in this congregation who have not some burden of sorrow which they would gladly have removed. shall i tell you how you may be released from this burden? kneel humbly at the foot of the cross; and while you pray for the forgiveness of your past sins, make a firm resolve, in the strength of the lord, that your future life shall be given to his service; if you do this with sincerity, you shall surely find rest unto your souls. you need have no fears that you will be rejected, for hath not the saviour said:--him that cometh unto me i will in no wise cast out. you may, this very night, exchange your burden of sin and sorrow for the yoke which is easy and the burden which is light.' "i have," said miss simmonds, "a distinct recollection of the look and manner of that aged man as he uttered these words, and it is a matter of heartfelt thankfulness to me the day that ever i heard his voice; for he it was who first guided my wandering feet into the paths of peace. when i returned to my home the words of that good man followed me. i thought much on the words of his text. surely, thought i, if all are invited to come to the saviour, i must be included in the number. why may i not go now? with these thoughts in my mind, i kneeled in prayer. i prayed earnestly for the pardon of my sins and resolved, from that moment, to begin a new life. before rising from my knees i experienced a sense of pardoning love, and i was happy. "it was now that i became sensible of the wrong i had been guilty of, in allowing my sorrow to cause me to neglect my duties, for there is no one in any station of life but has claims of duty. i again engaged actively in the duties of life, with a feeling of thankfulness that i was privileged to cheer the declining years of my parents. year after year passed away. i still remained with my father and mother; and i felt no wish to leave them, although i had more than one opportunity for so doing. my mother died at the age of sixty-five. i nursed her tenderly through a long and painful illness, and closed her eyes in death. my father and i were now left alone in our home. he was several years older than my mother. the infirmities of age were coming fast upon him." chapter xvii. penitent, and forgiven. on a stormy evening, like this, we were sitting together in this room when our attention was arrested by a timid knock at the door. my father opened the door, and i heard some one, in a feeble voice, ask permission to enter the house. my father conducted the stranger in, and gave him a seat by our cheerful fire. when the stranger entered the room, and i gained a view of his face, i at once knew that i stood face to face with george almont. when i suddenly pronounced his name, my father made a hasty movement as if to speak with anger, but i gave him an imploring look and he remained silent. although greatly changed, it was, nevertheless, george almont who was now in our presence. after a few moments of silence, for after my exclamatory utterance of his name, neither of us had spoken, he turned his eyes, in which the light of disease painfully burned, and said,--'you do well not to reproach me; the time for that is past, for i am, as you may see, on the verge of the grave. i have striven with disease, that i might reach this place, and if possible, obtain your forgiveness 'ere my eyes shall close in death. i know i have darkened a life, which, but for me, might have been bright and joyous. it is too much for me to expect your forgiveness, yet i would hear you pronounce that blessed word before i die. you may _now_ believe me when i say, that it was my love for you which led me to deceive you. knowing my wife's dread of any publicity being attached to her name, i thought the knowledge that i had a living wife would never reach you. of the sinfulness of my conduct i did not at that time pause to think. i now sincerely thank my wife for preventing a marriage which in the sight of god, must have been but mockery. i now speak truly when i say to you, i never loved my wife; i married her for money. as i had no affection for her, my former habits of dissipation soon regained their hold on me. it will afford me some comfort to know that i have made strictly true confession to you. i have not, to my knowledge, a living relation in the wide world; and, till i met with you, i knew not the meaning of the word love; and i still believe that, had i met you earlier in life, your influence would have caused me to become a useful man and an ornament to my profession. but it is useless to talk now of what cannot be recalled. when i left this village, years ago, i was equally indifferent as to whither i went or what i did. i felt no wish to return to my wife; and, had i been then inclined, i well knew the just contempt and scorn i should meet with, although i believe she had once loved me. but i knew them to be a proud family, and i felt certain they would never overlook the disgrace and sorrow i had brought upon them. i have never since seen my wife, but i lately learned that she, with the rest of her family, removed to a western city some years ago. since leaving this place i have wandered far and wide, never remaining long in one place. my mind has never been at rest, and, for that reason, i have been a lonely wanderer all these years. but my dissipated habits have done their work, and i feel that my earthly course is well nigh ended. i have dragged my feeble body to your dwelling, with the hope of obtaining your forgiveness 'ere i am summoned into eternity.' "while listening to him, i had seated myself at my father's side. as he concluded, i said to my father, in a low voice,--'if we forgive not our fellow-mortal, how can we expect the forgiveness of our heavenly father for our many sins?' i rose from my seat and extending to him hand, said,--'you have, mr. almont, my entire forgiveness for all the sorrow you have caused me, and i hope you will also obtain the forgiveness of god.' my father also came forward, and, taking his hand, granted him his forgiveness. when he finished speaking he seemed entirely exhausted. my father led him into the adjoining room, and assisted him to lie down upon his own bed. he also gave him a little wine, which seemed somewhat to revive him. observing that he rapidly grew worse, my father summoned our physician, who was an old friend, and knew all the circumstances connected with our former acquaintance with mr. almont. when the physician arrived, he expressed the opinion that death was fast approaching; said he,--'i do not think he will see another sun rise,'--and he did not. he said but little, and suffered but little pain; but he sank rapidly. his mind was clear to the last. a short time before his death, he turned his eyes, over which the film of death was gathering, to my father, and, with much difficulty, said,--'pray--for--me.' my father knelt and implored the mercy of heaven on the soul that was departing. i could not bear that he should leave the world without one word in regard to what were his feelings in the near prospect of death. going near, i said,--'do you feel willing to trust yourself to the saviour's mercy to penitent sinners?' he gave a sign of assent, and a more peaceful expression settled on his countenance. 'i know,' said he in a whisper, 'that i have been a grievous sinner for many long years, yet the forgiveness guaranteed by you, whom i have so deeply injured, gives me a hope that god will also forgive the sins, for which i now trust i feel deeply penitent.' after this, he lay for a short time in a kind of stupor. suddenly, he opened his eyes, and they rested upon my father, who stood by his bed-side. his lips moved slightly, and my father distinguished the words,--'pray for me.' he again knelt and prayed earnestly, in a subdued voice, for the spirit that was then entering the unknown future. a few moments after, and the soul of george almont was summoned to leave its earthly tenement. when the small procession that had followed his remains to their last resting-place turned from the new-made grave, the two following lines from gray's elegy came unbidden to my mind:-- no further seek his merits to disclose, or draw his frailties from their dread abode.' "perhaps, clara," continued miss simmonds, "you may, in your walks through what is now called 'the old burial-ground,' a short distance from the village, have observed a lonely grave, marked by a plain marble headstone, and shaded by the branches of an aged tree; you may have noticed this grave, and never given a thought to the poor mortal who sleeps there. that is the grave of george almont. three years later, my father died, and i was left alone. since that period i have lived sometimes alone, and occasionally spending a short time with any family who happen to require my services, as i find it necessary to do something for my own support. i have been able to support myself in comfort and respectability, and even occasionally to bestow charity in a small way to those less favored than myself. i know not why i felt so much inclined to relate these circumstances to you this evening, for you are the first stranger to whom i ever related the story connected with my early life. i am no longer young, but the memory of my early sorrows time can never efface; although, aided by religion, i have learned resignation and cheerfulness. one thing more," continued miss simmonds, "and i have done." rising, she opened a drawer and, taking a locket therefrom, she placed it in my hand, saying,-- "you may, if you wish, clara, look upon a picture of george almont, taken when he was twenty-five years of age." opening the locket, i looked upon the picture of what must have been a very fine looking young man. i never beheld a more prepossessing countenance. no one who looked upon that picture would have dreamed of the sad story attached to the life of the original. closing the locket, i gave it back to miss simmonds, who replaced it in the drawer without once looking upon the picture it contained. in conclusion, miss simmonds said,-- "i hope you are not wearied with an old woman's story." i assured her that it had deeply interested me, although i feared the recital had been painful to her. chapter xviii. a new joy. i returned to my school, after having enjoyed a very pleasant visit with miss simmonds. i thought much of the story she had related to me. i endeavoured to learn a useful lesson from the cheerful resignation which miss simmonds evinced by her daily life. obadiah still pursued his studies with much zeal; and, upon my return home, each succeeding week, i gave him all the assistance in my power. the amount of knowledge he had derived, by devoting his leisure hours to study, was indeed wonderful. awkward as he at first appeared to me, i found, as he progressed in his studies, that he possessed a powerful intellect, which only required proper culture to enable him to become a talented and useful man. i now pass, with a few words, over a period of two years. during all this time i had continued the labors of my school at mill town, still considering my uncle's house as my home. obadiah had, by the advice of my uncle, gone to pursue his studies in massachusetts, having decided to obtain a thorough education. he intended fitting himself for college, and had saved money sufficient to defray his expenses while so doing, miss simmonds still resided in her home at littleton, and the longer i enjoyed her friendship the more did i love and respect her. i had received several letters from aunt patience during the past two years. she had repeatedly urged me to visit her, but, for various reasons, i had been unable to do so; but at this time, i determined to pay her a visit. accordingly, i prepared for my journey to woodville a small village in massachusetts, where she resided. she was very much pleased to see me. she was much changed since i had last seen her. her once vigorous and active form was beginning to bow beneath the weight of years. she seemed to be very comfortably situated with her relatives; for, having but a small family, they were able to give her a quiet home. i enquired of her if she felt happy in her home? "i feel quite happy and contented," she replied, "and have no wish to leave my present home, till you marry and possess a home of your own, when i should be very glad to make my home with you." i replied that i had no intention of marrying at present but that if that event should take place during her lifetime, i should be most happy to receive her into my home. the village of woodville was not large; but its location was romantic and pleasant, being bounded on one side by a range of high hills, and on the other by a beautiful river. i was highly pleased with the place, and with the kind family with whom aunt patience resided. when i had spent about ten days at woodville, i received a letter from my uncle, requesting my return home without delay. in a postscript he informed me that i need not be alarmed, as both he and my aunt were in good health; but that he did not wish to assign a reason for requesting my return. i could not imagine what had caused my uncle to summon me home, as he was aware that i had intended spending several weeks with my aunt; and i made all possible haste to set out on my homeward journey, and left woodville the next morning after receiving my uncle's letter. when my uncle and aunt met me on my return, i knew by their manner that something unusual had taken place in my absence; but i judged from the countenance of both that, whatever the event might be, it was one of joy rather than sorrow. my uncle soon said,-- "can you bear good news, clara?" i replied that i thought i could. "then," continued my uncle, "i have the happiness of informing you that the hopes you had so long cherished of seeing your uncle charles will be realized, for he has arrived." 'ere i could frame a reply, the door of the adjoining room opened, and my new-found uncle came hastily forward. he evinced much emotion as he tenderly embraced me, saying,-- "your face strongly reminds me of the twin brother from whom i parted so many years ago. you know not how happy i am in finding the daughter of my dear brother." i could trace in the features of my uncle charles a resemblance to my dear father; but, as my father had died while quite a young man, the resemblance, at my uncle's time of life, was less striking than otherwise it might have been. my uncle charles was now sixty-five years old; but travel and exposure caused him to look much older than he really was. he informed me that he had first visited philadelphia with the hope of finding my father; and, when he learned that my father and mother were both dead, he next enquired if they left any children? he learned that they left one daughter, who had resided for some time in the family of the leightons, as governess; but had left philadelphia three years since. he next sought out the leightons, hoping to learn my residence; but they of course could give him no information upon the subject. they directed him to mrs. burnside, who at first was reluctant to give the information he sought; but, when he informed her of the relationship i bore to him, she directed him to my uncle wayland, in new hampshire, at whose residence he arrived one week previous to my return from massachusetts. he soon after gave us the following brief account of his life, since he left philadelphia, when a boy, which i reserve for the succeeding chapter of my story. chapter xix. uncle charles. my uncle began his story as follows:-- "when i left philadelphia, i had no definite object in view. i left without seeing my brother, to avoid the pain of parting, for we tenderly loved each other. his disposition and mine were widely different; he was quiet, industrious, and very persevering in whatever he undertook; while i, on the other hand, was rash, impulsive, and very impatient of restraint. my adopted father apprenticed me to learn the art of printing, without in the least consulting my wishes in the matter. it seemed to me that he might have granted me the privilege of choosing my employment; and, his failing to do so roused my indignation and doubled the dislike i already felt to the occupation of a printer. it was very hard for me to leave without seeing my brother; but i decided that, as he was very well contented in his situation, i had best go away quietly, so that, whatever might befall me, i should not be the means of bringing trouble to him. i had decided to leave my master the first opportunity that should offer for so doing. he one day gave me a sharp and, as i thought, unmerited rebuke, and ended by striking me a blow. that blow caused me to form the decision of leaving him at once, and that very night i left philadelphia. i made my way to the city of new york, where i managed to live for a time by selling newspapers; but my profits were so small that i soon became disgusted with the employment, and i obtained the situation of waiter in a large hotel, where i remained for some time. i often thought of writing to my brother; but i was aware that the knowledge of my employment would be painful to him, for he was of a proud and sensitive nature. time passed on, and i at length sailed as cabin-boy in a vessel bound for liverpool, in england. i followed the sea for many years; and, in the bustle and turmoil of a sailor's life, i almost forgot my brother, from whom i had been so long separated. yet sometimes, in the lonely hours of my night-watch on deck, when out in mid-ocean, would my thoughts turn to that once-loved brother, and tears would dim my eyes as memory recalled the days of our early childhood. "i rose in my profession till i arrived at the position of second mate. it was at this time that, during a stay of some weeks duration in an english port, i met with one who won my affections; and, one year after, we were married. my wife resided with her friends in england, while i continued to follow the sea. my wife was to me an object of almost idolatrous attachment. each time i visited england, i found it the harder to bid farewell to my wife, and again embark on the ocean. we had one child, a beautiful boy. i named him henry, after my brother. when we had been two years married, i made a voyage to the indies, and was absent nearly two years. when i returned, i learned that my wife and child had both been for some time dead. when i learned the sad truth i was like one bereft of reason. i could not reconcile myself to the thought that, in this world, i could never again behold my beloved wife and child. the very darkness of despair settled on my mind. i had not then, as i have since done, looked heavenward for consolation amid the sorrows of life. "i can dwell no longer upon this dark period of my life, but hasten onward to the close of my story. i continued to follow the life of a sailor for some years after my bereavement. the hurry and bustle attendant upon my calling served in some measure to drive away thoughts of the past; but, after a time i even grew weary of the sea; and when i heard of the famous gold regions discovered in australia, i felt a strong desire to visit the place. the desire of making money had less to do with my decision of going there than had the wish for change and excitement of some kind. accordingly, i abandoned my sailor life, and made my way among the hundreds who were crowding to the gold regions of australia. "at that time i was poor, for i had never possessed the faculty for saving money. i was unaccustomed to the labors of mining, and in many instances, the knowing ones took me in, and for a long time i realized but little from my labors. but, as i persevered, against many discouragements, year after year, i at length began to be successful. i finally bought a claim, which, quite unexpectedly to me, yielded a golden harvest, and i soon found myself rich beyond my most sanguine expectations. "year after year i determined to re-visit philadelphia; but, by this time my mind had become much engrossed by money-making, and each succeeding year brought fresh claims upon my time and attention. "time passed on, till i found myself fast growing old. i felt an intense longing to return to the land of my birth, and spend the few years which might remain to me of life in my native city. during my residence in australia i met with a man who informed me that he was in philadelphia at the time of my brother's marriage; and it was a severe trial when i found, upon my return, that my brother, and his wife had both been many years dead. during my homeward journey, i had formed the decision of spending my remaining days in the home of my brother, as i wished for quiet and repose. when i learned that they were both dead, all the affection of my worn and world-weary heart turned toward their orphan daughter." turning to me my uncle said,-- "will you go, my dear child, and make bright the home of your aged uncle?" i was about to give a joyful assent, when the thought of the kind uncle and aunt i must leave, caused me to hesitate. it seemed to me that they possessed a claim upon my affections superior to any other, and i was at a loss to decide as to what was my duty. i therefore remained silent, not knowing what reply to make. observing my hesitation, my uncle wayland said,-- "lonely as we shall be without you, my dear clara, i yet think it your duty to go with your uncle charles, who is still more lonely than we. we must not be selfish; and i think we should feel willing to give you up." i was much relieved to know that my uncle and aunt wayland were willing that i should go, although i well knew their willingness was caused by what they considered my duty to my aged relative. till i prepared to leave my uncle and aunt, i knew not how tenderly i had learned to love them. i resigned my school at mill town, with much sorrow, for i had become strongly attached to my pupils. as my uncle and aunt tenderly embraced me at parting, my uncle said, while the tears coursed down his furrowed cheeks,-- "remember, dear clara, there will ever be for you a daughter's welcome, both in our hearts and home." chapter xx. lights and shadows. i was agitated by many contending emotions as i alighted from the train which had borne me to philadelphia; but, along with many sad thoughts, came the consoling one, that i had not returned to my native city the friendless being i had left it. we stayed for a short time with my old friends, the burnsides, while my uncle attended to the business of buying and furnishing a suitable residence. before removing to our home, my uncle engaged mrs. burnside to find a person suitable to occupy the position of housekeeper in his dwelling. it immediately occurred to mrs. burnside that my old friend, mrs. o'flaherty, would be well qualified for that position. she had remained in the service of mrs. wallingford since the time when i first introduced her to the reader; but, fortunately for us, mr. wallingford was about removing his family to a distant state, and they would no longer require her services. mrs. o'flaherty was overjoyed when she learned that she was to reside with me. when i, in company with mrs. burnside, called to make the necessary arrangements for her removal to her new home, i could hardly believe that the tidy, well dressed matron i saw could be the same poor woman to whom i had given food when hungry and destitute. "indade," exclaimed mrs. o'flaherty, "an' i niver expected to see the happy day whin i would live wid you in a home av yer own." the matter was soon arranged, and an early day appointed for her to commence her duties as housekeeper in the dwelling of my uncle. it was quite a change for me to find myself so suddenly removed from my position as teacher in a small school and installed as mistress in my uncle's elegant home in walnut street, philadelphia. we found mrs. o'flaherty very trustworthy, and well qualified in every way for her position. soon after our return to philadelphia, my uncle accompanied me to the graves of my parents. i cannot describe my feelings when i found myself, after so long an absence, again standing by the spot where reposed the dust of my loved father and mother. i seemed almost to feel their presence, and the tears i shed were gentle and refreshing. seated by those graves, i, for the first time, spoke to my uncle of the circumstances which had caused me to leave mrs. leighton, and remove from philadelphia. he expressed much sympathy for me and said,-- "you should endeavor to banish these circumstances from your mind. you are young, and, i trust, have yet many years of happy life before you." i learned from mrs. burnside that mr. leighton had lately met with several heavy losses in business. william was still in england. he had written two or three letters to birdie, but had corresponded with no other member of the family. laura and georgania had both married, and removed to a distant city. birdie had finished her studies, and returned home. lewis was attending school some two hundred miles from the city. mrs. burnside further informed me that the health of mrs. leighton was very much impaired. according to the information i gained from mrs. burnside, there seemed to have been a great change in the family of mr. leighton since i left philadelphia. time passed happily away in my new home. we often saw company, for all my old friends soon sought me out, when they learned of my return to the city; and my uncle, being of a social disposition, extended a kindly welcome to them all. birdie leighton called. i was truly glad to see her, and she seemed equally happy to meet me; but our meeting could not be otherwise than constrained and formal; and, owing to circumstances, anything like intimacy was, of course, out of the question. i had almost forgotten to mention that, among the first to call upon me in my new home, were mrs. and miss kingsley, for she was _miss_ kingsley still; the same who were so much shocked by meeting with a governess at a fashionable party. surely, thought i, my uncle's money is working wonders, when i am already patronized by the exclusive mrs. kingsley. their call i have never yet returned. while walking one day, with a friend, i caught a glimpse of mrs. leighton, as she rode past in her carriage. she was so much changed that, at the first, i hardly recognized her; but, upon looking more closely, i saw that it was indeed mrs. leighton. a year and a half had now glided by since my return to philadelphia. nothing worthy of note had taken place during this time. the last letter from my friends in new hampshire informed me that obadiah was still pursuing his studies, with a view to the ministry. this afforded me but little surprise, as i had often heard him make remarks which led me to think he had an inclination to that calling. one sultry evening in august, i retired early to my own room, as i was suffering from a severe head-ache. the usual remedies afforded me relief from pain; but i found myself unable to sleep. as the hour grew late, my nervous restlessness so much increased that, abandoning the idea of rest, i rose and lighted my lamp. i felt almost alarmed at my own agitation, which seemed so unaccountable, i seemed to feel the foreshadowing of some unusual event. after a time, i closed my window, and was about to extinguish my lamp and again seek repose, when i was startled by the sudden ringing of fire-bells. hastily unclosing my window, i heard the sound of "fire! fire!" echoed by many voices, and accompanied by the hasty tread of many feet upon the pavement. i observed the appearance of fire a few streets distant, but was unable to make out its exact location. i listened eagerly, hoping to gain from the many voices which reached my ears some account of the burning building. presently the words--"mr. leighton's house is burning!" reached my excited ears. i saw that the fire was raging fearfully, as the adjacent streets were becoming lighter by the flames. i was about to call my uncle, when i heard his step approaching. a moment after he rapped at my door. just then mrs. o'flaherty rushed up the stairs, breathless with terror. "may the saints defend us!" she exclaimed, as she burst into my apartment; "but is the city on fire? for wasn't it the light o' the flames shinin' on me windy that waked me out o' me sound slape." my uncle endeavoured to allay her terrors, telling her that the city was certainly not on fire, although there was a burning building in our near vicinity. he soon declared his intention of visiting the scene of the fire. i begged him to be careful and not expose himself to danger. after my uncle left us, we stationed ourselves on the upper piazza, to watch the progress of the flames. from the confusion of voices in the street below i caught the words,-- "poor birdie leighton is nowhere to be found, and it is feared she has perished in the flames." i shuddered as i listened to these words. it was a terrible thought to me, that my once loved pupil had met with a death so dreadful. but i was unwilling to give up the hope that she would yet be, if not already, saved. we waited long in anxious suspense for the return of my uncle; but the day had begun to dawn before he came. i feared to ask what i longed to know. he must have read my anxiety in my countenance, for he soon said to me,-- "the leightons are now all safe in the house of a neighbor; but birdie came near meeting her death in the flames." to my eager enquiries, he replied,-- "that before mr. leighton awoke, their sleeping apartment was filled with smoke, with which the flames were already beginning to mingle. he bore his wife from the apartment; and, with her in his arms, hastened to awake birdie, whose room adjoined their own. she hastily threw on a portion of her clothing, and prepared to accompany her father and mother in their descent from the chambers. she had fainted from terror, while crossing the upper hall; and it was not till mr. leighton reached the open air with his wife in his arms, that he missed birdie from his side. on leaving her apartment, he had besought her to keep close by him, as her mother required all his attention. the agony of mr. and mrs. leighton, when, upon reaching the open air, they found birdie to be not with them, may be better imagined than described. mrs. leighton became well-nigh frantic, and was almost forcibly conveyed to the house of a neighbor. as soon as mr. leighton was relieved from the care of his wife, he rushed toward the burning building, saying that he would either rescue birdie or perish with her. but, ere he reached the entrance, a man issued from the house, bearing birdie in his arms. the brave man had rushed up the burning staircase, and reached the spot where birdie still lay, in a state of insensibility. hastily enveloping her person in a thick, heavy shawl, which he had taken with him for the purpose, he rushed with her down the perilous staircase, and reached the open air in safety, his clothing only being singed by the flames. never," said my uncle, "did i hear such a shout of joy as went up from the assembled multitude when the man who rescued birdie came from the house, bearing her in safety to her father. mr. leighton fell on his knees and fervently thanked god for sparing the life of his child. 'now,' said he, 'i am content that my dwelling should burn.' he grasped the hand of her rescuer, and said, with much emotion,--'words are too poor to express my gratitude; but, if my life is spared, you shall be rewarded.' 'i want no reward,' said the noble man, 'for having done my duty.' he was a laboring man, and had a large family dependent upon his daily earnings. quite a large sum of money was soon raised among the assembled crowd, which he would not accept, till compelled to do so by the thankful multitude." in conclusion, my uncle said,-- "consciousness returned to birdie soon after she was conveyed into the open air, and she was speedily conveyed to her anxious mother. the rescue of birdie from so dreadful a death was to me a matter of deep and heartfelt thankfulness." previous to the burning of mr. leighton's dwelling his pecuniary affairs, according to common report, had become very much embarrassed; and this event seemed the finishing stroke to his ill-fortune. they were unable to save anything from their dwelling, being thankful to escape with their lives. he still continued his business; but, it was said, his liabilities were heavier than he was able to meet. he rented a moderate-sized house, and removed thither with his family. those who visited them said it was but plainly furnished. their servants, with one or two exceptions, had all been dismissed. chapter xxi. reconciled. lewis was recalled from school in the early autumn; and soon after, the news of mr. leighton's failure was eagerly discussed in the business world. lewis called to see me soon after his return. he was now a manly youth of fifteen. i was much pleased to see him; and, when he rose to go, after a lengthy call, i invited him to call often upon us. my uncle took a great fancy to the boy, and many evenings found lewis our guest. i learned from lewis, and others, that the health of mrs. leighton had so much failed that she was now entirely confined to the house. mr. leighton had lately written to willie, giving him an account of their misfortunes, and of the failing health of his mother; and concluded by earnestly requesting his return home, as he feared that it, was willie's absence which was preying so heavily upon the mind of mrs. leighton as to cause, in a great measure, her failing health. lewis called one evening, and, upon entering the parlor, handed me a note. as i glanced at my name on the envelope, i at once recognized the hand-writing of mrs. leighton. hastily breaking the seal, i read the following lines:-- "elm street, nov. th, --. "to miss clara roscom: "i am extremely anxious for an interview with you; but my state of health will not allow of my leaving my own residence. i therefore earnestly request you to accompany lewis upon his return home, for i _must_ see you. i am sensible that i have no right to ask of you this favor; but i trust that the kindness of your heart will induce you to comply with my request. "yours truly, "cynthia leighton." when i had finished reading the note i could not forbear from questioning lewis as to its meaning; but he refused to give me any information upon the subject, saying he was not at liberty to do so. all he would say of the matter was that his mother had requested him to give me the note, and await my reading of it. for a few moments i felt undecided as to going to the house of mrs. leighton; but, the thought that she was ill, and had sent for me, caused me to come to the decision that i would grant her request. i feared not to meet mrs. leighton, for i had done her no wrong. i therefore told lewis that in a few moments i would be ready to accompany him. my uncle wished to send the carriage with me; but i told him it was quite unnecessary, as the distance was short and the evening was very fine, and lewis had said he would accompany me when i wished to return home. a few minutes' walk brought me to the dwelling of mr. leighton. lewis conducted me at once to his mother's apartment. i saw as yet no other member of the family. after ushering me into the room, he withdrew, and left me alone with mrs. leighton. i quietly advanced into the room and paused before her. she was reclining in a large easy chair, and i was much surprised by her changed appearance. she was very thin and pale, and appeared to be weak and languid; and mrs. harringford's letter was recalled to my mind when i observed how gray was her once beautiful hair. she extended her hand to me; but, for some moments, was unable to utter a word. when she relinquished the hand i had given her, she motioned me to a seat. she seemed agitated by some painful emotion. i was the first to break the silence, which i did by saying,-- "whatever may have been your object, mrs. leighton, in seeking this interview, you will see, by the readiness with which i have responded to your request, that i cherish no resentment toward you." becoming more composed, she replied to me in a low voice saying-- "as i was unable to go to you, i sent for you, that i may humbly ask your forgiveness for the injustice you have suffered from me. i now acknowledge, what you are probably already aware of, that it was a foolish and false pride which influenced my conduct toward you, when you left my house long ago. it requires reverses of fortune to convince us of the vanity of all earthly things; and reverses have overtaken me, and more than this; my failing health admonishes me that, unless a change for the better soon takes place, my days on earth will soon be numbered. during all the time that has passed since we have met, my mind has never been at rest; for though too proud to acknowledge it, i have ever been sensible that i treated you with cruelty and injustice. but my pride is now humbled and i beg of you to forgive me; for, believe me, i have suffered even more than you." i extended my hand to her, saying,-- "i freely and fully forgive all the past, mrs. leighton, and i trust we may be friends for the future." after sitting silent for a few moments, mrs. leighton again addressed me, saying,-- "were it in your power, clara, would you make me entirely happy?" i replied that certainly i would. she regarded me earnestly as she said,-- "will you become willie's wife?" i knew not what reply to make to a question so unexpected. at length i said,-- "willie has been a long time absent. he may have changed his mind; or, he may be already married." "i will answer for all that," replied mrs. leighton. "willie is here. he arrived two days since, and would have called to see you ere this, but i begged him to defer calling till i had seen you, and acknowledged my former injustice to you; for i am now sensible that i wronged a worthy and noble girl." remember, kind reader, that, although i had expected never again to meet with willie leighton, i still loved him with all the strength of a first love. before i could frame a reply to the last remark of mrs. leighton, the door opened, and willie, accompanied by his father, entered the room. i pass over our meeting. but mr. leighton, soon after, placing my hand in that of willie, said,--"god bless you, my children; may you be happy." when i returned home that evening, it was willie not lewis, who accompanied me. chapter xxii. clara's marriage. willie was anxious that an early day should be appointed for our marriage; but i was unwilling that our marriage should take place until the ensuing spring. i wished not so suddenly to leave my uncle for the long wedding tour which willie had in contemplation. laura and georgania, accompanied by their husbands, came at christmas to visit their parents. it was indeed a joyful family reunion. we accepted our present happiness, and made no unpleasant allusions to the past. if georgania retained any of her old ways that were not agreeable, i was too much occupied by my own new-found happiness to be annoyed by them. willie generously urged his father to use a portion of the wealth he had inherited from his deceased relative in settling his deranged business affairs, and mr. leighton finally accepted the noble offer. accordingly, he paid off the debts, and again started a business, which, if on a smaller scale than formerly, rested on a firmer basis. during the winter, my uncle made a will bestowing the chief part of his wealth upon me. the house in which we resided, he intended as a wedding-gift, saying that we must accept of the gift encumbered by the giver, as he wished to reside with me during the remainder of his life. "i have reserved enough," said my uncle, "for my own private use; and who has so rightful a claim to the wealth which a kind providence has bestowed upon me, as the daughter of my twin brother?" from the time of willie's return the health of mrs. leighton slowly, but surely, improved; and, when winter softened into the balmy days of spring, her health became fully restored. we were married on the twentieth of may; and, as willie had decided upon england for our wedding tour, we sailed immediately after our marriage. we returned to our home, in philadelphia, in october. we soon found ourselves permanently settled in our own home, to the great joy of mrs. o'flaherty, who still retained her position as house-keeper. "indade, me daar misthress," said she, "an' it's good to see yees at home agin; for wasn't this the lonesom place whiles ye was absint." soon after our return, i mentioned the promise which i made long ago to aunt patience, that if i ever should possess a home of my own, i would receive her as an inmate of that home. "i well remember," replied willie, "the kind aunt who attended your mother during her last illness, and i will gladly do my utmost to render happy her declining years." i had secretly felt some fears that my uncle might object to our receiving aunt patience to our home. a short time after, i mentioned the matter to my uncle, telling him of my mother's dying injunction to me, that i should not neglect aunt patience in her old age. his reply put all my fears to flight. "i am glad, clara," said my uncle, "to see that you respect the wishes of your deceased mother. our dwelling is large, and we can surely find room for aunt patience. i will go for her myself, as i am at leisure, and would enjoy the journey." with a light heart, i wrote to aunt patience, informing her of our intentions; and a few days later, my uncle set out on his journey to massachusetts. when he returned, accompanied by my aged relative, tears mingled with my welcome, so vividly was my mother recalled to my mind by the meeting. chapter xxiii. a pleasing incident. again it is the twentieth of may; and, this day five years ago, was my wedding-day. two years since, and the fountain of a new love was stirred in my heart, namely, the love of a mother for her first-born son. one year since, i was called to stand by the dying-bed of aunt patience. her end was peace; and her earthly remains rest beside those of my mother. my uncle still lives with us, a hale and vigorous old man, over seventy years of age. the parents of willie still reside in the city. birdie and lewis are both at home. lewis assists his father in their business, which has again become very prosperous. i bring my story to a close by relating an incident which took place the summer succeeding the date of this chapter. i had long wished to visit my friends in new hampshire: but my own cares had hitherto prevented me; but this season i decided to pay the long-deferred visit. willie was very glad to accompany me, having long wished to visit the eastern states. birdie and lewis also bore us company. as our way lay through a portion of massachusetts, i determined once more to visit the small village which formerly had been the home of aunt patience. we arrived at woodville late on a saturday evening, and on sabbath morning were invited to hear a talented young preacher, who, we were informed, had lately been called as pastor to the congregational church in that village. as the young minister ascended the pulpit, his countenance struck me as being strangely familiar. as i was endeavoring to decide in my own mind where i could have before met him, it suddenly occurred to me that the young preacher was no other than my old friend, obadiah hawkins; and when, upon again raising my eyes i encountered one of those old-time furtive glances, i felt certain that i was right in my conjecture. the rough-looking youth, whom i had once thought so uncomely, had changed to a really fine looking man. when the services were closed, i at once made my way to him; and, as he had already recognized me, we soon renewed our former acquaintance. i introduced him to willie, also to birdie and lewis. during the few days we remained at woodville the young preacher called frequently. he soon evinced a marked partiality for the society of birdie and, strange as it may seem, i observed that she was deeply interested in him. i know not how the matter may end, but i do know that, since our return home, birdie receives frequent letters, addressed in a gentleman's hand, and post-marked "woodville." who knows but obadiah hawkins may yet be my brother-in-law? in taking a retrospective view of the past, and contrasting it with the happy present, i feel that the consoling words which, in a dream, my mother uttered to me, years ago, have been more than verified,--"fear not, my beloved daughter; only continue in the path of duty, and all will yet be well." the end. terry dolan. some years since circumstances caused me to spend the summer months in a farming district, a few miles from the village of e., and it was there i met with terry dolan. he had a short time previous come over from ireland, and was engaged as a sort of chore boy by mr. l., in whose family i resided during my stay in the neighborhood. this terry was the oddest being with whom i ever chanced to meet. would that i could describe him!--but most of us, i believe, occasionally meet with people, whom we find to be indescribable, and terry was one of those. he called himself sixteen years of age; but, excepting that he was low of stature, you would about as soon have taken him for sixty as sixteen. his countenance looked anything but youthful, and there was altogether a sort of queer, ancient look about him which caused him to appear very remarkable. when he first came to reside with mr. l. the boys in the neighborhood nicknamed him "the little old man," but they soon learned by experience that their wisest plan was to place a safe distance between terry and themselves before applying that name to him, for the implied taunt regarding his peculiar appearance enraged him beyond measure. whenever he entered the room, specially if he ventured a remark--and no matter how serious you might have been a moment before--the laugh would come, do your best to repress it. when i first became an inmate with the family, i was too often inclined to laugh at the oddities of terry--and i believe a much graver person than i was at that time would have done the same--but after a time, when i learned something of his past life, i regarded him with a feeling of pity, although to avoid laughing at him, at times, were next to impossible. one evening in midsummer i found him seated alone upon the piazza, with a most dejected countenance. taking a seat by his side i enquired why he looked so sad;--his eyes filled with tears as he replied--"its of ould ireland i'm thinkin' to-night, sure." i had never before seen terry look sober, and i felt a deep sympathy for the homesick boy. i asked him how it happened that he left all his friends in ireland and came to this country alone. from his reply i learned that his mother died when he was only ten years old, and, also, that his father soon after married a second wife, who, to use terry's own words, "bate him unmarcifully." "it's a wonder," said he, "that iver i lived to grow up, at all, at all, wid all the batins i got from that cruel woman, and all the times she sint me to bed widout iver a bite uv supper, bad luck to her and the like uv her!" he did live, however, but he certainly did not grow up to be very tall. "times grew worse an' worse for me at home," continued he, "and a quare time i had of it till i was fourteen years of age, when one day says i to mesilf, 'flesh and blood can bear it no longer,' and i ran away to the city uv dublin where an aunt by me mother's side lived. me aunt was a poor woman, but she gave a warm welcim to her sister's motherless boy; she trated me kindly, and allowed me to share her home, although she could ill afford it, till i got a place as sarvant in a gintleman's family. as for my father, he niver throubled his head about me any more; indade i think he was glad to be rid uv me, an' all by manes of that wicked woman. it was near two years afther i lift home that i took the notion of going to ameriky; me aunt advised me against going, but, whin she saw that me mind was set on it, she consinted, and did her best, poor woman, to sind me away lookin' dacent and respectable. i niver saw me father or me stepmother agin. i had no wish to see her; but, although i knew me father no longer loved me, i had still some natral-like feelin's for him; but, as i had run away from home, i durst not go back, an' so i lift ireland widout a sight uv him. but i _could_ not lave it foriver, as it might be, widout one more sight uv me mother's grave. i rached the small village where me father lived about nightfall, and lodged in the house uv a kind neighbor who befrinded me, an' he promised, at my earnest wish, to say nothing to any one uv my wish. early in the morning, before any one was astir in the village, i stole away to the churchyard where they buried me mother. i knelt down, i did, an' kissed the sods which covered her grave, an' prayed that the blessin' which she pronounced before she died, wid her hand restin' on me head, might follow me wheriver i might go." the boy took from his pocket a small parcel, carefully inclosed in a paper, which he handed to me, saying "i gathered these shamrocks from off me mother's grave, before i lift it forever." my own eyes grew moist as i gazed upon the now withered shamrock leaves which the poor boy prized so highly. would that they had proved as a talisman to guard him from evil! i listened with much interest to terry's story till our conversation was suddenly interrupted by mr. ---- calling him, in no very gentle tones, to go and drive home the cows from the pasture. to reach this pasture he must needs pass through about a quarter of a mile of thick woods. he had a great dread of walking alone in the woods, which his imagination filled with wild animals. when he returned that evening he seemed very much terrified, and when questioned as to the cause, he replied that he "had met with a wild baste in the woods, and was kilt entirely wid the fright uv it." we endeavoured to gain from him a description of the animal he had seen, but for some time were unable. "what color was the animal?" enquired mrs. ----. "indade ma'am, an' its jist the color uv a dog he was," answered terry. this reply was greeted with a burst of laughter from all present, at which he was highly offended. in order to pacify him i said, "we would not laugh at you, terry, only that dogs are of so many different colors that we are as much in the dark as ever regarding the color of the animal you saw." "well thin," replied he, "if you must know, he was a dirthy brown, the varmint, that he was." from what we could learn from him we were led to suppose that he had met with one of those harmless little creatures, called the "woodchuck," which his nervous terror, aided by the deepening twilight, had magnified into a formidable wild beast. a few evenings after, two or three friends of the family chanced to call; and in course of conversation some one mentioned an encampment of indians, who had recently located themselves in our vicinity, for the purpose of gathering material for the manufacture of baskets, and other works of indian handicraft. terry had never seen an indian, and curiosity, not unmixed with fear, was excited in his mind, when he learned that a number of those dark people were within three miles of us. he asked many questions regarding their personal appearance, habits, &c. it was evident that he entertained some very comical ideas upon the subject. after sitting for a time silent, he suddenly enquired, "do they ate pratees like other people?" a lady, present, in order to impose upon his credulity, replied, "indeed terry they not only eat potatoes, but they sometimes eat people." his countenance expressed much alarm, as he replied, "faix thin, but i'll kape out o' their way." after a short time he began to suspect they were making game of him, and applied to me for information, saying, "tell me, sir, if what mrs. ---- says is true?" "do not be alarmed, terry," i replied, "for if you live till the indians eat you, you will look even older than you now do." this allusion to his ancient appearance was very mischievous on my part, and i regretted it a moment after; but he was so much pleased to learn that he had nothing to fear from the indians that he readily forgave me for alluding to a subject upon which he was usually very sensitive. i remember taking a walk one afternoon during the haymaking season to the field where terry was at work. mr. ---- had driven to the village with the farm horses, leaving terry to draw in hay with a rheumatic old animal that was well nigh unfit for use. but as the hay was in good condition for getting in, and the sky betokened rain, he told terry, upon leaving home, to accomplish as much as possible during his absence, and he would, if the rain kept off, draw in the remainder upon his return. as i drew nigh i spied terry perched upon the top of a load of hay holding the reins, and urging forward the horse, in the ascent of a very steep hill. first he tried coaxing, and as that proved of little avail, he next tried the effect of a few vigorous strokes with a long switch which he carried in his hand. when the poor old horse had dragged the heavy load about half way up the hill, he seemed incapable of further exertion, and horse, cart, terry and all began a rapid backward descent down the hill. here the boy's patience gave way entirely. "musha thin, bad luck to ye for one harse," said he as he applied the switch with renewed energy. just then i arrived within speaking distance and said, "do you think, terry you would be any better off if you had two of them." "not if they were both like this one," answered he. i advised terry to come down from his elevated position, and not add his weight to the load drawn by the overburdened animal. he followed my advice, and when with some difficulty we had checked the descending motion of the cart-wheels, we took a fair start, and the summit of the hill was finally gained. "its often," said terry, "that i've seen a horse draw a cart, but i niver before saw a cart drawing a horse." there was one trait in the character of the boy which pleased me much; he was very grateful for any little act of kindness. he often got into difficulties with the family, owing to his rashness and want of consideration, and i often succeeded in smoothing down for him many rough places in his daily path; and when he observed that i interested myself in his behalf, his gratitude knew no bounds. i believe he would have made almost any sacrifice to please me. he surprised me one day by saying suddenly, "don't i wish you'd only be tuck sick." "why terry," replied i, "i am surprised indeed that you should wish evil to me." "indade thin," answered he, "its not for evil that i wish it, but for your good jist to let ye see how tinderly i would take care uv ye." i thanked him for his kind intentions, saying that i was very willing to take the will for the deed in this case, and had no wish to test his kindness by a fit of sickness. he came in one evening fatigued with a hard day's work, and retired early to bed. his sleeping apartment adjoined the sitting-room. i had several letters to write which occupied me till a late hour; the family had all retired. i finished writing just as the clock struck twelve. at that moment, i was almost startled by terry's voice singing in a very high key. my first thought was that he had gone suddenly crazy. with a light in my hand i stepped softly into the room, to find terry sitting up in bed and singing at the top of his voice, a song in the "native irish tongue." by this time he had roused every one in the house; and others of the family entered the room. by the pauses which he made, we knew when he reached the end of each verse. he sang several verses; at the time i knew how many, but am unable now to recall the exact number. he must surely have been a sound sleeper or the loud laughter which filled the room would have waked him, for the scene was ludicrous in the extreme: terry sitting up in bed, sound asleep, at the hour of midnight, and singing with a loud voice and very earnest manner, to an audience who were unable to understand one word of the song. at the close of the last verse he lay quietly down, all unconscious of the musical entertainment he had given. the next morning some of the family began teasing him about the song he had sung in his sleep. he was loth to believe them, and as usual enquired of me if they were telling him the truth. "i'll believe whatever you say," said he, "for its you that niver toult me a lie yet." "you may believe them this time," said i, "for you certainly did sing a song. the air was very fine, and i have no doubt the words were equally so, if we could only have understood them." "well thin," replied he, "but i niver heard more than that; and if i raaly did sing, i may as well tell yee's how it happint. i dramed, ye see, that i was at a ball in ireland, an' i thought that about twelve o'clock we got tired wid dancin and sated ourselves on the binches which were ranged round the walls uv the room, and ache one was to sing a song in their turn, an' its i that thought my turn had come for sure." "well terry," said i, "you hit upon the time exact at any rate, for it was just twelve o'clock when you favoured us with the song." soon after this time i left the neighbourhood, and removed to some distance. terry remained for a considerable time with the same family; after a time i learned that he had obtained employment in a distant village. the next tidings i heard of him was that he had been implicated in a petty robbery, and had run away. his impulsive disposition rendered him very easy of persuasion, for either good or evil; and he seldom paused to consider the consequences of any act. from what i could learn of the matter, it seemed he had been enticed into the affair by some designing fellows, who judged that, owing to his simplicity, he would be well adapted to carry out their wicked plans; and, when suspicion was excited, they managed in some way to throw all the blame upon terry, who fearing an arrest, fled no one knew whither. many years have passed since i saw or heard of terry dolan; but often, as memory recalls past scenes and those who participated in them, i think of him, and wonder if he is yet among the living, and, if so, in what quarter of the world he has fixed his abode. the faithful wife. it is a mild and beautiful evening in the early autumn. mrs. harland is alone in her home; she is seated by a table upon which burns a shaded lamp, and is busily occupied with her needle. she has been five years a wife; her countenance is still youthful, and might be termed beautiful, but for the look of care and anxiety so plainly depicted thereon. she had once been happy, but with her now, happiness is but a memory of the past. when quite young she had been united in marriage to wm. harland, and with him removed to the city of r., where they have since resided. he was employed as bookkeeper in a large mercantile house, and his salary was sufficient to afford them a comfortable support,--whence then the change that has thus blighted their bright prospects, and clouded the brow of that fair young wife with care? it is an unpleasant truth, but it must be told. her husband has become addicted to the use of strong drink, not an occasional tippler, but a confirmed and habitual drunkard. his natural disposition was gay and social, and he began by taking an occasional glass with his friends--more for sociability than for any love of the beverage. his wife often admonished him of the danger of tampering with the deadly vice of intemperance; but he only laughed at what he termed her idle fears. well had it been for them both had the fears of his wife proved groundless! it is needless for me to follow him in his downward path, till, we find him reduced to the level of the common drunkard. some three months previous to the time when our story opens his employers were forced to dismiss him, as they could no longer employ him with any degree of safety to their business. it was fortunate for mrs. harland that the dwelling they occupied belonged to her in her own right--it had been given her by her father at the period of her marriage--so that notwithstanding the dissipated habits of the husband and father they still possessed a home, although many of the comforts of former days had disappeared before the blighting influence of the demon of intemperance. after being dismissed by his employers mr. harland seemed to lose all respect for himself, as well as for his wife and children, and, but for the unceasing toil of the patient mother, his children might have often asked for bread in vain. so low had he now fallen that almost every evening found him in some low haunt of drunkenness and dissipation; and often upon returning to his home he would assail his gentle wife with harsh and unfeeling language. many there were who advised mrs. harland to return with her children to her parents, who were in affluent circumstances, but she still cherished the hope that he would yet reform. "i pray daily for my erring husband," she would often say, "and i feel an assurance that, sooner or later, my prayers will be answered; and i cannot feel it my duty to forsake him." but on this evening, as she sits thus alone, her mind is filled with thoughts of the past, which she cannot help contrasting with the miserable present, till her reverie is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, which she soon recognizes as those of her husband: she is much surprised--for it is long, very long, since he has returned to his home at so early an hour--and, as he enters the room, her surprise increases when she perceives that he is perfectly sober. as he met her wondering gaze a kind expression rested upon his countenance, and he addressed her saying: "i do not wonder at your astonishment, dear mary, when i call to mind my past misconduct. i have been a fiend in human shape thus to ill-treat and neglect the best of wives; but i have made a resolve, 'god helping' me, that it shall be so no longer." seating himself by her side, he continued: "if you will listen to me, mary, i will tell you what caused me to form this resolution. when i went out this evening i at once made my way to the public house, where i have spent so much of my time and money. money, i had none, and, worse than this, was owing the landlord a heavy bill. of late he had assailed me with duns every time i entered the house; but so craving was the appetite for drink that each returning evening still found me among the loungers in the bar-room trusting to my chance of meeting with some companion who would call for a treat. it so happened that to-night none of my cronies were present. when the landlord found that i was still unable to settle the 'old score,' as he termed it, he abused me in no measured terms; but i still lingered in sight of the coveted beverage; and knowing my inability to obtain it my appetite increased in proportion. at length i approached the bar, and begged him to trust me for one more glass of brandy. i will not wound your ears by repeating his reply; and he concluded by ordering me from the house, telling me also never to enter it again till i was able to settle the long score already against me. the fact that i had been turned from the door, together with his taunting language stung me almost to madness. i strolled along, scarce knowing or caring whither, till i found myself beyond the limits of the city; and seating myself by the roadside i gazed in silent abstraction over the moonlit landscape; and as i sat thus i fell into a deep reverie. memory carried me back to my youthful days when everything was bright with joyous hope and youthful ambition. i recalled the time when i wooed you from your pleasant country home, and led you to the altar a fair young bride, and there pledged myself before god and man to love, honour and cherish you, till death should us part. suddenly, as if uttered by an audible voice, i seemed to hear the words 'william harland, how have you kept your vows?' at that moment i seemed to suddenly awake to a full sense of my fallen and degraded position. what madness, thought i, has possessed me all this time, thus to ruin myself and those dear to me? and for what? for the mere indulgence of a debasing appetite. i rose to my feet and my step grew light with my new-formed resolution, that i _would_ break the slavish fetters that had so long held me captive; and now, my dear wife, if you can forgive the past and aid me in my resolutions for amendment there is hope for me yet." mrs. harland was only too happy to forgive her erring but now truly penitent husband; but she trembled for the future, knowing how often he had formerly made like resolutions, but to break them. she endeavoured, however, to be hopeful, and to encourage him by every means which affection could devise. through the influence of friends, his former employers were induced to give him another trial. he had many severe struggles with himself ere he could refrain from again joining his dissipated companions; but his watchful wife would almost every evening form some little plan of her own for his amusement, that he might learn to love his home. in a short time their prospects for the future grew brighter, his wife began to smile again; and his children, instead of fleeing from his approach as they had formerly done, now met him upon his return with loving caresses and lively prattle. some six months after this happy change, mrs. harland one evening noticed that her husband seemed very much downcast and dejected. after tea, she tried vainly to interest him in conversation. he had a certain nervous restlessness in his manner, which always troubled her, knowing, as she did, that it was caused by the cravings of that appetite for strong drink, which at times still returned with almost overwhelming force. about eight o'clock he took down his hat preparatory to going out. she questioned him as to where he was going, but could obtain no satisfactory reply; her heart sank within her; but she was aware that remonstrance would be useless. she remained for a few moments, after he left the house, in deep thought, then suddenly rising she exclaimed aloud, "i will at least make one effort to save him." she well knew that should he take but one glass, all his former resolves would be as nothing. as she gained the street she observed her husband a short distance in advance of her, and walking hastily she soon overtook him, being careful to keep on the opposite side of the street, that she might be unobserved by him. she had formed no definite purpose in her mind; she only felt that she must endeavor to save him by some means. as they drew nigh the turn of the street she saw two or three of his former associates join him, and one of them addressed him, saying, "come on, harland; i thought you would get enough of the cold water system. come on, and i'll stand treat to welcome you back among your old friends." for a moment he paused as if irresolute; then his wife grew sick at heart, as she saw him follow his companions into a drinking saloon near at hand. mrs. harland was by nature a delicate and retiring woman; for a moment she paused: dare she go further! her irresolution was but momentary, for the momentous consequences at stake gave her a fictitious courage. she quickly approached the door, which at that moment some one in the act of leaving the house threw wide open, and she gained a view of her husband in the act of raising a glass to his lips; but ere he had tasted its fiery contents it was dashed from his hand, and the shattered fragments scattered upon the floor. mr. harland, supposing it the act of one of his half-drunken companions, turned with an angry exclamation upon his lips; but the expression of anger upon his countenance suddenly gave place to one of shame and humiliation when he saw his wife standing before him, pale but resolute. in a subdued voice he addressed her, saying, "mary, how came you here?" "do not blame me, william," she replied; "for i could not see you again go astray without, at least, making an effort to save you. and now will you not return with me to your home?" the other occupants of the room had thus far remained silent since the entrance of mrs. harland; but when they saw that mr. harland was about to leave the house by her request, they began taunting him with his want of spirit in being thus ruled by a woman. one of them, who was already half drunk, staggered toward him, saying, "i'd just like to see my old woman follerin' me round in this way. i'll be bound i'd teach her a lesson she would'nt forget in a hurry." many similar remarks were made by one and another present. the peculiar circumstances in which mrs. harland found herself placed gave her a degree of fortitude, of which upon ordinary occasions she would have found herself incapable. raising her hand with an imperative gesture she said in a firm voice: "back tempters, hinder not my husband from following the dictates of his better nature." for a few moments there was silence in the room, till one of the company, more drunken and insolent than the others, exclaimed in a loud, derisive voice: "zounds, madam, but you would make a capital actress, specially on the tragedy parts; you should seek an engagement upon the stage." mr. harland's eyes flashed angrily as his listened to the insulting words addressed to his wife, and, turning to the man who had spoken, he addressed him, saying, in a decided tone of voice: "i wish to have no harsh language in this room while my wife is present, but i warn each one of you to address no more insulting language to her." the manner in which mr. harland addressed them, together with the gentle and lady-like appearance of his wife, had the effect to shame them into silence. his voice was very tender as he again addressed his wife, saying, "come mary i wills accompany you home--this is no place for you." when they gained the street the unnatural courage which had sustained mrs. harland gave way, and she would have fallen to the earth, but for the supporting arm of her husband. for a few moments they walked on in silence, when mr. harland said, in a voice choked with emotion, "you have been my good angel, mary, for your hand it was which saved me from violating a solemn oath; but i now feel an assurance that i have broken the tempter's chains forever." i am happy to add that from this hour he gained a complete victory over the evil habit which well-nigh had proved his ruin; and in after years, when peace and prosperity again smiled upon them, he often called to mind the evening when his affectionate and devoted wife, by her watchful love, saved him from ruin, and perchance from the drunkard's grave. emma ashton. it was a sad day for emma ashton, when, with her widowed mother, she turned from her father's new-made grave, and again entered their desolate home. none but those who have experienced a like sorrow can fully understand their grief as they entered their now lonely home, where a short time since they had been so happy. but the ways of providence are, to our feeble vision, often dark and incomprehensible, and the only way by which we can reconcile ourselves to many trials which we are called to endure is by remembering that there is a "need be" for every sorrow which falls to our lot, in the journey of life. emma was an only child and had been the idol of her father's heart, and no marvel if the world, to her, looked dark and dreary when he was removed by death. added to the grief occasioned by their bereavement, the mother and daughter had yet another cause for anxiety and disquietude, for the home where they had dwelt for so many years in the enjoyment of uninterrupted happiness was now no longer theirs. since quite a young man, mr. ashton had held the position of overseer, in a large manufactory in the village of w. owing to his sober and industrious habits he had saved money sufficient to enable him, at the period of his marriage, to purchase a neat and tasteful home, to which he removed with his young wife. he still continued his industry, and began in a small way to accumulate money, when, unfortunately, he was persuaded by one whom he thought a friend to sign bank-notes with him to a large amount; but, ere the notes became due, the man he had obliged left the country, and he was unable to gain any trace of him, and was soon called upon to meet the claim. bank-notes must be paid, and to raise money to meet the claim he was forced to mortgage his house for nearly its full value. his health failed; and for two years previous to his death he was unable to attend to his business. the term of the mortgage was five years, which time expired soon after his death. during the few last weeks of his life his mind was very much disturbed regarding the destitute condition in which he must leave his beloved wife and daughter; for he was too well acquainted with the man who held the claim to expect any lenity to his family when it should become due, and he was sensible that the hour of his own death was fast approaching. his wife tried to cheer him by hopeful words, saying: "should it please our heavenly father to remove you, fear not that he will fail to care for the fatherless and widow." a short time before his death a sweet peace and hopeful trust settled over his spirit, and the religion he had sought in health afforded him a firm support in the hour of death. when all was over, and the mother and daughter found themselves left alone, their fortitude well-nigh forsook them, and they felt almost like yielding to a hopeless sorrow. emma was at this time but fifteen years of age, possessed of much personal beauty, and also a very amiable and affectionate disposition. since the age of six years she had attended school, and made rapid progress in her various studies till the sad period of her father's death. as mr. ashton had foreseen, mr. tompkins, the man who held the mortgage, soon called upon the widow, informing her that the time had already expired, and unless she found herself able to meet the claim, her dwelling was legally his property; but, as a great favor, he granted her permission to occupy the house till she could make some arrangement concerning the future, giving her, however, distinctly to understand, that he wished to take possession as soon as she could find another home. mrs. ashton thanked him for the consideration he had shown her, little as it was, telling him she would as soon as possible seek another home, however humble it might be; and mr. tompkins departed with a polite bow and a bland smile upon his countenance, well pleased that he had got the matter settled with so little difficulty. i presume he never once paused to think of the grief-stricken widow and her fatherless daughter, whom he was about to render homeless. money had so long been his idol that tender and benevolent emotions were well-nigh extinguished in his world-hardened heart. for a long time after mr. tompkins left the house mrs. ashton remained in deep thought. there are, dear reader, dark periods in the lives of most of us, when, turn which way we will, we find ourselves surrounded, as by a thick hedge, with difficulties and troubles from which we see no escape. at such periods it is good for us to call to mind the fact, that the darkest cloud often has a silver lining, and that if we discharged, to the best of our ability, our duties for the time being, the cloud, sooner or later, will be reversed, and display its bright side to our troubled view. the time had now arrived, when mrs. ashton must come to some decision regarding the future. she had no friends to whom she could turn for aid or counsel in this season of trial. when quite young she had emigrated from england with her parents and one sister, and settled in eastern canada. about the time of her marriage and removal to w. her parents, with her sister, removed to one of the western states: and it may be the knowledge that she must rely solely upon herself enabled her to meet her trials with more fortitude than might have been expected. some fifty miles from w. was the large and thriving village of rockford, and thither mrs. ashton at length decided to remove. one reason for this decision was the excellent institution for the education of young ladies, which was there located. she was very anxious that her daughter should obtain a good education, but was sorely puzzled as to raising the money needful for defraying her expenses. there were a few debts due her husband at the time of his death; these she collected with little difficulty. their dwelling had been handsomely furnished, and she decided to sell the furniture, as she could easily, upon their arrival at rockford, purchase what articles were necessary for furnishing their new home, which must, of necessity, be humble. one article she felt they must retain if possible, and that was the piano given her by her father at the period of her marriage. she did at first entertain the idea of parting with it, thinking how far the money it would bring would go in defraying the expenses attendant upon emma's education, but upon second consideration, she resolved that they would not part with her father's parting-gift to her, unless compelled to do so by actual want; and so when their old home was broken up the piano was carefully packed and forwarded to rockford. the home where they had resided so long was very dear to them, and it would have grieved them to leave it at any time; but to leave at the glad season of spring, when the trees which shaded their dwelling were beginning to put forth their leaves, and the flowers which adorned their garden were bursting into bloom, seemed to them doubly sad. but their preparations for removal were finally completed; and they left their home followed by the good wishes of many who had long known and loved them. upon their arrival at rockford, mrs. ashton hired a cheap tenement in a respectable locality, which she furnished in a plain but decent manner. when they became settled in their new home they had still in hand money sufficient to secure them from immediate want, but as mrs. ashton wished emma to enter at once upon her studies, she was very anxious to devise some means of earning money to meet necessary expenses. there was one family residing in rockford with whom mrs. ashton had several years before been intimately acquainted: their name was lebaron, and they at one time resided in the same village with the ashtons. mr. lebaron had opened a store upon removing to rockford; the world had smiled upon him, and he was now considered one of the most wealthy and influential men in the village. it has been often said that "prosperity hardens the heart of man," but if such is the case in general, mr. lebaron proved an exception to the general rule. he had heard with much sorrow of the death of mr. ashton, and also of the other misfortunes which had overtaken the family; and no sooner did he learn of the arrival of the widow and daughter in rockford, than, accompanied by his wife, he hastened to call upon them to renew their former acquaintance, and in a delicate and considerate manner to enquire if he could assist them in any way. mrs. ashton thanked them for their kindness, saying that although in no immediate need of assistance, yet she would be very thankful if they would assist her in obtaining employment. "if such is the case," replied mrs. lebaron, "i can easily secure you employment, as i am acquainted with many ladies who give, out work, and will gladly use my influence in your favor." "you will confer a favor upon me by so doing," replied mrs. ashton, "for i must rely upon my labor for a support for the future." through the influence of these kind friends mrs. ashton soon obtained an abundant supply of work; and, when she became somewhat acquainted with the people of rockford, her gentle and unobtrusive manner gained her many warm friends. agreeable to her mother's wishes, emma soon became a pupil in the seminary for young ladies, which was at that time under the direction of miss hinton, a lady who possessed uncommon abilities as a teacher, and was also aided by several competent assistants. mrs. lebaron had two daughters attending the institution at the time, and this circumstance, in a great measure, relieved emma from the feeling of diffidence she might have experienced in entering a large school a stranger to both teachers and pupils; but her modest and unassuming manners, added to her diligence in study soon caused her to become a general favorite with her teachers. in schools, as well as other places, we often meet with those who are inclined to be jealous of merit superior to their own, and the seminary, at rockford was no exception in this matter. her teachers were guilty of no unjust partiality; true, they oftener commended her than some other members of her class, but not oftener than her punctual attendance, perfect recitations and correct deportment generally, justified them in doing. but it soon became evident that, if emma was a favourite with her teachers, she was far from being such with many members of her class. at the time she entered school miss hinton found, after examining her in her various studies, that her attainments were already superior to those of several young ladies who had been for some time members of the school. among the pupils who at the time attended the institution was a miss carlton, from the distant city of h. she was the petted and only child of wealthy parents; and, as is often the case, her disposition, which, under proper training, might have been amiable, had been spoiled by unwise indulgence on the part of her parents. her capacity for learning was not good; she was also sadly wanting in application, and, at the time emma entered the school, although miss carlton had attended for more than a year, her progress in study was far from being satisfactory to her teachers. she was at much pains to inform her classmates of her wealth and position, seeming to entertain the idea that this would cover every defect. owing to emma's superior attainments, compared with her own, she soon learned to regard her with a feeling of absolute dislike, which she took little pains to conceal; and many were the petty annoyances she endured from the vain and haughty julia carlton. she soon learned that emma was poor; and that her mother toiled early and late to defray the expenses of her education; and more than once she threw out hints regarding this fact, among the other pupils, even in hearing of emma; and, as often as opportunity offered, she slighted the unoffending girl, and treated her with all the rudeness of which she was capable. "let those who wish associate with miss ashton," she would often say to her companions; "but i am thankful that i have been better taught at home than to make a companion of a girl whose mother is obliged to take in sewing to pay her school bills." these and other remarks equally malicious were daily made by miss carlton; and i am sorry that she soon found others in the school who were weak enough to be influenced by her also to treat emma with coldness and contempt. emma could not long fail to notice the many slights, both direct and indirect, which she endured from many members of the school, and she taxed her memory to recall any act by which she might have given offence; but, finding herself unable to recollect any thing on her part which could have offended any member of the school, she was not a little puzzled to account for the rudeness with which she was treated. it happened one day that during recess she remained at her desk in the school-room to complete an unfinished french exercise. several of her companions soon after entered the adjoining recitation room, and, as they were not aware of her proximity, she became an unwilling listener to a conversation which pained her deeply. as sarah lebaron entered the room one of the girls addressed her, saying:--"when you first introduced miss ashton among us, i supposed her to be at least a companionable girl, but i have lately been informed that she resides in a cheap tenement, and, further, that her mother takes in sewing, and, if such is the case, i wish to cultivate no further acquaintance with her." "but then," added another girl, "miss hinton thinks her almost a saint, and sets her up as a model for us all; if there's any thing i do detest, it's these model girls, and i don't believe she's half as fond of study as she pretends; and, in my opinion, its only to hear the commendations of the teachers that she applies herself with such diligence; but miss hinton is so taken with her meek face and lady-like manners that she places her above us all, and, i suppose, we must submit, for as the old song says: 'what can't be cured must be endured.'" "well, i for one shall try some method of cure, before i put up with much more of her impudence and assumption," chimed in the amiable miss carlton; "pay attentions now, girls," continued she, "while i take my place in the class like emma ashton;" and separating herself from her companions, she crossed the room to one of the class-seats, with such a ludicrous air of meekness and decorum, that the girls were almost convulsed with laughter. starting up and tossing her book from her hand she exclaimed, "it is so disgusting to see a girl in _her_ position put on such airs." miss lebaron had not before spoken, but, when at length there was silence, she addressed her companions, saying, "if no other young lady present has any further remarks to make, i will myself say a few words if you will listen to me. i must say, i am surprised at the unkindness, even rudeness, which many of you have exhibited towards miss ashton. if she is poor it is death, and other misfortunes which have caused her to become so; and this circumstance should excite your sympathy, but surely not your contempt and ridicule. poor as she is, she is my friend, and i am proud to claim her as such. as to her being companionable that is a matter of taste; i shall continue to follow mine, and each young lady present is at liberty to do the same; but be assured that unless you can furnish some more satisfactory reason for your disparaging remarks than you have yet done, they will bear no weight with me." with much irony in her voice miss carlton replied, "really, miss lebaron, i am unable to reply to your very able defence of your charming friend, and will only say that i shall avail myself of the liberty you have kindly granted us, for each to follow her own taste in the choice of associates, and avoid miss ashton as much as possible." "as you please," replied miss lebaron, "it is a matter of perfect indifference to me;" and just then the school bell put an end to further conversation. as may be easily supposed, the delicate and sensitive spirit of emma was deeply wounded by the above conversation; and it was with much difficulty that she maintained her composure for the remaining portion of the day. for once her lessons were imperfect; and with a heavy heart she returned to her home. that evening she, for the first time, mentioned to her mother the daily annoyances she suffered from her companions at school; and concluded by relating the conversation she had that day chanced to overhear. mrs. ashton could not feel otherwise than grieved; but as much as possible she concealed the feeling from her daughter. "my dear emma," she replied, "their unkind words can do you no real harm, although they may render you unhappy for the time being. but keep the even tenor of your way; and they will, probably, after a time become ashamed of their folly. should they make any further remarks regarding my laboring to give you an education, you may tell them that i esteem it as one of my chief blessings that i have health granted me so to do." time passed on; and the invariable kindness with which emma treated her classmates finally gained her several warm friends; and some of them even apologized for their past unkindness. miss carlton still regarded her with a feeling of enmity and dislike; but as emma seemed not to notice the many annoyances she experienced she was at length forced to desist, although the same resentful feeling remained in her heart. when emma left the seminary, after attending it for four years, her departure was deeply regretted by both teachers and pupils. as she had pursued her studies in a very systematic manner, she had acquired, before leaving school, a thoroughly good education, which she intended turning to account by teaching. miss carlton also left school at the same time to return to her elegant home in the city of h. it was fortunate for her that she was not obliged, as was emma, to teach as a means of support; for, notwithstanding the unwearied pains of her teachers, her education, when she left school, was very superficial. emma soon obtained a situation as teacher in a small village some twenty miles from rockford, where she remained for two years. during her absence, her mother, to avoid being left alone, received as boarders two or three young ladies who attended school in the village. emma's success as a teacher become so well known that she was at length offered a high salary to accept of the position of assistant teacher in an academy in the city of h., the same city where miss carlton resided. as the salary offered was very liberal, she decided to accept of the position, and as the situation was likely to prove a permanent one she was very anxious that her mother should accompany her; and after some deliberation upon the subject, mrs. ashton consented, thinking they would both be much happier together than otherwise. emma proved quite as successful in thus her second situation as in the first; and owing to her position as teacher she soon formed acquaintance with several families of cultivated tastes and high respectability. she often received invitations to parties; but her tastes were quiet, and she usually preferred spending her evenings with her mother in the quiet of their own home, to mingling in scenes of mirth and gaiety; and it was only upon a few occasions that she attended parties, that her friends might not think her unsocial. at one of these parties she chanced to meet her former school mate, miss carlton, whose only sign of recognition was a very formal bow. this gave her no uneasiness; she cherished no malice towards miss carlton; but her ideas and tastes so widely differed from her own that she did not covet her friendship even had she been inclined to grant it her. meanwhile, with the widow and her daughter, time passed happily away. emma's salary was more than sufficient for their support and they were happy in the society of each other. there was one family, by the name of milford, who had treated them with much kindness since their residence in the city. mrs. milford at first placed two little girls under emma's instruction, and thus began an acquaintance which soon ripened into intimate friendship; for, although occupying a high position of wealth and influence, mrs. milford was one of the few who place "mind above matter" and respected true worth wherever she met with it. her eldest daughter, having finished her education at a distant boarding school, returned home about the same time her two sisters were placed in charge of emma; and the little girls were so eloquent in their praise of their teacher, that their eldest sister became interested, and decided to call upon her at her home; and the lady-like appearance of both mother and daughter, together with the appearance of good taste which their home exhibited, strongly interested her in their favor. some six months previous to the period of which i am writing a young physician from the upper province located himself in the city of h. for the practice of his profession. according to common report, he was wealthy, and the study of a profession had with him been a matter not of necessity but of choice. owing to his pleasing manners, as well as his reputed wealth, he soon became an object of much interest to many of the match-making mammas and marriageable young ladies of the city of h. he was soon favored with numerous invitations to attend parties, where he formed acquaintance with most of the young people in the fashionable circle of the city; and he soon became a general favorite in society. among others, he attended a large party given by the carltons, and by this means became acquainted with the family. he had called occasionally; and during one of those calls mrs. carlton very feelingly lamented that her daughter was often obliged to forego the pleasure of attending concerts, lectures and other places of public amusement for want of a suitable escort; and courtesy to the family would of course allow him to do no less than offer to become her attendant upon such occasions. mrs. carlton, however, put a very different construction upon these slight attentions, and already looked upon him as her future son-in-law. when dr. winthrop had resided for about a year in the city, the milfords also gave a large party, and miss ashton was included among their guests. the party was a brilliant affair, for the milfords were a family of wealth and high social position. the young physician was among their guests; and miss carlton managed some way or other to claim his attention most of the evening. there was the usual amount of small talk, common to such occasions; about the usual number of young ladies were invited to sing and play, and, as usual, they were either out of practice or were afflicted with "bad colds." but it so happened that several young ladies who at the first begged to be excused, after much persuasion allowed themselves to be conducted to the piano, and played till it was evident from the manner of many that the music had become an infliction instead of a pleasure. when after a time miss ashton was invited to play, she took the vacant seat at the piano without any of the usual apologies; and began playing the prelude to a much admired song of the day; and before she reached the close of the first verse there was a hush through the room, and the countenance of each evinced the pleasure with which they listened to her performance. as she rose from the instrument dr. winthrop addressed miss carlton, saying: "can you inform me who is that young lady? i never met her before; but she has favored us with the first real music i have listened to this evening." the young physician was not wanting in politeness, and he certainly must have forgotten that miss carlton occupied the seat at the piano a short time before. that young lady colored with anger as she replied: "her name is miss ashton, and i understand she is engaged as an assistant teacher in one of the academies in the city." "it is singular," replied dr. winthrop, "that i have never before met her at any of the numerous parties i have attended during the past year." "there is nothing very singular in that," replied miss carlton, "for i presume she is not often invited to fashionable parties, and i suppose it is owing to mrs. milford's two little girls being her pupils that we find her among their guests; but as you seem so much interested, i will tell you all i know of the _person_ in question. when i attended school at rockford, miss ashton was a pupil in the same institution; but, when i learned that her mother, who is a widow, took in sewing, to pay her school bills, i did not care to cultivate her acquaintance. she left school about the same time with myself, and i heard no more of her till she obtained a situation in this city." "pardon me," replied the young physician; "but i see nothing in what you have stated that is in the least disparaging to the young lady; and i should be much pleased to make her acquaintance." "our ideas slightly vary in these matters," replied miss carlton, with a haughty toss of her head; "but i will not detain you from seeking the introduction for which you seem so anxious. i am sorry i cannot oblige you by introducing you myself; but as i did not associate with her when at school, i am still less inclined to do so at the present time; i hope, however, you may find her an agreeable acquaintance;" and with a haughty manner she swept from his side in quest of companions whose tastes were more congenial. dr. winthrop obtained the desired introduction; and if miss carlton indulged the hope that he would find miss ashton an agreeable acquaintance, there was soon a fair prospect that her wishes would be realized; for the marked attention which dr. winthrop paid the lovely and engaging miss ashton soon formed the chief topic of conversation among the circle of their acquaintances. for once, public rumor was correct. dr. winthrop was very wealthy; but when a mere youth he had a decided taste for the study of medicine; and his parents allowed him to follow the bent of his own inclinations, in fitting himself for a profession for which he entertained so strong a liking. he had an uncle residing in a distant city, who was also a physician of high reputation, and, after passing through the necessary course of study, he had practiced his profession for two years under the direction of his uncle, before removing to the city of h. up to the time when we introduced him to the reader matrimony was a subject to which he had never given a serious thought, and until he met with miss ashton he had never felt any personal interest in the matter. from what i have already said the reader will not be surprised to learn that the acquaintance begun at mrs. milford's party terminated in a matrimonial engagement; with the free consent of all who had a right to a voice in the matter. when the matter became known it caused quite a sensation in the circles in which dr. winthrop had moved since his residence in the city; but, happily for him, he was possessed of too independent a spirit to suffer any annoyance from any malicious remarks which chanced to reach his ears. when miss carlton first learned of the engagement, she indulged in a long fit of spiteful tears, to the imminent risk of appearing with red eyes at the forthcoming evening party. in due time the marriage took place; and the young physician and his lovely bride set out on their wedding tour amid the congratulations and good wishes of many true friends. after their departure mrs. carlton remarked to several of her "dear friends" "that she had long since discovered that dr. winthrop was not possessed of refined tastes; and for her part she thought miss ashton much better suited to be his wife than many others which she could name." had the doctor been present to express his sentiments regarding this matter, they would in all probability have exactly agreed with those already expressed by mrs. carlton. during their wedding tour, which occupied several weeks, they visited many places of note, both in canada and the united states. upon their return to the city dr. winthrop purchased an elegant house in a central location, which he furnished in a style justified by his abundant means; and with his wife and her mother removed thither. in conclusion, we will again bestow a passing glance upon this happy family after the lapse of some twenty years. we find dr. winthrop now past the meridian of life surrounded by an interesting family of sons and daughters, whom he is endeavoring to train for spheres of usefulness in this life, as well as for happiness in the "life to come." his graceful and dignified wife still gladdens his heart and home. time has dealt very gently with her; she is quite as good and almost as beautiful as when we last saw her twenty years ago. the two eldest of their family are boys, and this is their last year in college. mrs. winthrop has thus far attended herself to the education of her two daughters. along with many other useful lessons, she often seeks to impress upon their minds the sin and folly of treating with contempt and scorn those who may be less favored than themselves in a worldly point of view; and to impress the lesson more strongly upon their young minds, she has more than once spoken to them of her own early history, and of the trials to which she was subject in her youthful days. but what of mrs. ashton? she still lives; although her once active form is beginning to bow beneath the weight of years, and her hair has grown silvery white. this year dr. winthrop has completed his preparations for leaving the city after more than twenty years close application to his profession. he resolved to remove with his family to some quiet country village, which would afford sufficient practice to prevent time from hanging heavily upon his hands; but he now felt quite willing to resign his fatiguing and extensive practice in the city. when he first formed the idea of seeking a country home, he enquired of his wife, if she had any choice regarding a location. "if it meets your wishes," replied she, "no other place would please me so well as the village of w, the home of my childhood and youth, and where my dear father is buried." he soon after made a journey to w, and was so much pleased with the thriving appearance of the village, and the industry and sobriety of the inhabitants, that he decided to seek there a home. before he left his home, his wife requested him, should he decide upon removing to w, if possible to re-purchase their old home, knowing how much this would please her now aged mother. the purchase was soon completed, and ere he left the village the old house was in the hands of workmen, with his instructions as to improvements and repairs. mrs. ashton was very happy when she learned that they were to return to w. "i have been happy here," said she, "but i shall be still happier there." in a short time they removed from the city to take possession of the "dear old home" in w, now enlarged and adorned in various ways; but the same clear brook still flowed at the foot of the garden, and the same trees, only that they were older, and their branches had grown more wide-spreading, shaded the dwelling. as they passed beneath the shade of those well-remembered trees, mrs. winthrop addressed her mother, saying, "do you remember, mamma, how sad we felt the morning we left our home so many years ago, and we little thought it would ever again be ours." mrs. ashton gazed fondly upon her daughter and the blooming children at her side, as she replied in the language of the psalmist, "i have been young and now am old; yet have i not seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging bread." thoughts on autumn. again has the season of autumn arrived. the stated changes of the seasons serve as monitors to remind us of the flight of time; and upon such occasions the most unthinking can hardly avoid pausing to reflect upon the past, the present, and the probable future. autumn has been properly styled the "sabbath of the year." its scenes are adapted to awaken sober and profitable reflection; and the voice with which it appeals to our reflective powers is deserving of regard. this season is suggestive of thoughts and feelings which are not called forth by any other; standing, as it were, a pause between life and death; holding in its lap the consummate fruits of the earth, which are culled by the hand of prudence and judgment, some to be garnered in the treasury of useful things, while others are allowed to return to their primitive elements. when spring comes smiling o'er the earth, she breathes on the icebound waters, and they flow anew. frost and snow retreat before her advancing footsteps. the earth is clothed with verdure; and the trees put forth their leaves. again, a few short months, and where has all this beauty fled? the trees stand firm as before; but, with every passing breeze, a portion of their once green leaves now fall to the ground. we behold the bright flowers, which beautify the earth, open their rich petals, shed their fragrance on the breeze, and then droop and perish. sad emblem of the perishing nature of all things earthly. may we not behold in the fading vegetation, and the falling leaves of autumn, a true type of human life? truly "we all do fade as a leaf." life at the best is but a shadow that passes quickly away. why then this love of gain, this thirst for fame and distinction? let us approach yonder church-yard and there seek for distinction. there we may behold marble tablets cold as the clay which rests beneath them: their varied inscriptions of youth, beauty, age, ambition, pride and vanity, are all here brought to one common level, like the leaves which in autumn fall to the earth, not one pre-eminent over another. the inspired writers exhibit the frailty of man by comparing him to the grass and the flowers withering and dying under the progress and vicissitudes of the year; and with the return of autumn we may behold in the external appearance of nature the changes to which the sacred penman refers, when he says, "so is man. his days are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth. for the wind passeth over it and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." autumn too, is the season of storms. let this remind us of the storms of life. scattered around us, are the wrecks of the tempests which have beaten upon others, and we cannot expect always ourselves to be exempt. autumn is also the season of preparation for winter. let us remember that the winter of death is at hand, and let us be impressed with the importance of making preparation for its approach. let us then, as we look upon the changed face of nature, take home the lesson which it teaches; and, while we consider the perishable nature of all things pertaining to this life, may we learn to prepare for another and a happier state of being. wandering davy. it was while i was spending a few days in the dwelling of mr. c., a scottish immigrant, that he received a long letter from his friends in scotland. after perusing the letter he addressed his wife, saying: "so auld davy's gone at last." "puir man," replied mrs. c. "if he's dead let us hope that he has found that rest and peace which has been so long denied him in this life." "and who was old davy; may i enquire," said i, addressing mr. c. "ay, man," he replied, "'tis a sad story; but when my work is by for the night, i'll tell ye a' that i ken o' the life o' davy stuart." i was then young and very imaginative; and a story of any kind possessed much interest for me; and the thought that the story of old davy was to be a true one, rendered it doubly interesting; so i almost counted the hours of the remaining portion of the day; and when evening came i was not slow to remind mr. c. of his promise. accordingly he related to me the following particulars of the life of davy stuart; which i give, as nearly as possible, in his own words; for it seems to me that the story would lose half its interest were i to render it otherwise. "davy stuart was an aul' man when i was a wee boy at the school. i had aye been used wi' him; for he often bided wi' us for days thegither; and while a boy i gave little heed to his odd ways an' wanderin' mode o' life; for he was very kind to mysel' an' a younger brither an' we thought muckle o' him; but when we had grown up to manhood my father tell'd us what had changed davy stuart from a usefu' an' active man to the puir demented body he then was. he was born in a small parish in the south of scotland, o' respectable honest parents, who spared nae pains as he grew up to instruct him in his duty to baith god an' man. at quite an early age he was sent to the parish school: where he remained maist o' the time till he reached the age o' fourteen years. at that time he was apprenticed to learn the trade o' shoemaker, in a distant town. it wad seem that he served his time faithfully, an' gained a thorough knowledge o' his trade. upon leaving his master, after paying a short visit to his native parish, he gie'd awa' to the city o' glasgow, to begin the warld for himself. he continued steady and industrious, and was prospered accordingly; and at the age o' twenty-five he had saved considerable money. it was about this time, that he was married to a worthy young woman, to whom he had been long deeply attached. they had but one bairn, a fine boy, who was the delight o' his father's heart, and i hae heard it said by they who kenn'd them at the time, that a bonnier or mair winsome boy could 'na hae been found in the city, than wee geordie stuart. time gied on till geordie was near twelve years aul', when it began to be talked o' among mr. stuart's friends that he was becoming owre fond o' drink. how the habit was first formed naebody could tell; but certain it was, that during the past year he had been often seen the war o' drink. his wife, puir body, admonished an' entreated him to break awa' fra the sinfu' habit, and he often, when moved by her tears, made resolutions o' amendment, which were broken maist as soon as made; an' it was during a longer season o' sobriety than was usual wi' him, that his wife, thinkin' if he was once awa' fra the great city he would be less in the way o' temptation, persuaded him to leave glasgow an' remove to the sma' village o' mill-burn, a little way frae the farm which my father rented. i well mind, said my father, o' the time when they first cam' among us, an' how kin' was a' the neebors to his pale sad-lookin' wife and the bonny light-hearted geordie, who was owre young at the time, to realize to its fu' extent the sad habit into which his father had fa'n. when mr. stuart first came to our village he again took up his aul' habits o' industry, an' for a long time would'na taste drink ava; but when the excitement o' the sudden change had worn off, his aul' likin' for strong drink cam' back wi' fu' force, an' he, puir weak man--had'na the strength o' mind to withstand it. he soon became even war than before; his money was a' gane, he did'na work, so what was there but poverty for his wife an' child. but it is useless for me to linger o'er the sad story. when they had lived at mill-burn a little better than a twelve month, his wife died, the neebors said o' a broken heart. a wee while afore her death she ca'd davie to her bedside, an' once mair talked lang an earnestly to him o' the evil habit which had gotten sic a hold o' him, an' begged him for the sake o' their dear' geordie, who, she reminded him, would soon be left without a mither to care for him, to make still anither effort to free himself fra the deadly habit. i believe davie was sincere when he promised the dyin' woman that he wad gie up drink. wi' a' his faults, he had tenderly loved his wife, an' i hae nae doubt fully intended keepin' the promise he made her. for a lang time after her death, he was n'er seen to enter a public house ava', an' again he applied himsel' to his wark wi' much industry. after the death o' mrs. stuart, geordie an' his father bided a' their lane. their house was on the ither side o' the burn which crossed the high-road, a wee bit out o' the village. time gie'd on for some time wi' them in this way. davy continued sober and industrious, an' the neebors began to hae hopes that he had gotten the better o' his evil habit; he had n'er been kenned to taste strong drink o' ony kin' sin' the death o' his wife. one evening after he an' geordie had ta'en their suppers, he made himsel' ready to gang out, saying to geordie that he was gaun' doon to the village for a wee while, and that he was to bide i' the house an' he would'na be lang awa'. the hours wore awa' till ten o'clock, an' he had'na cam' hame. it was aye supposed that the boy, becoming uneasy at his father's lang stay, had set out to look for him, when by some mishap, it will n'er be kenned what way, he lost his footin', an' fell frae the end o' the narrow brig which crossed the burn. the burn was'na large, but a heavy rain had lately fa'n, an' there was aye a deep bit at one end o' the brig. he had fa'n head first into the water in sic a way that he could'na possibly won 'oot. it was a clear moonlicht night, an' when davy reached the brig, the first thing he saw was his ain son lyin' i' the water. i hae often been told that a sudden shock o' ony kind will sober a drunken man. it was sae wi' davy; for the first neebor who, hearin' his cries for assistance, ran to the spot, found him standin i' the middle o' the brig, perfectly sober, wi' the drooned boy in his arms; although it was weel kenned that he was quite drunk when he left the village. every means was used for the recovery o' the boy, but it was a' useless, he was quite deed an' caul'. "ah" said davy, when tell'd by the doctor that the boy was indeed dead, "my punishment is greater than i can bear." geordie had aye been as "the apple o' his een"; never had he been kenned to ill use the boy, even when under the influence o' drink; and the shock was too much for his reason. many wondered at his calmness a' the while the body lay i' the house afore the burial; but it was the calmness o' despair; he just seemed to me like ane turned to stane. the first thing that roused him was the sound o' the first earth that fell on puir geordie's coffin. he gie'd ae bitter groan, an' wad hae fa'n to the earth had'na a kind neebor supported him. his mind wandered fra that hour; he was aye harmless, but the light o' reason never cam' back to his tortured mind. sometimes he wad sit for hours by geordie's grave, an' fancy that he talked wi' him. on these occasions nothing wad induce him to leave the grave till some ither fancy attracted his mind. as i hae before said he was never outrageous, but seemed most o' the time, when silent, to be in deep thought; but his reason was quite gone, and the doctors allowed that his case was beyond cure. many questioned them as to whether it were safe to allow him his liberty, lest he might do some deed o' violence; but they gave it as their opinion that his disease was'na a' ta' likely to tak' that turn wi' him, an' so was left to wander on. he never bided verra lang in a place, but wandered frae house to house through a' the country-side: and every one treated him wi' kindness. the sight o' a bonny fair-haired boy aye gave him muckle pleasure, an' he wad whiles hae the idea that geordie had cam' back to him. from the day o' geordie's death to that o' his ain', which took place a month sine, he was n'er kenned to taste strong drink; he could'na bear even the sight o' it. he lived to a verra great age, an' for many years they who did'na ken the story o' his early life ha'e ca'd him wanderin' davy. "i hae noo tell'd you his story," said mr. c. addressing me; "an i hope it may prove a warnin' to you an' ithers o' the awfu' evils o' intemperance; an' i think it's high time my story was finished, for i see by the clock that it's growin' unco late." when the evening psalm had been sung, mr. c. read a portion of the scriptures and offered the usual nightly prayer, and soon after we all sought repose; but it was long ere i slept. the story i had listened to still floated through my mind, and when sleep at length closed my eyes it was to dream of "wandering davy," and the poor drowned boy. looking on the dark side. it is an old but true saying, that "troubles come soon enough without meeting them half way." but i think my friend mrs. talbot had never chanced to hear this saying, old as it is; for she was extremely prone at all times to look only upon the dark side, and this habit was a source of much trouble to herself as well as her family. mr. talbot might properly have been called a well-to-do farmer. they were surrounded by an intelligent and interesting family; and a stranger, in taking a passing view of their home and its surroundings, would have been strongly inclined to think that happiness and contentment might be found beneath their roof; but a short sojourn in the dwelling alluded to, would certainly have dispelled the illusion. this mrs. talbot was possessed of a most unhappy disposition. she seemed to entertain the idea that the whole world was in league to render her miserable. it has often struck me with surprise, that a person surrounded with so much to render life happy should indulge in so discontented and repining a temper as did mrs. talbot. she was famous for dwelling at length upon her trials, as often as she could obtain a listener; and when i first became acquainted with her i really regarded her with a feeling of pity; but after a time i mentally decided that the greater part of her grievances existed only in her own imagination. she spent a large portion of her time in deploring the sins of the whole world in general, and of her own family and immediate neighbors in particular; while she looked upon herself as having almost, if not quite, attained to perfection. i recollect calling one day upon mr. talbot; he was of a very social disposition, and we engaged for a short time in a lively conversation. mrs. talbot was present, and, strange to tell, once actually laughed at some amusing remark made by her husband. he soon after left the room, and her countenance resumed its usual doleful expression as she addressed me, saying, "i wish i could have any hopes of mr. talbot; but i am afraid the last state of that man will be worse than the first." i questioned her as to her meaning; and she went on to tell me that her husband had once made a profession of religion; but she feared he was then in a "backslidden state," as she termed it. i know not how this matter might have been; but during my acquaintance with mr. talbot i never observed any thing in his conduct which to me seemed inconsistent with a profession of religion. he certainly excelled his wife in one thing, and that was christian charity; for he was seldom if ever heard to speak of the short-comings of others. it is quite possible that he thought his wife said enough upon the subject to suffice for both. mrs. talbot made a point of visiting her neighbors, if she chanced to hear of their meeting with any trouble or misfortune. the reason she gave for so doing was that she might sympathize with them; and if sickness invaded a household mrs. talbot was sure to be there; but i used often to think that her friends must look upon her as one of "job's comforters," for no sickness was so severe, no misfortune so great, that she did not prophesy something worse still. according to her own ideas she was often favored with warnings of sickness and misfortune both to her own family and others. she was also a famous believer in dreams; and often entertained her friends at the breakfast table by relating her dreams of the previous night. i remember meeting with her upon one occasion, when it struck me that her countenance wore a look of unusual solemnity, even for her, so much so, that i enquired the cause. "ah!" said she, "we are to have sickness, perhaps death, in our family very soon; for only last night i dreamed i saw a white horse coming toward the house upon the full galop; and to dream of a white horse is a sure sign of sickness, and the faster the horse seems in our dream to be approaching us the sooner the sickness will come." her husband often remonstrated with her upon the folly of indulging in these idle fancies. i remember a reply he once made to some of her gloomy forebodings: "i think the best way is for each one to discharge their duty in the different relations of life; and leave the future in the hands of an all-wise providence." "that is always the way with you," was her reply, "you have grown heedless and careless with your love of the world; but you will perhaps think of my warnings when too late." before meeting with mrs. talbot i had often heard the remark that none were so cheerful as the true christian; but i soon saw that her views must be widely different. a hearty laugh she seemed to regard as almost a crime. a cheerful laugh upon any occasion would cause her to shake her head in a rueful manner, and denounce it as untimely mirth. upon one occasion she went to hear a preacher that had lately arrived in the neighboring village. this same preacher was remarkable for drawing dismal pictures, and was very severe in his denunciations, while he quite forgot to offer a word of encouragement to the humble seeker after good. upon the sabbath in question mrs. talbot returned from church, and seated herself at the dinner table with a countenance of most woeful solemnity. her husband at length enquired, how she had enjoyed the sermon. "oh!" replied she, "he is a preacher after my own heart, and his sermon explained all my views clearly." "indeed," replied mr. talbot, "he must have a wonderful flow of language to have handled so extensive a subject, in the usual time allotted to a sermon." his answer displeased her very much. among her other gloomy forebodings she always seemed sure of the fact that mr. talbot would survive her; and she replied: "that is always the way. you make light of every thing i say; and i only hope you wont have all these things to repent of when i shall be no more." mr. talbot seemed sorry he had wounded her feelings, and replied: "we shall both live our appointed time, and it is not for us to decide which of us will be first removed." the last time i saw mrs. talbot she was indulging in her anticipation of some coming calamity. i have learned from various sources, that since i last saw her she has met with _real_ afflictions of a very trying nature, even to the most hopeful; and it may be that the presence of real troubles, has put to flight many which were only imaginary; and she may by this time have learned to be thankful for whatever of blessings may yet be left her in her path through life. edward barton. my schoolmate edward barton, or 'ned' as he was usually called by the boys, was such an odd character in his way, that i trust my readers will pardon me for introducing him to their notice. his father was a physician in a distant village, and was justly esteemed among the residents of the place. he had an extensive practice both in the village and surrounding country, and his time was very much occupied; and as ned grew up he proved a source of constant anxiety to his father, who, being unable to keep him under his own eye, at length decided to send him to reside with some relatives in a farming district some twenty miles distant from his home. ned's disposition was a singular compound of good and evil, and his conduct depended in a great measure, upon the companions he associated with. he was easily persuaded, and often during his father's frequent and lengthened absences from home he played truant from school, and associated with the worst boys in the village. i well remember the first morning he entered our school. he was then about twelve years of age; but, owing to his carelessness and inattention, he had made but slight progress in study. i learned afterwards that he had so long borne the names of "dunce" and "blockhead" in the school he attended in his own village, that he supposed himself to be really such, and made up his mind that it was useless for him to try to be anything else: and i think when our teacher first called him up for examination he was inclined to be of the same opinion. the teacher first addressed him by saying, "how far have you advanced in reading, my boy?" "don't know sir, never thought anything about how far i've been." "well, at least," replied the master, "you can tell me the names of the books you have studied, in reading and spelling." "oh, yes," replied the boy, "i've been clean through 'webster's elementary and the progressive reader.'" "can you tell me the subject of any of your lessons?" "i can just remember one story about a dog that was crossing a river on a plank with a piece of meat in his mouth, and when he saw his shadder in the water, made a spring at it and dropped the meat which he held in his mouth, and it was at once carried away by the current." "well," said the teacher, "as you remember the story so well, you can perhaps tell me what lesson we can learn from this fable." "i thought," replied the boy, "when i read the story, that the best way is to hold on to what we are sure of, and not grab after a shadder and lose the whole." "your idea is certainly a correct one," said the master, "and now we will turn to some other branch of study; can you cipher?" "don't know, i never tried," replied the boy, with the greatest coolness imaginable. "well," replied the teacher, "we will after a time see how you succeed, when you _do_ try. can you tell me what the study of geography teaches us!" "o," said the boy, "geography tells all about the world, the folks who live in it, and 'most every thing else." the master then asked him some questions regarding the divisions of land and water, and for a short time he answered with some degree of correctness. at length, while referring to the divisions of water, the master said "can you tell me what is a strait?" this question seemed a "puzzler" to him, and for some moments he looked down as if studying the matter; when the question was repeated in rather a sharp tone, it seemed he thought it wiser to give an answer of some kind than none at all, and he replied: "when a river runs in a straight course, we call it straight, and when it twists and winds about, we call it crooked." "a river is not a strait," replied the teacher with the manner of one who prayed for patience. "well! at any rate," said the boy, "straight is straight, and crooked is crooked, and that is all i know about it." it was evident from the teacher's manner that he was half inclined to think the boy was endeavoring to impose upon him by feigning ignorance; and he dismissed him to his seat for the time being, thinking, no doubt, that he had met with a case out of the common order of school experience. it seems that the boy had never before attended school with punctuality, and it required a long time to teach him to observe anything like system either in his conduct or studies. our teacher though very firm, was mild and judicious in his government; and, thinking that possibly ned's disposition had been injured by former harshness at school, resolved to avoid inflicting corporal punishment as long as possible; and try upon him the effect of kindness and mild persuasion. he had one very annoying habit, and that was he would very seldom give a satisfactory answer if suddenly asked a direct question, and often his reply would be very absurd, sometimes bordering on downright impudence. the master noticed one afternoon, after calling the boys from their play at recess, that ned had not entered the school-room with the others. stepping to the door, he found him seated very composedly in the yard, working busily upon a toy he was fashioning with a knife from a piece of wood. "why do you remain outside, edward, after the other boys are called in?" said the master. "cos i did'nt come in, sir," replied ned, without looking up, or even pausing in his employment. this was too much for the patience of any one; and seizing him by the arm the master drew him into a small room which adjoined the school-room; and bestowed upon him, what ned afterwards confidentially informed us, was "a regular old-fashioned thrashing." i was not aware till then that the style of using the rod was liable to change, but it would seem that ned thought otherwise; and if his screams upon this occasion were taken as proof in the matter, i should be inclined to think the old-fashioned method very effective. the whipping which ned received created quite a sensation among us boys, for it was not often that mr. s. used the rod. we began to have our fears that as he had got his "hand in," more of us might share the fate of poor ned. in a very serious conversation which we held upon the matter, on our way home that evening, some of us asked ned, why he screamed so loud. "i thought," said he, "if i hollered pretty well, he would think he'd licked me enough and stop; but i don't see what great harm i did any way. he asked why i stayed out; and i said, cos i did'nt go in, and i am sure i could'nt give a better reason than that." time passed on, and by degrees ned dropped many of his odd ways; and began to make tolerable progress in study; but still, much patience and forbearance was necessary on the part of the teacher. he had the same habit of frequently giving absurd answers in his class, as well as upon other occasions; but after a time his stupid answers were much less frequent, and mr. s. began to indulge the hope that he would soon overcome the habit entirely. when he had attended school for about six months, as was the custom two or three times a year, we passed under what to the school boys was an "awful review" in presence of those awe-inspiring personages, termed in those days the school-trustees, and any other friends of the school who might chance to be present. we all, even to the teacher, had our fears lest ned (who had not yet entirely discontinued the practice) should give some of his comical answers when questioned by our visitors; but the day came, and with it the school-trustees and a number of other friends. the classes were first examined in reading and spelling; and ned acquitted himself much better than we had dared to hope; and we began to think he might pass the afternoon without making any serious blunder. after the reading and spelling lessons, the class was summoned for examination in geography. elated by his success in reading and spelling, ned took his place with a pompous consequential manner, as if expecting to win countless laurels for his proficiency. he got along very well till some one put the question, "what may the island of australia properly be called on account of its vast size?" "one of the pyramids," answered ned in a loud confident voice. the gentleman who was questioning us looked astounded, and there fell an awkward silence, which was only broken by the half-smothered laughter of the others in the class. the teacher wishing to get over the matter in some way, at length said, "i am surprised, edward, that you should give so senseless an answer to so simple a question." now, one very striking peculiarity in ned's character was his unwillingness to acknowledge himself in the wrong, however ridiculous his answer might be; and he was disposed to argue his point up on this occasion. "any way," said he, "the pyramids are large, and so is australia; and i thought it might sometimes be called a pyramid for convenience of description." the idea of ned entering into an argument with the trustees of the school, struck the rest of the boys as so extremely ludicrous, that our long pent-up mirth found vent in a burst of laughter through the whole class, and no one present had the heart to chide us; for it was with intense difficulty that the elderly gentlemen maintained their own gravity. the teacher was obliged to exercise his authority before ned could be silenced; and the remaining part of the examination proved rather a failure. i know not how it happened, but from that day there was a marked improvement in edward barton, in every respect. he attended the school for two years; and when he left us it was to accompany his parents to one of the far western states. his father had relatives residing in the west, and had received from them such glowing accounts of the country, that he decided upon removing thither. any one who saw ned when he left us would almost have failed to recognize him as the same boy who entered the school two years previous. mr. s. was his friend as well as his teacher; and during the second year of his stay took a deep interest in him; he had thoroughly studied his disposition, and learned to bear with his faults, and under his judicious management ned began really to make good progress in study. we had all become attached to him, and were all sorry when he left us. he was much elated with the prospect of his journey to the west; and talked much of the wonders he expected to behold on his way thither. he came one day at the noon-hour to collect his books and bid us good-bye, his father having come to take him home for a short time before setting out on their journey. the boys were all on the play ground when he entered the school-room to bid his teacher good-bye. when he came out he looked very sober, and there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes which very much resembled tears. instead of the usual noisy mirth on the play ground there was almost complete silence, while ned shook hands with us one by one, saying, "he would tell us all the wonders of the western world when he came back." years have rolled by with their various changes since that day; he has never yet returned; and i have only heard from him two or three times during the time. my last tidings were, that he was married and settled down to a life of industry upon a fine farm, in his western home; but i sometimes, when i think of him, even yet wonder, if he has learned the difference between the "pyramids of egypt" and the "island continent of australia." the weary at rest. the weary at rest. the idea was very strongly impressed upon my mind by a funeral which i once attended in the distant village of c. it was that of a very aged woman, whom i had often heard mentioned as one who had been subjected for many years to bodily suffering in no ordinary degree. i had never seen her, but was acquainted with many who visited her frequently; and i became interested from hearing her so often spoken of as a bright example of patience and resignation under affliction; and i was accustomed to enquire for her as often as i had opportunity. owing to a rheumatic affection of her limbs, she had, as i was informed, been unable for several years to rise from her bed without assistance, and much of the time experienced severe pain. i was informed by her friends that through her protracted period of suffering she was never heard to utter a complaining or repining word, but was found daily in a calm even cheerful frame of mind. after a time i left the village and returned to my home. returning thither to visit some relatives after the lapse of a few months, i met with a friend, soon after my arrival, who informed me of the death of old mrs. h., which had taken place the day previous. two days later i joined the large numbers who assembled to pay their last tribute of respect to one of the oldest residents of their village. as is usual upon funeral occasions, the coffin was placed in front of the pulpit, and a large number occupied the front pews which were appropriated to the friends of the deceased. in those pews were seated men in whose hair the silver threads were beginning to mingle, and women who were themselves mothers of families who all met around the coffin of their aged mother. childhood, youth and middle age were all represented in that company of mourners. their pastor, mr. m., delivered a very appropriate discourse from the words, "blessed are the dead who die in the lord." in the course of his sermon he took occasion to remark, that a funeral discourse should apply to the living--not the dead. i had before listened to different sermons from this same text; but i never listened to a more searching application of the words than upon this occasion. near the close of his sermon, he said: "i presume many of you are aware that i deem it unnecessary as well as unwise, on occasions of this kind, for a minister to dwell at length upon the life and character of the deceased, for, as i have before said, our duty is with the living; but upon the present occasion, i think i may with propriety say, that we see before us the lifeless remains of one who has 'died in the lord.' i have been for many years acquainted with our aged sister now departed, and have ever regarded her as an humble and earnest christian. i have frequently visited her during her lengthened period of suffering; and have felt deeply humbled for my own want of resignation to the ills of life, when i observed the exemplary manner with which this aged woman bore her sufferings, which at times were very severe; and more than this, i stood by her dying bed, which i can truly say presented a fore-taste of heavenly triumph." at the close of the service permission was given for any one who was desirous of so doing to look upon the "corpse," and with many others i drew nigh the coffin. i had been told that the habitual expression of her countenance was one of pain, and i was surprised by the calm and peaceful expression which rested upon the face of the dead. there was no sign of past suffering visible; and the idea of perfect rest was conveyed to my mind, as i gazed upon her now lifeless features. when the strangers had all retired, the relatives and near friends drew nigh to take their last sad look of the aged one who in life had been so dear to them. it seemed that her age and utter helplessness had all the more endeared her to her children and other friends; and many of them wept audibly as they retired from the coffin. as the coffin was borne from the church, the choir sung in subdued tones, accompanied by the solemn notes of the organ, the beautiful hymn commencing with the lines, "thou art gone to the grave but we will not deplore thee, though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; the saviour hath passed through its portals before thee, and the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom." when the long procession reached the church yard, the coffin was lowered to its final resting place, and the burial service was read by their pastor, and most of the company departed to their homes. i know not how it was, but, although a stranger to the deceased, i was among the few who lingered till the grave was filled up. that funeral impressed me deeply; and has often since recurred to my mind, amid the cares and turmoil of after life. the rainy afternoon. "it's too bad," exclaimed harry knights, as he turned from the window, where for the last ten minutes he had been silently watching the heavy drops of rain as they pattered against the glass. "it's too bad," repeated he, "we can have no out-of-door play this afternoon;" and as he spoke his face wore a most rueful expression. i was one among a number of harry's schoolmates who had gone to spend the day at the farm of mr. knights, harry's father. the eldest of our number was not more than fourteen; and for a long time we had looked forward to this day with many bright anticipations of fun and enjoyment. the important day at length arrived, and so early did we set out upon our excursion that we reached harry's home before eight o'clock in the morning. we spent the forenoon in rambling over the farm, searching out every nook and corner which possessed any interest to our boyish minds. accompanied by harry we visited all his favorite haunts--which included a fine stream of water, where there was an abundance of fish; also a ledge of rocks which contained a curious sort of cave, formed by a wide aperture in the rocks; and, last though "not least," a pond of water which, owing to its extreme beauty of appearance, harry had named the "enchanted pond." he had said so much to us regarding the uncommon beauty of the spot that some of the boys, myself among the number, had often been inclined to ridicule him; but when we came within view of it, i for one ceased to wonder at his admiration; for before nor since, i never looked upon so lovely a scene. the pond was situated upon the back portion of the farm, in a clearing which had been made by a settler who had occupied the land for some years before it was purchased by mr. knights. the form of the pond was entirely circular, and it was surrounded by a green field, in which had been left standing, here and there, some fine old trees to add to the effect. i remember when i first gained a view of the spot, it reminded me of a surface of polished silver, bordered with emeralds. as we drew nigh we could see that its smooth waters were thickly dotted with the pure blossoms of the pond-lily. i have never since visited the spot, but the view i obtained of it that day, now so long ago, is still vividly present to my mind. by the time we again reached the farm-house, the dinner-hour had arrived; and our long continued exercise in the open air had so much improved our appetites that we did ample justice to the good things set before us. dinner being over, we observed, what had before escaped our notice, that the sky was becoming overcast with dark clouds, and soon a heavy rain began to fall, which put an end to all our plans of out-of-door enjoyment for the afternoon. as i mentioned at the beginning, harry was very much disappointed, for outside sports were his especial delight; and for a time his face looked almost as dark and forbidding as the sky itself. we tried to cheer him up, saying we would have some quiet games in the large dining-room, and we did succeed in getting him to join us; but somehow or other our games afforded us no enjoyment, and the question, "what shall we do with ourselves?" began to pass from one to the other among the group of eager, restless boys. "would you like me to tell you a story, boys?" enquired harry's mother, after observing for a time our vain attempts at enjoyment. mrs. knights was a lady of high culture, and possessed the happy faculty of rendering herself an agreeable companion to either the young or old; and more than one pair of eyes grew bright with pleased anticipation when she proposed telling us a story; and, of course, we all eagerly assented to her proposal. seating herself in our midst, she took up a piece of needlework, saying, "i can always talk best when my hands are employed," and began as follows: "i suppose none of you, perhaps not even my own harry, is aware that my home has not always been in canada; but i will now inform you that the days of my childhood and youth were passed in a pretty town near the base of the alleghany mountains in the state of virginia. i will not pause at present to give you any further particulars regarding my own early years, as the story i am about to relate is concerning one of my schoolmates who was a few years older than myself. the pastor of the church in the small village where my parents resided had but one son; and, when quite a little girl, i remember him as one of the elder pupils in the school i attended. i was too young at that time to pay much attention to passing events, but i afterward learned that, even then his conduct was a source of much anxiety and sorrow to his parents; his ready talent, great vivacity, and love of amusement continually led him into mischief and caused him to be disliked by many of their neighbors. it was in vain that the villagers complained, in vain that his father admonished and his mother wept; still the orchards were robbed, the turkeys chased into the woods, and the logs of wood in the fireplaces often burst into fragments by concealed powder. time passed on, till he reached the age of sixteen years, when spurning the restraints of home, the erring boy left his father's house and became a wanderer, no one knew whither; but it was rumored that reaching a seaport town he had entered a merchant vessel bound upon a whaling voyage for three years. during the last year of his stay at home his conduct had been very rebellious, and his father almost looked upon him as given over to a reprobate mind. after his departure, his father was seldom heard to mention his name, but his friends observed that his hair fast grew white, and upon his brow rested an expression of constant grief and anxiety. he was a man that seldom spoke of his own troubles to any one; but it was plain to be seen that his erring boy was never absent from his thoughts, and there was a feeling and pathos in his voice when he addressed his congregation, especially the younger portion of it, which had never been noticed before. it was his custom upon the first sabbath evening in each month to deliver an address to the youth of his flock, and it was noticed that his appeals had never been so earnest before, as after the departure of his son; but he seldom, if ever, mentioned his name, not even to his grief-stricken wife. our pastor was not what could properly be styled an old man, but it was thought that his grief, like a canker-worm, sapped at the fountains of life; his bodily health became impaired, his vigor of mind departed, and, ere he had seen sixty years, death removed him from earth, to a home of happiness in heaven. the widow was now bereft of both husband and child. she was comforted concerning her departed husband, knowing that it was well with him; but she sorrowed continually for her absent boy; and often, during the lonely hours of night, as the moaning of the winds fell upon her ear, she would start from her sleepless pillow and utter a prayer for her poor boy who might even then be tossing on the restless ocean, or perhaps wrecked upon a dangerous coast. she was a woman of good education, and much power of thought, and she at length found a partial relief from her sorrow by writing small works for publication. but how is it all this time with the wandering 'prodigal?' nine years have passed away since he left his home, when an agent for the sale of books for a large publishing house was spending a few days in one of the large cities of the west. during his stay in the place, his business as agent often led him into public places; and on several occasions he noticed a young man that attracted his attention. there was nothing prepossessing in his appearance; on the contrary, he bore the marks of dissipation in his countenance; his clothing was old and soiled, and once or twice he saw him when partially intoxicated. the agent was a middle-aged man, and was a close observer of those with whom he came in contact, and somehow or other he felt a strange interest in this young man for which he could not account; and meeting him so frequently, he determined to speak to him. as a pretext for accosting him he offered to sell him some books, although he had no hopes of success. the young man regarded him with visible surprise, when he enquired if he would not like to purchase a book. 'i have no money to spend for books,' replied the man, yet as if unable to resist the impulse, he leaned over the table, on which the agent had placed several books, and began looking them over; and finally selected one, inquired the price, and paid for it. they soon after parted, and the agent thought they should probably meet no more, as he expected soon to leave the city. he returned to the hotel where he boarded, and after tea seated himself on the piazza, to enjoy the cool evening air; when the same young man suddenly approached him, and grasping his hand said, in a voice choked with emotion: 'tell me, sir, where, o! where did you get that book?' this young man was the erring but still loved son of the virginian widow, who for these long dreary years had roamed over the earth, unfriended and unaided, vainly imagining his own arm sufficient to ward off the ills of life. he had wandered here from the coasts of the pacific, where he had been wrecked; his money was nearly gone, and his health had become impaired by hardship and exposure as well as his dissipated course of life. as he afterwards said, he had no intention of reading the book when he purchased it merely out of civility to the stranger who accosted him so kindly; but after the agent left him he opened the book, and a cold dew broke out upon his forehead, for on the title-page he read the name of his _mother_ as the author. her thoughts were continually upon her lost son, and in her mind's eye she often traced his downward career. she imagined him worn and weary, his days spent in unsatisfying folly, and his moments of reflection embittered by remorse; unconsciously, in writing this little book she had drawn from her own feelings and addressed one in this situation. she pointed to him the falseness of the world, and bade him judge of the fidelity of the picture by his own experience; and she taught him the way of return to the paths of peace. and thus it was that the little book which the wretched young man had selected--some would say so accidentally, others, so providentially--proved the means of his return from the paths of sin and folly to those of sobriety and usefulness. he soon told his story to his attentive listener, and informed him of the relationship he bore to the author of the book he had purchased. as he concluded, he said, 'oh, my mother, why did i leave you to become the hopeless being i am?' 'not hopeless,' replied his companion in gentle tones. 'you have youth on your side, and may yet be a useful and happy man. i now understand the unaccountable interest which i felt in you when meeting you on several occasions before i spoke to you, and i feel that providence directed me in the matter.' the agent stayed two days longer in the city, and then departed, the young man with him, for with the promptitude of his nature, to resolve was to act. he directed his course toward virginia, the star of hope leading him on, and finally approached his native village. no words are adequate to describe the meeting between the lonely widow and her long lost, but now returning and penitent son. when informed that his father had been for some years dead, the shock to him was great, overpowering, but he uttered no repining word. 'i could not,' said he, 'expect the happiness of meeting both my parents again after causing them so much sorrow, and let me be humbly thankful that it is allowed me to cheer the declining years of my aged mother.' i well remember," said mrs. knights, "the return of the young man to his home, it was but a short time before i left virginia; but i have been informed by friends still residing there that he was for several years the staff and support of his mother, of whom it might be said, 'her last days were her best days.' after the death of his mother, as he had no living tie to bind him to the spot, he removed to another section of country, where he married and is now a useful and respected member of society. and now boys," said mrs. knights, "allow me in conclusion to say to you all as one, as you value your own well-being in time and eternity, be sure that you honor and obey your parents; think of what the end of this young man might have been, and shun his example. but i see that the hour for tea is near at hand; and for a time i will leave you to amuse yourselves, while i assist in preparing your tea; and if you have been interested in my story, i may tell you another when you next pass a rainy afternoon at our house." we all thanked the kind lady for the interesting story, and i fear one very much hoped that the next day we chanced to pass at mrs. knights' farm would prove to be rainy in the afternoon. the student's dream. arthur wilton had been for several years a student; but he was one of the plodding sort, who make but slow progress. the principal barrier to his improvement arose from one defect in his character; and that was the habit in which he constantly indulged, of deploring the past, without making any very strong efforts toward amendment in the future. he was one evening seated in his room; a ponderous volume lay open on his study-table, and for a time he vainly tried to fix his attention thereon, till finally he closed the book, and leaning back in his chair, his brows contracted, and the lines about his mouth grew tense, as if his thoughts were anything but pleasing. as usual he was bemoaning his misspent hours. "ah," said he, speaking in soliloquy, "they are gone, never more to return, the careless happy days of childhood, the sunny period of youth, and the aspiring dreams of mature manhood. i once indulged in many ambitious dreams of fame, and those dreams have never been realized. many with whom i set out on equal ground have outstripped me in the race of life, and here am i alone. many who were once my inferiors have nearly overtaken me, and doubtless they too will soon pass me by. what i very much prize is a true friend, and yet no friend approaches with a word of sympathy or encouragement; would that some would counsel me, as to how i may better my condition." thus far had arthur wilton proceeded in his soliloquy, when his eyelids were weighed down by drowsiness, and he soon sank into a deep slumber. in his dream an aged man, with a most mild and venerable countenance stood before him, who, addressing him by name, said: "thy heart is full of sorrow; but if you will listen to, and profit by my words, your sorrow shall be turned into joy. you have been grieving over the hours which have been run to waste, without pausing to reflect, that while you have been occupied with these unavailing regrets, another hour has glided away past your recall forever; and will be added to your already lengthened list of opportunities misimproved. you grieve that your name is not placed on the lists of fame. cease from thy fruitless longings. discharge faithfully your present duties, and if you merit fame it will certainly be awarded you. you also complain that no friend is near you. have you ever truly sought a friend, by the unwearied exercise of those affections, and in the performance of those numberless offices of kindness by which alone friendship is secured and perpetuated? 'all like the _purchase_, _few_ the _price_ will pay; and this makes friends such miracles below.' hast thou hoped for the society of the wise and good? then with diligence and untiring zeal you should seek to fit yourself for such companionship. have your early companions got before you in the race of life; and yet you remain at ease, dreaming over the past? awake, young man, ere yet your day is done, and address yourself to your work with renewed energy; look forward to the future instead of brooding over the past, and be assured you will acquire wisdom, friends and every other needful blessing." with these words the aged man disappeared, and the student awoke. his fire had gone out and his lamp burned but dimly. he rose, replenished his fire, trimmed his lamp, and resumed his studies with ardor. this dream was not lost upon arthur wilton. instead of now wasting his time in regrets for the past, he looked forward with a steady purpose of improvement, and from that period no harder student was to be found in the college; and he finally graduated with high honors. in after years he often related this dream to those of his acquaintances whom he thought in danger of falling into the same habit to which he himself had been so prone in his youthful days. uncle ephraim. for some years, when a child, i used daily to pass the dwelling of uncle ephraim, on my way to and from school. he was not my uncle; indeed he bore no relationship whatever to me, but uncle ephraim was the familiar appellation by which he was known by all the school-boys in the vicinity. he was among the oldest residents in the section, and although a very eccentric person, was much respected by all his neighbors. how plainly do i yet remember him, after the lapse of so many years! his tall figure, shoulders that slightly stooped, his florid complexion, clear blue eyes, and hair bleached by the frosts of time to snowy whiteness. the farm on which he resided had improved under the hand of industry, till since my earliest recollection, it was in a state of high cultivation. his dwelling was an old-fashioned structure, placed a little back from the main road, and almost hidden from view by thick trees. in an open space, a little to one side, was the draw-well with its long pole and sweep; and i have often thought that i have never since tasted such water as we used to draw from that well, as we used often to linger for a few moments in uncle ephraim's yard on our return from school during the hot summer afternoons. he must have been fond of children; for he was a great favorite among the boys; and he often gave us permission to gather fruit from the trees in the garden, provided we broke none of his prescribed rules. but the unlucky urchin who transgressed against a command, forfeited his good opinion from henceforth, and durst no more be seen upon his premises. i happened to be among the fortunate number who retained his approbation and good-will during all our acquaintance. it was from uncle ephraim i received the first money i could call my own. in those days school-boys were not supplied very liberally with pocket-money, and when on one occasion i rendered him some slight service, for which he bestowed on me a piece of money, i felt myself rich indeed, and the possession of as many hundreds now would fail to afford me the same pleasure as did the few cents which made up the value of the coin. like all others, he had his failings and weak points; but he had also many very estimable traits of character. among his failings very strong prejudices were most noticeable, and if for any reason he became prejudiced against one, he could never after see any good whatever in them. he also possessed rather an unforgiving temper when injured by any one. but on the other hand he was a friend to the poor; and seldom sent the beggar empty-handed from his door. he also gave largely to the support of the gospel, as well as to benevolent institutions. one very noticeable and oftentimes laughable peculiarity was his proneness to charge every thing that went wrong to the state of the weather. i think it was more from a habit of speech than from any wish to be unreasonable. i remember one day passing a field when he was trying to catch a horse that to all appearance had no idea of being captured. he tried various methods of coaxing him into the halter, and several times nearly succeeded, but just when he thought himself sure of him, the animal would gallop off in another direction. out of all patience, he at length exclaimed, "what does possess that critter to act so to-day?" then glancing at the sky, which at the time happened to be overcast by dull murky clouds, he said: "it must be the weather." i chanced one day to be present when uncle ephraim was busily occupied in making some arithmetical calculations regarding his farm-products. the result not proving satisfactory he handed his slate to a friend for inspection, and it was soon discovered that he had made a very considerable error in his calculation. when the error was pointed out to him, he looked up with a perplexed countenance, saying; "it is the weather: nothing else would have caused me to make such a blunder." his son happened to marry against his wishes; so much so, that he had the ceremony performed without his father's knowledge; who afterwards, making a virtue of necessity, wisely made the best of the matter. on learning that his son was actually married without his knowledge, the only remark he made was this: "what could have induced ben to cut up such a caper as to go and get married without my leave; it must have been the weather, nothing else," and as if he had settled the question to his own satisfaction he was never heard to allude to the matter again. years passed away, till one day the tidings reached us that uncle ephraim was dangerously ill. he grew rapidly worse, and it was soon evident that his days on earth would soon be numbered. i have a very distinct recollection of stealing quietly in, to look upon him as he lay on his dying bed; of the tears i shed when i gazed upon his fearfully changed features. he was even then past speaking or recognizing one from another; and before another sun rose he had passed from among the living. i obtained permission to go in once more and look upon him as he lay shrouded for the grave. i was then a child of ten years, but even at that early age i had not that morbid terror of looking upon death, so common among children. with my own hands, i folded back the napkin which covered his face, and gazed upon his aged, but now serene, countenance. there was nothing in his appearance to inspire terror, and for a moment i placed my hand on his cold brow. he had ever been very kind to me, and i regarded him with much affection, and the tears coursed freely down my cheeks when i looked my last upon his familiar countenance now lifeless and sealed in death. i have forgotten his exact age, but i know it exceeded seventy years. it so happened that i did not attend his funeral; but he was followed to the grave by a large number of friends and neighbours, many of whom still live to cherish his memory. story of a log cabin.[a] [a] i lately came across this sketch in an old magazine, bearing the date of , and, thinking others might be as much interested by it as i was myself, i transcribe it in an abridged form to the pages of this volume. it was a dreary day in autumn. like the fate which attends us all, the foliage had assumed the paleness of death; and the winds, cold and damp, were sighing among the branches of the trees; and causing every other feeling rather than that of comfort. four others and myself had been out hunting during the day, and we returned at nightfall tired and hungry to our camp. the shades of night were fast gathering around us; but, being protected by our camp, with a blazing fire in front, we soon succeeded in cooking some of the game we had shot during the day; and as we ate, the old hunters, who were my companions grew garrulous, and in turn related their numerous adventures. "you have lived in dayton for some time," said an old hunter, addressing one of his companions. "have you ever seen during your rambles the remains of a log cabin about two miles down the miami canal?" "i recollect it well, but there is a mystery attached to those ruins which no one living can solve. the oldest settlers found that cabin there; and it _then_ appeared in such a dilapidated state as to justify the belief that it had been built many years previous." "do you know any thing about it?" i eagerly asked. "i know all about it," replied the old hunter; "for i assisted in building it, and occupied it for several years, during the trapping season. that cabin," he continued, as a shade passed over his features, "has been the scene of carnage and bloodshed. but why wake up old feelings--let them sleep, let them sleep;" and the veteran drew his brawny hand over his eyes. all the curiosity of my nature was roused; and the old men seated by his side gazed upon him enquiringly, and put themselves in a listening attitude. the speaker, observing this, sat silent for a few moments, as if collecting his thoughts, and then related the following tale: "there has come a mighty change over the face of this country since the time when i first emigrated here. the spot where now stand your prettiest towns and villages was then a howling wilderness. instead of the tinkling of the cow-bells and the merry whistle of the farmer-boy as he calls his herd to the fold, might be heard the wild cry of the panther, the howl of the wolf, and the equally appalling yell of the aborigines. these were 'times to try men's souls'; and it was then the heart of oak and the sinews of iron which commanded respect. let me describe to you some scenes in which such men were the actors; scenes which called forth all the energy of man's nature; and in the depths of this western wilderness, many hundreds of alexanders and cæsars, who have never been heard of. at the time i emigrated to ohio the deadly hatred of the red men toward the whites had reached its acme. the rifle, the tomahawk and the scalping knife were daily at work; and men, women and children daily fell victims to this sanguinary spirit. in this state i found things when i reached the small village opposite the mouth of licking river, and now the great city of cincinnati. here in this great temple of nature man has taken up his abode, and all that he could wish responds to his touch; the fields and meadows yield their produce, and, unmolested by the red man whom he has usurped, he enjoys the bounties of a beneficent creator. and where is the red man? where is he! like wax before the flame he has melted away from before the white man, leaving him no legacy save that courageous daring which will live in song long after their last remnant shall have passed away. at the time when i first stepped upon these grounds the red man still grasped the sceptre which has since been wrenched from his hand. they saw the throne of their father beginning to totter. their realm had attracted the cupidity of a race of strangers, and with maddening despair, they grasped their falling power, and daily grew more desperate as they became more endangered. i among the rest had now a view of this exuberant west, this great valley of the hesperides; and i determined to assist in extirpating the red man, and to usurp the land of his fathers. among the men who were at the village, i found one who for magnanimity and undaunted courage merits a wreath which should hang high in the temple of fame, and yet, like hundreds of others, he has passed away unhonored, unsung. his name was ralph watts, a sturdy virginian, with a heart surpassing all which has been said of virginia's sons, in those qualities which ennoble the man; and possessing a courage indomitable, and a frame calculated in every way to fulfil whatever his daring spirit suggested. such was ralph watts. i had only been in the town a few days, when ralph and i contracted an intimacy which ended only with his death. i was passing the small inn of the town, when a tall man, with a hunting shirt and leggings on, stepped out and, laying his hand on my shoulder, said: 'stranger, they say you have just come among us, and that you are poor; come along. i have got just five dollars, no man shall ever say that ralph watts passed a moneyless man without sharing with him the contents of his pocket--come along.' ralph and i soon became inseparable friends. his joys as well as his sorrows were mine; in a word, we shared each other's sympathies; and this leads me to the scene of the log cabin. we often hunted together, and while on our last expedition, took an oath of friendship which should end only with death--and how soon was it to end! we left the infant cincinnati one summer morning at the rising of the sun, and with our guns on our shoulders, and our pouches well supplied with ammunition, we struck into the deep wilderness, trusting to our own stout hearts and woodscraft for our food and safety. we journeyed merrily along, whiling away the hours in recounting to each other those trivial incidents of our lives which might be interesting, or in singing snatches of song, and listening to its solemn echo as it reverberated among the tall trees of the forest. towards evening we reached our first camping ground--a spot near where the town of sharon now stands. here we pitched our tent, built our fire, cooked our suppers, and prepared to pass away the evening as comfortably as two hunters possibly could. all at once the deep stillness which reigned around us was broken by a low cry similar to that of a panther. we both ceased speaking and listened attentively, when the cry was repeated still nearer, as if the arrival was rapidly advancing upon us; and thus the cry was repeated, again and again, till its shrillness seemed not more than a hundred yards distant, when the voice changed to that of a yell, whose tones were so familiar to the ear of my companion as to exert quite a visible effect upon his actions. we both sprang to our feet and, seizing our guns, stood ready to fire at a moment's warning. "halloo!" cried a deep voice, just outside our camp, but instead of answering it we nerved ourselves for a desperate encounter, feeling assured that several indians were lurking outside our tent. "halloo, white brudder, come out," cried the same voice in broken english. we consulted for a moment and finally decided to trust, for once, to indian faith. ralph first stepped forth and demanded in no very amiable voice, what was wanting. "come out white brudder," was the answer. after assuring ourselves that there was but one person near we walked forward and found a large indian sitting by the fire, both hands spread before the flame to protect his eyes from the light, that his keen gaze might rest unmolested upon us. as soon as he saw us a writhing grin spread over his painted features, and rising he offered us each his hand in a very friendly manner. the indian drew from his belt a large pipe, gaudily painted, and from which depended a profusion of wampum, beads, and eagles' feathers. he lighted the pipe, and after taking a whiff, passed it to ralph, who, following his example, passed it to me. after taking a puff i handed it to the indian, who replaced it in his belt. this very important ceremony being finished, the indian made known his business. after bestowing a thousand anathemas upon his red brethren, he informed us that he had left the red man forever, and was willing to join his white brothers, and to wage an exterminating warfare against his own kindred. we strove to extort from him the cause of this ebullition of passion, but he only shook his head in reply to our questions, and uttered a guttural "ough." we at first suspected him of some treacherous plot; but there was such an air of candor and earnestness in the communication he now made, that we threw aside all suspicion and confided in him. he stated that there was a large party of indians in our rear, who had been tracking us for several hours; and that it was their intention early in the morning to surround us, and take us prisoners for victims at the stake; "but," said he, "if my white brudder will follow his red brudder he will lead him safe." we instantly signified our willingness to trust ourselves to his guidance, and, shouldering our blankets and guns, we left our camp, and followed our guide due north at a rapid gait. for several miles we strode through the thick woods, every moment scratching our faces and tearing our clothing, with the thick tangled brush through which we had to pass, but considering this of minor importance we hurried on in silence, save when we intruded too near the nest of the nocturnal king of the forest, when a wild hoot made us start and involuntarily grasp our rifles. "sit on this log and eat," said our red guide. finding our appetites sharpened by vigorous exercise, we sat on the log and commenced our repast, when our guide suddenly sprang from his seat, and with a hideous yell bolted into the forest and was soon lost to our sight. this conduct instantly roused our fear; and with one accord we sprang to our feet. we gazed around. turn which way we would, the grim visage of a painted warrior met our terrified gaze, with his tomahawk in one hand, and his rifle in the other. "perfidious villain," exclaimed ralph, "and this is an indian's faith." an indian of gigantic size, dressed in all the gaudy trappings of a chief, now strode towards us. ralph raised his gun, and closed his eye as the sight of the weapon sought the warrior's breast. "don't shoot, and you will be treated friendly," cried the savage in good english. "so long as i live," said ralph, "i'll never put faith again in an indian's word." the gun went off, and the savage, with an unearthly cry, bounded high in the air, and fell upon his face a corpse. a scream, as if ten thousand furies had been suddenly turned loose upon the earth, rang around us; and ere we could start ten steps on our flight, we were seized by our savage foes, and, like the light barque when borne on the surface of the angry waves, were we borne, equally endangered, upon the shoulders of these maddened men. we were thrown upon the earth, our hands and feet were bound till the cords were almost hidden in the flesh; and then, with the fury of madmen, they commenced beating us with clubs, when another chief, who appeared to be of higher standing than the one who had just lost his life, rushed into the crowd, hurling the excited warriors to the right and left in his progress, and mounting upon a log he harangued them for a few moments with a loud voice. they at once desisted, perhaps reconciled by the prospect of soon seeing us burnt at the stake. we were carried to their encampment, where we were still left bound, with two sentinels stationed to guard us. in this painful state we remained all day; when towards evening another company of warriors arrived, and then vigorous preparations were made for burning us. a stake was planted in the ground, and painted a variety of fantastic colors; the brush was piled around it at a proper distance; and every other necessary arrangement made; while we sat looking on, subject to the continual epithets of an old squaw, whose most consoling remarks were: "how will white man like to eat fire," and then she would break into a screeching laugh, which sounded perfectly hideous. a cold chill pervaded my frame as i gazed upon these ominous signs of death; but how often is our misery but the prelude of joy. at the moment that these horrid preparations were finished, a bright flash of lightning shattered a tall hickory, near by; and then the earth was deluged with rain. the indians sought the shelter, but left us beneath the fury of the storm, where we remained for several hours; but seeing that it increased rather than diminished, they forced us into a small log hut and leaving a man to guard us, bolted the door firmly and left us for the night. what were our reflections when left alone? your imagination must supply an answer. but we did not entirely gave way to despondency. we were young and robust, and our spirits were not easily subdued. instead of becoming disheartened our approaching fate emboldened us, and by looks, whose expression made known our minds to each other, we resolved to effect our escape or be slain in striving for it. anything was preferable to the fiery torture which awaited us. our guard proved just the man we wanted, for, having during the evening indulged rather freely in drinking whiskey, he soon sank into a profound slumber. long and anxiously had we watched the man, and now our wishes were consummated. i contrived with much exertion to draw my knife from my pocket, and commenced sawing at the tough thong which confined my wrist. my heart beat high with joy, and already we felt that we were free, when the guard sneezed, opened his eyes, rolled them round the room, and discovered that he had been asleep. i slipped the knife into my pocket without his notice, and he discovered nothing to rouse his suspicions, although he regarded us closely for a long time. he finally sat down, lit his pipe and commenced smoking. after puffing away for half an hour, which seemed to drag by with the tediousness of a week, he laid his tomahawk (which contains the pipe) by his side, and after nodding for some time he again stretched himself upon the rough floor, and soon his deep snoring fell upon our ears. o! what music was that sound to us. i again drew the knife from my pocket, and with desperation freed my hands, and in one minute more ralph stood like myself a free man. with the stealthy tread of a cat we reached the door, softly slid back the bolt, and once more we stood in the open air. the rain had ceased, the clouds had swept by, and the full moon pale and high in the heavens threw her light upon the tree tops, bathing them in liquid silver. silently but rapidly we bounded through the forest, our fears of pursuit urging us onward; and by daylight were within twelve miles of the log cabin whose history i am telling. at that time there dwelt in that cabin, with his family, a trapper by the name of daniel roe. when we reached there we found roe at home, to whom we recounted our adventure. he only laughed at our fears that the indians might track us thus far, and we finally listened to his laughing remarks and concluded to rest in his cabin for several days. we heaped folly upon folly; for instead of putting the house in a state of defence, and preserving as much silence as possible we commenced trying our skill by shooting at a mark. we continued this exercise through the afternoon, partook of a hearty supper, chatted till bed-time, and then retired. ralph soon fell sound asleep, but i could not; i felt a presentiment of approaching danger; still there was no visible signs of it, yet i could not shake off a peculiar nervousness which agitated me. i lay still for some time listening to the deep and regular breathing of ralph, and ever and anon as an owl screamed i would start, despite the familiarity of the cry. just as i turned in my bed, and was trying to compose myself for sleep, i heard a cry very similar to the hoot of an owl; still there was something about the sound which did not sound right. my heart commenced beating rapidly and a sweat started from my brow. i rose softly and looked through the chinks of the logs, but there was nothing to be seen. i listened attentively for at least an hour; but heard no sound to confirm my fears; and finally ashamed of my own nervousness, i could not call it _cowardice_, i slipped into bed, determined to sleep if possible. but soon i heard that same sound on the still air. i rose, dressed myself, but still i could see no form like that of an indian. just as i was on the point of abandoning my fears as idle and childish, i cast my eyes through an aperture between the logs; and saw the dusky forms of several indians moving about the yard. i sprang to the bedside, and awoke ralph, and in a few moments more, roe, ralph, and myself, stood with ready guns, waiting for a chance to shoot. a shot passing through one of the savages, told the rest they were discovered; and now a regular firing began. the indians simultaneously uttered a fiendish shout, such as no person can imagine who has not heard the indian war-scream; and then brandishing their tomahawks rushed upon the house and began hewing at the door. in a moment we were all down stairs, and our fire became so fatal that they were forced to retire several times; but with desperate courage they returned to the attack. i never experienced the feeling of utter despair but once in my life; and that was then. roe came running down stairs (whither he had gone for more ammunition) and with a face white from terror, informed us that the ammunition was expended. here we were, surrounded by a host of savages, fastened in a small house, with nothing to defend ourselves, and the helpless women and children under the roof. 'let us open the door, and decide the contest hand to hand,' said ralph watts. 'o! my family, my wife and children,' groaned daniel roe, 'let us defend the house to the last.' and with nerves strung like iron, and hearts swelled to desperation, we waited in silence for the savages to hew their way through the door. the work was soon over, the savages uttered one deafening yell as the door gave way; and clubbing our guns we wielded them with giant energy. the dark forms of the savages crowded the door-way, their eyes glared madly at us, and their painted features working into a hundred malignant and fiendish expressions, which, together with their horrid yells, and the more heart-rending cries of women and children, all formed a scene of the most harrowing description. the battle was soon over. by some mishap i was hurled head foremost out the door; but so intent were the savages upon the battle within, that they did not once notice me, as they rushed forward to the scene of action. seeing that all was lost, and that to remain would only be throwing away my life uselessly, i sprang to my feet and slipping around the corner of the house i made my way over the old fortification[b] and soon left the noise far behind me. much has been written and said of grief, but how little do we know of its poignant nature, till we suffer the loss of some dear friend. 'tis when we behold an object of deep affection lying passive and dead--but a thing of clay unconscious of the pain it gives, that we feel _that_ sorrow, which language is too feeble to express. i found it so, when upon returning to the cabin a few hours afterward, i found the dead bodies of all my friends mutilated and weltering in their blood. around the body of poor ralph lay six indians, with their skulls beat in; his gun furnishing evidence, by its mutilated state, of the force with which he had used it. my story is soon finished. as the tears streamed from my eyes, i dug a grave where i deposited the remains of my friends, and after placing a large stone above their resting place, i departed, wishing never to return to the spot again, and i never have." [b] near the spot where the cabin stands are the remains of immense works, but by whom and when built will forever remain hidden. hazel-brook farm. robert ainslie, with his family, emigrated from scotland about the year of , and settled upon a new farm in the backwoods, in the township of r. in eastern canada. i can say but little regarding his early life, but have been informed that he was the eldest of quite a large family of sons and daughters; and also that he was a dutiful son as well as a kind and affectionate brother. it seems that he married quite early in life, and at that period he tended a small farm adjoining the one occupied by his father. the utmost harmony existed between the two families, and they lived in the daily interchange of those little offices of love and kindness which render friends so dear to each other. several years glided by in this happy manner, but reverses at length came; and robert formed the plan of emigrating to america. but when he saw how much his parents were grieved by the thought of his seeking a home on the other side of the atlantic, he forbore to talk farther of the matter, and decided to remain at home for another year at least. that year, however, proved a very unfortunate one; his crops were scanty; and toward the spring he met with some severe losses, by a distemper which broke out among his farm stock. as the season advanced, he became so disheartened by his gloomy prospects, that he decided to carry out his former plan of emigrating to canada; where he hoped by persevering industry to secure a comfortable home for himself and those dear to him. he had little difficulty in persuading his wife to accompany him, as her parents with her two brothers and one sister had emigrated some two years previous. it was more difficult, however, for him to persuade his father and mother that his decision was a wise one. "if ye maun leave us," said his mother, "can ye no seek anither hame nearer han', an' no gang awa across the water to yon' wild place they ca' canada?" "we maun try to be reasonable, woman," said his father, "but i canna deny that the thought o' our first born son gaun sae far awa gie's me a sair heart." it was equally hard for the son to bid farewell to the land of his birth, and of a thousand endearing ties; but prudence whispered that now was his time to go, while he had youth and health, to meet the hardships that often fall to the lot of the emigrant. when his parents saw how much his mind was set upon it they ceased to oppose his wishes, and with his wife and children, he soon joined the large numbers who, at that period, were leaving the british, for the canadian shores. as may be readily supposed, the parting between the two families was a very sad one; but the last adieus were finally exchanged, and the poor emigrants were borne away on the billows of the atlantic. during the first few days of their voyage they all, with the exception of their youngest child, suffered much from sea-sickness. this child was a little girl about three years old; and it seemed singular to them, that she should escape the sickness from which nearly all the passengers suffered, more or less. they soon recovered; the weather was fine, and many of their fellow passengers were very agreeable companions, and they began really to enjoy the voyage. but this happy state of things was but of short duration. their little girl, wee susie, as they called her, was seized with illness. they felt but little anxiety at the first, thinking it but a slight indisposition from which she would soon recover; but when day after day passed away with no visible change for the better they became alarmed, and summoned the physician, who pronounced her disease a slow kind of fever, which he said often attacked those who escaped the sea-sickness. he told the anxious parents not to be alarmed, as he hoped soon to succeed in checking the disease. but with all the physician's skill, aided by the unceasing attention of her fond parents, the sad truth that wee susie was to die soon became evident. when the sorrowing parents became sensible that their child must die, they prayed earnestly that her life might be prolonged till they should reach the land. but for some wise reason their prayer was not granted; and when their voyage was but little more than half accomplished she died, and they were forced to consign her loved form to a watery grave. the lovely prattling child had been a general favourite with all on board, and her sudden death cast a gloom over the minds of all. words would fail me to describe the grief of the parents and the two affectionate little brothers when they realized that "wee susie" was indeed gone, and that they could never enjoy even the melancholy satisfaction of beholding her resting-place. mr. ainslie's domestic affections were very strong, and to him the blow was terrible. he now deeply regretted removing his family from their scottish home, entertaining the idea, that had they not undertaken this journey their child might have been spared; and he wrote bitter things against himself for the step he had taken. deep as was the mother's grief, she was forced to place a restraint upon it that she might comfort her almost heart-broken husband. upon one occasion, in reply to some of his self upbraidings, she said, "i think, robert, you're ow're hard on yoursel' now, when ye tak the blame o' puir susie's death; ye surely canna think itherwise than the dear bairn's time had come; an' had we bided at hame it would ha' been a' the same; for we dinna leeve an' dee by chance, and the bounds o' our lives are set by him who kens a' things." these consoling words from his sympathising wife tended to lighten, in some measure, the burden of sorrow which oppressed his heart. the weather during the latter part of their voyage was stormy and uncomfortable, and they were truly glad when they at length reached the canadian port. at the city of montreal they parted with all those who had been their fellow passengers, as all except themselves were bound for the upper province, while they intended joining their friends in lower canada. in the days of which i am speaking the emigrant's journey from the city of montreal to the townships was toilsome in the extreme; and the same journey, which is now accomplished in a few hours by railway, was then the work of several days; and the only mode of conveyance for themselves and their luggage, were the horse-carts hired for the occasion. but their fatiguing journey was at length terminated; and they arrived safely at the bush settlement in r., where the friends of mrs. ainslie resided. that now thriving and prosperous settlement was then in its infancy, and possessed but few external attractions to the new comer; for at the period when mrs. ainslie's parents settled there it was an unbroken wilderness. it is needless for me to add that the wayworn travellers met with a joyous welcome from the friends who had been long anxiously looking for their arrival. mr. and mrs. miller were overjoyed to meet again their daughter from whom they had been so long separated by the deep roll of the ocean; and almost their first enquiry was for the "wee lassie," who when they left scotland was less than a twelve month old. mr. ainslie was unable to reply, and looked toward his wife as if beseeching her to answer to their enquiry. she understood the mute appeal, and composing herself by a strong effort said: "my dear father an' mither, a great grief has o'erta'en us sin' we left hame', an' our hearts are well-nigh broken; we buried wee susie in the caul waters o' the ocean." she endeavoured to relate to them the particulars of the child's death; but her feelings overcame her, and for some moments they could only weep together. when mr. miller was able to command his voice he said, "god is good, my children, an' overrules a' things for our good, let us bow before him in prayer;" and when they rose from their knees, they felt calmed and comforted, by the soothing influence of prayer. with the two boys, geordie and willie, fatigue soon got the better of their joy at meeting with their friends, and they were soon enjoying the sound sleep of healthful childhood; but with the elder members of the family, so much was there to hear and to tell that the hour was very late when they separated to seek repose. mr. ainslie decided upon purchasing a lot of land, lying some two miles north of the farm occupied by mr. miller. although it was covered with a dense forest, its location pleased him, and the soil was excellent, and he looked forward to the time when he might there provide a pleasant home. they arrived at r. on the first of july. there were beside mr. miller but three other families in the settlement; but they were all very kind to the newly arrived strangers, and they assisted mr. ainslie in various ways while he effected a small clearing upon his newly purchased farm. they also lent him a willing hand in the erection of a small log house, to which he removed his family in the fall, mrs. ainslie and the children having remained with her parents during the summer; and kind as their friends had been, they were truly glad when they found themselves again settled in a home of their own, however humble. they were people of devoted piety, and they did not neglect to erect the family altar the first night they rested beneath the lowly roof of their forest home. i could not, were i desirous of so doing, give a detailed account of the trials and hardships they endured during the first few years of their residence in the bush; but they doubtless experienced their share of the privations and discouragements which fell to the lot of the first settlers of a new section of country. the first winter they passed in their new home was one of unusual severity for even the rigorous climate of eastern canada, and poor mrs. ainslie often during that winter regretted the willingness with which she bade adieu to her early home, to take up her abode in the dreary wilderness. they found the winter season very trying indeed, living as they did two miles from any neighbour; and the only road to the dwelling of a neighbour was a foot-track through the blazed trees, and the road, such as it was, was too seldom trodden during the deep snows of winter, to render the foot-marks discernible for any length of time. their stores had all to be purchased at the nearest village, which was distant some seven miles, and mr. ainslie often found it very difficult to make his way through the deep snows which blocked up the roads, and to endure the biting frost and piercing winds on his journeys to and from the village. in after years when they had learned to feel a deep interest in the growth of the settlement, they often looked back with a smile to the "home-sickness" which oppressed their hearts, while struggling with the first hardships of life in the bush. mr. ainslie and his family, notwithstanding their many privations, enjoyed uninterrupted health through the winter, and before the arrival of spring they already felt a growing interest in their new home. mrs. ainslie regarded the labours of the workmen with much attention during the winter, while they felled the trees which had covered nearly ten acres of their farm. as each tree fell to the ground it opened a wider space in the forest and afforded a broader view of the blue sky. a stream of water, which in many places would have been termed a river, but which there only bore the name of hazel-brook, flowed near their dwelling, and as the spring advanced, the belt of forest which concealed it from view having been felled, she gained a view of its sparkling waters when the warm showers and genial rays of the sun loosened them from their icy fetters; and she often afterwards remarked that the view of those clear waters was the first thing which tended to reconcile her to a home in the forest. with the coming of spring their "life in the woods" began in earnest. when the earth was relieved of its snowy mantle, the fallen trunks of the trees, with piles of brush-wood, were scattered in every direction about their dwelling. but the fallow was burned as soon as it was considered sufficiently dry, the blackened logs were piled in heaps, and the ground was prepared for its first crop of grain. the green blades soon sprang up and covered the ground, where a short time before was only to be seen the unsightly fallow or the remains of the partially consumed logs. it was a long time before mr. and mrs. ainslie became reconciled to the change in their circumstances, when they exchanged the comforts and conveniences of their home beyond the sea, for the log cabin in the wilderness. cut off as they were from the privileges of society to which they had been accustomed from childhood, they felt keenly the want of a place of worship, with each returning sabbath, and next to this, the want of a school for their two boys; for taken as a people the scotch are intelligent; and we rarely meet with a scotchman, even among the poorer classes, who has not obtained a tolerable education. and the careful parents felt much anxiety when they beheld their children debarred from the advantages of education; but to remedy the want as much as lay in their power, they devoted the greater part of what little leisure time they could command to the instruction of their boys. they had been regular attendants at their own parish church in the old country; and very sensibly they felt the want, as sabbath after sabbath passed away, with no service to mark it from other days. "it just seems," said mr. ainslie, "that sin' we cam' to america we ha'e nae sabbath ava." in order to meet the want in some measure, he proposed to the few neighbours which there formed the settlement, that they should assemble at one house, on each sabbath afternoon, and listen to the reading of a sermon by some one present. "i think it our duty," said he, "to show our respect to the sabbath-day by assembling ourselves together, and uniting in worship to the best o' our ability. i ha'e among my books a collection o' sermons by different divines, an' i am verra willin' to tak' my turn in the readin' o' ane, an' i'm sure you should a' be agreeable to do the same." his proposal met with the hearty approval of all his neighbours, and for some years each sabbath afternoon saw most of the neighbours collected together for the best mode of worship within their reach. the bush settlements at this period were much infected by bears, and they often proved very destructive to the crops of the early settler, and also a cause of no little fear. i believe the instances have been rare when a bear has been known to attack a person, although it has happened in some cases; but the immigrant has so often listened to exaggerated accounts regarding the wild animals of america, that those who settle in a new section of country find it difficult to get rid of their fears. on one occasion when the sabbath meeting met at mr. ainslie's house, mrs. ainslie urged her mother to remain and partake of some refreshment before setting out on her walk homeward. "na, na," replied the old lady. "i maun e'en gang while i ha'e company, i dinna expec' to leeve muckle longer at ony rate, but wouldna' like to be eaten by the bears;" and for several years the one who ventured alone to the house of a neighbour after dark was looked upon as possessing more courage than prudence. but although the settlers often came across these animals, on the bush-road, i never heard of one being attacked by them. an old man, upon one occasion, returning in the evening from the house of friends, and carrying in his hand a torchlight composed of bark from the cedar tree, met a large bear in the thick woods. being asked if he was not frightened, he replied, "deed i think the bear was 'maist frightened o' the twa', for he just stood up on his twa hind legs, and glowered at me for a wee while till i waved the torch light toward him, when he gi' an awfu' snort, and ran into the woods as fast's ever he was able, an' i cam awa' hame no a bit the war, an' i think i'll never be sae' muckle feared about bears again." but these early settlers certainly found these animals very troublesome from their frequent depredations upon their fields of grain, and they often spent a large portion of the night watching for them, prepared to give them battle, but it was not often they saw one on these occasions, for these animals are very cunning, and seem at once to know when they are watched. it sometimes also happened that during the early period of this settlement people lost their way in the bush while going from one house to another. a woman once set out to go to the house of a neighbour who lived about a mile distant. supposing herself on the right path she walked onward, till thinking the way rather long she stopped and gazed earnestly around her, and became terrified as she noticed that the trees and rocks, and every other surrounding object had a strange unfamiliar look; and she knew at once that she had taken a wrong path. becoming much alarmed, she endeavoured to retrace her steps, but after walking a long time would often return to the spot from which she set out. she left home about ten o'clock in the forenoon, and her friends, alarmed at her long stay, called together some of their neighbours and set out to look for her, knowing that she must have lost her way in the forest. they continued their search through the afternoon, sounding horns, hallooing, and calling her name, as they hurried through the tangled underbrush, and other obstructions, and at sunset they returned to procure torches with which to continue their search through the night; her friends were almost beside themselves with terror, and all the stories they had heard or read of people being devoured by wild animals rushed across their minds. but just when they had collected nearly every settler in the vicinity, and were preparing their torches to continue the search, the woman arrived safely at home, with no further injury than being thoroughly frightened and very much fatigued. she stated that she had walked constantly, from the time when she became aware she was lost, and that she was so much bewildered that she at the first did not know their own clearing, till some familiar object attracted her attention. as the neighbours were going to their homes, after the woman's return, they were, naturally enough, talking of the matter, regarding it as a cause of deep thankfulness that no harm had befallen her. mr. g., one of the number, although a very kind-hearted man, had an odd dry manner of speaking which often provoked a laugh. it so happened that the woman who was lost was very small, her stature being much below the medium height. laughter was far enough from the mind of any one, till old mr. g., who had not before made a remark, suddenly said, "sic a wee body as you should never attemp' to gang awa' her lane through the bush without a bell hanged aboot her neck to let people ken where to find her in case she should gang off the richt road." this was too much for the gravity of any one; and the stillness of the summer night was broken by a burst of hearty laughter from the whole company; and the old man made the matter little better, when the laugh had subsided by saying in a very grave manner, "well, after a' i think is would be a verra wise-like precaution wi' sic a wee bit body as her." time passed on; other settlers located themselves in the vicinity, and the settlement soon began to wear a prosperous appearance. as soon as circumstances allowed, a school-house was erected, which, if rude in structure, answered the purpose very well. for some time the school was only kept open during the summer and autumn, as the long distance and deep snows forbade the attendance of young children during the winter season. they had as yet no public worship, except the sabbath meetings before mentioned, which were now held in the schoolhouse for the greater convenience of the settlers. mr. ainslie was a man of much industry; and although his home was for some years two miles from any neighbour, it soon wore a pleasing appearance. the most pleasing feature in the scene was the beautiful stream of water which ran near his dwelling, and after which he named his farm. in five years from the time when he first settled in the bush, he exchanged his rude log house for a comfortable and convenient framed dwelling, with a well-kept garden in front, and near his house were left standing some fine shade-trees which added much to the beauty of the place. in process of time, the excellent quality of the soil in that range of lots attracted others to locate themselves in the vicinity; and hazel-brook farm soon formed the centre of a fast growing neighbourhood. two sons and another daughter had been added to mr. ainslie's family during this time; and the birth of the little girl was an occasion of much joy to all the family. they had never forgotten "wee susie," and all the love which they bore to her memory was lavished upon this second daughter in the family. the elder brothers were anxious to bestow the name of their lost favourite upon their infant sister, but the parents objected, having rather a dislike to the practice, so common, of bestowing upon a child a name that had belonged to the dead; and so the little girl was named jennette, after her grandmother, mrs. miller. about this time old mr. miller died. he was an old man, "full of days," having seen nearly eighty years of life. he had ever been a man of strong constitution and robust health, and his last illness was very short; and from the first he was confident that he should never recover. when he first addressed his family upon the subject they were overwhelmed with grief. "dinna greet for me," said he in a calm and hopeful voice, "i ha'e already leeved ayont the period allotted to the life o' man. i ha'e striven in my ain imperfect way to do my duty in this life, an' i am thankfu' that i am able to say that i dinna fear death; and i feel that when i dee i shall gang hame to the house o' a mercifu' father." so peaceful was his departure, that, although surrounded by his mourning friends, they were unable to tell the exact moment of his death. like a wearied child that sleeps, he quietly passed away. they had no burial ground in the settlement, and he was laid to rest several miles from his home. his family, with the exception of one son, had all married and removed to homes of their own some time previous to his death; and to this son was assigned the happy task of watching over the declining years of his widowed mother. mr. miller, as a dying injunction, charged this son never to neglect his mother in her old age, and most sacredly did he observe the dying wishes of his father. mrs. miller was also of advanced age. for three years longer she lingered, and was then laid to rest beside her departed husband. twenty years have passed away since we introduced robert ainsley with his family to the reader. let us pay a parting visit to hazel-brook farm, and note the changes which these twenty years have effected. the forest has melted away before the hand of steady industry, and we pass by cultivated fields on our way to the farm of mr. ainslie. the clearings have extended till very few trees obstruct our view as we gaze over the farms of the numerous settlers, which are now separated by fences instead of forest trees. but the loveliest spot of all is hazel-brook farm. the farm-house of robert ainslie, enlarged and remodelled according to his increased means, is painted a pure white, and very pleasant it looks to the eye, through the branches of the shade-trees which nearly surround it. the clear waters of hazel-brook are as bright and sparkling as ever. the banks near the dwelling are still fringed with trees and various kinds of shrubs; but farther up the stream all obstructions have been cleared away, and the sound of a saw-mill falls upon the ear. let us enter the dwelling. mr. and mrs. ainslie, although now no longer young, evince by their cheerful countenance that they yet retain both mental and bodily vigour. as yet their children all remain at home, as the boys find ample employment upon the farm, and at the mill; while jennette assists her mother in the labours of the household. for many years the setting sun has rested upon the gleaming spire of the neat and substantial church erected by the settlers; and now upon the sabbath day, instead of listening to a sermon read by a neighbour, they listen to the regular preaching of the gospel, and each one according to his means contributes to the support of their minister. it was mr. ainslie who first incited the settlers to exert themselves in the erection of a suitable place for worship. some of his neighbours at the first were not inclined to favour the idea, thinking the neighbourhood too poor for the undertaking. but he did not suffer himself to become discouraged, and after considerable delay the frame of the building was erected. when the building was once begun, they all seemed to work with a will, and to the utmost of their ability. those who were unable to give money brought contributions of lumber, boards, shingles, &c., besides giving their own labour freely to the work; and in a short time the work had so far advanced that they were able to occupy the building as a place of worship, although in an unfinished state. but the contributions were continued year after year, till at length they were privileged to worship in a church which they could call their own. mr. ainslie was a man of talents and education, superior to most of the early settlers in that section, and it was his counsel, administered in a spirit of friendship and brotherly kindness, which worked many improvements and effected many changes for the better as the years rolled by. as we turn away with a parting glance at the pleasing scene, we cannot help mentally saying,--surely the residents in this vicinity owe much to robert ainslie for the interest he has ever taken in the prosperity and improvements of the place, and long may both he and they live to enjoy the fruit of their united labours. old rufus. the memory of old rufus is so closely connected with the days of my childhood that i cannot refrain from indulging in a few recollections of him. the name of old rufus was not applied to him from any want of respect; but it was owing to his advanced age, and long residence in our vicinity, that he received this appellation. his name was rufus dudley. i remember him as an old man when i was a very young child; and his residence in the neighbourhood dated back to a period many years previous to the time of which i speak. he was born in the state of new york, where he resided during the early portion of his life, and where he married. his wife died before his removal to canada. when he first came to the province he located himself in a town a few miles from the village of c., where he married a second time. when first he removed to r. he was for some years employed in a saw-mill and earned a comfortable support for his family. my knowledge of his early residence in r. is indefinite, as he had lived there for many years previous to my recollection, and all i know concerning the matter is what i have heard spoken of at different times by my parents and other old residents of the place. it would seem, however, that his second marriage was, for him, very unfortunate, for to use his own words, "he never afterward had any peace of his life." i have been informed that his wife was possessed of a pleasing person and manners, but added to this she also possessed a most dreadful temper; which when roused sometimes rendered her insane for the time being; and finally some trouble arose between them which ended in a separation for life. they had two grown-up daughters at the time of their separation who accompanied their mother to a town at a considerable distance from their former home. in a short time the daughters married and removed to homes of their own. their mother removed to one of the eastern states. she survived her husband for several years, but she is now also dead. soon after he became separated from his family old rufus gave up the saw-mill and removed to a small log house, upon a piece of land to which he possessed some kind of claim, and from that time till his death, lived entirely alone. he managed to cultivate a small portion of the land, which supplied him with provisions, and he at times followed the trade of a cooper, to eke out his slender means. his family troubles had broken his spirit, and destroyed his ambition, and for years he lived a lonely dispirited man. he was possessed of sound common sense and had also received a tolerable education, to which was added a large stock of what might be properly termed general information; and i have often since wondered how he could have reconciled himself to the seemingly aimless and useless life which he led for so many years. but in our intercourse with men, we often meet with characters who are a sore puzzle to us; and old rufus was one of those. when quite young i have often laughed at a circumstance i have heard related regarding the violent temper of his wife; but indeed it was no laughing matter. it seems that in some instances she gave vent to her anger by something more weighty than words. old rufus one day entered the house of a neighbor with marks of blows on his face, and was asked the cause. he never spoke of his wife's faults if he could avoid it; but on this occasion he sat for a moment as though considering what reply to make, and finally said: "o! there is not much the matter with my face any way, only polly and i had a little brush this morning." i know not how serious the matter was, but old rufus certainly came off second in the encounter. this aged man is so deeply connected with the early scenes of my home life that i yet cherish a tender regard for his memory; although the flowers of many summers have scattered their blossoms, and the snows of many winters have descended upon his grave. he was upon familiar terms with almost every family in the neighbourhood, and every one made him welcome to a place at their table, or a night's lodging as the case might be; and i well remember the attention with which i used to listen to his conversation during the long winter evenings, when, as was often the case, he passed a night in our dwelling. i recollect one time when the sight of old rufus was very welcome to me. when about nine years of age, i accompanied my brothers to the sugar bush one afternoon in spring; and during a long continued run of the sap from the maple trees it was often necessary to keep the sugar kettles boiling through the night to prevent waste. on the afternoon in question, my brothers intended remaining over night in the bush, and i obtained permission to stay with them, thinking it would be something funny to sleep in a shanty in the woods. the sugar-bush was about two miles from our dwelling, and i was much elated by the prospect of being allowed to assist in the labors of sugar-making. my brothers laughingly remarked that i would probably have enough of the woods, and be willing to return home when night came, but i thought otherwise. during the afternoon i assisted in tending the huge fires, and the singing of the birds, and the chippering of the squirrels as they hopped in the branches of the tall trees, delighted me, and the hours passed swiftly by, till the sun went down behind the trees and the shades of evening began to gather about us. as the darkness increased, i began to think the sugar-bush not the most desirable place in the world, in which to pass the night, and all the stories i had ever heard of bears, wolves and other wild animals rushed across my mind, and filled me with terror. i would have given the world, had it been at my disposal, to have been safely at home; and it was only the dread of being laughed at, which prevented me from begging my brothers to take me there. and when darkness had entirely settled over the earth, and the night-owls set up their discordant screams, my fears reached a climax. i had never before listened to their hideous noise, and had not the slightest idea of what it was. i had often heard old hunters speak of a wild animal, called the catamount, which they allowed had been seen in the canadian forests during the early settlement of the country. i had heard this animal described as being of large size, and possessing such strength and agility, as enabled them to spring from the boughs of one tree to those of another without touching the ground, and at such times their savage cries were such as to fill the heart of the boldest hunter with terror. i shall never forget the laugh which my grown-up brothers enjoyed at my expense when trembling with terror, i enquired if they thought a catamount was not approaching among the tree-tops. "do not be alarmed," said they, "for the noises which frighten you so much proceeds from nothing more formidable than owls." their answer, however, did not satisfy me, and i kept a sharp look-out among the branches of the surrounding trees lest the dreaded monster should descend upon us unawares. old rufus was boiling sap, half a mile from us, and it was a joyful moment to me, when he suddenly approached us, out of the darkness, saying, "well boys don't you want company? i have got my sap all boiled in, and as i felt kinder lonesome, i thought i would come across, and sleep by your shanty fire." the old man enquired why i seemed so much terrified, and my brothers told him that i would persist in calling a screech-owl, a catamount. old rufus did not often laugh, but he laughed heartily on this occasion, and truly it was no wonder and when he corroborated what my brothers had already told me, i decided that what he said must be true. his presence at once gave me a feeling of protection and security and creeping close to his side on the cedar boughs which formed our bed, while the immense fire blazed in front of our tent, i soon forgot my childish fears, in a sound sleep which remained unbroken till the morning sun was shining brightly above the trees. but it was long before i heard the last of the night i spent in the bush; and as often as my brothers wished to tease me, they would enquire if i had lately heard the cries of a catamount? time passed on till i grew up, and leaving the paternal home went forth to make my own way in the world. old rufus still resided in r. when a child i used to fancy that he would never seem older than he had appeared since my earliest recollection of him; but about the time i left home there was a very observable change in his appearance. i noticed that his walk was slow and feeble, and his form was bending beneath the weight of years and his hair was becoming white by the frosts of time. i occasionally visited my parents, and during these visits i frequently met with my old friend; and it was evident that he was fast losing his hold of life. he still resided alone much against the wishes of his neighbours, but his old habits still clung to him. i removed to a longer distance and visited my early home less frequently. returning to r., after a longer absence than usual, i learned that the health of old rufus had so much failed, that the neighbours, deeming it unsafe for him to remain longer alone, at length persuaded him to remove to the house of a neighbour, where each one contributed toward his support. his mind had become weak as well as his body; indeed he had become almost a child again, and it was but a short time that he required the kind attentions which all his old neighbours bestowed upon him. i remained at home for several weeks, and ere i left, i followed the remains of old rufus to the grave. i have stood by many a grave of both kindred and stranger; never before or since have i seen one laid in the grave without the presence of some relative; but no one stood by his grave who bore to him the least relationship. it was on a mild sabbath afternoon in midsummer that we laid him to rest in the burial ground of r.; and if none of his kindred stood by to shed the tear of natural affection, there was many a cheek wet with the tear of sensibility when the coffin was lowered to its silent abode. i am unable to state his exact age, but i am certain that it considerably exceeded eighty years; and from what i can recollect of his life, i have a strong hope, that death opened to him a blessed immortality beyond the grave. the diamond ring. "and has it indeed come to this," said mrs. harris, addressing her daughter ellen, "must i part with my mother's last gift to obtain bread?" mrs. harris, as she spoke, held in her hand a costly diamond ring, and the tears gathered in her eyes, as the rays of light falling upon the brilliants caused them to glow like liquid fire. this costly ornament would have struck the beholder as strangely out of place in the possession of this poor widow, in that scantily furnished room; but a few words regarding the past history of mrs. harris and her daughter will explain their present circumstances. mrs. harris was born and educated in england, and when quite young was employed as governess in a gentleman's family. circumstances at length caused the family with whom she resided to cross the atlantic and take up their abode in the ancient city of quebec. the young governess had no remaining ties to bind her to england. her parents had been dead for many years; she had no sisters, and her only brother, soon after the death of their parents, went to seek his fortune in the gold regions of california. some years had passed since she heard any tidings from him, and she feared he was no longer among the living, and when the family with whom she had so long resided left england for america, they persuaded her to accompany them. in process of time she was married to a wealthy merchant, and removed to western canada. their union was a very happy one, and for some years, they lived in the enjoyment of worldly prosperity and happiness. but it often happens that sad and unlooked-for reverses succeed a season of long continued prosperity; and it was so in this case. i am not aware that mr. harris's failure in business was brought about through any imprudence on his part; but was owing to severe and unexpected losses. he had entered into various speculations, which bid fair to prove profitable, but which proved a complete failure, and one stroke of ill fortune followed another in rapid succession, till the day of utter ruin came. he gave up every thing; even his house and furniture was sacrificed to meet the clamorous demands of his hard-hearted creditors; and his family was thus suddenly reduced from a state of ease and affluence to absolute poverty. mr. harris possessed a very proud spirit, and his nature was sensitive, and he could not endure the humiliation of remaining where they had formerly been so happy. he knew the world sufficiently well to be aware that they would now meet with coldness and neglect even from those who had formerly been proud of their notice, and shrank from the trial, and with the small amount he had been able to secure out of the general wreck, he removed to the city of toronto, some three hundred miles from their former home. they had but little money remaining when they reached the city, and mr. harris felt the necessity of at once seeking some employment, for a stranger destitute of money in a large city is in no enviable position. for some time he was unsuccessful in every application he made for employment, and he was glad at length to accept the situation of copyist in a lawyer's office, till something better might offer. his salary barely sufficed for their support, yet they were thankful even for that. his constitution had never been robust, and the anxiety of mind under which he labored told severely upon his health. he exerted himself to the utmost, but his health failed rapidly; he was soon obliged to give up work, and in a little more than a year from the time of their removal to toronto, he died, leaving his wife and daughter friendless and destitute. their situation was extremely sad, when thus left alone; they had made no acquaintances during the year they had resided in the city, and had no friend to whom they could apply for aid. after paying her husband's funeral expenses, mrs. harris found herself well-nigh destitute of money, and she felt the urgent necessity of exerting herself to obtain employment by which they at least might earn a subsistence. the widow and her daughter found much difficulty at first in obtaining employment. some to whom they applied had no work; others did not give out work to strangers; and for several days mrs. harris returned weary and desponding to her home, after spending a large portion of the day in the disagreeable task of seeking employment from strangers; but after a time she succeeded in obtaining employment, and as their work proved satisfactory they had soon an ample supply; but just when their prospects were beginning to brighten mrs. harris was visited by a severe illness. they had been able to lay by a small sum previous to her illness, and it was well they had done so, for during her sickness she required almost the constant attention of her daughter, which deprived them of any means of support; but after several weeks of severe illness she began slowly to recover, and this brings us to the time where our story opens. the ring which mrs. harris held in her hand had been for many, many years an heir-loom in the english family to which she belonged. to her it was the dying gift of her mother, and the thoughts of parting with it cost her a bitter pang. but she had no friends to whom she might apply for aid; and to a refined and sensitive nature, almost anything else is preferable to seeking charity from strangers. the ring was the only article of value which she retained, and sore as was the trial, she saw no other way of meeting their present wants, than by disposing of this her only relic of former affluence and happiness; and she trusted, that by the time the money which the sale of the ring would bring should be expended, they would be again able to resume their employment. with a heavy heart ellen harris set out to dispose of this cherished memento. she remembered an extensive jewelry shop, which she had often passed, as she carried home parcels of work, and thither she made her way. the shop-keeper was an elderly man with daughters of his own, and he had so often noticed this pale sad-looking young girl as she passed his window, that he recognized her countenance the moment she entered the shop; and when in a low timid voice she enquired if he would purchase the ring, he was satisfied that he was correct in his former conjecture, that she belonged to a family of former wealth and respectability. but young as she was there was a certain reserve and dignity in her manner, which forbade any questions on his part. the man had for many years carried on a lucrative business in his line and he was now wealthy; and knowing that he could afford to wait till the ring should find a purchaser he had no fears of losing money on so valuable an article; and, as is not often the case in such transactions, he paid her a fair price for the ring, although less than its real value. ellen returned, much elated by her success; the money she had received for the ring seemed to them in their present circumstances a small fortune. "little did once i think," said the widow, as she carefully counted the bank-notes, "that a few paltry pounds would ever seem of so much value to me; but perhaps it is well that we should sometimes experience the want of money, that we may learn how to make a proper use of it; and be more helpful to those less favored than ourselves." the money they obtained more than sufficed for their support, till mrs. harris so far recovered, as to allow them again to resume their employment. they now had no difficulty in obtaining work, and although obliged to toil early and late, they became cheerful and contented; although they could not but feel the change in their circumstances, and often contrast the happy past, with their present lot of labor and toil. the shopkeeper burnished up the setting of the diamonds and placed the ring among many others in the show-case upon his counter. but so expensive an ornament as this does not always find a ready purchaser, and for some months it remained unsold. one afternoon a gentleman entered the shop to make some trifling purchase, and, as the shopkeeper happened to be engaged with a customer, he remained standing at the counter, till he should be at leisure, and his eye wandered carelessly over the articles in the show-case. suddenly he started, changed countenance, and when the shopkeeper came forward to attend to him he said in voice of suppressed eagerness, "will you allow me to examine that ring," pointing as he spoke to the diamond ring sold by ellen harris. "certainly, sir, certainly," said the obliging shop-keeper, who, hoping that the ring had at last found a purchaser, immediately placed it in his hand for inspection. the gentleman turned the ring in his hand, and carefully examined the sparkling diamonds as well as the antique setting; and when he observed the initials, engraved upon the inside, he grew pale as marble, and hurriedly addressed the astonished shopkeeper saying, "in the name of pity, tell me where you obtained this ring?" "i am very willing to inform you," said the man "how this ring came into my possession. several months ago a young girl, of very delicate and lady-like appearance, brought this ring here and desired me to purchase it. she seemed very anxious to dispose of the ornament, and, thinking i could easily sell it again, i paid her a fair price and took the ring, and that is all i can tell you about the matter." "you do not know the lady's name?" said the gentleman anxiously. "i do not," replied the man, "but i have frequently seen her pass in the street. the circumstance of her selling me this valuable ring caused me to notice her particularly, and i recognized her countenance ever after." "name your price for the ring," said the gentleman,--"i must purchase it at any price; and the next thing, i must, if possible, find the young lady who brought it here, i have seen this ring before, and that is all i wish to say of the matter at present; but is there no way in which you can assist me in obtaining an interview with this young lady?" "i have no knowledge of her name or residence; but if you were in my shop when she chanced to pass here i could easily point her out to you in the street." "you may think my conduct somewhat strange," said the gentleman, "but believe me my reasons for seeking an interview with this young lady are most important and if you can point her out to me in the street i will endeavour to learn her residence, as that will be something gained." before the gentleman left the shop he paid for the ring, and placed it in his pocket. for several days, he frequented the shop of the jeweller with the hope of gaining a view of the lady. at length one morning the shop-keeper suddenly directed his attention to a lady passing in the street, saying, "there, sir, is the young lady from whom i purchased the ring." he waited to hear no more, but, stepping hastily into the street, followed the lady at a respectful distance; but never losing sight of her for a moment till she entered her home two streets distant from the shop of the jeweller. he approached the door and rang the bell. the door was opened by the same young lady, whose manner exhibited not a little embarrassment, when she beheld a total stranger; and he began to feel himself in an awkward position. he was at a loss how to address her till, recollecting that he must explain his visit in some way, he said: "pardon the intrusion of a stranger; but, by your permission, i would like to enter the house, and have a word of conversation with you." the young girl regarded the man earnestly for a moment; but his manner was so gentlemanly and deferential that she could do no less than invite him to enter the little sitting-room where her mother was at work, and ask him to be seated. he bowed to mrs. harris on entering the room, then seating himself he addressed the young lady, saying: "the peculiar circumstances in which i am placed must serve as my apology for asking you a question which you may consider impertinent. are you the young lady who, some months since, sold a diamond ring to a jeweller on grafton street?" mrs. harris raised her eyes to the stranger's face, and the proud english blood which flowed in her veins mantled her cheek as she replied, "before i permit my daughter to answer the questions of a stranger, you will be so kind as to explain your right to question." the stranger sprang from his seat at the sound of her voice, and exclaimed, in a voice tremulous from emotion, "don't you know me eliza, i am your long lost brother george." the reader will, doubtless, be better able to imagine the scene which followed, than i am to describe it. everything was soon explained, many letters had been sent which never reached their destination; he knew not that his sister had left england, and after writing again and again, and receiving no reply, he ceased altogether from writing. during the first years of his sojourn in california, he was unfortunate, and was several times brought to the brink of the grave by sickness. after a time fortune smiled upon his efforts, till he at length grew immensely rich, and finally left the burning skies of california to return to england. he landed at new york and intended, after visiting the canadas, to sail for england. the brother and sister had parted in their early youth, and it is no wonder that they failed to recognize each other when each had passed middle age. the brother was most changed of the two. his complexion had grown very dark, and he had such a foreign look that, when convinced of the fact, mrs. harris could hardly believe him to be one and the same with the stripling brother from whom she parted in england so many years ago. he was, of course, not aware of his sister's marriage, and he listened with sorrow to the story of her bereavement and other misfortunes. "you must now place a double value upon our family ring," said he, as he replaced the lost treasure upon his sister's hand; "for it is this diamond ring which has restored to each other the brother and sister who otherwise might never have met again on earth. and now, both you and your daughter must prepare for a voyage to dear old england. you need have no anxiety for the future; i have enough for us all and you shall want no more." before leaving the city, accompanied by her brother, mrs. harris visited the grave of her husband; and the generous brother attended to the erection of a suitable tombstone, as the widow had before been unable to meet the expenses of it. passing through the upper province they reached montreal, whence they sailed for england. after a prosperous voyage they found themselves amid the familiar scenes of their childhood, where they still live in the enjoyment of as much happiness as usually falls to the lot of mortals. the unfortunate man. on a sultry afternoon in midsummer i was walking on a lonely unfrequented road in the township of s. my mind was busily occupied, and i paid little attention to surrounding objects till a hollow, unnatural voice addressed me, saying: "look up my friend, and behold the unfortunate man." i raised my eyes suddenly, and, verily, the appearance of the being before me justified his self-bestowed appellation--the unfortunate man. i will do my best to describe him, although i am satisfied that my description will fall far short of the reality. he was uncommonly tall, and one thing which added much to the oddity of his appearance was the inequality of length in his legs, one being shorter by several inches than the other, and, to make up for the deficiency, he wore on the short leg a boot with a very high heel. he seemed to be past middle age, his complexion was sallow and unhealthy, he was squint-eyed, and his hair, which had once been of a reddish hue, was then a grizzly gray. taken all together he was a strange looking object, and i soon perceived that his mind wandered. at first i felt inclined to hurry onward as quickly as possible, but, as he seemed harmless and inclined to talk to me, i lingered for a few moments to listen to him. "i do not wonder," said he, "that you look upon me with pity, for it is a sad thing for one to be crazy." surprised to find him so sensible of his own situation i said: "as you seem so well aware that you are crazy, perhaps you can inform me what caused you to become so." "oh yes," replied he, "i can soon tell you that: first my father died, then my mother, and soon after my only sister hung herself to the limb of a tree with a skein of worsted yarn; and last, and worst of all, my wife, dorcas jane, drowned herself in otter creek." wondering if there was any truth in this horrible story, or if it was only the creation of his own diseased mind, i said, merely to see what he would say next, "what caused your wife to drown herself; was she crazy too?" "oh no," replied he, "she was not crazy, but she was worse than that; for she was jealous of me, although i am sure she had no cause." the idea of any one being jealous of the being before me was so ridiculous that it was with the utmost difficulty that i refrained from laughter; but, fearing to offend the crazy man, i maintained my gravity by a strong effort. when he had finished the story of his misfortunes, he came close to me and said, in slow measured tones: "and now do you think it any wonder that i went raving distracted crazy?" "indeed i do not," said i; "many a one has gone crazy for less cause." thinking he might be hungry, i told him i would direct him to a farm-house, where he would be sure to obtain his supper. "no," replied he, "this is not one of my hungry days; i find so many who will give me nothing to eat that when i get the offer of a meal i always eat whether i am hungry or not, and i have been in luck to-day, for i have eaten five meals since morning; and now i must lose no more time, for i have important business with the governor of canada and must reach quebec to-morrow." i regarded the poor crazy being with a feeling of pity, as he walked wearily onward, and even the high-heeled boot did not conceal a painful limp in his gait. but i had not seen the last of him yet. some six months after, as i was visiting a friend who lived several miles distant, who should walk in, about eight o'clock in the evening, but the "unfortunate man." there had been a slight shower of rain, but not enough to account for the drenched state of his clothing. "how did you get so wet?" enquired mr. ----. "o," replied he, "i was crossing a brook upon a log, and i slipped off into the water; and it rained on me at the same time, and between the two, i got a pretty smart ducking." they brought him some dry clothing, and dried his wet garments by the kitchen fire, and kindly allowed him to remain for the night. for several years, this man passed through s. as often as two or three times during each year. he became so well known in the vicinity, that any one freely gave him a meal or a night's lodging as often as he sought it. every time he came along his mind was occupied by some new fancy, which seemed to him to be of the utmost importance, and to require prompt attention. he arrived in s. one bitter cold night in the depth of winter, and remained for the night with a family who had ever treated him kindly, and with whom he had often lodged before. he set out early the next morning to proceed (as he said) on his way to nova scotia. years have passed away; but the "unfortunate man" has never since been seen in the vicinity. it was feared by some that he had perished in the snow; as there were some very severe storms soon after he left s.; but nothing was ever learned to confirm the suspicion. according to his own statement he belonged to the state of vermont, but, from his speech, he was evidently not an american. several years have passed away since his last visit to s., and it is more than probable that he is no longer among the living. the old schoolhouse. i lately visited the time-worn building, where for a lengthened period, during my early years, i studied the rudiments of education; and what a host of almost forgotten memories of the past came thronging back upon my mind as i stood alone--in that well remembered room. i seemed again to hear the hum of youthful voices as they conned or recited their daily tasks, and, as memory recalled the years that had passed since we used there to assemble, i could not avoid saying mentally: "my schoolmates, where are they?" even that thought called to mind an amusing story related by a much loved companion who for a time formed one of our number. he was older than most of the other boys, and was a general favourite with all. he was famous for relating funny stories, of which he had a never-failing supply; and when the day was too stormy to allow of out-of-door sports, during the noon hour, we used to gather around the large stove which stood in the centre of the room and coax h. m. to tell us stories. the story which recurred to my mind was of a poor irishman, who, in describing a visit which he paid to the home of his childhood after a long absence, said: "at the sober hour of twilight, i entered the lonely and desarted home uv me forefathers, an' as i gazed about the silent walls, i said, 'me fathers, where are they?' an' did not echo answer, 'is that you pathrick o'flannigan, sure?'" i was in no mood for laughter, and yet i could not repress a smile, as memory recalled the comical voice and inimitable gestures with which young h. m. related the story. he was beloved by us all, and when he left school we parted from him with real sorrow. as i walked around, and looked upon the worn and defaced desks, i observed the initials of many once familiar names which many years before had been formed with a knife, which were not so much obliterated but i could easily decipher the well known letters. that desk in the corner was occupied by two brothers who when they grew up removed to one of the eastern states, where they enlisted as soldiers in the war between the north and south. one of the brothers received his death-wound on the battlefield. in a foreign hospital he lingered in much suffering for a brief period, when he died and was buried, far from his home and kindred. the younger brother was naturally of a tender constitution and was unable to endure the hardships and privations of a soldier's life. his health failed him, and he returned to his friends, who had left their canadian home, and removed to the state of massachusetts; but all that the most skilful physicians could do, aided by the most watchful care of his tender mother, failed to check the ravages of disease. consumption had marked him for its prey, and he died a few months after leaving the army; and, as his friends wept over his grave, they could see with their mind's eye another nameless grave in a far-away southern state, where slept the other son and brother. the desk on my left hand was occupied by a youth, who has been for many years toiling for gold in california; and i have learned that he has grown very rich. i often wonder if, in his eager pursuit after riches, in that far-off clime, he ever thinks of the little brown school-house by the butternut trees, and of the smiling eager group who used daily to meet there. one large family of brothers and sisters, who attended this school for several years, afterward removed with their parents to one of the western states, and years have passed away since i heard of them; but along with many others they were recalled to mind by my visit to the old school-house. on the opposite side of the room is the range of desks which were occupied by the girls, and i could almost fancy that i again saw the same lively, restless group who filled those desks in the days of long-ago. again i saw the bright smile which was often hidden from the searching eye of our teacher, behind the covers of the well-worn spelling-book, again i saw the mischievous glances, and heard the smothered laughter when the attention of the teacher was required in some other part of the room. but these happy careless days of childhood are gone never to return. were i inclined, i could trace the after-history of most of the companions whom i used daily to meet in this school-room. with many of them "life's history" is done, and they sleep peacefully in the grave. others have gone forth to the duties of life; some far distant, others near their paternal homes. many of the number have been successful in life, and prospered in their undertakings, while others have met with disappointment and misfortune. it seemed somewhat singular to me that, as i stood alone in that room (after the lapse of so many years), i could recollect, by the name, each companion i used to meet there; yet so it was, and it seemed but as yesterday since we used daily to assemble there; and, when i reflected for a moment on the many changes to which i have been subjected since that period, i could hardly realize that i was one and the same. i lingered long at the old school-house, for i expected never to behold it again, having been informed that it was shortly to give place to a building of a larger size, and of more modern structure. arthur sinclair. for several hours we had endured the jolting of the lumbering stage-coach over a rough hilly road which led through a portion of the state of new hampshire; and, as the darkness of night gathered around us, i, as well as my fellow-travellers, began to manifest impatience to arrive at our stopping-place for the night; and we felt strongly inclined to find fault with the slow motion of the tired horses, which drew the heavily-loaded vehicle. thinking it as well to know the worst at once, i asked the driver "what time we might expect to reach our destination for the night?" "it will be midnight at the least, perhaps later," replied he. this news was not very cheering to the weary travellers who filled the coach; and i almost regretted having asked the question. the roughness of the roads, together with the crowded state of the vehicle, made it impossible for any one to sleep, and it became an important question how we should pass away the tedious hours. a proposition was at length made, that some one of the passengers should relate a story for the entertainment of the others. this proposal met with the hearty approval of all, as a means of making our toilsome journey seem shorter; and the question of who should relate the story was very soon agitated. there was among the passengers one old gentleman of a very pleasant and venerable appearance, and judging from his countenance that he possessed intelligence, as well as experience, we respectfully invited him to relate a story for our entertainment. "i am not at all skilled in story-telling," replied the old gentleman, "but, as a means of passing away the tedious hours of the uncomfortable ride, i will relate some circumstances which took place many years since, and which also have connection with my present journey, although the narrative may not possess much interest for uninterested strangers." we all placed ourselves in a listening attitude, and the old man began as follows: "i was born in the town of littleton in this state, and when a boy, i had one school-mate, whom i could have loved no better had he been a brother. his name was arthur sinclair. and the affectionate intimacy which existed between us for many years is yet to me a green spot in the waste of memory. i was about twelve years of age when arthur's parents came to reside in littleton. that now large and thriving village then contained but a few houses, and when the sinclairs became our neighbours, we soon formed a very pleasing acquaintance. i was an only child, and had never been much given to making companions of the neighbouring boys of my own age; but from the first i felt strongly attracted toward arthur sinclair. he was two years younger than myself. at the time when i first met him he was the most perfect specimen of childish beauty i ever saw, and added to this he possessed a most winning and affectionate disposition, and in a short time we became almost inseparable companions. my nature was distant and reserved, but if once i made a friend, my affection for him was deep and abiding. we occupied the same desk in the village school, and often conned our daily lessons from the same book, and out of school hours, shared the same sports; and i remember once hearing our teacher laughingly remark to my parents, that he believed, should he find it necessary to correct one of us, the other would beg to share the punishment. notwithstanding the strong friendship between us, our dispositions were very unlike. from a child i was prone to fits of depression, while arthur on the other hand possessed such a never-failing flow of animal spirits, as rendered him at all times a very agreeable companion; and it may be that the dissimilarity of our natures attracted us all the more strongly to each other; be that as it may the same close intimacy subsisted between us till we reached the years of early manhood. the only fault i could ever see in arthur was that of being too easily persuaded by others, without pausing to think for himself; and being the elder of the two, and of a reflective cast of mind, as we grew up, i often had misgivings for him when he should go forth from his home, and mingle with the world at large. the intimacy between us allowed me to speak freely to him, and i often reminded him of the necessity of watchfulness and consideration, when he should go forth alone to make his way in a selfish and unfeeling world. "he used to make light of what he termed my "croaking" and say i need have no fears of him; and i believe he spoke from the sincerity of his good intentions; he thought all others as sincere and open-hearted as himself, and happy had it been for him if he had found them so. arthur received a very good business education, and, when he reached the age of twenty-one, obtained the situation of book-keeper in an extensive mercantile house in the city of boston. there was a young girl in our village to whom arthur had been fondly attached since the days of his boyhood, and i need scarcely say the attachment was reciprocal, and that before he left home he placed the engagement ring on her finger, naming no very distant period when he hoped to replace it by the wedding ring. belinda merril was worthy in every way of his affection, and loved him with all the sincerity of a pure and guileless heart. i almost wonder that the shadows which were even then gathering in what to them had ever been a summer sky, did not cast a chill over her heart. in due time arthur went to the city. i could not help my fears, lest his pleasing manners and love of company should attract to him those who would lead him into evil; but i strove to banish them, and hope for the best. our pastor, an old man, who had known arthur from his childhood, called upon him, previous to his departure from home, and, without wearying him with a long list of rules and regulations regarding his future conduct, spoke to him as friend speaks to friend, and in a judicious manner administered some very good advice to the youth who was almost as dear to him as his own son. the young man listened attentively to the words of his faithful friend and sincerely thanked him for the advice which he well knew was prompted by affection. during the first year of his residence in the city, we wrote very frequently to each other, and the tone of his letters indicated the same pure principles which had ever governed his actions. time passed on, and by-and-bye, i could not fail to notice the change in the style of his letters. he spoke much of the many agreeable acquaintances he had formed, and of the amusements of the city, and was warm in his commendations of the theatre. my heart often misgave me as i perused his letters, and i mentally wondered where all this was to end? after a two-years' absence, he returned to spend a few weeks at home in littleton, but he seemed so unlike my former friend, that i could hardly feel at ease in his society. he never once alluded to any incidents of our school days, as he used formerly so frequently to do, and objects of former interest possessed none for him now. he called littleton a "terribly stupid place," and seemed anxiously to look forward to his return to boston. "surely," said i to him one evening as we were engaged in conversation, "littleton must still contain one attraction for you yet." he appeared not to comprehend my meaning, but i well knew his ignorance was only feigned. but when he saw that i was not to be put off in that way, he said with a tone of assumed indifference, "o! if it is belinda merril you are talking about, i have to say that she is no longer an object of interest to me." "is it possible, arthur," said i, "that you mean what you say; surely an absence of two years has not caused you to forget the love you have borne miss merril from childhood. i am very much surprised to hear you speak in this manner." a flush of anger, at my plain reply, rose to his cheek, and he answered in a tone of displeasure: "i may as well tell you first as last, my ideas have undergone a change. i did once think i loved belinda merril, but that was before i had seen the world, and now the idea to me is absurd of introducing this awkward country girl as my wife among my acquaintances in the city of boston. i once had a sort of liking for the girl, but i care no longer for her, and the sooner i break with her the better, and i guess she won't break her heart about me." "i hope not indeed," i replied, "but i must be allowed to say that i consider your conduct unmanly and dishonourable, and i would advise you, before proceeding further, to pause and reflect whether it is really your heart which dictates your actions, or only a foolish fancy." knowing how deeply miss merril was attached to arthur, i hoped he would reconsider the matter, and i said as much to him; but all i could say was of no avail, and that very evening he called and, requesting an interview with his betrothed, informed her that, as his sentiments toward her had changed, he presumed she would be willing to release him from their former engagement. instantly miss merril drew from her finger the ring he had placed there two years before, and said, as she placed it in his hand, "i have long been sensible of the change in your sentiments, and am truly glad that you have at last spoken plainly. from this hour you may consider yourself entirely free, and you have my best wishes for your future happiness and prosperity," and, bidding him a kind good-evening, the young lady left the apartment. her spirit was deeply wounded, but she possessed too much good sense to be utterly cast down for the wrong-doing of another. whatever were arthur's feelings after he had taken this step, he spoke of them to no one. i never again mentioned the subject to him, but, knowing him as i did, i could see that he was far from being satisfied with his own conduct, and he departed for the city some weeks sooner than he had at first intended. owing to the friendly feeling i had ever cherished for him, i could not help a feeling of anxiety after his departure, for i feared that all was not right with him. he did not entirely cease from writing to me; but his letters were not frequent, and they were very brief and formal--very unlike the former brotherly communications which used to pass between us. a year passed away. i obtained a situation nearly a hundred miles from home. i had heard nothing from arthur for a long time, and, amid my own cares, he recurred to my mind with less frequency than formerly; yet often after the business of the day was over, and my mind was at leisure, memory would recall arthur sinclair to my mind with a pained sort of interest. about six months after i left home i was surprised by receiving from mr. sinclair a hastily written letter, requesting me, if possible, to lose no time in hastening to littleton, stating also that he was obliged to take a journey to boston on business which vitally concerned arthur, and he wished me to accompany him. he closed by requesting me to mention the letter i had received from him to no one, saying that he knew me and my regard for arthur sufficiently well to trust me in the matter. my fears were instantly alive for arthur, and i feared that some misfortune to him was hidden behind this veil of secrecy: and i soon found that my fears were well founded. i set out at once for littleton, and upon arriving there i proceeded directly to the residence of mr. sinclair. when he met me at the door i was struck by the change in his countenance; he appeared as if ten years had been added to his age since i last saw him, six months ago. he waited not for me to make any inquiries, but, motioning me into a private apartment, he closed the door, and seating himself by my side, said in a hoarse voice: "i may as well tell you the worst at once: my son, and also your once dear friend, arthur, is a thief, and, but for the lenity and consideration of his employer, before this time would have been lodged within the walls of a prison." i made no reply, but gazed upon him in silent astonishment and horror. when he became more composed, he informed me that he had lately received a letter from mr. worthing (arthur's employer) informing him that he had detected arthur in the crime of stealing money from the safe, to quite a large amount. in giving the particulars of the unfortunate circumstance, he further stated, for some time past he had missed different sums of money, but was unable to attach suspicion to any one; "and, although," said he, "i have been for some time fearful that your son was associating with evil companions, i never once dreamed that he would be guilty of the crime of stealing, till i lately missed bank-notes from the safe, to quite a large amount, having upon them some peculiar marks which rendered them easy to be identified. for some time the disappearance of those notes was a mystery, and i was beginning to despair of detecting the guilty one, when i obtained proof positive that your unfortunate son parted with those identical notes in a noted gambling saloon in the city; and, as i have also learned that he has spent money freely of late, i have no longer any doubt that it is he who has stolen the other sums i have lost. out of regard to you and your family i have kept the matter perfectly quiet; indeed, i never informed the parties who told me his losing the notes at the gaming-table that there was anything wrong about it. i have not mentioned the matter to your son, and shall not do so till i see or hear from you. i presume you will be willing to make good to me the money i have lost. of course i cannot much longer retain your son in my employ, but he must not be utterly ruined by this affair being made public. i would advise you to come at once to boston, and we will arrange matters in the best possible manner, and no one but ourselves need know anything of the sad affair; let him return with you for a time to his home, and i trust the lesson will not be lost upon him. when he first came to the city, i am positive that he was an honourable and pure-minded young man, but evil companions have led him astray, and we must try and save him from ruin." i had never seen mr. worthing, but i at once felt much respect for him, for the lenity and discretion he had shown in the matter. to no one but his own family and myself did mr. sinclair reveal the contents of that letter; but the very evening after my arrival in littleton we set out on our journey to boston, and, upon arriving there, we proceeded at once to the residence of mr. worthing, where we learned all the particulars of arthur's guilt. mr. worthing stated that he had ever entertained a very high opinion of arthur, and, when he missed various sums of money in a most unaccountable manner, he never thought of fixing suspicion upon him, till circumstances came to his knowledge which left no room for doubt; but, owing to the high regard he entertained for his parents, with whom he had (years since) been intimately acquainted, he said nothing to the young man of the proofs of his dishonesty which had come to his knowledge, and still retained him in his employ till he could communicate with his father, that they together might devise some means of preventing the affair from becoming public. after mr. sinclair had listened to the plain statement of the affair by mr. worthing, he requested him as nearly as possible to give him an estimate of the amount of money he had lost. he did so, and mr. sinclair immediately placed an equivalent sum in his hands, saying: "i am glad to be able so far to undo the wrong of which my son has been guilty." all this time arthur knew nothing of our arrival in the city; but when his father dispatched a message, requesting him to meet him at the house of his employer, he was very soon in our presence. i hope i may never again witness another meeting like that one, between the father and son. when charged with the crime, arthur at first made a feeble attempt at denial, till finding the strong proofs against him, he owned all with shame and humiliation of countenance. the stern grief of mr. sinclair was something fearful to witness. "how could you" said he, addressing arthur, "commit so base a deed? tell me, my son, in what duty i have failed in your early training? i endeavored to instil into your mind principles of honor and integrity, and to enforce the same by setting before you a good example. if i have failed in any duty to you, it was through ignorance, and may god forgive me if i have been guilty of any neglect in your education." trembling with suppressed emotion arthur replied: "you are blameless, my father; on me alone must rest my sin, for had i obeyed your kind counsels, and those of my dearest friend, (pointing to me) i should never have been the guilty wretch i am to-day." turning to me, he said: "many a time within the last few months have i called to mind the lightness with which i laughed away your fears for my safety, when i left home for the city. o! that i had listened to your friendly warning, and followed the path which you pointed out for me. when i first came to the great city, i was charmed with the novelty of its never-ceasing scenes of amusement and pleasure. i began by mingling with company, and participating in amusements, which, to say the least of them, were questionable; and i soon found my salary inadequate to meet my fast increasing wants for money; and, as many an unfortunate youth has done before, i began the vice of gambling with the hope of being one of the lucky ones. my tempters, no doubt, understood their business, and at first allowed me to win from them considerable sums of money; till, elated with my success, i began playing for higher stakes, and when i lost them, i grew desperate, and it was then that i began adding the sin of theft to the no less heinous one of gambling. but it is no use now to talk of the past; my character is blasted, and all i wish is to die and hide my guild in the grave, and yet i am ill-prepared to die." he became so much excited, that we endeavored to soothe him by kind and encouraging words. his father bade him amend his conduct for the future, and he would freely forgive and forget the past. in my piety for my early friend, i almost forgot the wrong he had done, and thought only of the loved companion of my boyhood and youth. i cannot describe my feelings, as i gazed upon the shame-stricken young man, whom i had so often caressed in the days of our boyish affection and confidence. little did i then think i should ever behold him thus. the utmost secrecy was observed by all parties; and it was decided that we would remain for the night with mr. worthing, and, accompanied by arthur, set out early the next morning on our homeward journey. but it was ordered otherwise. the next morning arthur was raving in delirium of brain fever, brought, on doubtless, by the mental torture he had endured. mr. sinclair dispatched a message, informing his wife of arthur's illness, and three days later she stood by the bed-side of her son. for several days the fever raged. we allowed no stranger to watch by him, for in his delirium his mind dwelt continually upon the past, and no one but ourselves must listen to his words. mr. worthing was very kind, and shared the care of the poor young man with his parents and myself. at length came the crisis of his disorder. "now," said the physician, "for a few hours, his life will hang, as it were, upon a thread. if the powers of life of are not too far exhausted by the disease he may rally but i have many fears, for he is brought very low. all the encouragement i dare offer that is, while there is life there is hope." he sunk into a deep slumber, and i took my place to watch by him during the night. mr. worthing persuaded his parents to seek a few hours rest, as they were worn out with fatigue and anxiety; and exacting from me a promise that i would summon them if the least change for the worse should take place, they retired, and i was left to watch alone by my friend. all i could do was to watch and wait, as the hours passed wearily on. a little before midnight the physician softly entered, and stood with me at his bed-side; soon after he languidly opened his eyes, and in a whisper he pronounced my name. as i leaned over him, and eagerly scanned his countenance, i perceived that the delirium of fever was gone. the physician, fearing the effect upon him of the least excitement, made a motion to me enjoining silence, and mixing a quieting cordial, held to his lips. he eagerly quaffed the cooling draught, and again fell into a quiet slumber. "now," said the physician, "i have a faint hope that he may recover, but he is so weak that any excitement would prove fatal; all depends upon keeping him perfectly quiet for the next few hours." the doctor departed, and again i was left alone to watch over his slumber. before morning, anxiety brought mr. and mrs. sinclair to the room, to learn if there had been any change. in a whisper i informed them of the favorable symptoms he had evinced upon waking, and persuaded them to retire from the apartment. when arthur again awoke, the favorable symptoms still continued, and the physician entertained strong hopes of his recovery. by degrees he was allowed to converse for a few moments at a time. it seemed to him, he said, as though he had awakened from a frightful dream; and he begged to know how long he had been ill, and what had happened during the time. we were all very cautious to say nothing to excite him; and by degrees as his mind grew stronger, everything came back clearly to his mind, his father's visit, and the circumstances which had brought him to the city. it is needless for me to dwell upon the long period, while he lay helpless as an infant, watched over by his fond mother, who felt that he had almost been given back from the dead. but he continued slowly to recover, and being unable to remain longer, i left his parents with him, and returned to my home in littleton, and soon after went back to my employer. mr. and mrs. sinclair remained with arthur till he was able to bear the journey to littleton, and it was to them a happy day, when they arrived safely at their home, accompanied by their son, who seemed to them almost as one restored from the dead. the unfortunate circumstances connected with arthur's illness were a secret locked up in the bosoms of the few faithful friends to whom it was known. arthur arose from that bed of sickness a changed man, and it was ever after to him a matter of wonder how he could have been so far led astray, and he felt the most unbounded gratitude to mr. worthing for the kindness and consideration he had shown him. his father did quite an extensive business as a merchant in littleton, and as arthur became stronger he assisted in the store; and after a time his father gave him a partnership in the business, which rendered his again leaving home unnecessary. a correspondence, varied occasionally by friendly visits, was kept up between the sinclairs and the family of mr. worthing; for arthur never could forget the debt of gratitude he owed his former employer. i have little more to tell, and i will bring my long and, i fear somewhat tedious, story to a close, by relating one more event in the life of my friend. i resided at a quite a long distance from littleton, and some two years after arthur's return home, i was surprised by receiving an invitation from him to act as groomsman at his wedding, and the bride was to be miss merrill. i know not exactly how the reconciliation took place. but i understood that arthur first sought an interview with the young lady, and humbly acknowledged the wrong of which he had been guilty, saying, what was indeed true, that he had ever loved her, and he knew not what infatuation influenced him in his former conduct. many censured miss merrill for her want of spirit, as they termed it, in again receiving his addresses, but i was too well pleased by his happy termination of the affair to censure any one connected with it. the wedding day was a happy one to those most deeply concerned, and such being the case, the opinion of others was of little consequence; and the clouds which had for a time darkened their sky, left no shadow upon the sunshine of their wedded life. arthur and his father were prospered in their business, and for many years they all lived happily together. in process of time his parents died, and arthur soon after sold out his share in the business to a younger brother, as he had received a tempting offer to remove to boston, and enter into partnership with mr. worthing's son, as the old gentleman had some time before resigned any active share in the business. when arthur learned their wishes he was very anxious to return to them; "for," said he, "it is to mr. worthing i owe my salvation from disgrace and ruin." for many years he has carried on a lucrative business with the son of his former employer and friend. an interesting family of sons and daughters have grown up around him, and i may with truth call them a happy family. old mr. worthing has been for some years dead; and his earthly remains quietly repose amid the peaceful shades of mount auburn. my own life has been a busy one, and twenty years have passed away since i met with arthur sinclair; but the object of this journey is to visit my early friend, who, as well as myself, is now an old man." as the old gentleman finished the story, to which we had all listened with much interest, we arrived at our stopping place for the night, and, fatigued with the day's journey, we were soon conducted to our several apartments. the next morning we parted with the kind old man, as his onward route lay in another direction, but i could not help following him in thought, and picturing the joyous meeting between himself and his early friend, arthur sinclair. the snow storm. the event i am about to relate happened many years ago, but i have often heard it mentioned by those to whom all the circumstances were well known; and, when listening to this story, i have often thought that there is enough of interest attached to many events which took place during the period of the early settlement of that portion of eastern canada which borders on the river st. francis, to fill volumes, were they recorded. the morning had been clear and pleasant, but early in the afternoon the sky became overcast with dark clouds, and for several hours the snow fell unceasingly, and now the darkness of night was added to the gloomy scene. as the night set in, the snow continued to fall in a thick shower, and a strong easterly wind arose, which filled the air with one blinding cloud of drifting snow; and the lights in the scattered habitations in the then primitive settlement of d. could scarcely be distinguished amid the thick darkness. it was a fearful night to be abroad upon that lonely and almost impassable road; and mrs. w. fully realized the peril to which her husband was exposed on that inclement night. he had set out that morning, on foot, to visit a friend, who resided at a distance of several miles, intending to return to his home at an early hour in the evening. it was a lonely road over which he had to pass; the habitations were few and far between, and, as the storm increased with the approach of night, mrs. w. strongly hoped that her husband had been persuaded to pass the night with his friend; for she feared that, had he been overtaken by the darkness of night, he would perish in the storm; and the poor woman was in a state of painful anxiety and suspense. the supper-table was spread, but mrs. w. was unable to taste food; and, giving the children their suppers, she awaited with intense anxiety the return of her husband. the storm increased till it was evident that it was one of unusual severity, even for the rigorous climate of canada, and, as the wind shook the windows of their dwelling, the children often exclaimed in tones of terror: "o! what will become of poor father if he is out in this storm." bye-and-bye the tired children fell asleep, and mrs. w. was left alone by her fireside. she endeavoured to quiet her fears by thinking him safe in the house of his friend, but she could not drive away the thought that he had set out upon his return home, and she feared, if such was the case, he had met his death in that pitiless storm. she was two miles from any neighbour, surrounded by her family of young children; so all she could do was to wait and watch as the hours wore on. sleep was out of the question, and the dawn of day found her still keeping her lonely vigil. as the sun rose the wind calmed, but the thick drifts of snow rendered it impossible for her to leave the house, and she watched anxiously if any one might chance to pass, to whom she could apply for assistance in gaining tidings of her husband. alas! her fears of the previous night were but too well founded. he had perished in the storm. his friend tried his utmost to persuade him to remain for the night when the storm began, but he was anxious to return to his home, fearing the anxiety of his family: and he left his friend's house about four o'clock in the afternoon. the weather was intensely cold, as well as stormy, and, owing to the depth of snow which had already fallen, he could make but slow progress, and, when overtaken by darkness and the increasing tempest, benumbed with cold, and blinded by the whirling drifts of snow, he sank down by the roadside to die, and the suspense of his wife was at length relieved by the painful certainty of his fate. about noon on the day succeeding the storm, as dr. s. was slowly urging his horse onward, in order to visit a patient who resided in the vicinity, he observed some object lying almost concealed in the snow. stopping his horse, he left his sleigh to examine it, and was horror-struck to find it the body of a man. thinking that, possibly, life was not extinct, he took the body into his sleigh and made all possible haste to the nearest dwelling, where every means was used for the recovery of mr. w.; but all was of no avail, he was frozen to death. it was the kind physician himself who first bore the sad tidings to mrs. w. when the lifeless body of the husband and father was borne to his own dwelling, i have heard the scene described by those who witnessed it, as most heart-rending. on the day of his burial the settlers in the vicinity came from a long distance to pay their last tribute of respect to one who had been much esteemed as a friend and neighbour. the widow of mr. w. is still living, but she now is of a very advanced age. his children grew up and settled in various places, and the elder ones among them retained a distinct recollection of the sad death of their father. the new year. another year has just glided away, and it seems but as yesterday that we stood at its threshold, and looked forward over its then seemingly lengthened way, and fancy was busy with many plans and projects for future happiness and delight. we looked forward through the whole border of its months, weeks, days and hours, and life grew bright with pleased anticipations. the year has now passed away, and how few, very few, of all our bright hopes have been realized. with how many of us have unexpected and unwished for events taken the place of those to which we looked forward with so much delight. as the hours and moments of the past year have slowly glided into the ocean of the past, they have borne with them the treasures of many a fond heart. the sun shines as brightly as ever, the moon and stars still look placidly down upon the sleeping earth, and life is the same as it has ever been; but for these their work is over, and they have done with time. as i sat watching the fast gathering shadows over the last night of the old year, i fell into a sort of waking dream, and i seemed to hear the slow measured tread of one wearily approaching. turning my eyes in the direction of the approaching footsteps, i beheld the form of a very aged man; his countenance appeared somewhat familiar, yet it was furrowed by many wrinkles, and on his once high and beautiful forehead were the deep lines of corroding care and anxiety. his step was slow, and he leaned for support on his now well-nigh failing staff. he bore the marks of extreme feebleness, and gazed forward with a manner of timidity and uncertainty, and on his changeful countenance was expressed all the multitudinous emotions of the human breast. his garments had once been white and shining, but they were now stained and darkened by travel, and portions of them trailed in the dust. as he drew nigh i observed that he carried in his hand a closely written scroll, on which was recorded the events of the past year. as i gazed upon the record, i read of life begun, and of death in every circumstance and condition of mortal being, of happiness and misery, of love and hate, of good and evil,--all mingling their different results in that graphic record; and i trembled as my own name met my view, with the long list of opportunities for good unimproved, together with the many sins, both of omission and commission, of which i had been guilty during the past year; but there was nothing left out,--the events in the life of every individual member of the human family were there, all recorded in legible characters. as the midnight hour struck the aged man, who typified the old year, faded from my view, and, almost before i was aware of the change, youth and beauty stood smiling before me. the old year gone, the new year had begun. his robes were white and glistening, his voice was mirthful, and his step buoyant; health and vigor braced his limbs. he, too, bore in his hand a scroll, but white as the unsullied snow; not a line was yet traced upon its pure surface, except the title, record of . i gazed on its fresh and gladsome visage with mingled emotions of sorrow and joy, and i breathed my prayer for forgiveness, for the follies and sins of the departed year. earnest harwood; or, the adopted son. chapter i. it was on a pleasant afternoon, in the month of june, some years ago, that a small funeral procession might have been seen slowly wending its way to the church-yard from the dwelling of mr. humphrey, in the village of walden in one of the eastern states. although a deep seriousness pervaded the small company, and the manner of each was subdued, yet there were no visible tokens of that strong grief which overwhelms the soul when the ties of nature are rent asunder; for, with the exception of a little boy, apparently about five years of age, whom mr. humphrey kindly led by the hand, no one present bore any relationship to the deceased. as the procession approached the grave, and the coffin was lowered to its final resting-place, the little boy sobbed bitterly as he begged of mr. humphrey not to allow them to bury his mamma in the ground. mr. humphrey took the child in his arms, and endeavored to quiet him by many kind and soothing words, explaining to him, so far as the child was able to comprehend his meaning, that the soul of his mamma was now in heaven, but that it was necessary that her dead body should be buried in the grave; and that although he would see her no more in this world he would, if he were a good boy, meet her one day in heaven. the child still continued to weep, though less bitterly than before,--and when the grave had been filled up he quietly allowed mr. humphrey to lead him from the church-yard. in order that the reader may understand the event above narrated, it is necessary that i should go back a little in my story. a few weeks previous to the circumstance related at the opening of this chapter a pale weary-looking woman, leading by the hand a little boy, might have been seen walking one evening along the principal street of the small village of walden. although her dress was extremely plain, yet there was a certain air of refinement about her which informed the observer that she had once occupied a position very different from what was indicated by her present appearance. the little boy by her side was indeed a child of surpassing beauty. his complexion was clear and fair, and a profusion of dark brown hair clustered in thick curls around his full white brow. his childish features were lighted up by large and expressive eyes of a dark hazel color. he was a child which the most careless observer would hardly pass by without turning to gaze a second time upon his wondrous beauty. i have been thus particular in describing the little boy as he is to be the principal actor in the simple scenes of my story. as they walked slowly forward the woman addressed the child in a voice that was weak and tremulous from fatigue, saying,-- "we must call at some house and seek a shelter for the night, for indeed i am unable to walk further." it required not this remark from her to satisfy the beholder of her inability to proceed, for extreme fatigue and exhaustion were visible in her every motion. she approached the door of a handsome dwelling situated in the central portion of the village, and rang the bell. the door was opened by an elderly-looking man, who accosted her civilly and seemed waiting for her to make known her errand. in a low and timid voice the woman asked him if he would allow herself and child to rest for the night beneath his roof? he replied, in a voice that was decidedly gruff and crusty,-- "there are two hotels in the village; we keep no travellers here," and immediately closed the door in her face. could he have seen the forlorn expression that settled on her countenance when, on regaining the street, she took her little boy by the hand and again walked slowly onward--his heart must indeed have been hard if he had not repented of his unkindness. after walking a short distance further, the woman paused before a house of much humbler appearance than the former one, and, encouraged by the motherly appearance of an elderly lady who sat knitting at her open door in the lingering twilight, she drew nigh to her, and asked if she would shelter herself and child for the night. the old lady regarded her earnestly for a moment; she seemed, however, to be impressed favorably by her appearance, for her voice was very pleasant, as she replied to her request,-- "certainly you can remain for the night, for i have never yet denied so small a favor (as a shelter for the night) to any one who sought it. come in at once, and i will endeavor to make you and your little boy comfortable, for you look very much fatigued." the woman gladly followed the kind old lady into the house, and seated herself in the comfortable rocking chair which she had kindly placed for her; she also placed a seat for the child, but he refused to leave his mother's side, and stood leaning upon the arm of her chair. the old lady soon after left the room saying, as she did so, that she would soon bring them some refreshment, of which they evidently stood much in need. mr. humphrey, the husband of the old lady, soon came in, and his wife said a few words to him in a low voice in the adjoining room; a kind expression was upon his countenance when he entered the room where were the strangers. he coaxed the little boy to come and sit upon his knee, by the offer of a large red-cheeked apple which he took from his pocket. he stroked his brown curls and asked him to tell him his name. "ernest harwood," replied the boy. mr. humphrey told him he thought it a very nice name, and also that he thought him a very fine little boy. the little fellow blushed, and hid his face at the praise thus bestowed upon him. mrs. humphrey soon after re-entered the room, bringing a small tea-tray, on which was a cup of tea and some other suitable refreshment for the weary woman; she also brought a bowl of bread and milk for the child. the woman drank the tea eagerly, like one athirst, but partook sparingly of the more substantial refreshment which mrs. humphrey urged upon her; but the sight of the brim-full bowl of bread and milk caused the eyes of the little boy to glisten with pleasure, and he did ample justice to the hospitality of the benevolent old lady. mrs. harwood wished to give mrs. humphrey some account of the circumstances which caused her to be travelling alone with her child, but the worthy and considerate lady would not allow her to further fatigue herself by talking that night, and insisted upon her retiring at once to rest. "to-morrow," said she, "i shall be happy to listen to any thing you may wish to communicate." mrs. humphrey conducted the woman and her child up stairs to a neat bed-room where, after making every arrangement necessary to their comfort, she bade them a kind good night, and left them to enjoy the rest which they so much needed. chapter ii. when mrs. humphrey rejoined her husband in the sitting-room, their conversation very naturally turned to the stranger who was resting beneath their roof. they evidently felt deeply interested by her delicate and lady-like appearance. "i am sure of one thing," said mrs. humphrey, "that this woman has seen better days, notwithstanding the poverty which her present appearance indicates." "and i am convinced of another thing," replied mr. humphrey, "that no fault of her's has reduced her to her present circumstances, for her countenance shews her to be a worthy and true-souled woman; and she shall freely remain beneath my roof until it shall be her wish to leave it." little did mr. humphrey think, when he made this remark, how soon the poor woman would exchange the shelter of his roof for that of the grave. next morning on visiting the room of the stranger, mrs. humphrey found her too ill to rise from the bed. she complained of no pain, but seemed very weak and languid. mrs. humphrey did all that lay in her power for the comfort of the sick woman. taking little ernest down stairs she beguiled him with amusing stories, as she attended to her domestic duties, so that his mother might be left in quiet; and when the child grew weary of the confinement of the house mr. humphrey took him to walk with him while he attended to some business in the village. before returning home mr. humphrey called upon dr. merton, with whom he was intimately acquainted, and spoke to him concerning the sick woman at his house. he requested the physician to call to see her in the course of the day, saying, that if the woman was not able to pay him he would himself see him paid for his services. "it makes no difference," replied the humane physician, "whether she is rich or poor, if she requires the attention of a physician she must not be neglected; i will certainly call in the afternoon." the physician accordingly called in the afternoon, and, after some conversation with mrs. harwood, prescribed for her some medicines, and left her, promising to call again in a short time. before leaving the house, however, he informed mrs. humphrey that he thought the woman alarmingly ill. "as near," said he, "as i can judge from her appearance, i think that consumption has been for a long time preying upon her constitution, and over-fatigue has thus suddenly prostrated her. the powers of life," continued dr. merton, "are fast failing, and in my opinion a few weeks will terminate her earthly existence. i have prescribed for her some simple medicines, but i fear her case is already beyond the aid of medicine. all we can do," said the physician in conclusion, "is to render her as comfortable as may be, for she will soon require nothing which this world affords." the lonely situation of the stranger had deeply touched the kind heart of dr. merton. as the doctor had predicted, mrs. harwood failed rapidly. she suffered but little bodily pain, but her strength failed her daily, and it soon became evident to all who saw her, that the day of her death could not be far distant. she gave to mrs. humphrey a brief sketch of her past life, which will be made the subject of another chapter. mr. and mrs. humphrey had reared a family of five children; three of them now slept in the village church-yard; the remaining two had married, and removed to a long distance from their paternal home, consequently the worthy couple had for some years dwelt alone in the home where once had echoed the glad voices of their children. they soon decided that, should mrs. harwood not recover, they would gladly adopt her little boy as their own, if she felt willing to leave him to their care. so great was the anxiety of mrs. harwood regarding her child, that it was long ere she gave up hopes of recovery, but when she at length became aware that she must die, she at first found it very difficult to resign herself to the will of heaven. "were it not for my child," she would often say, "the prospect of death would not be unpleasant to me, for i have a comforting hope of a life beyond the grave; but who will care for my orphan boy when i am no more? i must not distrust the goodness of the orphans' god." mr. humphrey, in reply to these remarks one day, said to her-- "i hope you will make your mind perfectly easy in regard to your child; for, should it please god to remove you by death, i have already decided to adopt little ernest as my own son, if you feel willing to consign him to my care; and you may rest assured that while my life is spared he shall be tenderly cared for, as though he were my own son." "now," replied mrs. harwood, "can i die willingly. since my illness it has been my daily and nightly prayer, that should it be the will of heaven that i should not recover, god would raise up friends to care for my orphan boy, and that prayer is now answered." just six weeks from the evening on which mrs. harwood entered the dwelling of mr. humphrey, her eyes were closed in death. the last day of her life was passed mostly in a kind of lethargy, from which it was almost impossible to arouse her. toward evening she rallied, and her mind seemed clear and calm. she was aware that the hour of her death had arrived; but she felt no fears in the prospect of her approaching dissolution. she thanked mr. and mrs. humphrey for their kindness to her, and again tenderly committed to their care her boy, who would soon become an orphan. "i am powerless to reward you," said the dying woman, "but god will certainly reward you for your kindness to the widow and orphan." she requested that her child might be brought and placed by her side. placing her thin wasted hands upon his head she said, in a voice scarcely audible,-- "may the god who never forsakes the orphan preserve my precious boy amid the perils and dangers of the sinful world!" she drew the face of the child close to her own, and imprinted a mother's last kiss upon his brow, and sank back exhausted upon her pillow. a few more fluttering quick drawn breaths and her spirit had winged its way from earth, and no one who witnessed her death felt a doubt that its flight was heavenward. chapter iii. the following brief account of the early life of mrs. harwood i give as nearly as possible in her own words:-- "my earliest recollection carries me back to a small village in scotland, about one hundred miles distant from the city of edinburgh, where i was born the daughter of a minister of the church of scotland. i was an only child. the salary which my father received was moderate, but was nevertheless sufficient to support us respectably. when i became of suitable age i was sent to school, and continued to pursue my studies until i arrived at the age of fourteen years. at that period i was deprived by death of a fond and indulgent father. previous to the death of my father neither my mother nor myself had ever experienced an anxious thought as regarded the future. the salary my father received had enabled us to live in comfort and respectability; and we do not often anticipate the death of a strong and healthy man. he died very suddenly; and when my mother's grief at our sudden bereavement had so far subsided as to allow her taking some thought for the future, she found that although my father had died free from debt he had been unable to lay by anything for our future support. during my father's lifetime we had occupied the parsonage, rent free, as had been stipulated when my father became pastor of the church over which he presided till his death. consequently we had no longer any rightful claim to the dwelling which had been our home for so many years. they kindly gave us permission however, to occupy the house for one year, but my mother liked not to continue to occupy a home which, in reality, was no longer ours. after some deliberation upon the subject, my mother decided upon teaching, as a means of support, as her own education had been sufficiently thorough to render her competent for the undertaking. but, as the village where we resided was small and already well supplied with schools, she wrote to an old friend of my father's, who resided in edinburgh, as to what he thought of her removing to that city, for the purpose of opening a school. she received a very encouraging reply from the old gentleman, in which he promised to render her all the assistance in his power in the way of obtaining pupils, and as the gentleman was well known and much respected in the city, we found his assistance in this respect to be of much value. the task of breaking up our old home proved a very sad one both to my mother and myself. the furniture of the parsonage was our own. my father had left quite an extensive library, considering his limited means. with the exception of a few volumes which my mother reserved for ourselves, she disposed of the books among our acquaintances at a fair value, as each was anxious to obtain some relic of their beloved pastor. the kind people, among whom we had resided, expressed many kind wishes for our future welfare, when we left them to seek a home in the great city. the school which my mother opened upon our removal to the city proved very successful, and soon yielded us a comfortable support. i assisted my mother both in the duties of the school-room and also in our household work. we were prospered and lived contentedly in our new home. we missed, it is true, the familiar faces of our old friends, but we soon found friends in our new home; we were cheerful, and should have been happy but for the sad loss we had recently sustained. four years thus glided by, during which time our school continued to afford us a comfortable support. about this time i became acquainted with mr. harwood, who had a short time before commenced the practice of law in the city of edinburgh, and one year later i became his wife. his pecuniary circumstances were but moderate, as he had been only a short time engaged in the practice of his profession. we resided with my mother, as she could not bear the idea of being separated from me. i continued as usual to assist her in the duties of her school. we, in this way, lived happily, till the event of my mother's death, which took place two years after my marriage. she took a sudden cold, which settled upon her lungs, and terminated in a quick consumption, which, after a short period of suffering, closed her life. she died as she had lived, full of religious hope and trust. of my own sorrow i will not now speak; the only thought which afforded me the least consolation was--that what was my loss, was her eternal gain. about a year after the death of my mother my husband formed the idea of going to america. he had little difficulty in gaining my consent to accompany him. had my mother still lived the case would have been very different; as it was, i had no remaining tie to bind me to scotland, and wherever he deemed it for the best to go, i felt willing to accompany him, for he was my all in the wide world. we left the british shores on the tenth of june, and after a prosperous voyage, we found ourselves safely landed in the city of boston. we brought with us money sufficient to secure us from want for a time, and my husband soon began to acquire quite a lucrative practice in his profession, and our prospects for the future seemed bright. for a long time my spirits were weighed down by home-sickness. i felt an intense desire to return to the home we had left beyond the sea, but in time this feeling wore away, and i began to feel interested in our new home, which appeared likely to be a permanent one. when we had resided for a little more than a year in our adopted country, my little ernest was born, and the lovely babe, with my additional cares, doubly reconciled me to my new home. when my little boy was about a year old i was attacked by a contagious fever, which at that time prevailed in the city. by this fever i was brought very near to death. i was delirious most of the time, and was thereby spared the sorrow of knowing that my child was consigned to the care of strangers. but the fever at length ran its course, and i began slowly to recover. but just when i was considered sufficiently strong to be again allowed the care of my child, my husband was prostrated by the same disease from which i had just recovered, and in ten days i was left a widow with my helpless child. i cannot even now dwell upon this season of sorrow. all my former trials appeared as nothing when compared with this. had it not been for my boy i could almost have wished i had not been spared to see this hour, but i banished such thoughts as wrong and impious, and tried to look the dreary future calmly in the face. i soon found it necessary to devise some means of support for myself and child. i thought of many plans only to discard them as useless. i once thought of opening a school as my own mother had done, but the care of my child prevented me from supporting myself in this way; and i would not consign him to the care of strangers. i at length decided to seek to support myself by the use of the needle, and accordingly rented two rooms on a respectable street, and removed thither with my child, where, by the closest industry i succeeded in keeping above want for more than three years, when my health failed from too close application to my employment. my physician strongly advised me to leave the city, as he thought country air would have a beneficial effect upon my health. i followed his advice, and, with the small sum of money which i had been able to lay by, added to what i received from the sale of my few articles of household furniture, i left the city. when i left boston i had no particular place in view as to where i might find a home. i had decided upon opening a school in some country village if i could meet with encouragement in the undertaking. about fifty miles distant from this city i was taken ill, and for several weeks was unable to proceed on my way. when i was sufficiently recovered to allow of my again travelling i found it to be imperatively necessary that i should seek some place where i could earn a support for myself and child, as the small sum of money with which i left boston was now nearly gone. the kind gentleman, in whose house i remained during my illness, informed me that he was well acquainted in the village of walden, and he thought it a place where i would be likely to succeed in establishing a select school for young children, as he informed me there were many wealthy people residing here, who would patronize a school of this kind. with this intention i came to this village, and when i purchased my ticket for walden i had but one dollar remaining in my purse, which, with the clothing and other articles contained in my trunk is all i possess in the world. but this matters little to me now, for i feel that my days on earth are numbered. i am unable to reward you for your exceeding kindness to myself and child; but i pray heaven to reward and bless you, both temporally and spiritually. it is hard for me to leave my dear child, but i now feel resigned to the will of heaven, knowing that whatever he wills is for the best." chapter iv. and so the little orphan boy found a home and friends to love and cherish him. mr. and mrs. humphrey felt a tender love for the lovely and engaging orphan. mrs. humphrey, in particular, seemed almost to idolize him. she had many years before lost, by death, a little boy, when of about the same age which little ernest was when thus strangely cast upon her bounty; and this circumstance may have attached her more strongly to the child. mr. humphrey was equally fond of the boy, but his disposition was less demonstrative than was that of his wife he was, therefore not so much inclined to indulge, the child in a manner which would prove injurious to him as he grew older. although the child had a very affectionate disposition he yet possessed a will that liked not to yield to that of another. young as the child was, his mother had discovered this trait in his character and had, previously to her death, spoken of the matter to mrs. humphrey, and besought her--as she valued her own happiness and that of the child--to exact strict obedience from him when he should be left solely to her care. "even," said she, "should it require severe measures to break that will, it must be done. remember it is for the best good of the child." had mrs. humphrey strictly followed the counsels of the dying mother in the early training of her child it might have spared her much after-sorrow. mr. humphrey treated the child very kindly, but made it a point that he should yield to him a ready obedience in all things. but the little fellow was quick to notice that when mr. humphrey was not present he could usually, either by dint of coaxing or noisy rebellion, carry his point with mrs. humphrey. her husband often remonstrated with her upon the course she was pursuing in the management of the child. she used often to say-- "i cannot find it in my heart to punish the poor child when i consider that he is both fatherless and motherless, and i trust he will outgrow these childish ways." poor mrs. humphrey! she is not the only one that has been cheated by this hope, and has thereby allowed their child to grow up with an obstinate will that has marred their happiness for life. in after years mrs. humphrey many times recalled to mind a remark which a friend made to her one day in regard to little ernest, then six years old. he came into the parlor where the two ladies were sitting, and taking from the centre table an elegantly bound book, began turning the leaves with fingers that were none of the cleanest. mrs. humphrey gently requested him to replace the book, which request she was obliged to repeat two or three times before he paid the slightest attention to it. and then it was only to say in a coaxing voice-- "ernest wants this pretty book; do let me keep it." mrs. humphrey replied that the book was not suitable for little boys, and again requested him to replace it on the table. when a few minutes had passed, and he still continued to turn the leaves of the book, mrs. humphrey again repeated her request in a decided manner, telling him to replace the book immediately, when his childish temper burst forth in a regular tempest. he tossed the book from his hand, and threw himself on the floor in a corner of the room, where he gave vent to his anger by a succession of screams, which were anything but melodious. but his desire to retain possession of the coveted book was yet strong, and when the ladies again became engaged in conversation he quietly approached the table and, hastily taking the book therefrom, left the room, and mrs. humphrey, to save further trouble, appeared not to notice the act. the lady, who was an intimate friend, asked mrs. humphrey if she were not pursuing a wrong course in thus allowing the boy to do what she had once forbidden him? "oh," said mrs. humphrey, "he is but a child, and will become ashamed of such conduct as he grows older." "i sincerely hope he may," replied the lady, "but i very much fear you will see a day when you will regret not having been more firm in your government of this child." chapter v. nine years have rolled by the with their various changes since we first introduced earnest harwood to the reader, a child of five years of age, weeping at the grave of his mother. let us again glance at him when he has nearly attained to the age of fourteen years. we find him grown a strong healthy youth, still retaining that wondrous beauty which had rendered him so remarkable in the days of his childhood. the reader will doubtless be ready to enquire if his mind and character are equally lovely with his person. would that it were in my power to give a favourable answer to the question. but the truth must be told, and, at the age of fourteen, ernest harwood was decidedly a bad boy. when of suitable age he had been put to school, and for a time made rapid progress in his studies. from the first he was rather averse to study, but as he learned readily and had a most retentive memory he managed to keep pace in his studies with most boys of his age. mr. and mrs. humphrey exercised much watchfulness in regard to his companions, as, when he began to mingle with other boys, they discovered that he seemed inclined to make companions of such boys as they could not conscientiously allow him to associate with. but, notwithstanding their vigilance, it was soon remarked that he was often seen in company with boys of very bad repute. he soon came to dislike school, and often absented himself from it for a very trivial excuse, and in many instances played truant, when mr. humphrey refused to listen to his excuses for being allowed to remain at home. mr. and mrs. humphrey endeavored to discharge their duty to the boy; and more than that, they loved him as their own child. i cannot describe the sorrow they experienced on his account, when, as he grew older, he seemed more and more inclined to the company of vicious boys, and to follow their evil examples. many of his misdoings never reached the ears of his foster parents, for they were very much respected by their neighbors, who disliked to acquaint them with what must give them pain. he soon became so bad that if a piece of mischief was perpetrated among the village boys, the neighbors used at once to say they felt sure that earnest harwood was at the bottom of it. often when among his wicked companions, those lips that had been taught to lisp the nightly prayer at his mother's knee were stained with oaths and impure language. mr. humphrey, one day, in passing along the street, chanced to find him in company with some of the worst boys in the village, smoking cigars at the street corner. he was hardly able to credit his own eyesight. he requested him to accompany him home at once. he at the first thought of administering punishment with the rod, but as he had done so in former instances of misconduct with apparently no effect but to make him more defiant and rebellious, he thought in this instance he would try the effect of mild persuasion. "my dear boy you little know the pain you are inflicting upon your best friends by thus seeking the company of those wicked boys who will certainly lead you to ruin, if you allow yourself to follow their example." he talked long to him of his deceased mother, telling him of her many earnest prayers for the future good of her child. for some time the boy maintained a sulky, defiant manner, but his heart at length softened, and, covering his face with his hands, he wept aloud. he begged of mr. humphrey to forgive his past misconduct, and he certainly would try to reform in the future. for a time there was a marked change for the better in the conduct of the boy, and his friends began to indulge the hope that the change would prove to be lasting. but his resolutions of amendment soon yielded to the influence of his evil companions, from whom he found it very difficult to keep aloof. he was of a rash, impulsive disposition, and he soon forgot his good resolves, and became even worse than before. mr. humphrey still maintained sufficient control over him to oblige him to attend church regularly, in company with himself and wife, but often, when they supposed him to be attending the sabbath-school, would he join some party of idle, strolling boys, and spend the day in a very sinful manner. the superintendent of the school hearing of this, called and acquainted mr. humphrey of the matter. "i am obliged to you for your kindness in calling upon me," said mr. humphrey, "although i fear i can do nothing that will have any good effect upon the boy. i have endeavoured to do my duty by the child, i know not wherein i have failed. i have counselled, persuaded, and even punished him, and you behold the result. i am at a loss what to do with him. i have brought up children of my own, who never caused me a real sorrow in their lives. why is it, that this poor orphan seems so strongly resolved to follow only evil ways? would that some one could advise me as to what my duty is, in regard to the boy, for, unless a change for the better soon takes place, he will be ruined for time and eternity." mr. humphrey sighed deeply as he spoke, and seemed oppressed with sorrow. the gentleman with whom he was conversing, endeavoured, as well as he was able under the circumstances, to comfort him; telling him that they could only give him good counsel, and pray for him, and leave the result to an over-ruling providence. chapter vi. previous to her death, the mother of earnest had entrusted to the care of mrs. humphrey, a closely sealed package directed to ernest in her own hand-writing. she had left the request that this package should not be given to him until he had reached the age of fourteen years. many surmises were formed among the few who knew of this package, as to what it might contain. some were of the opinion that it contained papers which might lead to the possession of wealth. but from what mrs. harwood had related to mrs. humphrey, concerning her early life, she thought this idea to be highly improbable. however, she carefully laid by the package, and was very careful that it should sustain no injury. in the meantime, the boy had continued to go on from bad to worse, till he became known as the leader in every kind of mischief among the bad boys of the village. he now seldom spent an evening in his own home. in one or two instances he narrowly escaped being sent to jail. the respect entertained for his foster parents by the people of the village was all that caused them to show lenity to the erring boy. the conduct of earnest had borne heavier upon them than their years; they had fondly loved the beautiful and friendless boy, and it almost broke their hearts to see him go thus astray. many there were who advised them to cast him off, as he seemed given over to evil, and even treated them with unkindness and disrespect; but with all his faults, they still clung to him, hoping almost against hope that he would yet reform. "i promised his mother," said mr. humphrey, "that i would care for her boy so long as i lived to do so, and that promise i intend to keep." "and," added mrs. humphrey, "as long as we possess a home, he shall not be homeless. for if we can do no more we can at least pray for him; and i have a hope that the prayers offered in faith will yet meet with an answer." time passed on, till the evening preceding the fourteenth birth-day of ernest. mr. humphrey sat with his wife by their lonely fireside, ernest had gone out directly after tea, and the hour was growing late. they were speaking of him, for they felt very sad. "i often wonder," said mr. humphrey, addressing his wife, "in what duty i have failed to ernest. i have endeavored to set before him a good example, and to do by him in all things as i would have done by my own son. i have prayed with and for him; and yet since quite a little child, he has been a source of grief and anxiety to us, by his evil conduct." "i am conscious," replied mrs. humphrey, "that i have erred in his early training, by too often yielding to his childish will, rather than administer punishment to enforce obedience from him. i meant well, and if i have done him a wrong it is now too late to remedy it. i can only pray that he may yet forsake his evil ways. to-morrow will be his birth-day, let us hope that the contents of the package which so many years ago, his poor mother entrusted to my care, may have some influence for good upon his future life." while they were yet speaking a rap sounded at the door. mr. humphrey rose and opened it, but stood speechless, when he beheld ernest supported by two or three of his companions. at the first he supposed him either hurt or seriously ill. but upon going near to him what was his amazement when he discovered that he was too much intoxicated to allow of his walking without assistance. this was something entirely unexpected. some had hinted that, added to his other faults, he was acquiring a taste for strong drink, but those whispers never reached the ears of mr. humphrey or his wife. and when he was brought home in this state, they had no words adequate to describe their feelings. dismissing his companions they assisted him into the house, and to his room, mrs. humphrey only saying, "poor misguided boy, what will become of him?" when they returned to the sitting room their minds were too much agitated to allow them to converse. after some time passed in silence, mr. humphrey said, "we will not attempt to talk of this new sorrow to-night, but we will pray for the poor boy as well as for ourselves, before we retire to rest." opening his bible, mr. humphrey read the forty-sixth psalm, then kneeling, he poured out his troubled soul in prayer. he prayed earnestly for the poor youth now lying in the heavy sleep produced by intoxication. he also prayed for forgiveness, if they erred in the management of the boy, and for future aid in the performance of their duty. could the boy have heard the prayer which mr. humphrey sent up to heaven on his behalf, hard indeed must have been his heart, if he had not from that moment resolved to forsake his evil ways, and by his future good conduct endeavoured to atone for his past sins and follies. chapter vii. when earnest came down to breakfast the next morning, neither mr. or mrs. humphrey made any allusion to the situation in which he had been brought home the previous evening. they treated him with their usual kindness, but it was evident, by his subdued manner and downcast countenance, that he felt sensible of his shame and degradation. they intended to talk with him of the matter, but deferred it for the present. mr. humphrey advised his wife to give him the package herself, as it was to her care it had been committed. soon after breakfast was over, he went up to his room, whither mrs. humphrey soon repaired with the package in her hand. earnest opened the door when she rapped for admission. he looked somewhat embarrassed, and seemed by his manner to expect she had visited his room for the purpose of talking to him of the event of the last evening. she made no mention of the circumstance, but seating herself by his side, addressed him, saying-- "my dear earnest, you have often told me that you retain a distinct recollection of your mother. i have never before told you that, previous to her death, she consigned a sealed package to my care, directed to you with her own hand, with the request that i should give it to you on your fourteenth birthday. the time has now arrived, and by giving you this package i fulfil what was a dying request of your mother." as she concluded, she placed the package in his hand, and immediately left the room, thinking he would prefer being left alone to open the package. when some time had passed, and earnest did not come down, mr. humphrey went upstairs, and softly opened the door of his room. he found the boy with his face bowed upon his hands, weeping bitterly. he approached him, and gently placing his hand upon his shoulder, enquired the cause of his grief. he replied, in a voice choked with sobs,-- "oh! i have been so wicked--so--bad--i know not what will become of me. it is well that my mother did not live to see how widely i have strayed from the path in which it was her last hope and prayer that i should walk." mr. humphrey endeavoured to comfort the poor boy, wisely thinking this to be no time to reproach him for past errors. mrs. humphrey, thinking that something unusual must have taken place followed her husband to the room of earnest. by the tearful request of earnest, she examined the package, which had for so long a time remained in her keeping. first there was a bible and hymn book, the books were elegantly bound, and had silver clasps. then there was an old-fashioned locket of gold, containing a picture of the father and mother of ernest, which had been taken many years before. between the leaves of the bible was placed a letter addressed to ernest, in the hand-writing of his mother. the letter had been written at different times as her strength permitted, during the last few days of her life. it read as follows:-- "my dear little earnest,--long before your eyes will rest upon these lines, the hand that traces them will have mouldered into dust. the contents of this package with my prayerful blessing, is all i have to leave you. as i write these lines you are playing about my room a happy, innocent child. would that my knowledge could extend into the future, that i might know what manner of youth you will be, when this letter is placed in your hands. but i fear that i am wrong in thus wishing to know the future which a kind providence has mercifully hidden from us. it is my anxiety for you alone that prompts the desire. i leave a request that this letter be not placed in your hands till you shall have attained the age of fourteen years. for should your life be spared to that period, you will then be capable of reflection. it is my earnest prayer, that you should grow up a good and dutiful boy, and by so doing, reward mr. and mrs. humphrey for the care and instruction, which, i feel confident they will bestow upon you. but, o! my son, should it be otherwise, and you have been led astray by evil companions, i beseech you, my child, to pause and think. listen to the voice of your mother as if speaking to you, from her grave. _again_, i say, 'pause and reflect.' if you have evil companions, forsake them at once, and forever. but i trust that these sad forebodings are needless, and that when you read these lines, you will be all that the fond heart of a mother could desire. the bible and hymn book which i leave you belonged to my father, who was a minister of the church of scotland. is it too much for me to hope that you will follow in the footsteps of your deceased grandparent, and use this bible as he did in the pulpit, as a minister of the gospel? the locket contains the likeness of your father and myself, taken a short time after our marriage. i commit you with many prayers, to the care of your heavenly father, for i feel that the hand of death is upon me, and that a few brief days will close my earthly existence. my last prayer will be that my boy may so live on earth, as to meet his mother in heaven. my strength fails me. i can write no more. "from your loving, but dying mother, "charlotte harwood." chapter viii. the reader who has got thus far in the narrative of the early life of earnest harwood, will doubtless learn, with pleasure, that the letter written by his mother, proved, under the blessing of god, the means of his salvation. the earnest persuasion of that letter, induced him to form a firm resolve, that he _would_ amend his conduct, and cease from his evil ways. he was, at the first, fearful that he had lost the love of his foster parents, by his ungrateful conduct. he one day expressed this fear to them, and together they assured him, that although he had certainly caused them much grief and anxiety, their love for him had remained unchanged. they took this opportunity, when his feelings were thus softened, to urge him to be firm in his resolution of amendment. they also, for the first time, spoke of the fearful sorrow he had caused them by being brought to his home in a state of intoxication; and besought him never again to allow himself to be persuaded to taste of the intoxicating cup. mrs. humphrey pressed a motherly kiss upon his fine brow, and said,-- "my dear boy i hope that you will not again disappoint our fond hopes, and that you will yet do credit to the fine abilities with which our heavenly father has so liberally endowed you." from this time there was a marked and decided change in the character of earnest. many feared that the change would not be permanent, but mrs. humphrey was very hopeful. "i feel an assurance," said she "that the many prayers which have been offered to heaven on his behalf, are about to be answered." it was even so. and they who feared a relapse into his former evil ways were happily disappointed. he again punctually attended school, and applied himself diligently to his neglected studies; and his teachers were surprised, as well by the astonishing progress he made, as by his correct exemplary deportment. as may be readily supposed, he had much to contend with from the vicious boys who had been his former associates. he shunned their company as much as possible, but he could not avoid occasionally coming in contact with them, and i am happy to say, that they found him immovable in his resolutions for good. they tried every means again to entice him into evil ways, but without success. as a last resort, they tried the effect of ridicule, but they learned now, that he had allowed his better nature to assert its power, for he possessed a spirit far above the influence of ridicule; and when they found they could by no means induce him to mingle with them, they were forced to give him up, and allow him to go his way in peace. when mr. and mrs. humphrey found that the change in earnest was likely to prove a permanent one, their gratitude and joy was heartfelt and sincere. two years have now passed away, since the beginning of the happy change in the life of the orphan boy. we now find him a fine, tall youth of sixteen, as much respected as he had formerly been shunned and pitied. his personal appearance was still as attractive as in his childhood. he was called by many the finest looking youth in all the village of walden. he had attended closely to his studies, and had obtained a good english education. during the mid-summer vacation mr. humphrey asked if he had turned his mind towards any particular calling in life which he wished to follow,-- "for," said he, "it is my intention to assist you in fitting yourself for any profession you may feel inclined to pursue." ernest blushed deeply as he replied,-- "you know, sir, the wish which my mother expressed in regard to my calling in life, and i feel a desire to fulfill her wish in the matter. i deeply feel my unworthiness for a calling so sacred, yet i hope my unworthy services may be accepted, should i be spared to enter upon the ministry." when mr. humphrey learned the wishes of ernest he gladly defrayed his expenses while pursuing the studies necessary to fit him for the ministry. he passed through his college course with much credit to himself, and then devoted the necessary time to the study of divinity in the seminary. chapter ix. in conclusion i would ask the reader to accompany me to what is now one of the oldest churches in the city of boston. it is a beautiful sabbath morning in the balmy month of june. let us enter the church. something of more than usual interest seems to pervade the large congregation there assembled. as we enter the church we observe in one of the front pews an aged couple, whom we at once recognize as mr. and mrs. humphrey. they are now quite aged and feeble, yet the countenance of each is cheerful and placid. notwithstanding their age they have made the journey of two hundred miles to be present upon this occasion. for their beloved earnest is this day to be set apart to the work of the holy ministry by the solemn service of ordination. when the services were closed, and earnest came forward to accompany his aged foster parents from the church, they felt themselves more than rewarded for all the care they had bestowed upon the orphan boy; and they might have said, as did simeon of old,-- "lord, now lettest thou thy servants depart in peace according to thy word, for our eyes have seen thy salvation." to the boys who may read this story i would say: as you value your own well-being in time and eternity, avoid evil companions--for these have worked the ruin of many a promising youth. should this little story be read by any who are mothers of families, it is my hope that it may afford them encouragement to persevere in their prayerful efforts, for the good of the immortal beings committed to their care. the letter penned by the feeble hand of his dying mother, under the divine blessing, saved earnest harwood from ruin. let this circumstance encourage you, never to grow weary nor discouraged in your labours for the good of your children, and "ye shall in no wise lose your reward." the end. [transcriber's note: punctuation inconsistencies of the original have been retained in this etext.] [illustration: front cover] the wind in the willows [illustration: _the piper at the gates of dawn_] the wind in the willows by kenneth grahame illustrated by paul bransom [illustration: front fly leaf showing the main characters enjoying a picnic] [illustration] new york charles scribner's sons mcmxiii _copyright, , , by_ charles scribner's sons _published october, _ contents chapter page i. the river bank ii. the open road iii. the wild wood iv. mr. badger v. dulce domum vi. mr. toad vii. the piper at the gates of dawn viii. toad's adventures ix. wayfarers all x. the further adventures of toad xi. "like summer tempests came his tears" xii. the return of ulysses illustrations the piper at the gates of dawn _frontispiece_ facing page it was the water rat "come on!" he said. "we shall just have to walk it" in panic, he began to run through the wild wood and the snow toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor "it's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the rat dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies the badger said, "now then, follow me!" i the river bank the mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. first with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. it was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, "bother!" and "o blow!" and also "hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. so he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "up we go! up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow. "this is fine!" he said to himself. "this is better than whitewashing!" the sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side. "hold up!" said an elderly rabbit at the gap. "sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road!" he was bowled over in an instant by the impatient and contemptuous mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. "onion-sauce! onion-sauce!" he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. then they all started grumbling at each other. "how _stupid_ you are! why didn't you tell him--" "well, why didn't _you_ say--" "you might have reminded him--" and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case. it all seemed too good to be true. hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting--everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. and instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering "whitewash!" he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. after all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working. he thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. never in his life had he seen a river before--this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. all was a-shake and a-shiver--glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. the mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. by the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea. as he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the bank opposite, just above the water's edge, caught his eye, and dreamily he fell to considering what a nice, snug dwelling-place it would make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside residence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust. as he gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. but it could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too glittering and small for a glow-worm. then, as he looked, it winked at him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture. a brown little face, with whiskers. a grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first attracted his notice. small neat ears and thick silky hair. it was the water rat! then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously. "hullo, mole!" said the water rat. "hullo, rat!" said the mole. "would you like to come over?" enquired the rat presently. "oh, it's all very well to _talk_," said the mole rather pettishly, he being new to a river and riverside life and its ways. the rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on it; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the mole had not observed. it was painted blue outside and white within, and was just the size for two animals; and the mole's whole heart went out to it at once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses. the rat sculled smartly across and made fast. then he held up his fore-paw as the mole stepped gingerly down. "lean on that!" he said. "now then, step lively!" and the mole to his surprise and rapture found himself actually seated in the stern of a real boat. "this has been a wonderful day!" said he, as the rat shoved off and took to the sculls again. "do you know, i've never been in a boat before in all my life." [illustration: _it was the water rat_] "what?" cried the rat, open-mouthed: "never been in a--you never--well i--what have you been doing, then?" "is it so nice as all that?" asked the mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him. "nice? it's the _only_ thing," said the water rat solemnly as he leant forward for his stroke. "believe me, my young friend, there is _nothing_--absolute nothing--half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. simply messing," he went on dreamily: "messing--about--in--boats; messing--" "look ahead, rat!" cried the mole suddenly. it was too late. the boat struck the bank full tilt. the dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air. "--about in boats--or _with_ boats," the rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. "in or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not. look here! if you've really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?" the mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leant back blissfully into the soft cushions. "_what_ a day i'm having!" he said. "let us start at once!" "hold hard a minute, then!" said the rat. he looped the painter through a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat wicker luncheon-basket. "shove that under your feet," he observed to the mole, as he passed it down into the boat. then he untied the painter and took the sculls again. "what's inside it?" asked the mole, wriggling with curiosity. "there's cold chicken inside it," replied the rat briefly: "coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches pottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater--" "o stop, stop!" cried the mole in ecstasies. "this is too much!" "do you really think so?" enquired the rat seriously. "it's only what i always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that i'm a mean beast and cut it _very_ fine!" the mole never heard a word he was saying. absorbed in the new life he was entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the scents and the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water and dreamed long waking dreams. the water rat, like the good little fellow he was, sculled steadily on and forbore to disturb him. "i like your clothes awfully, old chap," he remarked after some half an hour or so had passed. "i'm going to get a black velvet smoking-suit myself some day, as soon as i can afford it." "i beg your pardon," said the mole, pulling himself together with an effort. "you must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me. so--this--is--a--river!" "_the_ river," corrected the rat. "and you really live by the river? what a jolly life!" "by it and with it and on it and in it," said the rat. "it's brother and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and (naturally) washing. it's my world, and i don't want any other. what it hasn't got is not worth having, and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing. lord! the times we've had together! whether in winter or summer, spring or autumn, it's always got its fun and its excitements. when the floods are on in february, and my cellars and basement are brimming with drink that's no good to me, and the brown water runs by my best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away and shows patches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes and weed clog the channels, and i can potter about dry shod over most of the bed of it and find fresh food to eat, and things careless people have dropped out of boats!" "but isn't it a bit dull at times?" the mole ventured to ask. "just you and the river, and no one else to pass a word with?" "no one else to--well, i mustn't be hard on you," said the rat with forbearance. "you're new to it, and of course you don't know. the bank is so crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether. o no, it isn't what it used to be, at all. otters, king-fishers, dabchicks, moorhens, all of them about all day long and always wanting you to _do_ something--as if a fellow had no business of his own to attend to!" "what lies over _there_?" asked the mole, waving a paw towards a background of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one side of the river. "that? o, that's just the wild wood," said the rat shortly. "we don't go there very much, we river-bankers." "aren't they--aren't they very _nice_ people in there?" said the mole a trifle nervously. "w-e-ll," replied the rat, "let me see. the squirrels are all right. _and_ the rabbits--some of 'em, but rabbits are a mixed lot. and then there's badger, of course. he lives right in the heart of it; wouldn't live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. dear old badger! nobody interferes with _him_. they'd better not," he added significantly. "why, who _should_ interfere with him?" asked the mole. "well, of course--there--are others," explained the rat in a hesitating sort of way. "weasels--and stoats--and foxes--and so on. they're all right in a way--i'm very good friends with them--pass the time of day when we meet, and all that--but they break out sometimes, there's no denying it, and then--well, you can't really trust them, and that's the fact." the mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell on possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the subject. "and beyond the wild wood again?" he asked; "where it's all blue and dim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn't, and something like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?" "beyond the wild wood comes the wide world," said the rat. "and that's something that doesn't matter, either to you or me. i've never been there, and i'm never going, nor you either, if you've got any sense at all. don't ever refer to it again, please. now then! here's our backwater at last, where we're going to lunch." leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first sight like a little landlocked lake. green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. it was so very beautiful that the mole could only hold up both fore-paws and gasp: "o my! o my! o my!" the rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the still awkward mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket. the mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself; and the rat was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full length on the grass and rest, while his excited friend shook out the table-cloth and spread it, took out all the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their contents in due order, still gasping: "o my! o my!" at each fresh revelation. when all was ready, the rat said, "now, pitch in, old fellow!" and the mole was indeed very glad to obey, for he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning, as people _will_ do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had been through a very great deal since that distant time which now seemed so many days ago. "what are you looking at?" said the rat presently, when the edge of their hunger was somewhat dulled, and the mole's eyes were able to wander off the table-cloth a little. "i am looking," said the mole, "at a streak of bubbles that i see travelling along the surface of the water. that is a thing that strikes me as funny." "bubbles? oho!" said the rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting sort of way. a broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat. "greedy beggars!" he observed, making for the provender. "why didn't you invite me, ratty?" "this was an impromptu affair," explained the rat. "by the way--my friend mr. mole." "proud, i'm sure," said the otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith. "such a rumpus everywhere!" continued the otter. "all the world seems out on the river to-day. i came up this backwater to try and get a moment's peace, and then stumble upon you fellows!--at least--i beg pardon--i don't exactly mean that, you know." there was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last year's leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high shoulders behind it, peered forth on them. "come on, old badger!" shouted the rat. the badger trotted forward a pace or two, then grunted, "h'm! company," and turned his back and disappeared from view. "that's _just_ the sort of fellow he is!" observed the disappointed rat. "simply hates society! now we shan't see any more of him to-day. well, tell us, _who's_ out on the river?" "toad's out, for one," replied the otter. "in his brand-new wager-boat; new togs, new everything!" the two animals looked at each other and laughed. "once, it was nothing but sailing," said the rat. "then he tired of that and took to punting. nothing would please him but to punt all day and every day, and a nice mess he made of it. last year it was house-boating, and we all had to go and stay with him in his house-boat, and pretend we liked it. he was going to spend the rest of his life in a house-boat. it's all the same, whatever he takes up; he gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh." "such a good fellow, too," remarked the otter reflectively; "but no stability--especially in a boat!" from where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across the island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed into view, the rower--a short, stout figure--splashing badly and rolling a good deal, but working his hardest. the rat stood up and hailed him, but toad--for it was he--shook his head and settled sternly to his work. "he'll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that," said the rat, sitting down again. "of course he will," chuckled the otter. "did i ever tell you that good story about toad and the lock-keeper? it happened this way. toad...." an errant may-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of may-flies seeing life. a swirl of water and a "cloop!" and the may-fly was visible no more. neither was the otter. the mole looked down. the voice was still in his ears, but the turf whereon he had sprawled was clearly vacant. not an otter to be seen, as far as the distant horizon. but again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river. the rat hummed a tune, and the mole recollected that animal-etiquette forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one's friends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever. "well, well," said the rat, "i suppose we ought to be moving. i wonder which of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?" he did not speak as if he was frightfully eager for the treat. "o, please let me," said the mole. so, of course, the rat let him. packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the basket. it never is. but the mole was bent on enjoying everything, and although just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly he saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had been done again the rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have seen, and last of all, behold! the mustard pot, which he had been sitting on without knowing it--still, somehow, the thing got finished at last, without much loss of temper. the afternoon sun was getting low as the rat sculled gently homewards in a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not paying much attention to mole. but the mole was very full of lunch, and self-satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat (so he thought), and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently he said, "ratty! please, _i_ want to row, now!" the rat shook his head with a smile. "not yet, my young friend," he said; "wait till you've had a few lessons. it's not so easy as it looks." the mole was quiet for a minute or two. but he began to feel more and more jealous of rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his pride began to whisper that he could do it every bit as well. he jumped up and seized the sculls so suddenly that the rat, who was gazing out over the water and saying more poetry-things to himself, was taken by surprise and fell backwards off his seat with his legs in the air for the second time, while the triumphant mole took his place and grabbed the sculls with entire confidence. "stop it, you _silly_ ass!" cried the rat, from the bottom of the boat. "you can't do it! you'll have us over!" the mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig at the water. he missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above his head, and he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate rat. greatly alarmed, he made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next moment--sploosh! over went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river. o my, how cold the water was, and o, how _very_ wet it felt! how it sang in his ears as he went down, down, down! how bright and welcome the sun looked as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering! how black was his despair when he felt himself sinking again! then a firm paw gripped him by the back of his neck. it was the rat, and he was evidently laughing--the mole could _feel_ him laughing, right down his arm and through his paw, and so into his--the mole's--neck. the rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the mole's arm; then he did the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind, propelled the helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him down on the bank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery. when the rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out of him, he said, "now then, old fellow! trot up and down the towing-path as hard as you can, till you're warm and dry again, while i dive for the luncheon-basket." so the dismal mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till he was fairly dry, while the rat plunged into the water again, recovered the boat, righted her and made her fast, fetched his floating property to shore by degrees, and finally dived successfully for the luncheon-basket and struggled to land with it. when all was ready for a start once more, the mole, limp and dejected, took his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said in a low voice, broken with emotion, "ratty, my generous friend! i am very sorry indeed for my foolish and ungrateful conduct. my heart quite fails me when i think how i might have lost that beautiful luncheon-basket. indeed, i have been a complete ass, and i know it. will you overlook it this once and forgive me, and let things go on as before?" "that's all right, bless you!" responded the rat cheerily. "what's a little wet to a water rat? i'm more in the water than out of it most days. don't you think any more about it; and look here! i really think you had better come and stop with me for a little time. it's very plain and rough, you know--not like toad's house at all--but you haven't seen that yet; still, i can make you comfortable. and i'll teach you to row and to swim, and you'll soon be as handy on the water as any of us." the mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could find no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two with the back of his paw. but the rat kindly looked in another direction, and presently the mole's spirits revived again, and he was even able to give some straight back-talk to a couple of moorhens who were sniggering to each other about his bedraggled appearance. when they got home, the rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and planted the mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a dressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till supper-time. very thrilling stories they were, too, to an earth-dwelling animal like mole. stories about weirs, and sudden floods, and leaping pike, and steamers that flung hard bottles--at least bottles were certainly flung, and _from_ steamers, so presumably _by_ them; and about herons, and how particular they were whom they spoke to; and about adventures down drains, and night-fishings with otter, or excursions far a-field with badger. supper was a most cheerful meal; but very shortly afterwards a terribly sleepy mole had to be escorted upstairs by his considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon laid his head on his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing that his new-found friend, the river, was lapping the sill of his window. this day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated mole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer moved onward. he learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them. ii the open road "ratty," said the mole suddenly, one bright summer morning, "if you please, i want to ask you a favour." the rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song. he had just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would not pay proper attention to mole or anything else. since early morning he had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends, the ducks. and when the ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will, he would dive down and tickle their necks, just under where their chins would be if ducks had chins, till they were forced to come to the surface again in a hurry, spluttering and angry and shaking their feathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite _all_ you feel when your head is under water. at last they implored him to go away and attend to his own affairs and leave them to mind theirs. so the rat went away, and sat on the river bank in the sun, and made up a song about them, which he called: "ducks' ditty." all along the backwater, through the rushes tall, ducks are a-dabbling, up tails all! ducks' tails, drakes' tails, yellow feet a-quiver, yellow bills all out of sight busy in the river! slushy green undergrowth where the roach swim-- here we keep our larder, cool and full and dim. everyone for what he likes! _we_ like to be heads down, tails up, dabbling free! high in the blue above swifts whirl and call-- _we_ are down a-dabbling up tails all! "i don't know that i think so _very_ much of that little song, rat," observed the mole cautiously. he was no poet himself and didn't care who knew it; and he had a candid nature. "nor don't the ducks neither," replied the rat cheerfully. "they say, '_why_ can't fellows be allowed to do what they like _when_ they like and _as_ they like, instead of other fellows sitting on banks and watching them all the time and making remarks and poetry and things about them? what _nonsense_ it all is!' that's what the ducks say." "so it is, so it is," said the mole, with great heartiness. "no, it isn't!" cried the rat indignantly. "well then, it isn't, it isn't," replied the mole soothingly. "but what i wanted to ask you was, won't you take me to call on mr. toad? i've heard so much about him, and i do so want to make his acquaintance." "why, certainly," said the good-natured rat, jumping to his feet and dismissing poetry from his mind for the day. "get the boat out, and we'll paddle up there at once. it's never the wrong time to call on toad. early or late, he's always the same fellow. always good-tempered, always glad to see you, always sorry when you go!" "he must be a very nice animal," observed the mole, as he got into the boat and took the sculls, while the rat settled himself comfortably in the stern. "he is indeed the best of animals," replied rat. "so simple, so good-natured, and so affectionate. perhaps he's not very clever--we can't all be geniuses; and it may be that he is both boastful and conceited. but he has got some great qualities, has toady." rounding a bend in the river, they came in sight of a handsome, dignified old house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns reaching down to the water's edge. "there's toad hall," said the rat; "and that creek on the left, where the notice-board says, 'private. no landing allowed,' leads to his boat-house, where we'll leave the boat. the stables are over there to the right. that's the banqueting-hall you're looking at now--very old, that is. toad is rather rich, you know, and this is really one of the nicest houses in these parts, though we never admit as much to toad." they glided up the creek, and the mole shipped his sculls as they passed into the shadow of a large boat-house. here they saw many handsome boats, slung from the cross-beams or hauled up on a slip, but none in the water; and the place had an unused and a deserted air. the rat looked around him. "i understand," said he. "boating is played out. he's tired of it, and done with it. i wonder what new fad he has taken up now? come along and let's look him up. we shall hear all about it quite soon enough." they disembarked, and strolled across the gay flower-decked lawns in search of toad, whom they presently happened upon resting in a wicker garden-chair, with a pre-occupied expression of face, and a large map spread out on his knees. "hooray!" he cried, jumping up on seeing them, "this is splendid!" he shook the paws of both of them warmly, never waiting for an introduction to the mole. "how _kind_ of you!" he went on, dancing round them. "i was just going to send a boat down the river for you, ratty, with strict orders that you were to be fetched up here at once, whatever you were doing. i want you badly--both of you. now what will you take? come inside and have something! you don't know how lucky it is, your turning up just now!" "let's sit quiet a bit, toady!" said the rat, throwing himself into an easy chair, while the mole took another by the side of him and made some civil remark about toad's "delightful residence." "finest house on the whole river," cried toad boisterously. "or anywhere else, for that matter," he could not help adding. here the rat nudged the mole. unfortunately the toad saw him do it, and turned very red. there was a moment's painful silence. then toad burst out laughing. "all right, ratty," he said. "it's only my way, you know. and it's not such a very bad house, is it? you know, you rather like it yourself. now, look here. let's be sensible. you are the very animals i wanted. you've got to help me. it's most important!" "it's about your rowing, i suppose," said the rat, with an innocent air. "you're getting on fairly well, though you splash a good bit still. with a great deal of patience and any quantity of coaching, you may--" "o, pooh! boating!" interrupted the toad, in great disgust. "silly boyish amusement. i've given that up _long_ ago. sheer waste of time, that's what it is. it makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who ought to know better, spending all your energies in that aimless manner. no, i've discovered the real thing, the only genuine occupation for a lifetime. i propose to devote the remainder of mine to it, and can only regret the wasted years that lie behind me, squandered in trivialities. come with me, dear ratty, and your amiable friend also, if he will be so very good, just as far as the stable-yard, and you shall see what you shall see!" he led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the rat following with a most mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach-house into the open, they saw a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels. "there you are!" cried the toad, straddling and expanding himself. "there's real life for you, embodied in that little cart. the open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs! camps, villages, towns, cities! here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow! travel, change, interest, excitement! the whole world before you, and a horizon that's always changing! and mind! this is the very finest cart of its sort that was ever built, without any exception. come inside and look at the arrangements. planned 'em all myself, i did!" the mole was tremendously interested and excited, and followed him eagerly up the steps and into the interior of the caravan. the rat only snorted and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, remaining where he was. it was indeed very compact and comfortable. little sleeping bunks--a little table that folded up against the wall--a cooking-stove, lockers, book-shelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs, and kettles of every size and variety. "all complete!" said the toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker. "you see--biscuits, potted lobster, sardines--everything you can possibly want. soda-water here--baccy there--letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards, and dominoes--you'll find," he continued, as they descended the steps again, "you'll find that nothing whatever has been forgotten, when we make our start this afternoon." "i beg your pardon," said the rat slowly, as he chewed a straw, "but did i overhear you say something about '_we_,' and '_start_,' and '_this afternoon_'?" "now, you dear good old ratty," said toad imploringly, "don't begin talking in that stiff and sniffy sort of way, because you know you've _got_ to come. i can't possibly manage without you, so please consider it settled, and don't argue--it's the one thing i can't stand. you surely don't mean to stick to your dull fusty old river all your life, and just live in a hole in a bank, and _boat_? i want to show you the world! i'm going to make an _animal_ of you, my boy!" "i don't care," said the rat doggedly. "i'm not coming, and that's flat. and i _am_ going to stick to my old river, _and_ live in a hole, _and_ boat, as i've always done. and what's more, mole's going to stick to me and do as i do, aren't you, mole?" "of course i am," said the mole, loyally. "i'll always stick to you, rat, and what you say is to be--has got to be. all the same, it sounds as if it might have been--well, rather fun, you know!" he added wistfully. poor mole! the life adventurous was so new a thing to him, and so thrilling; and this fresh aspect of it was so tempting; and he had fallen in love at first sight with the canary-coloured cart and all its little fitments. the rat saw what was passing in his mind, and wavered. he hated disappointing people, and he was fond of the mole, and would do almost anything to oblige him. toad was watching both of them closely. "come along in, and have some lunch," he said, diplomatically, "and we'll talk it over. we needn't decide anything in a hurry. of course, _i_ don't really care. i only want to give pleasure to you fellows. 'live for others!' that's my motto in life." during luncheon--which was excellent, of course, as everything at toad hall always was--the toad simply let himself go. disregarding the rat, he proceeded to play upon the inexperienced mole as on a harp. naturally a voluble animal, and always mastered by his imagination, he painted the prospects of the trip and the joys of the open life and the roadside in such glowing colours that the mole could hardly sit in his chair for excitement. somehow, it soon seemed taken for granted by all three of them that the trip was a settled thing; and the rat, though still unconvinced in his mind, allowed his good-nature to over-ride his personal objections. he could not bear to disappoint his two friends, who were already deep in schemes and anticipations, planning out each day's separate occupation for several weeks ahead. when they were quite ready, the now triumphant toad led his companions to the paddock and set them to capture the old grey horse, who, without having been consulted, and to his own extreme annoyance, had been told off by toad for the dustiest job in this dusty expedition. he frankly preferred the paddock, and took a deal of catching. meantime toad packed the lockers still tighter with necessaries, and hung nose-bags, nets of onions, bundles of hay, and baskets from the bottom of the cart. at last the horse was caught and harnessed, and they set off, all talking at once, each animal either trudging by the side of the cart or sitting on the shaft, as the humour took him. it was a golden afternoon. the smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and satisfying; out of thick orchards on either side the road, birds called and whistled to them cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passing them, gave them "good day," or stopped to say nice things about their beautiful cart; and rabbits, sitting at their front doors in the hedgerows, held up their fore-paws, and said, "o my! o my! o my!" late in the evening, tired and happy and miles from home, they drew up on a remote common far from habitations, turned the horse loose to graze, and ate their simple supper sitting on the grass by the side of the cart. toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to come, while stars grew fuller and larger all around them, and a yellow moon, appearing suddenly and silently from nowhere in particular, came to keep them company and listen to their talk. at last they turned in to their little bunks in the cart; and toad, kicking out his legs, sleepily said, "well, good night, you fellows! this is the real life for a gentleman! talk about your old river!" "i _don't_ talk about my river," replied the patient rat. "you _know_ i don't, toad. but i _think_ about it," he added pathetically, in a lower tone: "i think about it--all the time!" the mole reached out from under his blanket, felt for the rat's paw in the darkness, and gave it a squeeze. "i'll do whatever you like, ratty," he whispered. "shall we run away to-morrow morning, quite early--_very_ early--and go back to our dear old hole on the river?" "no, no, we'll see it out," whispered back the rat. "thanks awfully, but i ought to stick by toad till this trip is ended. it wouldn't be safe for him to be left to himself. it won't take very long. his fads never do. good night!" the end was indeed nearer than even the rat suspected. after so much open air and excitement the toad slept very soundly, and no amount of shaking could rouse him out of bed next morning. so the mole and rat turned to, quietly and manfully, and while the rat saw to the horse, and lit a fire, and cleaned last night's cups and platters, and got things ready for breakfast, the mole trudged off to the nearest village, a long way off, for milk and eggs and various necessaries the toad had, of course, forgotten to provide. the hard work had all been done, and the two animals were resting, thoroughly exhausted, by the time toad appeared on the scene, fresh and gay, remarking what a pleasant, easy life it was they were all leading now, after the cares and worries and fatigues of housekeeping at home. they had a pleasant ramble that day over grassy downs and along narrow by-lanes, and camped, as before, on a common, only this time the two guests took care that toad should do his fair share of work. in consequence, when the time came for starting next morning, toad was by no means so rapturous about the simplicity of the primitive life, and indeed attempted to resume his place in his bunk, whence he was hauled by force. their way lay, as before, across country by narrow lanes, and it was not till the afternoon that they came out on the high-road, their first high-road; and there disaster, fleet and unforeseen, sprang out on them--disaster momentous indeed to their expedition, but simply overwhelming in its effect on the after career of toad. they were strolling along the high-road easily, the mole by the horse's head, talking to him, since the horse had complained that he was being frightfully left out of it, and nobody considered him in the least; the toad and the water rat walking behind the cart talking together--at least toad was talking, and rat was saying at intervals, "yes, precisely; and what did _you_ say to _him_?"--and thinking all the time of something very different, when far behind them they heard a faint warning hum, like the drone of a distant bee. glancing back, they saw a small cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing on them at incredible speed, while from out the dust a faint "poop-poop!" wailed like an uneasy animal in pain. hardly regarding it, they turned to resume their conversation, when in an instant (as it seemed) the peaceful scene was changed, and with a blast of wind and a whirl of sound that made them jump for the nearest ditch. it was on them! the "poop-poop" rang with a brazen shout in their ears, they had a moment's glimpse of an interior of glittering plate-glass and rich morocco, and the magnificent motor-car, immense, breath-snatching, passionate, with its pilot tense and hugging his wheel, possessed all earth and air for the fraction of a second, flung an enveloping cloud of dust that blinded and enwrapped them utterly, and then dwindled to a speck in the far distance, changed back into a droning bee once more. the old grey horse, dreaming, as he plodded along, of his quiet paddock, in a new raw situation such as this, simply abandoned himself to his natural emotions. rearing, plunging, backing steadily, in spite of all the mole's efforts at his head, and all the mole's lively language directed at his better feelings, he drove the cart backward towards the deep ditch at the side of the road. it wavered an instant--then there was a heart-rending crash--and the canary-coloured cart, their pride and their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an irredeemable wreck. the rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with passion. "you villains!" he shouted, shaking both fists. "you scoundrels, you highwaymen, you--you--road-hogs!--i'll have the law of you! i'll report you! i'll take you through all the courts!" his home-sickness had quite slipped away from him, and for the moment he was the skipper of the canary-coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the reckless jockeying of rival mariners, and he was trying to recollect all the fine and biting things he used to say to masters of steam-launches when their wash, as they drove too near the bank, used to flood his parlour-carpet at home. toad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs stretched out before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the disappearing motor-car. he breathed short, his face wore a placid, satisfied expression, and at intervals he faintly murmured "poop-poop!" the mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in doing after a time. then he went to look at the cart, on its side in the ditch. it was indeed a sorry sight. panels and windows smashed, axles hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the wide world, and the bird in the bird-cage sobbing pitifully and calling to be let out. the rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient to right the cart. "hi! toad!" they cried. "come and bear a hand, can't you!" the toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so they went to see what was the matter with him. they found him in a sort of a trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the dusty wake of their destroyer. at intervals he was still heard to murmur "poop-poop!" the rat shook him by the shoulder. "are you coming to help us, toad?" he demanded sternly. "glorious, stirring sight!" murmured toad, never offering to move. "the poetry of motion! the _real_ way to travel! the _only_ way to travel! here to-day--in next week to-morrow! villages skipped, towns and cities jumped--always somebody else's horizon! o bliss! o poop-poop! o my! o my!" "o _stop_ being an ass, toad!" cried the mole despairingly. "and to think i never _knew_!" went on the toad in a dreamy monotone. "all those wasted years that lie behind me, i never knew, never even _dreamt_! but _now_--but now that i know, now that i fully realise! o what a flowery track lies spread before me, henceforth! what dust-clouds shall spring up behind me as i speed on my reckless way! what carts i shall fling carelessly into the ditch in the wake of my magnificent onset! horrid little carts--common carts--canary-coloured carts!" "what are we to do with him?" asked the mole of the water rat. "nothing at all," replied the rat firmly. "because there is really nothing to be done. you see, i know him from of old. he is now possessed. he has got a new craze, and it always takes him that way, in its first stage. he'll continue like that for days now, like an animal walking in a happy dream, quite useless for all practical purposes. never mind him. let's go and see what there is to be done about the cart." a careful inspection showed them that, even if they succeeded in righting it by themselves, the cart would travel no longer. the axles were in a hopeless state, and the missing wheel was shattered into pieces. the rat knotted the horse's reins over his back and took him by the head, carrying the bird-cage and its hysterical occupant in the other hand. "come on!" he said grimly to the mole. "it's five or six miles to the nearest town, and we shall just have to walk it. the sooner we make a start the better." "but what about toad?" asked the mole anxiously, as they set off together. "we can't leave him here, sitting in the middle of the road by himself, in the distracted state he's in! it's not safe. supposing another thing were to come along?" "o, _bother_ toad," said the rat savagely; "i've done with him." they had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a pattering of feet behind them, and toad caught them up and thrust a paw inside the elbow of each of them; still breathing short and staring into vacancy. "now, look here, toad!" said the rat sharply: "as soon as we get to the town, you'll have to go straight to the police-station and see if they know anything about that motor-car and who it belongs to, and lodge a complaint against it. and then you'll have to go to a blacksmith's or a wheelwright's and arrange for the cart to be fetched and mended and put to rights. it'll take time, but it's not quite a hopeless smash. meanwhile, the mole and i will go to an inn and find comfortable rooms where we can stay till the cart's ready, and till your nerves have recovered their shock." "police-station! complaint!" murmured toad dreamily. "me _complain_ of that beautiful, that heavenly vision that has been vouchsafed me! _mend_ the _cart_! i've done with carts for ever. i never want to see the cart, or to hear of it, again. o ratty! you can't think how obliged i am to you for consenting to come on this trip! i wouldn't have gone without you, and then i might never have seen that--that swan, that sunbeam, that thunderbolt! i might never have heard that entrancing sound, or smelt that bewitching smell! i owe it all to you, my best of friends!" [illustration: _"come on!" he said. "we shall just have to walk it"_] the rat turned from him in despair. "you see what it is?" he said to the mole, addressing him across toad's head: "he's quite hopeless. i give it up--when we get to the town we'll go to the railway station, and with luck we may pick up a train there that'll get us back to river bank to-night. and if ever you catch me going a-pleasuring with this provoking animal again!"--he snorted, and during the rest of that weary trudge addressed his remarks exclusively to mole. on reaching the town they went straight to the station and deposited toad in the second-class waiting-room, giving a porter twopence to keep a strict eye on him. they then left the horse at an inn stable, and gave what directions they could about the cart and its contents. eventually, a slow train having landed them at a station not very far from toad hall, they escorted the spellbound, sleep-walking toad to his door, put him inside it, and instructed his housekeeper to feed him, undress him, and put him to bed. then they got out their boat from the boat-house, sculled down the river home, and at a very late hour sat down to supper in their own cosy riverside parlour, to the rat's great joy and contentment. the following evening the mole, who had risen late and taken things very easy all day, was sitting on the bank fishing, when the rat, who had been looking up his friends and gossiping, came strolling along to find him. "heard the news?" he said. "there's nothing else being talked about, all along the river bank. toad went up to town by an early train this morning. and he has ordered a large and very expensive motor-car." iii the wild wood the mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the badger. he seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about the place. but whenever the mole mentioned his wish to the water rat, he always found himself put off. "it's all right," the rat would say. "badger'll turn up some day or other--he's always turning up--and then i'll introduce you. the best of fellows! but you must not only take him _as_ you find him, but _when_ you find him." "couldn't you ask him here--dinner or something?" said the mole. "he wouldn't come," replied the rat simply. "badger hates society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing." "well, then, supposing we go and call on _him_?" suggested the mole. "o, i'm sure he wouldn't like that at _all_," said the rat, quite alarmed. "he's so very shy, he'd be sure to be offended. i've never even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though i know him so well. besides, we can't. it's quite out of the question, because he lives in the very middle of the wild wood." "well, supposing he does," said the mole. "you told me the wild wood was all right, you know." "o, i know, i know, so it is," replied the rat evasively. "but i think we won't go there just now. not _just_ yet. it's a long way, and he wouldn't be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he'll be coming along some day, if you'll wait quietly." the mole had to be content with this. but the badger never came along, and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey badger, who lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the wild wood. in the winter time the rat slept a great deal, retiring early and rising late. during his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did other small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were always animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a good deal of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and all its doings. such a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all! with illustrations so numerous and so very highly-coloured! the pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow. comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that june at last was here. one member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love. but when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin. and what a play it had been! drowsy animals, snug in their holes while wind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen mornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet undispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the shock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant transformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with them again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the earth once more. they recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day, deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles along dusty lanes and through yellow corn-fields; and the long, cool evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many friendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow. there was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the animals found themselves round the fire; still, the mole had a good deal of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the rat in his arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over rhymes that wouldn't fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself and explore the wild wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with mr. badger. it was a cold, still afternoon with a hard, steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. the country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. copses, dells, quarries, and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions. it was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering--even exhilarating. he was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. he had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple. he did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the wild wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea. there was nothing to alarm him at first entry. twigs crackled under his feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and startled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and far away; but that was all fun, and exciting. it led him on, and he penetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and nearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side. everything was very still now. the dusk advanced on him steadily, rapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be draining away like flood-water. then the faces began. it was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he saw a face, a little, evil, wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a hole. when he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished. he quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin imagining things or there would be simply no end to it. he passed another hole, and another, and another; and then--yes!--no!--yes! certainly a little, narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an instant from a hole, and was gone. he hesitated--braced himself up for an effort and strode on. then suddenly, and as if it had been so all the time, every hole, far and near, and there were hundreds of them, seemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him glances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp. if he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought, there would be no more faces. he swung off the path and plunged into the untrodden places of the wood. then the whistling began. very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard it; but somehow it made him hurry forward. then, still very faint and shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to go back. as he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the wood to its farthest limit. they were up and alert and ready, evidently, whoever they were! and he--he was alone, and unarmed, and far from any help; and the night was closing in. then the pattering began. he thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate was the sound of it. then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he knew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a very long way off. was it in front or behind? it seemed to be first one, and then the other, then both. it grew and it multiplied, till from every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that, it seemed to be closing in on him. as he stood still to hearken, a rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. he waited, expecting it to slacken pace or to swerve from him into a different course. instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his face set and hard, his eyes staring. "get out of this, you fool, get out!" the mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and disappeared down a friendly burrow. the pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry leaf-carpet spread around him. the whole wood seemed running now, running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or--somebody? in panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. he ran up against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under things and dodged round things. at last he took refuge in the deep, dark hollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment--perhaps even safety, but who could tell? anyhow, he was too tired to run any further, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time. and as he lay there panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fulness, that dread thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered here, and known as their darkest moment--that thing which the rat had vainly tried to shield him from--the terror of the wild wood! [illustration: _in panic, he began to run_] meantime the rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. his paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of dream-rivers. then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a spurt of flame, and he woke with a start. remembering what he had been engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over them for a minute, and then looked round for the mole to ask him if he knew a good rhyme for something or other. but the mole was not there. he listened for a time. the house seemed very quiet. then he called "moly!" several times, and, receiving no answer, got up and went out into the hall. the mole's cap was missing from its accustomed peg. his goloshes, which always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone. the rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the ground outside, hoping to find the mole's tracks. there they were, sure enough. the goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. he could see the imprints of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading direct to the wild wood. the rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or two. then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist, shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in a corner of the hall, and set off for the wild wood at a smart pace. it was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously on either side for any sign of his friend. here and there wicked little faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp; and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on his first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. he made his way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge; then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously working over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully, "moly, moly, moly! where are you? it's me--it's old rat!" he had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at last to his joy he heard a little answering cry. guiding himself by the sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a feeble voice, saying "ratty! is that really you?" the rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the mole, exhausted and still trembling. "o rat!" he cried, "i've been so frightened, you can't think!" "o, i quite understand," said the rat soothingly. "you shouldn't really have gone and done it, mole. i did my best to keep you from it. we river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. if we have to come, we come in couples at least; then we're generally all right. besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we understand all about and you don't, as yet. i mean passwords, and signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise; all simple enough when you know them, but they've got to be known if you're small, or you'll find yourself in trouble. of course if you were badger or otter, it would be quite another matter." "surely the brave mr. toad wouldn't mind coming here by himself, would he?" inquired the mole. "old toad?" said the rat, laughing heartily. "he wouldn't show his face here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, toad wouldn't." the mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the rat's careless laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself again. "now then," said the rat presently, "we really must pull ourselves together and make a start for home while there's still a little light left. it will never do to spend the night here, you understand. too cold, for one thing." "dear ratty," said the poor mole, "i'm dreadfully sorry, but i'm simply dead beat and that's a solid fact. you _must_ let me rest here a while longer, and get my strength back, if i'm to get home at all." "o, all right," said the good-natured rat, "rest away. it's pretty nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon later." so the mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort; while the rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth, and lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw. when at last the mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits, the rat said, "now then! i'll just take a look outside and see if everything's quiet, and then we really must be off." he went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. then the mole heard him saying quietly to himself, "hullo! hullo! here--_is_--a--go!" "what's up, ratty?" asked the mole. "_snow_ is up," replied the rat briefly; "or rather, _down_. it's snowing hard." the mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. holes, hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet. a fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in its touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that seemed to come from below. "well, well, it can't be helped," said the rat, after pondering. "we must make a start, and take our chance, i suppose. the worst of it is, i don't exactly know where we are. and now this snow makes everything look so very different." it did indeed. the mole would not have known that it was the same wood. however, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most promising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible cheerfulness that they recognised an old friend in every fresh tree that grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths with a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black tree-trunks that refused to vary. an hour or two later--they had lost all count of time--they pulled up, dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen tree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done. they were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen into several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep that they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees were thicker and more like each other than ever. there seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst of all, no way out. "we can't sit here very long," said the rat. "we shall have to make another push for it, and do something or other. the cold is too awful for anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade through." he peered about him and considered. "look here," he went on, "this is what occurs to me. there's a sort of dell down here in front of us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky. we'll make our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a cave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and there we'll have a good rest before we try again, for we're both of us pretty dead beat. besides, the snow may leave off, or something may turn up." so once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell, where they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a protection from the keen wind and the whirling snow. they were investigating one of the hummocky bits the rat had spoken of, when suddenly the mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a squeal. "o my leg!" he cried. "o my poor shin!" and he sat up on the snow and nursed his leg in both his front paws. "poor old mole!" said the rat kindly. "you don't seem to be having much luck to-day, do you? let's have a look at the leg. yes," he went on, going down on his knees to look, "you've cut your shin, sure enough. wait till i get at my handkerchief, and i'll tie it up for you." "i must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump," said the mole miserably. "o, my! o, my!" "it's a very clean cut," said the rat, examining it again attentively. "that was never done by a branch or a stump. looks as if it was made by a sharp edge of something in metal. funny!" he pondered awhile, and examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them. "well, never mind what done it," said the mole, forgetting his grammar in his pain. "it hurts just the same, whatever done it." but the rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief, had left him and was busy scraping in the snow. he scratched and shovelled and explored, all four legs working busily, while the mole waited impatiently, remarking at intervals, "o, _come_ on, rat!" suddenly the rat cried "hooray!" and then "hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!" and fell to executing a feeble jig in the snow. "what _have_ you found, ratty?" asked the mole, still nursing his leg. "come and see!" said the delighted rat, as he jigged on. the mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look. "well," he said at last, slowly, "i _see_ it right enough. seen the same sort of thing before, lots of times. familiar object, i call it. a door-scraper! well, what of it? why dance jigs around a door-scraper?" "but don't you see what it _means_, you--you dull-witted animal?" cried the rat impatiently. "of course i see what it means," replied the mole. "it simply means that some _very_ careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper lying about in the middle of the wild wood, _just_ where it's _sure_ to trip _everybody_ up. very thoughtless of him, i call it. when i get home i shall go and complain about it to--to somebody or other, see if i don't!" "o, dear! o, dear!" cried the rat, in despair at his obtuseness. "here, stop arguing and come and scrape!" and he set to work again and made the snow fly in all directions around him. after some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby door-mat lay exposed to view. "there, what did i tell you?" exclaimed the rat in great triumph. "absolutely nothing whatever," replied the mole, with perfect truthfulness. "well, now," he went on, "you seem to have found another piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and i suppose you're perfectly happy. better go ahead and dance your jig round that if you've got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps. can we _eat_ a door-mat? or sleep under a door-mat? or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?" "do--you--mean--to--say," cried the excited rat, "that this door-mat doesn't _tell_ you anything?" "really, rat," said the mole, quite pettishly, "i think we've had enough of this folly. who ever heard of a door-mat _telling_ any one anything? they simply don't do it. they are not that sort at all. door-mats know their place." "now look here, you--you thick-headed beast," replied the rat, really angry, "this must stop. not another word, but scrape--scrape and scratch and dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you want to sleep dry and warm to-night, for it's our last chance!" the rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the mole scraped busily too, more to oblige the rat than for any other reason, for his opinion was that his friend was getting light-headed. some ten minutes' hard work, and the point of the rat's cudgel struck something that sounded hollow. he worked till he could get a paw through and feel; then called the mole to come and help him. hard at it went the two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood full in view of the astonished and hitherto incredulous mole. in the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking little door, painted a dark green. an iron bell-pull hung by the side, and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight mr. badger. the mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight. "rat!" he cried in penitence, "you're a wonder! a real wonder, that's what you are. i see it all now! you argued it out, step by step, in that wise head of yours, from the very moment that i fell and cut my shin, and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to itself, 'door-scraper!' and then you turned to and found the very door-scraper that done it! did you stop there? no. some people would have been quite satisfied; but not you. your intellect went on working. 'let me only just find a door-mat,' says you to yourself, 'and my theory is proved!' and of course you found your door-mat. you're so clever, i believe you could find anything you liked. 'now,' says you, 'that door exists, as plain as if i saw it. there's nothing else remains to be done but to find it!' well, i've read about that sort of thing in books, but i've never come across it before in real life. you ought to go where you'll be properly appreciated. you're simply wasted here, among us fellows. if i only had your head, ratty--" "but as you haven't," interrupted the rat, rather unkindly, "i suppose you're going to sit on the snow all night and _talk_? get up at once and hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as you can, while i hammer!" while the rat attacked the door with his stick, the mole sprang up at the bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the ground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a deep-toned bell respond. iv mr. badger they waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in the snow to keep their feet warm. at last they heard the sound of slow shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. it seemed, as the mole remarked to the rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers that were too large for him and down at heel; which was intelligent of mole, because that was exactly what it was. there was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few inches, enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes. "now, the _very_ next time this happens," said a gruff and suspicious voice, "i shall be exceedingly angry. who is it _this_ time, disturbing people on such a night? speak up!" "oh, badger," cried the rat, "let us in, please. it's me, rat, and my friend mole, and we've lost our way in the snow." "what, ratty, my dear little man!" exclaimed the badger, in quite a different voice. "come along in, both of you, at once. why, you must be perished. well, i never! lost in the snow! and in the wild wood, too, and at this time of night! but come in with you." the two animals tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get inside, and heard the door shut behind them with great joy and relief. the badger, who wore a long dressing-gown, and whose slippers were indeed very down at heel, carried a flat candlestick in his paw and had probably been on his way to bed when their summons sounded. he looked kindly down on them and patted both their heads. "this is not the sort of night for small animals to be out," he said paternally. "i'm afraid you've been up to some of your pranks again, ratty. but come along; come into the kitchen. there's a first-rate fire there, and supper and everything." he shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed him, nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long, gloomy, and, to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort of a central hall, out of which they could dimly see other long tunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious and without apparent end. but there were doors in the hall as well--stout oaken, comfortable-looking doors. one of these the badger flung open, and at once they found themselves in all the glow and warmth of a large fire-lit kitchen. the floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire of logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the wall, well out of any suspicion of draught. a couple of high-backed settles, facing each other on either side of the fire, gave further sitting accommodations for the sociably disposed. in the middle of the room stood a long table of plain boards placed on trestles, with benches down each side. at one end of it, where an arm-chair stood pushed back, were spread the remains of the badger's plain but ample supper. rows of spotless plates winked from the shelves of the dresser at the far end of the room, and from the rafters overhead hung hams, bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of eggs. it seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their harvest home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort and contentment. the ruddy brick floor smiled up at the smoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged cheerful glances with each other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots on the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over everything without distinction. the kindly badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at the fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots. then he fetched them dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the mole's shin with warm water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster, till the whole thing was just as good as new, if not better. in the embracing light and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in front of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the table behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe anchorage, that the cold and trackless wild wood just left outside was miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a half-forgotten dream. when at last they were thoroughly toasted, the badger summoned them to the table, where he had been busy laying a repast. they had felt pretty hungry before, but when they actually saw at last the supper that was spread for them, really it seemed only a question of what they should attack first where all was so attractive, and whether the other things would obligingly wait for them till they had time to give them attention. conversation was impossible for a long time; and when it was slowly resumed, it was that regrettable sort of conversation that results from talking with your mouth full. the badger did not mind that sort of thing at all, nor did he take any notice of elbows on the table, or everybody speaking at once. as he did not go into society himself, he had got an idea that these things belonged to the things that didn't really matter. (we know of course that he was wrong, and took too narrow a view; because they do matter very much, though it would take too long to explain why.) he sat in his arm-chair at the head of the table, and nodded gravely at intervals as the animals told their story; and he did not seem surprised or shocked at anything, and he never said, "i told you so," or, "just what i always said," or remarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or ought not to have done something else. the mole began to feel very friendly towards him. when supper was really finished at last, and each animal felt that his skin was now as tight as was decently safe, and that by this time he didn't care a hang for anybody or anything, they gathered round the glowing embers of the great wood fire, and thought how jolly it was to be sitting up _so_ late, and _so_ independent, and _so_ full; and after they had chatted for a time about things in general, the badger said heartily, "now then! tell us the news from your part of the world. how's old toad going on?" "oh, from bad to worse," said the rat gravely, while the mole, cocked up on a settle and basking in the firelight, his heels higher than his head, tried to look properly mournful. "another smash-up only last week, and a bad one. you see, he will insist on driving himself, and he's hopelessly incapable. if he'd only employ a decent, steady, well-trained animal, pay him good wages, and leave everything to him, he'd get on all right. but no; he's convinced he's a heaven-born driver, and nobody can teach him anything; and all the rest follows." "how many has he had?" inquired the badger gloomily. "smashes, or machines?" asked the rat. "oh, well, after all, it's the same thing--with toad. this is the seventh. as for the others--you know that coach-house of his? well, it's piled up--literally piled up to the roof--with fragments of motor-cars, none of them bigger than your hat! that accounts for the other six--so far as they can be accounted for." "he's been in hospital three times," put in the mole; "and as for the fines he's had to pay, it's simply awful to think of." "yes, and that's part of the trouble," continued the rat. "toad's rich, we all know; but he's not a millionaire. and he's a hopelessly bad driver, and quite regardless of law and order. killed or ruined--it's got to be one of the two things, sooner or later. badger! we're his friends--oughtn't we to do something?" the badger went through a bit of hard thinking. "now look here!" he said at last, rather severely; "of course you know i can't do anything _now_?" his two friends assented, quite understanding his point. no animal, according to the rules of animal etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter. all are sleepy--some actually asleep. all are weather-bound, more or less; and all are resting from arduous days and nights, during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and every energy kept at full stretch. "very well then!" continued the badger. "_but_, when once the year has really turned, and the nights are shorter, and half-way through them one rouses and feels fidgety and wanting to be up and doing by sunrise, if not before--_you_ know!--" both animals nodded gravely. _they_ knew! "well, _then_," went on the badger, "we--that is, you and me and our friend the mole here--we'll take toad seriously in hand. we'll stand no nonsense whatever. we'll bring him back to reason, by force if need be. we'll _make_ him be a sensible toad. we'll--you're asleep, rat!" "not me!" said the rat, waking up with a jerk. "he's been asleep two or three times since supper," said the mole, laughing. he himself was feeling quite wakeful and even lively, though he didn't know why. the reason was, of course, that he being naturally an underground animal by birth and breeding, the situation of badger's house exactly suited him and made him feel at home; while the rat, who slept every night in a bedroom the windows of which opened on a breezy river, naturally felt the atmosphere still and oppressive. "well, it's time we were all in bed," said the badger, getting up and fetching flat candlesticks. "come along, you two, and i'll show you your quarters. and take your time to-morrow morning--breakfast at any hour you please!" he conducted the two animals to a long room that seemed half bedchamber and half loft. the badger's winter stores, which indeed were visible everywhere, took up half the room--piles of apples, turnips, and potatoes, baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey; but the two little white beds on the remainder of the floor looked soft and inviting, and the linen on them, though coarse, was clean and smelt beautifully of lavender; and the mole and the water rat, shaking off their garments in some thirty seconds, tumbled in between the sheets in great joy and contentment. in accordance with the kindly badger's injunctions, the two tired animals came down to breakfast very late next morning, and found a bright fire burning in the kitchen, and two young hedgehogs sitting on a bench at the table, eating oatmeal porridge out of wooden bowls. the hedgehogs dropped their spoons, rose to their feet, and ducked their heads respectfully as the two entered. "there, sit down, sit down," said the rat pleasantly, "and go on with your porridge. where have you youngsters come from? lost your way in the snow, i suppose?" "yes, please, sir," said the elder of the two hedgehogs respectfully. "me and little billy here, we was trying to find our way to school--mother _would_ have us go, was the weather ever so--and of course we lost ourselves, sir, and billy he got frightened and took and cried, being young and faint-hearted. and at last we happened up against mr. badger's back door, and made so bold as to knock, sir, for mr. badger he's a kind-hearted gentleman, as every one knows--" "i understand," said the rat, cutting himself some rashers from a side of bacon, while the mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan. "and what's the weather like outside? you needn't 'sir' me quite so much," he added. "o, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is," said the hedgehog. "no getting out for the likes of you gentlemen to-day." "where's mr. badger?" inquired the mole as he warmed the coffee-pot before the fire. "the master's gone into his study, sir," replied the hedgehog, "and he said as how he was going to be particular busy this morning, and on no account was he to be disturbed." this explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every one present. the fact is, as already set forth, when you live a life of intense activity for six months in the year, and of comparative or actual somnolence for the other six, during the latter period you cannot be continually pleading sleepiness when there are people about or things to be done. the excuse gets monotonous. the animals well knew that badger, having eaten a hearty breakfast, had retired to his study and settled himself in an arm-chair with his legs up on another and a red cotton handkerchief over his face, and was being "busy" in the usual way at this time of the year. the front-door bell clanged loudly, and the rat, who was very greasy with buttered toast, sent billy, the smaller hedgehog, to see who it might be. there was a sound of much stamping in the hall, and presently billy returned in front of the otter, who threw himself on the rat with an embrace and a shout of affectionate greeting. "get off!" spluttered the rat, with his mouth full. "thought i should find you here all right," said the otter cheerfully. "they were all in a great state of alarm along river bank when i arrived this morning. rat never been home all night--nor mole either--something dreadful must have happened, they said; and the snow had covered up all your tracks, of course. but i knew that when people were in any fix they mostly went to badger, or else badger got to know of it somehow, so i came straight off here, through the wild wood and the snow! my! it was fine, coming through the snow as the red sun was rising and showing against the black tree-trunks! as you went along in the stillness, every now and then masses of snow slid off the branches suddenly with a flop! making you jump and run for cover. snow-castles and snow-caverns had sprung up out of nowhere in the night--and snow bridges, terraces, ramparts--i could have stayed and played with them for hours. here and there great branches had been torn away by the sheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and hopped on them in their perky conceited way, just as if they had done it themselves. a ragged string of wild geese passed overhead, high on the grey sky, and a few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected, and flapped off homewards with a disgusted expression; but i met no sensible being to ask the news of. about half-way across i came on a rabbit sitting on a stump, cleaning his silly face with his paws. he was a pretty scared animal when i crept up behind him and placed a heavy fore-paw on his shoulder. i had to cuff his head once or twice to get any sense out of it at all. at last i managed to extract from him that mole had been seen in the wild wood last night by one of them. it was the talk of the burrows, he said, how mole, mr. rat's particular friend, was in a bad fix; how he had lost his way, and 'they' were up and out hunting, and were chivvying him round and round. 'then why didn't any of you _do_ something?' i asked. 'you mayn't be blessed with brains, but there are hundreds and hundreds of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as butter, and your burrows running in all directions, and you could have taken him in and made him safe and comfortable, or tried to, at all events.' 'what, _us_?' he merely said: '_do_ something? us rabbits?' so i cuffed him again and left him. there was nothing else to be done. at any rate, i had learnt something; and if i had had the luck to meet any of 'them' i'd have learnt something more--or _they_ would." [illustration: _through the wild wood and the snow_] "weren't you at all--er--nervous?" asked the mole, some of yesterday's terror coming back to him at the mention of the wild wood. "nervous?" the otter showed a gleaming set of strong white teeth as he laughed. "i'd give 'em nerves if any of them tried anything on with me. here, mole, fry me some slices of ham, like the good little chap you are. i'm frightfully hungry, and i've got any amount to say to ratty here. haven't seen him for an age." so the good-natured mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the hedgehogs to fry it, and returned to his own breakfast, while the otter and the rat, their heads together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is long shop and talk that is endless, running on like the babbling river itself. a plate of fried ham had just been cleared and sent back for more, when the badger entered, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and greeted them all in his quiet, simple way, with kind inquiries for every one. "it must be getting on for luncheon time," he remarked to the otter. "better stop and have it with us. you must be hungry, this cold morning." "rather!" replied the otter, winking at the mole. "the sight of these greedy young hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me feel positively famished." the hedgehogs, who were just beginning to feel hungry again after their porridge, and after working so hard at their frying, looked timidly up at mr. badger, but were too shy to say anything. "here, you two youngsters, be off home to your mother," said the badger kindly. "i'll send some one with you to show you the way. you won't want any dinner to-day, i'll be bound." he gave them sixpence a-piece and a pat on the head, and they went off with much respectful swinging of caps and touching of forelocks. presently they all sat down to luncheon together. the mole found himself placed next to mr. badger, and, as the other two were still deep in river-gossip from which nothing could divert them, he took the opportunity to tell badger how comfortable and home-like it all felt to him. "once well underground," he said, "you know exactly where you are. nothing can happen to you, and nothing can get at you. you're entirely your own master, and you don't have to consult anybody or mind what they say. things go on all the same overhead, and you let 'em, and don't bother about 'em. when you want to, up you go, and there the things are, waiting for you." the badger simply beamed on him. "that's exactly what i say," he replied. "there's no security, or peace and tranquillity, except underground. and then, if your ideas get larger and you want to expand--why, a dig and a scrape, and there you are! if you feel your house is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, and there you are again! no builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no _weather_. look at rat, now. a couple of feet of flood water, and he's got to move into hired lodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, and horribly expensive. take toad. i say nothing against toad hall; quite the best house in these parts, _as_ a house. but supposing a fire breaks out--where's toad? supposing tiles are blown off, or walls sink or crack, or windows get broken--where's toad? supposing the rooms are draughty--i _hate_ a draught myself--where's toad? no, up and out of doors is good enough to roam about and get one's living in; but underground to come back to at last--that's my idea of _home_!" the mole assented heartily; and the badger in consequence got very friendly with him. "when lunch is over," he said, "i'll take you all round this little place of mine. i can see you'll appreciate it. you understand what domestic architecture ought to be, you do." after luncheon, accordingly, when the other two had settled themselves into the chimney-corner and had started a heated argument on the subject of _eels_, the badger lighted a lantern and bade the mole follow him. crossing the hall, they passed down one of the principal tunnels, and the wavering light of the lantern gave glimpses on either side of rooms both large and small, some mere cupboards, others nearly as broad and imposing as toad's dining-hall. a narrow passage at right angles led them into another corridor, and here the same thing was repeated. the mole was staggered at the size, the extent, the ramifications of it all; at the length of the dim passages, the solid vaultings of the crammed store-chambers, the masonry everywhere, the pillars, the arches, the pavements. "how on earth, badger," he said at last, "did you ever find time and strength to do all this? it's astonishing!" "it _would_ be astonishing indeed," said the badger simply, "if i _had_ done it. but as a matter of fact i did none of it--only cleaned out the passages and chambers, as far as i had need of them. there's lots more of it, all round about. i see you don't understand, and i must explain it to you. well, very long ago, on the spot where the wild wood waves now, before ever it had planted itself and grown up to what it now is, there was a city--a city of people, you know. here, where we are standing, they lived, and walked, and talked, and slept, and carried on their business. here they stabled their horses and feasted, from here they rode out to fight or drove out to trade. they were a powerful people, and rich, and great builders. they built to last, for they thought their city would last for ever." "but what has become of them all?" asked the mole. "who can tell?" said the badger. "people come--they stay for a while, they flourish, they build--and they go. it is their way. but we remain. there were badgers here, i've been told, long before that same city ever came to be. and now there are badgers here again. we are an enduring lot, and we may move out for a time, but we wait, and are patient, and back we come. and so it will ever be." "well, and when they went at last, those people?" said the mole. "when they went," continued the badger, "the strong winds and persistent rains took the matter in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year after year. perhaps we badgers too, in our small way, helped a little--who knows? it was all down, down, down, gradually--ruin and levelling and disappearance. then it was all up, up, up, gradually, as seeds grew to saplings, and saplings to forest trees, and bramble and fern came creeping in to help. leaf-mould rose and obliterated, streams in their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and to cover, and in course of time our home was ready for us again, and we moved in. up above us, on the surface, the same thing happened. animals arrived, liked the look of the place, took up their quarters, settled down, spread, and flourished. they didn't bother themselves about the past--they never do; they're too busy. the place was a bit humpy and hillocky, naturally, and full of holes; but that was rather an advantage. and they don't bother about the future, either--the future when perhaps the people will move in again--for a time--as may very well be. the wild wood is pretty well populated by now; with all the usual lot, good, bad, and indifferent--i name no names. it takes all sorts to make a world. but i fancy you know something about them yourself by this time." "i do indeed," said the mole, with a slight shiver. "well, well," said the badger, patting him on the shoulder, "it was your first experience of them, you see. they're not so bad really; and we must all live and let live. but i'll pass the word around to-morrow, and i think you'll have no further trouble. any friend of _mine_ walks where he likes in this country, or i'll know the reason why!" when they got back to the kitchen again, they found the rat walking up and down, very restless. the underground atmosphere was oppressing him and getting on his nerves, and he seemed really to be afraid that the river would run away if he wasn't there to look after it. so he had his overcoat on, and his pistols thrust into his belt again. "come along, mole," he said anxiously, as soon as he caught sight of them. "we must get off while it's daylight. don't want to spend another night in the wild wood again." "it'll be all right, my fine fellow," said the otter. "i'm coming along with you, and i know every path blindfold; and if there's a head that needs to be punched, you can confidently rely upon me to punch it." "you really needn't fret, ratty," added the badger placidly. "my passages run further than you think, and i've bolt-holes to the edge of the wood in several directions, though i don't care for everybody to know about them. when you really have to go, you shall leave by one of my short cuts. meantime, make yourself easy, and sit down again." the rat was nevertheless still anxious to be off and attend to his river, so the badger, taking up his lantern again, led the way along a damp and airless tunnel that wound and dipped, part vaulted, part hewn through solid rock, for a weary distance that seemed to be miles. at last daylight began to show itself confusedly through tangled growth overhanging the mouth of the passage; and the badger, bidding them a hasty good-bye, pushed them hurriedly through the opening, made everything look as natural as possible again, with creepers, brushwood, and dead leaves, and retreated. they found themselves standing on the very edge of the wild wood. rocks and brambles and tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped and tangled; in front, a great space of quiet fields, hemmed by lines of hedges black on the snow, and, far ahead, a glint of the familiar old river, while the wintry sun hung red and low on the horizon. the otter, as knowing all the paths, took charge of the party, and they trailed out on a bee-line for a distant stile. pausing there a moment and looking back, they saw the whole mass of the wild wood, dense, menacing, compact, grimly set in vast white surroundings; simultaneously they turned and made swiftly for home, for firelight and the familiar things it played on, for the voice, sounding cheerily outside their window, of the river that they knew and trusted in all its moods, that never made them afraid with any amazement. as he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be at home again among the things he knew and liked, the mole saw clearly that he was an animal of tilled field and hedgerow, linked to the ploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening lingerings, the cultivated garden-plot. for others the asperities, the stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places in which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough, in their way, to last for a lifetime. v dulce domum the sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty air, as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter and laughter. they were returning across country after a long day's outing with otter, hunting and exploring on the wide uplands, where certain streams tributary to their own river had their first small beginnings; and the shades of the short winter day were closing in on them, and they had still some distance to go. plodding at random across the plough, they had heard the sheep and had made for them; and now, leading from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten track that made walking a lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that small inquiring something which all animals carry inside them, saying unmistakably, "yes, quite right; _this_ leads home!" "it looks as if we were coming to a village," said the mole somewhat dubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had in time become a path and then had developed into a lane, now handed them over to the charge of a well-metalled road. the animals did not hold with villages, and their own highways, thickly frequented as they were, took an independent course, regardless of church, post-office, or public-house. "oh, never mind!" said the rat. "at this season of the year they're all safe indoors by this time, sitting round the fire; men, women, and children, dogs and cats and all. we shall slip through all right, without any bother or unpleasantness, and we can have a look at them through their windows if you like, and see what they're doing." the rapid nightfall of mid-december had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture--the natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation. moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far from home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log. but it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a mere blank transparency on the night, that the sense of home and the little curtained world within walls--the larger stressful world of outside nature shut out and forgotten--most pulsated. close against the white blind hung a bird-cage, clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch, and appurtenance distinct and recognisable, even to yesterday's dull-edged lump of sugar. on the middle perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked well into feathers, seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked, had they tried; even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage pencilled plainly on the illuminated screen. as they looked, the sleepy little fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and raised his head. they could see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a bored sort of way, looked round, and then settled his head into his back again, while the ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness. then a gust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck, a small sting of frozen sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their toes to be cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a weary way. once beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on either side of the road they could smell through the darkness the friendly fields again; and they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the home stretch, the stretch that we know is bound to end, some time, in the rattle of the door-latch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of familiar things greeting us as long-absent travellers from far over-sea. they plodded along steadily and silently, each of them thinking his own thoughts. the mole's ran a good deal on supper, as it was pitch-dark, and it was all a strange country for him as far as he knew, and he was following obediently in the wake of the rat, leaving the guidance entirely to him. as for the rat, he was walking a little way ahead, as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on the straight grey road in front of him; so he did not notice poor mole when suddenly the summons reached him, and took him like an electric shock. we others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses, have not even proper terms to express an animal's inter-communications with his surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word "smell," for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day, summoning, warning, inciting, repelling. it was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. he stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so strongly moved him. a moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood. home! that was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the river! and now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in. since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. and the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him. the call was clear, the summons was plain. he must obey it instantly, and go. "ratty!" he called, full of joyful excitement, "hold on! come back! i want you, quick!" "oh, _come_ along, mole, do!" replied the rat cheerfully, still plodding along. "_please_ stop, ratty!" pleaded the poor mole, in anguish of heart. "you don't understand! it's my home, my old home! i've just come across the smell of it, and it's close by here, really quite close. and i _must_ go to it, i must, i must! oh, come back, ratty! please, please come back!" the rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what the mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice. and he was much taken up with the weather, for he too, could smell something--something suspiciously like approaching snow. "mole, we mustn't stop now, really!" he called back. "we'll come for it to-morrow, whatever it is you've found. but i daren't stop now--it's late, and the snow's coming on again, and i'm not sure of the way! and i want your nose, mole, so come on quick, there's a good fellow!" and the rat pressed forward on his way without waiting for an answer. poor mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. but even under such a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. never for a moment did he dream of abandoning him. meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously. he dared not tarry longer within their magic circle. with a wrench that tore his very heart-strings he set his face down the road and followed submissively in the track of the rat, while faint, thin little smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness. with an effort he caught up to the unsuspecting rat, who began chattering cheerfully about what they would do when they got back, and how jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be, and what a supper he meant to eat; never noticing his companion's silence and distressful state of mind. at last, however, when they had gone some considerable way further, and were passing some tree stumps at the edge of a copse that bordered the road, he stopped and said kindly, "look here, mole, old chap, you seem dead tired. no talk left in you, and your feet dragging like lead. we'll sit down here for a minute and rest. the snow has held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over." the mole subsided forlornly on a tree stump and tried to control himself, for he felt it surely coming. the sob he had fought with so long refused to be beaten. up and up, it forced its way to the air, and then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor mole at last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly, now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly be said to have found. the rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of mole's paroxysm of grief, did not dare to speak for a while. at last he said, very quietly and sympathetically, "what is it, old fellow? whatever can be the matter? tell us your trouble, and let me see what i can do." poor mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back speech and choked it as it came. "i know it's a--shabby, dingy little place," he sobbed forth at last brokenly: "not like--your cosy quarters--or toad's beautiful hall--or badger's great house--but it was my own little home--and i was fond of it--and i went away and forgot all about it--and then i smelt it suddenly--on the road, when i called and you wouldn't listen, rat--and everything came back to me with a rush--and i _wanted_ it!--o dear, o dear!--and when you _wouldn't_ turn back, ratty--and i had to leave it, though i was smelling it all the time--i thought my heart would break.--we might have just gone and had one look at it, ratty--only one look--it was close by--but you wouldn't turn back, ratty, you wouldn't turn back! o dear, o dear!" recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full charge of him, preventing further speech. the rat stared straight in front of him, saying nothing, only patting mole gently on the shoulder. after a time he muttered gloomily, "i see it all now! what a _pig_ i have been! a pig--that's me! just a pig--a plain pig!" he waited till mole's sobs became gradually less stormy and more rhythmical; he waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs only intermittent. then he rose from his seat, and, remarking carelessly, "well, now we'd really better be getting on, old chap!" set off up the road again over the toilsome way they had come. "wherever are you (hic) going to (hic), ratty?" cried the tearful mole, looking up in alarm. "we're going to find that home of yours, old fellow," replied the rat pleasantly; "so you had better come along, for it will take some finding, and we shall want your nose." "oh, come back, ratty, do!" cried the mole, getting up and hurrying after him. "it's no good, i tell you! it's too late, and too dark, and the place is too far off, and the snow's coming! and--and i never meant to let you know i was feeling that way about it--it was all an accident and a mistake! and think of river bank, and your supper!" "hang river bank, and supper, too!" said the rat heartily. "i tell you, i'm going to find this place now, if i stay out all night. so cheer up, old chap, and take my arm, and we'll very soon be back there again." still snuffling, pleading, and reluctant, mole suffered himself to be dragged back along the road by his imperious companion, who by a flow of cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile his spirits back and make the weary way seem shorter. when at last it seemed to the rat that they must be nearing that part of the road where the mole had been "held up," he said, "now, no more talking. business! use your nose, and give your mind to it." they moved on in silence for some little way, when suddenly the rat was conscious, through his arm that was linked in mole's, of a faint sort of electric thrill that was passing down that animal's body. instantly he disengaged himself, fell back a pace, and waited, all attention. the signals were coming through! mole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quivering slightly, felt the air. then a short, quick run forward--a fault--a check--a try back; and then a slow, steady, confident advance. the rat, much excited, kept close to his heels as the mole, with something of the air of a sleep-walker, crossed a dry ditch, scrambled through a hedge, and nosed his way over a field open and trackless and bare in the faint starlight. suddenly, without giving warning, he dived; but the rat was on the alert, and promptly followed him down the tunnel to which his unerring nose had faithfully led him. it was close and airless, and the earthy smell was strong, and it seemed a long time to rat ere the passage ended and he could stand erect and stretch and shake himself. the mole struck a match, and by its light the rat saw that they were standing in an open space, neatly swept and sanded underfoot, and directly facing them was mole's little front door, with "mole end" painted, in gothic lettering, over the bell-pull at the side. mole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wall and lit it, and the rat, looking round him, saw that they were in a sort of fore-court. a garden-seat stood on one side of the door, and on the other a roller; for the mole, who was a tidy animal when at home, could not stand having his ground kicked up by other animals into little runs that ended in earth-heaps. on the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in them, alternating with brackets carrying plaster statuary--garibaldi, and the infant samuel, and queen victoria, and other heroes of modern italy. down on one side of the fore-court ran a skittle-alley, with benches along it and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted at beer-mugs. in the middle was a small round pond containing gold-fish and surrounded by a cockle-shell border. out of the centre of the pond rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells and topped by a large silvered glass ball that reflected everything all wrong and had a very pleasing effect. mole's face beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to him, and he hurried rat through the door, lit a lamp in the hall, and took one glance round his old home. he saw the dust lying thick on everything, saw the cheerless, deserted look of the long-neglected house, and its narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn and shabby contents--and collapsed again on a hall-chair, his nose to his paws. "o ratty!" he cried dismally, "why ever did i do it? why did i bring you to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might have been at river bank by this time, toasting your toes before a blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!" the rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches. he was running here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and lighting lamps and candles and sticking them up everywhere. "what a capital little house this is!" he called out cheerily. "so compact! so well planned! everything here and everything in its place! we'll make a jolly night of it. the first thing we want is a good fire; i'll see to that--i always know where to find things. so this is the parlour? splendid! your own idea, those little sleeping-bunks in the wall? capital! now, i'll fetch the wood and the coals, and you get a duster, mole--you'll find one in the drawer of the kitchen table--and try and smarten things up a bit. bustle about, old chap!" encouraged by his inspiriting companion, the mole roused himself and dusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the rat, running to and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney. he hailed the mole to come and warm himself; but mole promptly had another fit of the blues, dropping down on a couch in dark despair and burying his face in his duster. "rat," he moaned, "how about your supper, you poor, cold, hungry, weary animal? i've nothing to give you--nothing--not a crumb!" "what a fellow you are for giving in!" said the rat reproachfully. "why, only just now i saw a sardine-opener on the kitchen dresser, quite distinctly; and everybody knows that means there are sardines about somewhere in the neighbourhood. rouse yourself! pull yourself together, and come with me and forage." they went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and turning out every drawer. the result was not so very depressing after all, though of course it might have been better; a tin of sardines--a box of captain's biscuits, nearly full--and a german sausage encased in silver paper. "there's a banquet for you!" observed the rat, as he arranged the table. "i know some animals who would give their ears to be sitting down to supper with us to-night!" "no bread!" groaned the mole dolorously; "no butter, no--" "no _pâté de foie gras_, no champagne!" continued the rat, grinning. "and that reminds me--what's that little door at the end of the passage? your cellar, of course! every luxury in this house! just you wait a minute." he made for the cellar-door, and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm, "self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, mole," he observed. "deny yourself nothing. this is really the jolliest little place i ever was in. now, wherever did you pick up those prints? make the place look so home-like, they do. no wonder you're so fond of it, mole. tell us all about it, and how you came to make it what it is." then, while the rat busied himself fetching plates, and knives and forks, and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup, the mole, his bosom still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion, related--somewhat shyly at first, but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject--how this was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a bargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a certain amount of "going without." his spirits finally quite restored, he must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful of the supper they both so much needed; rat, who was desperately hungry but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered brow, and saying, "wonderful," and "most remarkable," at intervals, when the chance for an observation was given him. at last the rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard from the fore-court without--sounds like the scuffling of small feet in the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences reached them--"now, all in a line--hold the lantern up a bit, tommy--clear your throats first--no coughing after i say one, two, three.--where's young bill?--here, come on, do, we're all a-waiting--" "what's up?" inquired the rat, pausing in his labours. "i think it must be the field-mice," replied the mole, with a touch of pride in his manner. "they go round carol-singing regularly at this time of the year. they're quite an institution in these parts. and they never pass me over--they come to mole end last of all; and i used to give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when i could afford it. it will be like old times to hear them again." "let's have a look at them!" cried the rat, jumping up and running to the door. it was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open. in the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little field-mice stood in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. with bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. as the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, "now then, one, two, three!" and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at yule-time. _carol_ _villagers all, this frosty tide, let your doors swing open wide, though wind may follow, and snow beside, yet draw us in by your fire to bide; joy shall be yours in the morning!_ _here we stand in the cold and the sleet, blowing fingers and stamping feet, come from far away you to greet-- you by the fire and we in the street-- bidding you joy in the morning!_ _for ere one half of the night was gone, sudden a star has led us on, raining bliss and benison-- bliss to-morrow and more anon, joy for every morning!_ _goodman joseph toiled through the snow-- saw the star o'er a stable low; mary she might not further go-- welcome thatch, and litter below! joy was hers in the morning!_ _and then they heard the angels tell "who were the first to cry _nowell_? animals all, as it befell, in the stable where they did dwell! joy shall be theirs in the morning!"_ the voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong glances, and silence succeeded--but for a moment only. then, from up above and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was borne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells ringing a joyful and clangorous peal. "very well sung, boys!" cried the rat heartily. "and now come along in, all of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot!" "yes, come along, field-mice," cried the mole eagerly. "this is quite like old times! shut the door after you. pull up that settle to the fire. now, you just wait a minute, while we--o, ratty!" he cried in despair, plumping down on a seat, with tears impending. "whatever are we doing? we've nothing to give them!" "you leave all that to me," said the masterful rat. "here, you with the lantern! come over this way. i want to talk to you. now, tell me, are there any shops open at this hour of the night?" "why, certainly, sir," replied the field-mouse respectfully. "at this time of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours." "then look here!" said the rat. "you go off at once, you and your lantern, and you get me--" here much muttered conversation ensued, and the mole only heard bits of it, such as--"fresh, mind!--no, a pound of that will do--see you get buggins's, for i won't have any other--no, only the best--if you can't get it there, try somewhere else--yes, of course, home-made, no tinned stuff--well then, do the best you can!" finally, there was a chink of coin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an ample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern. the rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted their chilblains till they tingled; while the mole, failing to draw them into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each of them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young, it appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked forward very shortly to winning the parental consent. the rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one of the beer-bottles. "i perceive this to be old burton," he remarked approvingly. "_sensible_ mole! the very thing! now we shall be able to mull some ale! get the things ready, mole, while i draw the corks." it did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well into the red heart of the fire; and soon every field-mouse was sipping and coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in all his life. "they act plays, too, these fellows," the mole explained to the rat. "make them up all by themselves, and act them afterwards. and very well they do it, too! they gave us a capital one last year, about a field-mouse who was captured at sea by a barbary corsair, and made to row in a galley; and when he escaped and got home again, his lady-love had gone into a convent. here, _you_! you were in it, i remember. get up and recite a bit." the field-mouse addressed got up on his legs, giggled shyly, looked round the room, and remained absolutely tongue-tied. his comrades cheered him on, mole coaxed and encouraged him, and the rat went so far as to take him by the shoulders and shake him; but nothing could overcome his stage-fright. they were all busily engaged on him like watermen applying the royal humane society's regulations to a case of long submersion, when the latch clicked, the door opened, and the field-mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under the weight of his basket. there was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table. under the generalship of rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch something. in a very few minutes supper was ready, and mole, as he took the head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board set thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends' faces brighten and beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose--for he was famished indeed--on the provender so magically provided, thinking what a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all. as they ate, they talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip up to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he had to ask them. the rat said little or nothing, only taking care that each guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that mole had no trouble or anxiety about anything. they clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the season, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the small brothers and sisters at home. when the door had closed on the last of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, mole and rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. at last the rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, "mole, old chap, i'm ready to drop. sleepy is simply not the word. that your own bunk over on that side? very well, then, i'll take this. what a ripping little house this is! everything so handy!" he clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets, and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded into the arms of the reaping machine. the weary mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. but ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour. he was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. he saw clearly how plain and simple--how narrow, even--it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. he did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. but it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome. vi mr. toad it was a bright morning in the early part of summer; the river had resumed its wonted banks and its accustomed pace, and a hot sun seemed to be pulling everything green and bushy and spiky up out of the earth towards him, as if by strings. the mole and the water rat had been up since dawn, very busy on matters connected with boats and the opening of the boating season; painting and varnishing, mending paddles, repairing cushions, hunting for missing boat-hooks, and so on; and were finishing breakfast in their little parlour and eagerly discussing their plans for the day, when a heavy knock sounded at the door. "bother!" said the rat, all over egg. "see who it is, mole, like a good chap, since you've finished." the mole went to attend the summons, and the rat heard him utter a cry of surprise. then he flung the parlour door open, and announced with much importance, "mr. badger!" this was a wonderful thing, indeed, that the badger should pay a formal call on them, or indeed on anybody. he generally had to be caught, if you wanted him badly, as he slipped quietly along a hedgerow of an early morning or a late evening, or else hunted up in his own house in the middle of the wood, which was a serious undertaking. the badger strode heavily into the room, and stood looking at the two animals with an expression full of seriousness. the rat let his egg-spoon fall on the table-cloth, and sat open-mouthed. "the hour has come!" said the badger at last with great solemnity. "what hour?" asked the rat uneasily, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. "_whose_ hour, you should rather say," replied the badger. "why, toad's hour! the hour of toad! i said i would take him in hand as soon as the winter was well over, and i'm going to take him in hand to-day!" "toad's hour, of course!" cried the mole delightedly. "hooray! i remember now! _we'll_ teach him to be a sensible toad!" "this very morning," continued the badger, taking an arm-chair, "as i learnt last night from a trustworthy source, another new and exceptionally powerful motor-car will arrive at toad hall on approval or return. at this very moment, perhaps, toad is busy arraying himself in those singularly hideous habiliments so dear to him, which transform him from a (comparatively) good-looking toad into an object which throws any decent-minded animal that comes across it into a violent fit. we must be up and doing, ere it is too late. you two animals will accompany me instantly to toad hall, and the work of rescue shall be accomplished." "right you are!" cried the rat, starting up. "we'll rescue the poor unhappy animal! we'll convert him! he'll be the most converted toad that ever was before we've done with him!" they set off up the road on their mission of mercy, badger leading the way. animals when in company walk in a proper and sensible manner, in single file, instead of sprawling all across the road and being of no use or support to each other in case of sudden trouble or danger. they reached the carriage-drive of toad hall to find, as badger had anticipated, a shiny new motor-car, of great size, painted a bright red (toad's favourite colour), standing in front of the house. as they neared the door it was flung open, and mr. toad, arrayed in goggles, cap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the steps, drawing on his gauntleted gloves. "hullo! come on, you fellows!" he cried cheerfully on catching sight of them. "you're just in time to come with me for a jolly--to come for a jolly--for a--er--jolly--" his hearty accents faltered and fell away as he noticed the stern unbending look on the countenances of his silent friends, and his invitation remained unfinished. the badger strode up the steps. "take him inside," he said sternly to his companions. then, as toad was hustled through the door, struggling and protesting, he turned to the _chauffeur_ in charge of the new motor-car. "i'm afraid you won't be wanted to-day," he said. "mr. toad has changed his mind. he will not require the car. please understand that this is final. you needn't wait." then he followed the others inside and shut the door. "now then!" he said to the toad, when the four of them stood together in the hall, "first of all, take those ridiculous things off!" "shan't!" replied toad, with great spirit. "what is the meaning of this gross outrage? i demand an instant explanation." "take them off him, then, you two," ordered the badger briefly. they had to lay toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of names, before they could get to work properly. then the rat sat on him, and the mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood him up on his legs again. a good deal of his blustering spirit seemed to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. now that he was merely toad, and no longer the terror of the highway, he giggled feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to understand the situation. "you knew it must come to this, sooner or later, toad," the badger explained severely. "you've disregarded all the warnings we've given you, you've gone on squandering the money your father left you, and you're getting us animals a bad name in the district by your furious driving and your smashes and your rows with the police. independence is all very well, but we animals never allow our friends to make fools of themselves beyond a certain limit; and that limit you've reached. now, you're a good fellow in many respects, and i don't want to be too hard on you. i'll make one more effort to bring you to reason. you will come with me into the smoking-room, and there you will hear some facts about yourself; and we'll see whether you come out of that room the same toad that you went in." he took toad firmly by the arm, led him into the smoking-room, and closed the door behind them. "_that's_ no good!" said the rat contemptuously. "_talking_ to toad'll never cure him. he'll _say_ anything." they made themselves comfortable in arm-chairs and waited patiently. through the closed door they could just hear the long continuous drone of the badger's voice, rising and falling in waves of oratory; and presently they noticed that the sermon began to be punctuated at intervals by long-drawn sobs, evidently proceeding from the bosom of toad, who was a soft-hearted and affectionate fellow, very easily converted--for the time being--to any point of view. after some three-quarters of an hour the door opened, and the badger reappeared, solemnly leading by the paw a very limp and dejected toad. his skin hung baggily about him, his legs wobbled, and his cheeks were furrowed by the tears so plentifully called forth by the badger's moving discourse. "sit down there, toad," said the badger kindly, pointing to a chair. "my friends," he went on, "i am pleased to inform you that toad has at last seen the error of his ways. he is truly sorry for his misguided conduct in the past, and he has undertaken to give up motor-cars entirely and for ever. i have his solemn promise to that effect." "that is very good news," said the mole gravely. "very good news indeed," observed the rat dubiously, "if only--_if_ only--" he was looking very hard at toad as he said this, and could not help thinking he perceived something vaguely resembling a twinkle in that animal's still sorrowful eye. "there's only one thing more to be done," continued the gratified badger. "toad, i want you solemnly to repeat, before your friends here, what you fully admitted to me in the smoking-room just now. first, you are sorry for what you've done, and you see the folly of it all?" there was a long, long pause. toad looked desperately this way and that, while the other animals waited in grave silence. at last he spoke. "no!" he said, a little sullenly, but stoutly; "i'm _not_ sorry. and it wasn't folly at all! it was simply glorious!" "what?" cried the badger, greatly scandalised. "you backsliding animal, didn't you tell me just now, in there--" "oh, yes, yes, in _there_," said toad impatiently. "i'd have said anything in _there_. you're so eloquent, dear badger, and so moving, and so convincing, and put all your points so frightfully well--you can do what you like with me in _there_, and you know it. but i've been searching my mind since, and going over things in it, and i find that i'm not a bit sorry or repentant really, so it's no earthly good saying i am; now, is it?" "then you don't promise," said the badger, "never to touch a motor-car again?" "certainly not!" replied toad emphatically. "on the contrary, i faithfully promise that the very first motor-car i see, poop-poop! off i go in it!" "told you so, didn't i?" observed the rat to the mole. "very well, then," said the badger firmly, rising to his feet. "since you won't yield to persuasion, we'll try what force can do. i feared it would come to this all along. you've often asked us three to come and stay with you, toad, in this handsome house of yours; well, now we're going to. when we've converted you to a proper point of view we may quit, but not before. take him upstairs, you two, and lock him up in his bedroom, while we arrange matters between ourselves." "it's for your own good, toady, you know," said the rat kindly, as toad, kicking and struggling, was hauled up the stairs by his two faithful friends. "think what fun we shall all have together, just as we used to, when you've quite got over this--this painful attack of yours!" "we'll take great care of everything for you till you're well, toad," said the mole; "and we'll see your money isn't wasted, as it has been." "no more of those regrettable incidents with the police, toad," said the rat, as they thrust him into his bedroom. "and no more weeks in hospital, being ordered about by female nurses, toad," added the mole, turning the key on him. they descended the stair, toad shouting abuse at them through the keyhole; and the three friends then met in conference on the situation. "it's going to be a tedious business," said the badger, sighing. "i've never seen toad so determined. however, we will see it out. he must never be left an instant unguarded. we shall have to take it in turns to be with him, till the poison has worked itself out of his system." they arranged watches accordingly. each animal took it in turns to sleep in toad's room at night, and they divided the day up between them. at first toad was undoubtedly very trying to his careful guardians. when his violent paroxysms possessed him he would arrange bedroom chairs in rude resemblance of a motor-car and would crouch on the foremost of them, bent forward and staring fixedly ahead, making uncouth and ghastly noises, till the climax was reached, when, turning a complete somersault, he would lie prostrate amidst the ruins of the chairs, apparently completely satisfied for the moment. as time passed, however, these painful seizures grew gradually less frequent, and his friends strove to divert his mind into fresh channels. but his interest in other matters did not seem to revive, and he grew apparently languid and depressed. one fine morning the rat, whose turn it was to go on duty, went upstairs to relieve badger, whom he found fidgeting to be off and stretch his legs in a long ramble round his wood and down his earths and burrows. "toad's still in bed," he told the rat, outside the door. "can't get much out of him, except, 'o leave him alone, he wants nothing, perhaps he'll be better presently, it may pass off in time, don't be unduly anxious,' and so on. now, you look out, rat! when toad's quiet and submissive, and playing at being the hero of a sunday-school prize, then he's at his artfullest. there's sure to be something up. i know him. well, now, i must be off." "how are you to-day, old chap?" inquired the rat cheerfully, as he approached toad's bedside. he had to wait some minutes for an answer. at last a feeble voice replied, "thank you so much, dear ratty! so good of you to inquire! but first tell me how you are yourself, and the excellent mole?" "o, _we're_ all right," replied the rat. "mole," he added incautiously, "is going out for a run round with badger. they'll be out till luncheon time, so you and i will spend a pleasant morning together, and i'll do my best to amuse you. now jump up, there's a good fellow, and don't lie moping there on a fine morning like this!" "dear, kind rat," murmured toad, "how little you realise my condition, and how very far i am from 'jumping up' now--if ever! but do not trouble about me. i hate being a burden to my friends, and i do not expect to be one much longer. indeed, i almost hope not." "well, i hope not, too," said the rat heartily. "you've been a fine bother to us all this time, and i'm glad to hear it's going to stop. and in weather like this, and the boating season just beginning! it's too bad of you, toad! it isn't the trouble we mind, but you're making us miss such an awful lot." "i'm afraid it _is_ the trouble you mind, though," replied the toad languidly. "i can quite understand it. it's natural enough. you're tired of bothering about me. i mustn't ask you to do anything further. i'm a nuisance, i know." "you are, indeed," said the rat. "but i tell you, i'd take any trouble on earth for you, if only you'd be a sensible animal." "if i thought that, ratty," murmured toad, more feebly than ever, "then i would beg you--for the last time, probably--to step round to the village as quickly as possible--even now it may be too late--and fetch the doctor. but don't you bother. it's only a trouble, and perhaps we may as well let things take their course." "why, what do you want a doctor for?" inquired the rat, coming closer and examining him. he certainly lay very still and flat, and his voice was weaker and his manner much changed. "surely you have noticed of late--" murmured toad. "but, no--why should you? noticing things is only a trouble. to-morrow, indeed, you may be saying to yourself, 'o, if only i had noticed sooner! if only i had done something!' but no; it's a trouble. never mind--forget that i asked." "look here, old man," said the rat, beginning to get rather alarmed, "of course i'll fetch a doctor to you, if you really think you want him. but you can hardly be bad enough for that yet. let's talk about something else." "i fear, dear friend," said toad, with a sad smile, "that 'talk' can do little in a case like this--or doctors either, for that matter; still, one must grasp at the slightest straw. and, by the way--while you are about it--i _hate_ to give you additional trouble, but i happen to remember that you will pass the door--would you mind at the same time asking the lawyer to step up? it would be a convenience to me, and there are moments--perhaps i should say there is _a_ moment--when one must face disagreeable tasks, at whatever cost to exhausted nature!" "a lawyer! o, he must be really bad!" the affrighted rat said to himself, as he hurried from the room, not forgetting, however, to lock the door carefully behind him. outside, he stopped to consider. the other two were far away, and he had no one to consult. "it's best to be on the safe side," he said, on reflection. "i've known toad fancy himself frightfully bad before, without the slightest reason; but i've never heard him ask for a lawyer! if there's nothing really the matter, the doctor will tell him he's an old ass, and cheer him up; and that will be something gained. i'd better humour him and go; it won't take very long." so he ran off to the village on his errand of mercy. the toad, who had hopped lightly out of bed as soon as he heard the key turned in the lock, watched him eagerly from the window till he disappeared down the carriage-drive. then, laughing heartily, he dressed as quickly as possible in the smartest suit he could lay hands on at the moment, filled his pockets with cash which he took from a small drawer in the dressing-table, and next, knotting the sheets from his bed together and tying one end of the improvised rope round the central mullion of the handsome tudor window which formed such a feature of his bedroom, he scrambled out, slid lightly to the ground, and, taking the opposite direction to the rat, marched off light-heartedly, whistling a merry tune. it was a gloomy luncheon for rat when the badger and the mole at length returned, and he had to face them at table with his pitiful and unconvincing story. the badger's caustic, not to say brutal, remarks may be imagined, and therefore passed over; but it was painful to the rat that even the mole, though he took his friend's side as far as possible, could not help saying, "you've been a bit of a duffer this time, ratty! toad, too, of all animals!" "he did it awfully well," said the crestfallen rat. "he did _you_ awfully well!" rejoined the badger hotly. "however, talking won't mend matters. he's got clear away for the time, that's certain; and the worst of it is, he'll be so conceited with what he'll think is his cleverness that he may commit any folly. one comfort is, we're free now, and needn't waste any more of our precious time doing sentry-go. but we'd better continue to sleep at toad hall for a while longer. toad may be brought back at any moment--on a stretcher, or between two policemen." so spoke the badger, not knowing what the future held in store, or how much water, and of how turbid a character, was to run under bridges before toad should sit at ease again in his ancestral hall. * * * * * meanwhile, toad, gay and irresponsible, was walking briskly along the high road, some miles from home. at first he had taken by-paths, and crossed many fields, and changed his course several times, in case of pursuit; but now, feeling by this time safe from recapture, and the sun smiling brightly on him, and all nature joining in a chorus of approval to the song of self-praise that his own heart was singing to him, he almost danced along the road in his satisfaction and conceit. "smart piece of work that!" he remarked to himself chuckling. "brain against brute force--and brain came out on the top--as it's bound to do. poor old ratty! my! won't he catch it when the badger gets back! a worthy fellow, ratty, with many good qualities, but very little intelligence and absolutely no education. i must take him in hand some day, and see if i can make something of him." filled full of conceited thoughts such as these he strode along, his head in the air, till he reached a little town, where the sign of "the red lion," swinging across the road half-way down the main street, reminded him that he had not breakfasted that day, and that he was exceedingly hungry after his long walk. he marched into the inn, ordered the best luncheon that could be provided at so short a notice, and sat down to eat it in the coffee-room. he was about half-way through his meal when an only too familiar sound, approaching down the street, made him start and fall a-trembling all over. the poop-poop! drew nearer and nearer, the car could be heard to turn into the inn-yard and come to a stop, and toad had to hold on to the leg of the table to conceal his over-mastering emotion. presently the party entered the coffee-room, hungry, talkative, and gay, voluble on their experiences of the morning and the merits of the chariot that had brought them along so well. toad listened eagerly, all ears, for a time; at last he could stand it no longer. he slipped out of the room quietly, paid his bill at the bar, and as soon as he got outside sauntered round quietly to the inn-yard. "there cannot be any harm," he said to himself, "in my only just _looking_ at it!" the car stood in the middle of the yard, quite unattended, the stable-helps and other hangers-on being all at their dinner. toad walked slowly round it, inspecting, criticising, musing deeply. "i wonder," he said to himself presently, "i wonder if this sort of car _starts_ easily?" next moment, hardly knowing how it came about, he found he had hold of the handle and was turning it. as the familiar sound broke forth, the old passion seized on toad and completely mastered him, body and soul. as if in a dream he found himself, somehow, seated in the driver's seat; as if in a dream, he pulled the lever and swung the car round the yard and out through the archway; and, as if in a dream, all sense of right and wrong, all fear of obvious consequences, seemed temporarily suspended. he increased his pace, and as the car devoured the street and leapt forth on the high road through the open country, he was only conscious that he was toad once more, toad at his best and highest, toad the terror, the traffic-queller, the lord of the lone trail, before whom all must give way or be smitten into nothingness and everlasting night. he chanted as he flew, and the car responded with sonorous drone; the miles were eaten up under him as he sped he knew not whither, fulfilling his instincts, living his hour, reckless of what might come to him. * * * * * "to my mind," observed the chairman of the bench of magistrates cheerfully, "the _only_ difficulty that presents itself in this otherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently hot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see cowering in the dock before us. let me see: he has been found guilty, on the clearest evidence, first, of stealing a valuable motor-car; secondly, of driving to the public danger; and, thirdly, of gross impertinence to the rural police. mr. clerk, will you tell us, please, what is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for each of these offences? without, of course, giving the prisoner the benefit of any doubt, because there isn't any." the clerk scratched his nose with his pen. "some people would consider," he observed, "that stealing the motor-car was the worst offence; and so it is. but cheeking the police undoubtedly carries the severest penalty; and so it ought. supposing you were to say twelve months for the theft, which is mild; and three years for the furious driving, which is lenient; and fifteen years for the cheek, which was pretty bad sort of cheek, judging by what we've heard from the witness-box, even if you only believe one-tenth part of what you heard, and i never believe more myself--those figures, if added together correctly, tot up to nineteen years--" "first-rate!" said the chairman. "--so you had better make it a round twenty years and be on the safe side," concluded the clerk. "an excellent suggestion!" said the chairman approvingly. "prisoner! pull yourself together and try and stand up straight. it's going to be twenty years for you this time. and mind, if you appear before us again, upon any charge whatever, we shall have to deal with you very seriously!" then the brutal minions of the law fell upon the hapless toad; loaded him with chains, and dragged him from the court house, shrieking, praying, protesting; across the market-place, where the playful populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic and helpful when one is merely "wanted," assailed him with jeers, carrots, and popular catch-words; past hooting school children, their innocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight of a gentleman in difficulties; across the hollow-sounding drawbridge, below the spiky portcullis, under the frowning archway of the grim old castle, whose ancient towers soared high overhead; past guardrooms full of grinning soldiery off duty, past sentries who coughed in a horrid, sarcastic way, because that is as much as a sentry on his post dare do to show his contempt and abhorrence of crime; up time-worn winding stairs, past men-at-arms in casquet and corselet of steel, darting threatening looks through their vizards; across courtyards, where mastiffs strained at their leash and pawed the air to get at him; past ancient warders, their halberds leant against the wall, dozing over a pasty and a flagon of brown ale; on and on, past the rack-chamber and the thumbscrew-room, past the turning that led to the private scaffold, till they reached the door of the grimmest dungeon that lay in the heart of the innermost keep. there at last they paused, where an ancient gaoler sat fingering a bunch of mighty keys. [illustration: _toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon_] "oddsbodikins!" said the sergeant of police, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead. "rouse thee, old loon, and take over from us this vile toad, a criminal of deepest guilt and matchless artfulness and resource. watch and ward him with all thy skill; and mark thee well, greybeard, should aught untoward befall, thy old head shall answer for his--and a murrain on both of them!" the gaoler nodded grimly, laying his withered hand on the shoulder of the miserable toad. the rusty key creaked in the lock, the great door clanged behind them; and toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon of the best-guarded keep of the stoutest castle in all the length and breadth of merry england. vii the piper at the gates of dawn the willow-wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in the dark selvedge of the river bank. though it was past ten o'clock at night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of light from the departed day; and the sullen heats of the torrid afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool fingers of the short midsummer night. mole lay stretched on the bank, still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been cloudless from dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to return. he had been on the river with some companions, leaving the water rat free to keep an engagement of long standing with otter; and he had come back to find the house dark and deserted, and no sign of rat, who was doubtless keeping it up late with his old comrade. it was still too hot to think of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool dock-leaves, and thought over the past day and its doings, and how very good they all had been. the rat's light footfall was presently heard approaching over the parched grass. "o, the blessed coolness!" he said, and sat down, gazing thoughtfully into the river, silent and pre-occupied. "you stayed to supper, of course?" said the mole presently. "simply had to," said the rat. "they wouldn't hear of my going before. you know how kind they always are. and they made things as jolly for me as ever they could, right up to the moment i left. but i felt a brute all the time, as it was clear to me they were very unhappy, though they tried to hide it. mole, i'm afraid they're in trouble. little portly is missing again; and you know what a lot his father thinks of him, though he never says much about it." "what, that child?" said the mole lightly. "well, suppose he is; why worry about it? he's always straying off and getting lost, and turning up again; he's so adventurous. but no harm ever happens to him. everybody hereabouts knows him and likes him, just as they do old otter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across him and bring him back again all right. why, we've found him ourselves, miles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful!" "yes; but this time it's more serious," said the rat gravely. "he's been missing for some days now, and the otters have hunted everywhere, high and low, without finding the slightest trace. and they've asked every animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about him. otter's evidently more anxious than he'll admit. i got out of him that young portly hasn't learnt to swim very well yet, and i can see he's thinking of the weir. there's a lot of water coming down still, considering the time of the year, and the place always had a fascination for the child. and then there are--well, traps and things--_you_ know. otter's not the fellow to be nervous about any son of his before it's time. and now he _is_ nervous. when i left, he came out with me--said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching his legs. but i could see it wasn't that, so i drew him out and pumped him, and got it all from him at last. he was going to spend the night watching by the ford. you know the place where the old ford used to be, in by-gone days before they built the bridge?" "i know it well," said the mole. "but why should otter choose to watch there?" "well, it seems that it was there he gave portly his first swimming-lesson," continued the rat. "from that shallow, gravelly spit near the bank. and it was there he used to teach him fishing, and there young portly caught his first fish, of which he was so very proud. the child loved the spot, and otter thinks that if he came wandering back from wherever he is--if he _is_ anywhere by this time, poor little chap--he might make for the ford he was so fond of; or if he came across it he'd remember it well, and stop there and play, perhaps. so otter goes there every night and watches--on the chance, you know, just on the chance!" they were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing--the lonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by the ford, watching and waiting, the long night through--on the chance. "well, well," said the rat presently, "i suppose we ought to be thinking about turning in." but he never offered to move. "rat," said the mole, "i simply can't go and turn in, and go to sleep, and _do_ nothing, even though there doesn't seem to be anything to be done. we'll get the boat out, and paddle upstream. the moon will be up in an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can--anyhow, it will be better than going to bed and doing _nothing_." "just what i was thinking myself," said the rat. "it's not the sort of night for bed anyhow; and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we may pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along." they got the boat out, and the rat took the sculls, paddling with caution. out in mid-stream, there was a clear, narrow track that faintly reflected the sky; but wherever shadows fell on the water from bank, bush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks themselves, and the mole had to steer with judgment accordingly. dark and deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were up and about, plying their trades and vocations through the night till sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their well-earned repose. the water's own noises, too, were more apparent than by day, its gurglings and "cloops" more unexpected and near at hand; and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call from an actual articulate voice. the line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew. at last, over the rim of the waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to see surfaces--meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous. their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognised again under it. fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent, silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees, the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways. embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest; till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and left them, and mystery once more held field and river. then a change began slowly to declare itself. the horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look; the mystery began to drop away from them. a bird piped suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling. rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness. mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity. "it's gone!" sighed the rat, sinking back in his seat again. "so beautiful and strange and new! since it was to end so soon, i almost wish i had never heard it. for it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it for ever. no! there it is again!" he cried, alert once more. entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound. "now it passes on and i begin to lose it," he said presently. "o mole! the beauty of it! the merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping! such music i never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet! row on, mole, row! for the music and the call must be for us." the mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. "i hear nothing myself," he said, "but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers." the rat never answered, if indeed he heard. rapt, transported, trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp. in silence mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. with a slight movement of his head rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines, directed the rower to take the backwater. the creeping tide of light gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers that gemmed the water's edge. "clearer and nearer still," cried the rat joyously. "now you must surely hear it! ah--at last--i see you do!" breathless and transfixed, the mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and possessed him utterly. he saw the tears on his comrade's cheeks, and bowed his head and understood. for a space they hung there, brushed by the purple loosestrife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will on mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again. and the light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to do at the approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was marvellously still. on either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. then the murmur of the approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely awaited their expedition. a wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders of green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank, troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating foam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and soothing rumble. in midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir's shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with willow and silver birch and alder. reserved, shy, but full of significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called and chosen. slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken, tumultuous water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island. in silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with nature's own orchard-trees--crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe. "this is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me," whispered the rat, as if in a trance. "here, in this holy place, here if anywhere, surely we shall find him!" then suddenly the mole felt a great awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground. it was no panic terror--indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and happy--but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august presence was very, very near. with difficulty he turned to look for his friend, and saw him at his side, cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. and still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and still the light grew and grew. perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and imperious. he might not refuse, were death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while nature, flushed with fulness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the friend and helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter. all this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered. "rat!" he found breath to whisper, shaking. "are you afraid?" "afraid?" murmured the rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. "afraid! of _him_? o, never, never! and yet--and yet--o, mole, i am afraid!" then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship. sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. when they were able to look once more, the vision had vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn. as they stared blankly, in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realised all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses, and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with its soft touch came instant oblivion. for this is the last best gift that the kindly demi-god is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should be happy and light-hearted as before. mole rubbed his eyes and stared at rat, who was looking about him in a puzzled sort of way. "i beg your pardon; what did you say, rat?" he asked. "i think i was only remarking," said rat slowly, "that this was the right sort of place, and that here, if anywhere, we should find him. and look! why, there he is, the little fellow!" and with a cry of delight he ran towards the slumbering portly. but mole stood still a moment, held in thought. as one wakened suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, and can recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty! till that, too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties; so mole, after struggling with his memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and followed the rat. portly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the sight of his father's friends, who had played with him so often in past days. in a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to hunting round in a circle with pleading whine. as a child that has fallen happily asleep in its nurse's arms, and wakes to find itself alone and laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards, and runs from room to room, despair growing silently in its heart, even so portly searched the island and searched, dogged and unwearying, till at last the black moment came for giving it up, and sitting down and crying bitterly. the mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal; but rat, lingering, looked long and doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep in the sward. "some--great--animal--has been here," he murmured slowly and thoughtfully; and stood musing, musing; his mind strangely stirred. "come along, rat!" called the mole. "think of poor otter, waiting up there by the ford!" portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat--a jaunt on the river in mr. rat's real boat; and the two animals conducted him to the water's side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of the boat, and paddled off down the backwater. the sun was fully up by now, and hot on them, birds sang lustily and without restraint, and flowers smiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow--so thought the animals--with less of richness and blaze of colour than they seemed to remember seeing quite recently somewhere--they wondered where. the main river reached again, they turned the boat's head upstream, towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely vigil. as they drew near the familiar ford, the mole took the boat in to the bank, and they lifted portly out and set him on his legs on the tow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat on the back, and shoved out into mid-stream. they watched the little animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance; watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines and wriggles of recognition. looking up the river, they could see otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path. then the mole, with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily ended. "i feel strangely tired, rat," said the mole, leaning wearily over his oars, as the boat drifted. "it's being up all night, you'll say, perhaps; but that's nothing. we do as much half the nights of the week, at this time of the year. no; i feel as if i had been through something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and yet nothing particular has happened." "or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful," murmured the rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. "i feel just as you do, mole; simply dead tired, though not body-tired. it's lucky we've got the stream with us, to take us home. isn't it jolly to feel the sun again, soaking into one's bones! and hark to the wind playing in the reeds!" "it's like music--far-away music," said the mole, nodding drowsily. "so i was thinking," murmured the rat, dreamful and languid. "dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--i catch them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing but the reeds' soft thin whispering." "you hear better than i," said the mole sadly. "i cannot catch the words." "let me try and give you them," said the rat softly, his eyes still closed. "now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--_lest the awe should dwell--and turn your frolic to fret--you shall look on my power at the helping hour--but then you shall forget!_ now the reeds take it up--_forget, forget_, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle and a whisper. then the voice returns-- "_lest limbs be reddened and rent--i spring the trap that is set--as i loose the snare you may glimpse me there--for surely you shall forget!_ row nearer, mole, nearer to the reeds! it is hard to catch, and grows each minute fainter. "_helper and healer, i cheer--small waifs in the woodland wet--strays i find in it, wounds i bind in it--bidding them all forget!_ nearer, mole, nearer! no, it is no good; the song has died away into reed-talk." "but what do the words mean?" asked the wondering mole. "that i do not know," said the rat simply. "i passed them on to you as they reached me. ah! now they return again, and this time full and clear! this time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing, simple--passionate--perfect--" "well, let's have it, then," said the mole, after he had waited patiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun. but no answer came. he looked, and understood the silence. with a smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look still lingering there, the weary rat was fast asleep. viii toad's adventures when toad found himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and knew that all the grim darkness of a medieval fortress lay between him and the outer world of sunshine and well-metalled high roads where he had lately been so happy, disporting himself as if he had bought up every road in england, he flung himself at full length on the floor, and shed bitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair. "this is the end of everything" (he said), "at least it is the end of the career of toad, which is the same thing; the popular and handsome toad, the rich and hospitable toad, the toad so free and careless and debonair! how can i hope to be ever set at large again" (he said), "who have been imprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a motor-car in such an audacious manner, and for such lurid and imaginative cheek, bestowed upon such a number of fat, red-faced policemen!" (here his sobs choked him.) "stupid animal that i was" (he said), "now i must languish in this dungeon, till people who were proud to say they knew me, have forgotten the very name of toad! o wise old badger!" (he said), "o clever, intelligent rat and sensible mole! what sound judgments, what a knowledge of men and matters you possess! o unhappy and forsaken toad!" with lamentations such as these he passed his days and nights for several weeks, refusing his meals or intermediate light refreshments, though the grim and ancient gaoler, knowing that toad's pockets were well lined, frequently pointed out that many comforts, and indeed luxuries, could by arrangement be sent in--at a price--from outside. now the gaoler had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who assisted her father in the lighter duties of his post. she was particularly fond of animals, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung on a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great annoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was shrouded in an antimacassar on the parlour table at night, she kept several piebald mice and a restless revolving squirrel. this kind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of toad, said to her father one day, "father! i can't bear to see that poor beast so unhappy, and getting so thin! you let me have the managing of him. you know how fond of animals i am. i'll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and do all sorts of things." her father replied that she could do what she liked with him. he was tired of toad, and his sulks and his airs and his meanness. so that day she went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of toad's cell. "now, cheer up, toad," she said, coaxingly, on entering, "and sit up and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. and do try and eat a bit of dinner. see, i've brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!" it was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled the narrow cell. the penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of toad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the idea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate thing as he had imagined. but still he wailed, and kicked with his legs, and refused to be comforted. so the wise girl retired for the time, but, of course, a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained behind, as it will do, and toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set down on the table at toad hall, and the scrape of chair-legs on the floor as every one pulled himself close up to his work. the air of the narrow cell took a rosy tinge; he began to think of his friends, and how they would surely be able to do something; of lawyers, and how they would have enjoyed his case, and what an ass he had been not to get in a few; and lastly, he thought of his own great cleverness and resource, and all that he was capable of if he only gave his great mind to it; and the cure was almost complete. [illustration: _he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor_] when the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. the smell of that buttered toast simply talked to toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over, and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries. toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea and munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself, and the house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he was, and what a lot his friends thought of him. the gaoler's daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good as the tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on. "tell me about toad hall," said she. "it sounds beautiful." "toad hall," said the toad proudly, "is an eligible, self-contained gentleman's residence, very unique; dating in part from the fourteenth century, but replete with every modern convenience. up-to-date sanitation. five minutes from church, post-office, and golf-links. suitable for--" "bless the animal," said the girl, laughing, "i don't want to _take_ it. tell me something _real_ about it. but first wait till i fetch you some more tea and toast." she tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful; and toad, pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored to their usual level, told her about the boat-house, and the fish-pond, and the old walled kitchen-garden; and about the pig-styes and the stables, and the pigeon-house and the hen-house; and about the dairy, and the wash-house, and the china-cupboards, and the linen-presses (she liked that bit especially); and about the banqueting-hall, and the fun they had there when the other animals were gathered round the table and toad was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on generally. then she wanted to know about his animal-friends, and was very interested in all he had to tell her about them and how they lived, and what they did to pass their time. of course, she did not say she was fond of animals as _pets_, because she had the sense to see that toad would be extremely offended. when she said good-night, having filled his water-jug and shaken up his straw for him, toad was very much the same sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old. he sang a little song or two, of the sort he used to sing at his dinner-parties, curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent night's rest and the pleasantest of dreams. they had many interesting talks together, after that, as the dreary days went on; and the gaoler's daughter grew very sorry for toad, and thought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked up in prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence. toad, of course, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from a growing tenderness; and he could not help half-regretting that the social gulf between them was so very wide, for she was a comely lass, and evidently admired him very much. one morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and did not seem to toad to be paying proper attention to his witty sayings and sparkling comments. "toad," she said presently, "just listen, please. i have an aunt who is a washerwoman." "there, there," said toad, graciously and affably, "never mind; think no more about it. _i_ have several aunts who _ought_ to be washerwomen." "do be quiet a minute, toad," said the girl. "you talk too much, that's your chief fault, and i'm trying to think, and you hurt my head. as i said, i have an aunt who is a washerwoman; she does the washing for all the prisoners in this castle--we try to keep any paying business of that sort in the family, you understand. she takes out the washing on monday morning, and brings it in on friday evening. this is a thursday. now, this is what occurs to me: you're very rich--at least you're always telling me so--and she's very poor. a few pounds wouldn't make any difference to you, and it would mean a lot to her. now, i think if she were properly approached--squared, i believe is the word you animals use--you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. you're very alike in many respects--particularly about the figure." "we're _not_," said the toad in a huff. "i have a very elegant figure--for what i am." "so has my aunt," replied the girl, "for what _she_ is. but have it your own way. you horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when i'm sorry for you, and trying to help you!" "yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed," said the toad hurriedly. "but look here! you wouldn't surely have mr. toad, of toad hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!" "then you can stop here as a toad," replied the girl with much spirit. "i suppose you want to go off in a coach-and-four!" honest toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong. "you are a good, kind, clever girl," he said, "and i am indeed a proud and a stupid toad. introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind, and i have no doubt that the excellent lady and i will be able to arrange terms satisfactory to both parties." next evening the girl ushered her aunt into toad's cell, bearing his week's washing pinned up in a towel. the old lady had been prepared beforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain gold sovereigns that toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically completed the matter and left little further to discuss. in return for his cash, toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a rusty black bonnet; the only stipulation the old lady made being that she should be gagged and bound and dumped down in a corner. by this not very convincing artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction which she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation, in spite of the suspicious appearance of things. toad was delighted with the suggestion. it would enable him to leave the prison in some style, and with his reputation for being a desperate and dangerous fellow untarnished; and he readily helped the gaoler's daughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of circumstances over which she had no control. "now it's your turn, toad," said the girl. "take off that coat and waistcoat of yours; you're fat enough as it is." shaking with laughter, she proceeded to "hook-and-eye" him into the cotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin. "you're the very image of her," she giggled, "only i'm sure you never looked half so respectable in all your life before. now, good-bye, toad, and good luck. go straight down the way you came up; and if any one says anything to you, as they probably will, being but men, you can chaff back a bit, of course, but remember you're a widow woman, quite alone in the world, with a character to lose." with a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, toad set forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hare-brained and hazardous undertaking; but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how easy everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought that both his popularity, and the sex that seemed to inspire it, were really another's. the washerwoman's squat figure in its familiar cotton print seemed a passport for every barred door and grim gateway; even when he hesitated, uncertain as to the right turning to take, he found himself helped out of his difficulty by the warder at the next gate, anxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp and not keep him waiting there all night. the chaff and the humourous sallies to which he was subjected, and to which, of course, he had to provide prompt and effective reply, formed, indeed, his chief danger; for toad was an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the chaff was mostly (he thought) poor and clumsy, and the humour of the sallies entirely lacking. however, he kept his temper, though with great difficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed character, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste. it seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejected the pressing invitations from the last guardroom, and dodged the outspread arms of the last warder, pleading with simulated passion for just one farewell embrace. but at last he heard the wicket-gate in the great outer door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world upon his anxious brow, and knew that he was free! dizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly towards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he should do next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove himself as quickly as possible from the neighbourhood where the lady he was forced to represent was so well-known and so popular a character. as he walked along, considering, his attention was caught by some red and green lights a little way off, to one side of the town, and the sound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of shunted trucks fell on his ear. "aha!" he thought, "this is a piece of luck! a railway station is the thing i want most in the whole world at this moment; and what's more, i needn't go through the town to get it, and shan't have to support this humiliating character by repartees which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one's sense of self-respect." he made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a time-table, and found that a train, bound more or less in the direction of his home, was due to start in half-an-hour. "more luck!" said toad, his spirits rising rapidly, and went off to the booking-office to buy his ticket. he gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the village of which toad hall was the principal feature, and mechanically put his fingers, in search of the necessary money, where his waistcoat pocket should have been. but here the cotton gown, which had nobly stood by him so far, and which he had basely forgotten, intervened, and frustrated his efforts. in a sort of nightmare he struggled with the strange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular strivings to water, and laugh at him all the time; while other travellers, forming up in a line behind, waited with impatience, making suggestions of more or less value and comments of more or less stringency and point. at last--somehow--he never rightly understood how--he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all waistcoat pockets are eternally situated, and found--not only no money, but no pocket to hold it, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket! to his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat behind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys, watch, matches, pencil-case--all that makes life worth living, all that distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation, from the inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest. in his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off, and, with a return to his fine old manner--a blend of the squire and the college don--he said, "look here! i find i've left my purse behind. just give me that ticket, will you, and i'll send the money on to-morrow? i'm well-known in these parts." the clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then laughed. "i should think you were pretty well known in these parts," he said, "if you've tried this game on often. here, stand away from the window, please, madam; you're obstructing the other passengers!" an old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some moments here thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as his good woman, which angered toad more than anything that had occurred that evening. baffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform where the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of his nose. it was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and almost of home, and to be baulked by the want of a few wretched shillings and by the pettifogging mistrustfulness of paid officials. very soon his escape would be discovered, the hunt would be up, he would be caught, reviled, loaded with chains, dragged back again to prison and bread-and-water and straw; his guards and penalties would be doubled; and o, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make! what was to be done? he was not swift of foot; his figure was unfortunately recognisable. could he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage? he had seen this method adopted by schoolboys, when the journey-money provided by thoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better ends. as he pondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was being oiled, wiped, and generally caressed by its affectionate driver, a burly man with an oil-can in one hand and a lump of cotton-waste in the other. "hullo, mother!" said the engine-driver, "what's the trouble? you don't look particularly cheerful." "o, sir!" said toad, crying afresh, "i am a poor unhappy washerwoman, and i've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and i _must_ get home to-night somehow, and whatever i am to do i don't know. o dear, o dear!" "that's a bad business, indeed," said the engine-driver reflectively. "lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting for you, i dare say?" "any amount of 'em," sobbed toad. "and they'll be hungry--and playing with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and quarrelling, and going on generally. o dear, o dear!" "well, i'll tell you what i'll do," said the good engine-driver. "you're a washerwoman to your trade, says you. very well, that's that. and i'm an engine-driver, as you well may see, and there's no denying it's terribly dirty work. uses up a power of shirts, it does, till my missus is fair tired of washing of 'em. if you'll wash a few shirts for me when you get home, and send 'em along, i'll give you a ride on my engine. it's against the company's regulations, but we're not so very particular in these out-of-the-way parts." the toad's misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into the cab of the engine. of course, he had never washed a shirt in his life, and couldn't if he tried and, anyhow, he wasn't going to begin; but he thought: "when i get safely home to toad hall, and have money again, and pockets to put it in, i will send the engine-driver enough to pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same thing, or better." the guard waved his welcome flag, the engine-driver whistled in cheerful response, and the train moved out of the station. as the speed increased, and the toad could see on either side of him real fields, and trees, and hedges, and cows, and horses, all flying past him, and as he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to toad hall, and sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket, and a soft bed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and admiration at the recital of his adventures and his surpassing cleverness, he began to skip up and down and shout and sing snatches of song, to the great astonishment of the engine-driver, who had come across washerwomen before, at long intervals, but never one at all like this. they had covered many and many a mile, and toad was already considering what he would have for supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed that the engine-driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was leaning over the side of the engine and listening hard. then he saw him climb on to the coals and gaze out over the top of the train; then he returned and said to toad: "it's very strange; we're the last train running in this direction to-night, yet i could be sworn that i heard another following us!" toad ceased his frivolous antics at once. he became grave and depressed, and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine, communicating itself to his legs, made him want to sit down and try desperately not to think of all the possibilities. by this time the moon was shining brightly, and the engine-driver, steadying himself on the coal, could command a view of the line behind them for a long distance. presently he called out, "i can see it clearly now! it is an engine, on our rails, coming along at a great pace! it looks as if we were being pursued!" the miserable toad, crouching in the coal-dust, tried hard to think of something to do, with dismal want of success. "they are gaining on us fast!" cried the engine-driver. "and the engine is crowded with the queerest lot of people! men like ancient warders, waving halberds; policemen in their helmets, waving truncheons; and shabbily dressed men in pot-hats, obvious and unmistakable plain-clothes detectives even at this distance, waving revolvers and walking-sticks; all waving, and all shouting the same thing--'stop, stop, stop!'" then toad fell on his knees among the coals, and, raising his clasped paws in supplication, cried, "save me, only save me, dear kind mr. engine-driver, and i will confess everything! i am not the simple washerwoman i seem to be! i have no children waiting for me, innocent or otherwise! i am a toad--the well-known and popular mr. toad, a landed proprietor; i have just escaped, by my great daring and cleverness, from a loathsome dungeon into which my enemies had flung me; and if those fellows on that engine recapture me, it will be chains and bread-and-water and straw and misery once more for poor, unhappy, innocent toad!" the engine-driver looked down upon him very sternly, and said, "now tell the truth; what were you put in prison for?" "it was nothing very much," said poor toad, colouring deeply. "i only borrowed a motor-car while the owners were at lunch; they had no need of it at the time. i didn't mean to steal it, really; but people--especially magistrates--take such harsh views of thoughtless and high-spirited actions." the engine-driver looked very grave and said, "i fear that you have been indeed a wicked toad, and by rights i ought to give you up to offended justice. but you are evidently in sore trouble and distress, so i will not desert you. i don't hold with motor-cars, for one thing; and i don't hold with being ordered about by policemen when i'm on my own engine, for another. and the sight of an animal in tears always makes me feel queer and soft-hearted. so cheer up, toad! i'll do my best, and we may beat them yet!" they piled on more coals, shovelling furiously; the furnace roared, the sparks flew, the engine leapt and swung, but still their pursuers slowly gained. the engine-driver, with a sigh, wiped his brow with a handful of cotton-waste, and said, "i'm afraid it's no good, toad. you see, they are running light, and they have the better engine. there's just one thing left for us to do, and it's your only chance, so attend very carefully to what i tell you. a short way ahead of us is a long tunnel, and on the other side of that the line passes through a thick wood. now, i will put on all the speed i can while we are running through the tunnel, but the other fellows will slow down a bit, naturally, for fear of an accident. when we are through, i will shut off steam and put on brakes as hard as i can, and the moment it's safe to do so you must jump and hide in the wood, before they get through the tunnel and see you. then i will go full speed ahead again, and they can chase me if they like, for as long as they like, and as far as they like. now mind and be ready to jump when i tell you!" they piled on more coals, and the train shot into the tunnel, and the engine rushed and roared and rattled, till at last they shot out at the other end into fresh air and the peaceful moonlight, and saw the wood lying dark and helpful upon either side of the line. the driver shut off steam and put on brakes, the toad got down on the step, and as the train slowed down to almost a walking pace he heard the driver call out, "now, jump!" toad jumped, rolled down a short embankment, picked himself up unhurt, scrambled into the wood and hid. peeping out, he saw his train get up speed again and disappear at a great pace. then out of the tunnel burst the pursuing engine, roaring and whistling, her motley crew waving their various weapons and shouting, "stop! stop! stop!" when they were past, the toad had a hearty laugh--for the first time since he was thrown into prison. but he soon stopped laughing when he came to consider that it was now very late and dark and cold, and he was in an unknown wood, with no money and no chance of supper, and still far from friends and home; and the dead silence of everything, after the roar and rattle of the train, was something of a shock. he dared not leave the shelter of the trees, so he struck into the wood, with the idea of leaving the railway as far as possible behind him. after so many weeks within walls, he found the wood strange and unfriendly and inclined, he thought, to make fun of him. night-jars, sounding their mechanical rattle, made him think that the wood was full of searching warders, closing in on him. an owl, swooping noiselessly towards him, brushed his shoulder with its wing, making him jump with the horrid certainty that it was a hand; then flitted off, moth-like, laughing its low ho! ho! ho! which toad thought in very poor taste. once he met a fox, who stopped, looked him up and down in a sarcastic sort of way, and said, "hullo, washerwoman! half a pair of socks and a pillow-case short this week! mind it doesn't occur again!" and swaggered off, sniggering. toad looked about for a stone to throw at him, but could not succeed in finding one, which vexed him more than anything. at last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning. ix wayfarers all the water rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why. to all appearance the summer's pomp was still at fullest height, and although in the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowans were reddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny fierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing year. but the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to a casual evensong from a few yet unwearied performers; the robin was beginning to assert himself once more; and there was a feeling in the air of change and departure. the cuckoo, of course, had long been silent; but many another feathered friend, for months a part of the familiar landscape and its small society, was missing too, and it seemed that the ranks thinned steadily day by day. rat, ever observant of all winged movement, saw that it was taking daily a southing tendency; and even as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out, passing in the darkness overhead, the beat and quiver of impatient pinions, obedient to the peremptory call. nature's grand hotel has its season, like the others. as the guests one by one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the _table-d'hôte_ shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as suites of rooms are closed, carpets taken up, and waiters sent away; those boarders who are staying on, _en pension_, until the next year's full re-opening, cannot help being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells, this eager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters, this daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship. one gets unsettled, depressed, and inclined to be querulous. why this craving for change? why not stay on quietly here, like us, and be jolly? you don't know this hotel out of the season, and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who remain and see the whole interesting year out. all very true, no doubt, the others always reply; we quite envy you--and some other year perhaps--but just now we have engagements--and there's the bus at the door--our time is up! so they depart, with a smile and a nod, and we miss them, and feel resentful. the rat was a self-sufficing sort of animal, rooted to the land, and, whoever went, he stayed; still, he could not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its influence in his bones. it was difficult to settle down to anything seriously, with all this flitting going on. leaving the water-side, where rushes stood thick and tall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and low, he wandered country-wards, crossed a field or two of pasturage already looking dusty and parched, and thrust into the great sea of wheat, yellow, wavy, and murmurous, full of quiet motion and small whisperings. here he often loved to wander, through the forest of stiff strong stalks that carried their own golden sky away over his head--a sky that was always dancing, shimmering, softly talking; or swaying strongly to the passing wind and recovering itself with a toss and a merry laugh. here, too, he had many small friends, a society complete in itself, leading full and busy lives, but always with a spare moment to gossip, and exchange news with a visitor. to-day, however, though they were civil enough, the field-mice and harvest mice seemed pre-occupied. many were digging and tunnelling busily; others, gathered together in small groups, examined plans and drawings of small flats, stated to be desirable and compact, and situated conveniently near the stores. some were hauling out dusty trunks and dress-baskets, others were already elbow-deep packing their belongings; while everywhere piles and bundles of wheat, oats, barley, beech-mast and nuts, lay about ready for transport. "here's old ratty!" they cried as soon as they saw him. "come and bear a hand, rat, and don't stand about idle!" "what sort of games are you up to?" said the water rat severely. "you know it isn't time to be thinking of winter quarters yet, by a long way!" "o yes, we know that," explained a field-mouse rather shamefacedly; "but it's always as well to be in good time, isn't it? we really _must_ get all the furniture and baggage and stores moved out of this before those horrid machines begin clicking round the fields; and then, you know, the best flats get picked up so quickly nowadays, and if you're late you have to put up with _anything_; and they want such a lot of doing up, too, before they're fit to move into. of course, we're early, we know that; but we're only just making a start." "o, bother _starts_," said the rat. "it's a splendid day. come for a row, or a stroll along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods, or something." "well, i _think_ not _to-day_, thank you," replied the field-mouse hurriedly. "perhaps some _other_ day--when we've more _time_--" the rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a hat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks. "if people would be more careful," said a field-mouse rather stiffly, "and look where they're going, people wouldn't hurt themselves--and forget themselves. mind that hold-all, rat! you'd better sit down somewhere. in an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you." "you won't be 'free' as you call it, much this side of christmas, i can see that," retorted the rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the field. he returned somewhat despondently to his river again--his faithful, steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into winter quarters. in the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting. presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low. "what, _already_," said the rat, strolling up to them. "what's the hurry? i call it simply ridiculous." "o, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean," replied the first swallow. "we're only making plans and arranging things. talking it over, you know--what route we're taking this year, and where we'll stop, and so on. that's half the fun!" "fun?" said the rat; "now that's just what i don't understand. if you've _got_ to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when the hour strikes i've no doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you're not very unhappy. but to want to talk about it, or even think about it, till you really need--" "no, you don't understand, naturally," said the second swallow. "first, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. they flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. we hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us." "couldn't you stop on for just this year?" suggested the water rat, wistfully. "we'll all do our best to make you feel at home. you've no idea what good times we have here, while you are far away." "i tried 'stopping on' one year," said the third swallow. "i had grown so fond of the place that when the time came i hung back and let the others go on without me. for a few weeks it was all well enough, but afterwards, o the weary length of the nights! the shivering, sunless days! the air so clammy and chill, and not an insect in an acre of it! no, it was no good; my courage broke down, and one cold, stormy night i took wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales. it was snowing hard as i beat through the passes of the great mountains, and i had a stiff fight to win through; but never shall i forget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as i sped down to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me, and the taste of my first fat insect! the past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as i moved southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as i dared, but always heeding the call! no, i had had my warning; never again did i think of disobedience." "ah, yes, the call of the south, of the south!" twittered the other two dreamily. "its songs, its hues, its radiant air! o, do you remember--" and, forgetting the rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while he listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him. in himself, too, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspected. the mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their pale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new sensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one moment of the real thing work in him--one passionate touch of the real southern sun, one waft of the authentic odour? with closed eyes he dared to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the river seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless. then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its treachery. "why do you ever come back, then, at all?" he demanded of the swallows jealously. "what do you find to attract you in this poor drab little country?" "and do you think," said the first swallow, "that the other call is not for us too, in its due season? the call of lush meadow-grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings clustering round the house of the perfect eaves?" "do you suppose," asked the second one, "that you are the only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note again?" "in due time," said the third, "we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an english stream. but to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. just now our blood dances to other music." they fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted walls. restlessly the rat wandered off once more, climbed the slope that rose gently from the north bank of the river, and lay looking out towards the great ring of downs that barred his vision further southwards--his simple horizon hitherto, his mountains of the moon, his limit behind which lay nothing he had cared to see or to know. to-day, to him gazing south with a new-born need stirring in his heart, the clear sky over their long low outline seemed to pulsate with promise; to-day, the unseen was everything, the unknown the only real fact of life. on this side of the hills was now the real blank, on the other lay the crowded and coloured panorama that his inner eye was seeing so clearly. what seas lay beyond, green, leaping, and crested! what sun-bathed coasts, along which the white villas glittered against the olive woods! what quiet harbours, thronged with gallant shipping bound for purple islands of wine and spice, islands set low in languorous waters! he rose and descended river-wards once more; then changed his mind and sought the side of the dusty lane. there, lying half-buried in the thick, cool under-hedge tangle that bordered it, he could muse on the metalled road and all the wondrous world that it led to; on all the wayfarers, too, that might have trodden it, and the fortunes and adventures they had gone to seek or found unseeking--out there, beyond--beyond! footsteps fell on his ear, and the figure of one that walked somewhat wearily came into view; and he saw that it was a rat, and a very dusty one. the wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted with a gesture of courtesy that had something foreign about it--hesitated a moment--then with a pleasant smile turned from the track and sat down by his side in the cool herbage. he seemed tired, and the rat let him rest unquestioned, understanding something of what was in his thoughts; knowing, too, the value all animals attach at times to mere silent companionship, when the weary muscles slacken and the mind marks time. the wayfarer was lean and keen-featured, and somewhat bowed at the shoulders; his paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled at the corners, and he wore small gold ear rings in his neatly-set well-shaped ears. his knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched and stained, were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that he carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief. when he had rested awhile the stranger sighed, snuffed the air, and looked about him. "that was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze," he remarked; "and those are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly between mouthfuls. there is a sound of distant reapers, and yonder rises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland. the river runs somewhere close by, for i hear the call of a moorhen, and i see by your build that you're a freshwater mariner. everything seems asleep, and yet going on all the time. it is a goodly life that you lead, friend; no doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead it!" "yes, it's _the_ life, the only life, to live," responded the water rat dreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction. "i did not say exactly that," replied the stranger cautiously; "but no doubt it's the best. i've tried it, and i know. and because i've just tried it--six months of it--and know it's the best, here am i, footsore and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southwards, following the old call, back to the old life, _the_ life which is mine and which will not let me go." "is this, then, yet another of them?" mused the rat. "and where have you just come from?" he asked. he hardly dared to ask where he was bound for; he seemed to know the answer only too well. "nice little farm," replied the wayfarer, briefly. "upalong in that direction--" he nodded northwards. "never mind about it. i had everything i could want--everything i had any right to expect of life, and more; and here i am! glad to be here all the same, though, glad to be here! so many miles further on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart's desire!" his shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be listening for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage, vocal as it was with the cheerful music of pasturage and farmyard. "you are not one of _us_," said the water rat, "nor yet a farmer; nor even, i should judge, of this country." "right," replied the stranger. "i'm a seafaring rat, i am, and the port i originally hail from is constantinople, though i'm a sort of a foreigner there too, in a manner of speaking. you will have heard of constantinople, friend? a fair city and an ancient and glorious one. and you may have heard too, of sigurd, king of norway, and how he sailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode up through streets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold; and how the emperor and empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship. when sigurd returned home, many of his northmen remained behind and entered the emperor's body-guard, and my ancestor, a norwegian born, stayed behind too, with the ships that sigurd gave the emperor. seafarers we have ever been, and no wonder; as for me, the city of my birth is no more my home than any pleasant port between there and the london river. i know them all, and they know me. set me down on any of their quays or foreshores, and i am home again." "i suppose you go great voyages," said the water rat with growing interest. "months and months out of sight of land, and provisions running short, and allowanced as to water, and your mind communing with the mighty ocean, and all that sort of thing?" "by no means," said the sea rat frankly. "such a life as you describe would not suit me at all. i'm in the coasting trade, and rarely out of sight of land. it's the jolly times on shore that appeal to me, as much as any seafaring. o, those southern seaports! the smell of them, the riding-lights at night, the glamour!" "well, perhaps you have chosen the better way," said the water rat, but rather doubtfully. "tell me something of your coasting, then, if you have a mind to, and what sort of harvest an animal of spirit might hope to bring home from it to warm his latter days with gallant memories by the fireside; for my life, i confess to you, feels to me to-day somewhat narrow and circumscribed." "my last voyage," began the sea rat, "that landed me eventually in this country, bound with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve as a good example of any of them, and, indeed, as an epitome of my highly-coloured life. family troubles, as usual, began it. the domestic storm-cone was hoisted, and i shipped myself on board a small trading vessel bound from constantinople, by classic seas whose every wave throbs with a deathless memory, to the grecian islands and the levant. those were golden days and balmy nights! in and out of harbour all the time--old friends everywhere--sleeping in some cool temple or ruined cistern during the heat of the day--feasting and song after sundown, under great stars set in a velvet sky! thence we turned and coasted up the adriatic, its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, and aquamarine; we lay in wide landlocked harbours, we roamed through ancient and noble cities, until at last one morning, as the sun rose royally behind us, we rode into venice down a path of gold. o, venice is a fine city, wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his pleasure! or, when weary of wandering, can sit at the edge of the grand canal at night, feasting with his friends, when the air is full of music and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on the polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas, packed so that you could walk across the canal on them from side to side! and then the food--do you like shell-fish? well, well, we won't linger over that now." he was silent for a time; and the water rat, silent too and enthralled, floated on dream-canals and heard a phantom song pealing high between vaporous grey wave-lapped walls. "southwards we sailed again at last," continued the sea rat, "coasting down the italian shore, till finally we made palermo, and there i quitted for a long, happy spell on shore. i never stick too long to one ship; one gets narrow-minded and prejudiced. besides, sicily is one of my happy hunting-grounds. i know everybody there, and their ways just suit me. i spent many jolly weeks in the island, staying with friends upcountry. when i grew restless again i took advantage of a ship that was trading to sardinia and corsica; and very glad i was to feel the fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more." "but isn't it very hot and stuffy, down in the--hold, i think you call it?" asked the water rat. the seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink. "i'm an old hand," he remarked with much simplicity. "the captain's cabin's good enough for me." "it's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the rat, sunk in deep thought. "for the crew it is," replied the seafarer gravely, again with the ghost of a wink. "from corsica," he went on, "i made use of a ship that was taking wine to the mainland. we made alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled up our wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line. then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like a mile of porpoises. on the sands they had horses waiting, which dragged the casks up the steep street of the little town with a fine rush and clatter and scramble. when the last cask was in, we went and refreshed and rested, and sat late into the night, drinking with our friends, and next morning i took to the great olive-woods for a spell and a rest. for now i had done with islands for the time, and ports and shipping were plentiful; so i led a lazy life among the peasants, lying and watching them work, or stretched high on the hillside with the blue mediterranean far below me. and so at length, by easy stages, and partly on foot, partly by sea, to marseilles, and the meeting of old shipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting once more. talk of shell-fish! why, sometimes i dream of the shell-fish of marseilles, and wake up crying!" [illustration: _"it's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the rat_] "that reminds me," said the polite water rat; "you happened to mention that you were hungry, and i ought to have spoken earlier. of course, you will stop and take your mid-day meal with me? my hole is close by; it is some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there is." "now i call that kind and brotherly of you," said the sea rat. "i was indeed hungry when i sat down, and ever since i inadvertently happened to mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme. but couldn't you fetch it along out here? i am none too fond of going under hatches, unless i'm obliged to; and then, while we eat, i could tell you more concerning my voyages and the pleasant life i lead--at least, it is very pleasant to me, and by your attention i judge it commends itself to you; whereas if we go indoors it is a hundred to one that i shall presently fall asleep." "that is indeed an excellent suggestion," said the water rat, and hurried off home. there he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long french bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far southern slopes. thus laden, he returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman's commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside. the sea rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from port to port of spain, landing him at lisbon, oporto, and bordeaux, introducing him to the pleasant harbours of cornwall and devon, and so up the channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long contrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first magical hints and heraldings of another spring, and, fired by these, had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea. spellbound and quivering with excitement, the water rat followed the adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing. by this time their meal was over, and the seafarer, refreshed and strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the red and glowing vintage of the south, and, leaning towards the water rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping northern seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the south, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. the twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the water rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless. the quiet world outside their rays receded far away and ceased to be. and the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on--or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into song--chanty of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a tearing north-easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique? did it change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle of air from the leech of the bellying sail? all these sounds the spellbound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting shingle. back into speech again it passed, and with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand. of deep-sea fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile-long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or the tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog; of the merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened out; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash of the hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the comforting glow of red-curtained windows. lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the adventurer had risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with his sea-grey eyes. "and now," he was softly saying, "i take to the road again, holding on southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last i reach the little grey sea town i know so well, that clings along one steep side of the harbour. there through dark doorways you look down flights of stone steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a patch of sparkling blue water. the little boats that lie tethered to the rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those i clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. there, sooner or later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. i shall take my time, i shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting for me, warped out into mid-stream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down harbour. i shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one morning i shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in. we shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have begun! as she forges towards the headland she will clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing south! "and you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and never return, and the south still waits for you. take the adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes! 'tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new! then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company. you can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young, and i am ageing and go softly. i will linger, and look back; and at last i will surely see you coming, eager and light-hearted, with all the south in your face!" the voice died away and ceased as an insect's tiny trumpet dwindles swiftly into silence; and the water rat, paralysed and staring, saw at last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road. mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket, carefully and without haste. mechanically he returned home, gathered together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of, and put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about the room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. he swung the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped across the threshold just as the mole appeared at the door. "why, where are you off to, ratty?" asked the mole in great surprise, grasping him by the arm. "going south, with the rest of them," murmured the rat in a dreamy monotone, never looking at him. "seawards first and then on shipboard, and so to the shores that are calling me!" he pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of purpose; but the mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set and turned a streaked and shifting grey--not his friend's eyes, but the eyes of some other animal! grappling with him strongly he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him. the rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with closed eyes, trembling. presently the mole assisted him to rise and placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into an hysterical fit of dry sobbing. mole made the door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. gradually the rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber. very anxious in mind, the mole left him for a time and busied himself with household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to the parlour and found the rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but listless, silent, and dejected. he took one hasty glance at his eyes; found them, to his great gratification, clear and dark and brown again as before; and then sat down and tried to cheer him up and help him to relate what had happened to him. poor ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? how recall, for another's benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how reproduce at second-hand the magic of the seafarer's hundred reminiscences? even to himself, now the spell was broken and the glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed, some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. it is not surprising, then, that he failed to convey to the mole any clear idea of what he had been through that day. to the mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away, and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the reaction. but he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the things that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant forecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season was surely bringing. casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bare acres dotted with sheaves. he talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply lyrical. by degrees the rat began to sit up and to join in. his dull eye brightened, and he lost some of his listening air. presently the tactful mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his friend's elbow. "it's quite a long time since you did any poetry," he remarked. "you might have a try at it this evening, instead of--well, brooding over things so much. i've an idea that you'll feel a lot better when you've got something jotted down--if it's only just the rhymes." the rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet mole took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time later, the rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. it is true that he sucked a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the mole to know that the cure had at least begun. x the further adventures of toad the front door of the hollow tree faced eastwards, so toad was called at an early hour; partly by the bright sunlight streaming in on him, partly by the exceeding coldness of his toes, which made him dream that he was at home in bed in his own handsome room with the tudor window, on a cold winter's night, and his bed-clothes had got up, grumbling and protesting they couldn't stand the cold any longer, and had run downstairs to the kitchen fire to warm themselves; and he had followed, on bare feet, along miles and miles of icy stone-paved passages, arguing and beseeching them to be reasonable. he would probably have been aroused much earlier, had he not slept for some weeks on straw over stone flags, and almost forgotten the friendly feeling of thick blankets pulled well up round the chin. sitting up, he rubbed his eyes first and his complaining toes next, wondered for a moment where he was, looking round for familiar stone wall and little barred window; then, with a leap of the heart, remembered everything--his escape, his flight, his pursuit; remembered, first and best thing of all, that he was free! free! the word and the thought alone were worth fifty blankets. he was warm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting eagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and play up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it always had been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him. he shook himself and combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his fingers; and, his toilet complete, marched forth into the comfortable morning sun, cold but confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous terrors of yesterday dispelled by rest and sleep and frank and heartening sunshine. he had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. the dewy woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still: the green fields that succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road itself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere, seemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company. toad, however, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him clearly which way he ought to go. it is all very well, when you have a light heart, and a clear conscience, and money in your pocket, and nobody scouring the country for you to drag you off to prison again, to follow where the road beckons and points, not caring whither. the practical toad cared very much indeed, and he could have kicked the road for its helpless silence when every minute was of importance to him. the reserved rustic road was presently joined by a shy little brother in the shape of a canal, which took its hand and ambled along by its side in perfect confidence, but with the same tongue-tied, uncommunicative attitude towards strangers. "bother them!" said toad to himself. "but, anyhow, one thing's clear. they must both be coming _from_ somewhere, and going _to_ somewhere. you can't get over that, toad, my boy!" so he marched on patiently by the water's edge. round a bend in the canal came plodding a solitary horse, stooping forward as if in anxious thought. from rope traces attached to his collar stretched a long line, taut, but dipping with his stride, the further part of it dripping pearly drops. toad let the horse pass, and stood waiting for what the fates were sending him. with a pleasant swirl of quiet water at its blunt bow the barge slid up alongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level with the towing-path, its sole occupant a big stout woman wearing a linen sun-bonnet, one brawny arm laid along the tiller. "a nice morning, ma'am!" she remarked to toad, as she drew up level with him. "i dare say it is, ma'am!" responded toad politely, as he walked along the tow-path abreast of her. "i dare say it is a nice morning to them that's not in sore trouble, like what i am. here's my married daughter, she sends off to me post-haste to come to her at once; so off i comes, not knowing what may be happening or going to happen, but fearing the worst, as you will understand, ma'am, if you're a mother, too. and i've left my business to look after itself--i'm in the washing and laundering line, you must know, ma'am--and i've left my young children to look after themselves, and a more mischievous and troublesome set of young imps doesn't exist, ma'am; and i've lost all my money, and lost my way, and as for what may be happening to my married daughter, why, i don't like to think of it, ma'am!" "where might your married daughter be living, ma'am?" asked the barge-woman. "she lives near to the river, ma'am," replied toad. "close to a fine house called toad hall, that's somewheres hereabouts in these parts. perhaps you may have heard of it." "toad hall? why, i'm going that way myself," replied the barge-woman. "this canal joins the river some miles further on, a little above toad hall; and then it's an easy walk. you come along in the barge with me, and i'll give you a lift." she steered the barge close to the bank, and toad, with many humble and grateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board and sat down with great satisfaction. "toad's luck again!" thought he. "i always come out on top!" "so you're in the washing business, ma'am?" said the barge-woman politely, as they glided along. "and a very good business you've got too, i dare say, if i'm not making too free in saying so." "finest business in the whole country," said toad airily. "all the gentry come to me--wouldn't go to any one else if they were paid, they know me so well. you see, i understand my work thoroughly, and attend to it all myself. washing, ironing, clear-starching, making up gents' fine shirts for evening wear--everything's done under my own eye!" "but surely you don't _do_ all that work yourself, ma'am?" asked the barge-woman respectfully. "o, i have girls," said toad lightly: "twenty girls or thereabouts, always at work. but you know what _girls_ are, ma'am! nasty little hussies, that's what _i_ call 'em!" "so do i, too," said the barge-woman with great heartiness. "but i dare say you set yours to rights, the idle trollops! and are you _very_ fond of washing?" "i love it," said toad. "i simply dote on it. never so happy as when i've got both arms in the wash-tub. but, then, it comes so easy to me! no trouble at all! a real pleasure, i assure you, ma'am!" "what a bit of luck, meeting you!" observed the barge-woman, thoughtfully. "a regular piece of good fortune for both of us!" "why, what do you mean?" asked toad, nervously. "well, look at me, now," replied the barge-woman. "_i_ like washing, too, just the same as you do; and for that matter, whether i like it or not i have got to do all my own, naturally, moving about as i do. now my husband, he's such a fellow for shirking his work and leaving the barge to me, that never a moment do i get for seeing to my own affairs. by rights he ought to be here now, either steering or attending to the horse, though luckily the horse has sense enough to attend to himself. instead of which, he's gone off with the dog, to see if they can't pick up a rabbit for dinner somewhere. says he'll catch me up at the next lock. well, that's as may be--i don't trust him, once he gets off with that dog, who's worse than he is. but meantime, how am i to get on with my washing?" "o, never mind about the washing," said toad, not liking the subject. "try and fix your mind on that rabbit. a nice fat young rabbit, i'll be bound. got any onions?" "i can't fix my mind on anything but my washing," said the barge-woman, "and i wonder you can be talking of rabbits, with such a joyful prospect before you. there's a heap of things of mine that you'll find in a corner of the cabin. if you'll just take one or two of the most necessary sort--i won't venture to describe them to a lady like you, but you'll recognise them at a glance--and put them through the wash-tub as we go along, why, it'll be a pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a real help to me. you'll find a tub handy, and soap, and a kettle on the stove, and a bucket to haul up water from the canal with. then i shall know you're enjoying yourself, instead of sitting here idle, looking at the scenery and yawning your head off." "here, you let me steer!" said toad, now thoroughly frightened, "and then you can get on with your washing your own way. i might spoil your things, or not do 'em as you like. i'm more used to gentleman's things myself. it's my special line." "let you steer?" replied the barge-woman, laughing. "it takes some practice to steer a barge properly. besides, it's dull work, and i want you to be happy. no, you shall do the washing you are so fond of, and i'll stick to the steering that i understand. don't try and deprive me of the pleasure of giving you a treat!" toad was fairly cornered. he looked for escape this way and that, saw that he was too far from the bank for a flying leap, and sullenly resigned himself to his fate. "if it comes to that," he thought in desperation, "i suppose any fool can _wash_!" he fetched tub, soap, and other necessaries from the cabin, selected a few garments at random, tried to recollect what he had seen in casual glances through laundry windows, and set to. a long half-hour passed, and every minute of it saw toad getting crosser and crosser. nothing that he could do to the things seemed to please them or do them good. he tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he tried punching; they smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted, happy in their original sin. once or twice he looked nervously over his shoulder at the barge-woman, but she appeared to be gazing out in front of her, absorbed in her steering. his back ached badly, and he noticed with dismay that his paws were beginning to get all crinkly. now toad was very proud of his paws. he muttered under his breath words that should never pass the lips of either washerwomen or toads; and lost the soap, for the fiftieth time. a burst of laughter made him straighten himself and look round. the barge-woman was leaning back and laughing unrestrainedly, till the tears ran down her cheeks. "i've been watching you all the time," she gasped. "i thought you must be a humbug all along, from the conceited way you talked. pretty washerwoman you are! never washed so much as a dish-clout in your life, i'll lay!" toad's temper, which had been simmering viciously for some time, now fairly boiled over, and he lost all control of himself. "you common, low, _fat_ barge-woman!" he shouted; "don't you dare to talk to your betters like that! washerwoman indeed! i would have you to know that i am a toad, a very well-known, respected, distinguished toad! i may be under a bit of a cloud at present, but i will _not_ be laughed at by a barge-woman!" the woman moved nearer to him and peered under his bonnet keenly and closely. "why, so you are!" she cried. "well, i never! a horrid, nasty, crawly toad! and in my nice clean barge, too! now that is a thing that i will _not_ have." she relinquished the tiller for a moment. one big, mottled arm shot out and caught toad by a fore-leg, while the other gripped him fast by a hind-leg. then the world turned suddenly upside down, the barge seemed to flit lightly across the sky, the wind whistled in his ears, and toad found himself flying through the air, revolving rapidly as he went. the water, when he eventually reached it with a loud splash, proved quite cold enough for his taste, though its chill was not sufficient to quell his proud spirit, or slake the heat of his furious temper. he rose to the surface spluttering, and when he had wiped the duck-weed out of his eyes the first thing he saw was the fat barge-woman looking back at him over the stern of the retreating barge and laughing; and he vowed, as he coughed and choked, to be even with her. he struck out for the shore, but the cotton gown greatly impeded his efforts, and when at length he touched land he found it hard to climb up the steep bank unassisted. he had to take a minute or two's rest to recover his breath; then, gathering his wet skirts well over his arms, he started to run after the barge as fast as his legs would carry him, wild with indignation, thirsting for revenge. the barge-woman was still laughing when he drew up level with her. "put yourself through your mangle, washerwoman," she called out, "and iron your face and crimp it, and you'll pass for quite a decent-looking toad!" toad never paused to reply. solid revenge was what he wanted, not cheap, windy, verbal triumphs, though he had a thing or two in his mind that he would have liked to say. he saw what he wanted ahead of him. running swiftly on he overtook the horse, unfastened the tow-rope and cast off, jumped lightly on the horse's back, and urged it to a gallop by kicking it vigorously in the sides. he steered for the open country, abandoning the tow-path, and swinging his steed down a rutty lane. once he looked back, and saw that the barge had run aground on the other side of the canal, and the barge-woman was gesticulating wildly and shouting, "stop, stop, stop!" "i've heard that song before," said toad, laughing, as he continued to spur his steed onward in its wild career. the barge-horse was not capable of any very sustained effort, and its gallop soon subsided into a trot, and its trot into an easy walk; but toad was quite contented with this, knowing that he, at any rate, was moving, and the barge was not. he had quite recovered his temper, now that he had done something he thought really clever; and he was satisfied to jog along quietly in the sun, steering his horse along by-ways and bridle-paths, and trying to forget how very long it was since he had had a square meal, till the canal had been left very far behind him. he had travelled some miles, his horse and he, and he was feeling drowsy in the hot sunshine, when the horse stopped, lowered his head, and began to nibble the grass; and toad, waking up, just saved himself from falling off by an effort. he looked about him and found he was on a wide common, dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he could see. near him stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man was sitting on a bucket turned upside down, very busy smoking and staring into the wide world. a fire of sticks was burning near by, and over the fire hung an iron pot, and out of that pot came forth bubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive steaminess. also smells--warm, rich, and varied smells--that twined and twisted and wreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous, perfect smell that seemed like the very soul of nature taking form and appearing to her children, a true goddess, a mother of solace and comfort. toad now knew well that he had not been really hungry before. what he had felt earlier in the day had been a mere trifling qualm. this was the real thing at last, and no mistake; and it would have to be dealt with speedily, too, or there would be trouble for somebody or something. he looked the gipsy over carefully, wondering vaguely whether it would be easier to fight him or cajole him. so there he sat, and sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the gipsy; and the gipsy sat and smoked, and looked at him. presently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a careless way, "want to sell that there horse of yours?" toad was completely taken aback. he did not know that gipsies were very fond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had not reflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of drawing. it had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but the gipsy's suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things he wanted so badly--ready money, and a solid breakfast. "what?" he said, "me sell this beautiful young horse of mine? o, no; it's out of the question. who's going to take the washing home to my customers every week? besides, i'm too fond of him, and he simply dotes on me." "try and love a donkey," suggested the gipsy. "some people do." "you don't seem to see," continued toad, "that this fine horse of mine is a cut above you altogether. he's a blood horse, he is, partly; not the part you see, of course--another part. and he's been a prize hackney, too, in his time--that was the time before you knew him, but you can still tell it on him at a glance, if you understand anything about horses. no, it's not to be thought of for a moment. all the same, how much might you be disposed to offer me for this beautiful young horse of mine?" the gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked toad over with equal care, and looked at the horse again. "shillin' a leg," he said briefly, and turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide world out of countenance. "a shilling a leg?" cried toad. "if you please, i must take a little time to work that out, and see just what it comes to." he climbed down off his horse, and left it to graze, and sat down by the gipsy, and did sums on his fingers, and at last he said, "a shilling a leg? why, that comes to exactly four shillings, and no more. o, no; i could not think of accepting four shillings for this beautiful young horse of mine." "well," said the gipsy, "i'll tell you what i will do. i'll make it five shillings, and that's three-and-sixpence more than the animal's worth. and that's my last word." then toad sat and pondered long and deeply. for he was hungry and quite penniless, and still some way--he knew not how far--from home, and enemies might still be looking for him. to one in such a situation, five shillings may very well appear a large sum of money. on the other hand, it did not seem very much to get for a horse. but then, again, the horse hadn't cost him anything; so whatever he got was all clear profit. at last he said firmly, "look here, gipsy! i tell you what we will do; and this is _my_ last word. you shall hand me over six shillings and sixpence, cash down; and further, in addition thereto, you shall give me as much breakfast as i can possibly eat, at one sitting of course, out of that iron pot of yours that keeps sending forth such delicious and exciting smells. in return, i will make over to you my spirited young horse, with all the beautiful harness and trappings that are on him, freely thrown in. if that's not good enough for you, say so, and i'll be getting on. i know a man near here who's wanted this horse of mine for years." the gipsy grumbled frightfully, and declared if he did a few more deals of that sort he'd be ruined. but in the end he lugged a dirty canvas bag out of the depths of his trouser pocket, and counted out six shillings and sixpence into toad's paw. then he disappeared into the caravan for an instant, and returned with a large iron plate and a knife, fork, and spoon. he tilted up the pot, and a glorious stream of hot, rich stew gurgled into the plate. it was, indeed, the most beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants, and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and peahens, and guinea-fowls, and one or two other things. toad took the plate on his lap, almost crying, and stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed, and kept asking for more, and the gipsy never grudged it him. he thought that he had never eaten so good a breakfast in all his life. when toad had taken as much stew on board as he thought he could possibly hold, he got up and said good-bye to the gipsy, and took an affectionate farewell of the horse; and the gipsy, who knew the riverside well, gave him directions which way to go, and he set forth on his travels again in the best possible spirits. he was, indeed, a very different toad from the animal of an hour ago. the sun was shining brightly, his wet clothes were quite dry again, he had money in his pocket once more, he was nearing home and friends and safety, and, most and best of all, he had had a substantial meal, hot and nourishing, and felt big, and strong, and careless, and self-confident. as he tramped along gaily, he thought of his adventures and escapes, and how when things seemed at their worst he had always managed to find a way out; and his pride and conceit began to swell within him. "ho, ho!" he said to himself, as he marched along with his chin in the air, "what a clever toad i am! there is surely no animal equal to me for cleverness in the whole world! my enemies shut me up in prison, encircled by sentries, watched night and day by warders; i walk out through them all, by sheer ability coupled with courage. they pursue me with engines, and policemen, and revolvers; i snap my fingers at them, and vanish, laughing, into space. i am, unfortunately, thrown into a canal by a woman fat of body and very evil-minded. what of it? i swim ashore, i seize her horse, i ride off in triumph, and i sell the horse for a whole pocketful of money and an excellent breakfast! ho, ho! i am the toad, the handsome, the popular, the successful toad!" he got so puffed up with conceit that he made up a song as he walked in praise of himself, and sang it at the top of his voice, though there was no one to hear it but him. it was, perhaps, the most conceited song that any animal ever composed. "the world has held great heroes, as history-books have showed; but never a name to go down to fame compared with that of toad! "the clever men at oxford know all that there is to be knowed. but they none of them know one half as much as intelligent mr. toad! "the animals sat in the ark and cried, their tears in torrents flowed. who was it said, 'there's land ahead?' encouraging mr. toad! "the army all saluted as they marched along the road. was it the king? or kitchener? no. it was mr. toad. "the queen and her ladies-in-waiting sat at the window and sewed. she cried, 'look! who's that _handsome_ man?' they answered, 'mr. toad.'" there was a great deal more of the same sort, but too dreadfully conceited to be written down. these are some of the milder verses. he sang as he walked, and he walked as he sang, and got more inflated every minute. but his pride was shortly to have a severe fall. after some miles of country lanes he reached the high road, and as he turned into it and glanced along its white length, he saw approaching him a speck that turned into a dot and then into a blob, and then into something very familiar; and a double note of warning, only too well known, fell on his delighted ear. "this is something like!" said the excited toad. "this is real life again, this is once more the great world from which i have been missed so long! i will hail them, my brothers of the wheel, and pitch them a yarn, of the sort that has been so successful hitherto; and they will give me a lift, of course, and then i will talk to them some more; and, perhaps, with luck, it may even end in my driving up to toad hall in a motor-car! that will be one in the eye for badger!" he stepped confidently out into the road to hail the motor-car, which came along at an easy pace, slowing down as it neared the lane; when suddenly he became very pale, his heart turned to water, his knees shook and yielded under him, and he doubled up and collapsed with a sickening pain in his interior. and well he might, the unhappy animal; for the approaching car was the very one he had stolen out of the yard of the red lion hotel on that fatal day when all his troubles began! and the people in it were the very same people he had sat and watched at luncheon in the coffee-room! he sank down in a shabby, miserable heap in the road, murmuring to himself in his despair, "it's all up! it's all over now! chains and policemen again! prison again! dry bread and water again! o, what a fool i have been! what did i want to go strutting about the country for, singing conceited songs, and hailing people in broad day on the high road, instead of hiding till nightfall and slipping home quietly by back ways! o hapless toad! o ill-fated animal!" the terrible motor-car drew slowly nearer and nearer, till at last he heard it stop just short of him. two gentlemen got out and walked round the trembling heap of crumpled misery lying in the road, and one of them said, "o dear! this is very sad! here is a poor old thing--a washerwoman apparently--who has fainted in the road! perhaps she is overcome by the heat, poor creature; or possibly she has not had any food to-day. let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest village, where doubtless she has friends." they tenderly lifted toad into the motor-car and propped him up with soft cushions, and proceeded on their way. when toad heard them talk in so kind and sympathetic a way, and knew that he was not recognised, his courage began to revive, and he cautiously opened first one eye and then the other. "look!" said one of the gentlemen, "she is better already. the fresh air is doing her good. how do you feel now, ma'am?" "thank you kindly, sir," said toad in a feeble voice, "i'm feeling a great deal better!" "that's right," said the gentleman. "now keep quite still, and, above all, don't try to talk." "i won't," said toad. "i was only thinking, if i might sit on the front seat there, beside the driver, where i could get the fresh air full in my face, i should soon be all right again." "what a very sensible woman!" said the gentleman. "of course you shall." so they carefully helped toad into the front seat beside the driver, and on they went again. toad was almost himself again by now. he sat up, looked about him, and tried to beat down the tremors, the yearnings, the old cravings that rose up and beset him and took possession of him entirely. "it is fate!" he said to himself. "why strive? why struggle?" and he turned to the driver at his side. "please, sir," he said, "i wish you would kindly let me try and drive the car for a little. i've been watching you carefully, and it looks so easy and so interesting, and i should like to be able to tell my friends that once i had driven a motor-car!" the driver laughed at the proposal, so heartily that the gentleman inquired what the matter was. when he heard, he said, to toad's delight, "bravo, ma'am! i like your spirit. let her have a try, and look after her. she won't do any harm." toad eagerly scrambled into the seat vacated by the driver, took the steering-wheel in his hands, listened with affected humility to the instructions given him, and set the car in motion, but very slowly and carefully at first, for he was determined to be prudent. the gentlemen behind clapped their hands and applauded, and toad heard them saying, "how well she does it! fancy a washerwoman driving a car as well as that, the first time!" toad went a little faster; then faster still, and faster. he heard the gentlemen call out warningly, "be careful, washerwoman!" and this annoyed him, and he began to lose his head. the driver tried to interfere, but he pinned him down in his seat with one elbow, and put on full speed. the rush of air in his face, the hum of the engines, and the light jump of the car beneath him intoxicated his weak brain. "washerwoman, indeed!" he shouted recklessly. "ho! ho! i am the toad, the motor-car snatcher, the prison-breaker, the toad who always escapes! sit still, and you shall know what driving really is, for you are in the hands of the famous, the skilful, the entirely fearless toad!" with a cry of horror the whole party rose and flung themselves on him. "seize him!" they cried, "seize the toad, the wicked animal who stole our motor-car! bind him, chain him, drag him to the nearest police station! down with the desperate and dangerous toad!" alas! they should have thought, they ought to have been more prudent, they should have remembered to stop the motor-car somehow before playing any pranks of that sort. with a half-turn of the wheel the toad sent the car crashing through the low hedge that ran along the roadside. one mighty bound, a violent shock, and the wheels of the car were churning up the thick mud of a horse-pond. toad found himself flying through the air with the strong upward rush and delicate curve of a swallow. he liked the motion, and was just beginning to wonder whether it would go on until he developed wings and turned into a toad-bird, when he landed on his back with a thump, in the soft, rich grass of a meadow. sitting up, he could just see the motor-car in the pond, nearly submerged; the gentlemen and the driver, encumbered by their long coats, were floundering helplessly in the water. he picked himself up rapidly, and set off running across country as hard as he could, scrambling through hedges, jumping ditches, pounding across fields, till he was breathless and weary, and had to settle down into an easy walk. when he had recovered his breath somewhat, and was able to think calmly, he began to giggle, and from giggling he took to laughing, and he laughed till he had to sit down under a hedge. "ho! ho!" he cried, in ecstasies of self-admiration. "toad again! toad, as usual, comes out on the top! who was it got them to give him a lift? who managed to get on the front seat for the sake of fresh air? who persuaded them into letting him see if he could drive? who landed them all in a horse-pond? who escaped, flying gaily and unscathed through the air, leaving the narrow-minded, grudging, timid excursionists in the mud where they should rightly be? why, toad, of course; clever toad, great toad, _good_ toad!" then he burst into song again, and chanted with uplifted voice-- "the motor-car went poop-poop-poop, as it raced along the road. who was it steered it into a pond? ingenious mr. toad! o, how clever i am! how clever, how clever, how very clev--" a slight noise at a distance behind him made him turn his head and look. o horror! o misery! o despair! about two fields off, a chauffeur in his leather gaiters and two large rural policemen were visible, running towards him as hard as they could go! poor toad sprang to his feet and pelted away again, his heart in his mouth. "o, my!" he gasped, as he panted along, "what an _ass_ i am! what a _conceited_ and heedless ass! swaggering again! shouting and singing songs again! sitting still and gassing again! o my! o my! o my!" he glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him. on he ran desperately, but kept looking back, and saw that they still gained steadily. he did his best, but he was a fat animal, and his legs were short, and still they gained. he could hear them close behind him now. ceasing to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and wildly, looking back over his shoulder at the now triumphant enemy, when suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air, and, splash! he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid water, water that bore him along with a force he could not contend with; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into the river! he rose to the surface and tried to grasp the reeds and the rushes that grew along the water's edge close under the bank, but the stream was so strong that it tore them out of his hands. "o my!" gasped poor toad, "if ever i steal a motor-car again! if ever i sing another conceited song"--then down he went, and came up breathless and spluttering. presently he saw that he was approaching a big dark hole in the bank, just above his head, and as the stream bore him past he reached up with a paw and caught hold of the edge and held on. then slowly and with difficulty he drew himself up out of the water, till at last he was able to rest his elbows on the edge of the hole. there he remained for some minutes, puffing and panting, for he was quite exhausted. as he sighed and blew and stared before him into the dark hole, some bright small thing shone and twinkled in its depths, moving towards him. as it approached, a face grew up gradually around it, and it was a familiar face! brown and small, with whiskers. grave and round, with neat ears and silky hair. it was the water rat! xi "like summer tempests came his tears" the rat put out a neat little brown paw, gripped toad firmly by the scruff of the neck, and gave a great hoist and a pull; and the water-logged toad came up slowly but surely over the edge of the hole, till at last he stood safe and sound in the hall, streaked with mud and weed, to be sure, and with the water streaming off him, but happy and high-spirited as of old, now that he found himself once more in the house of a friend, and dodgings and evasions were over, and he could lay aside a disguise that was unworthy of his position and wanted such a lot of living up to. "o, ratty!" he cried. "i've been through such times since i saw you last, you can't think! such trials, such sufferings, and all so nobly borne! then such escapes, such disguises, such subterfuges, and all so cleverly planned and carried out! been in prison--got out of it, of course! been thrown into a canal--swam ashore! stole a horse--sold him for a large sum of money! humbugged everybody--made 'em all do exactly what i wanted! oh, i _am_ a smart toad, and no mistake! what do you think my last exploit was? just hold on till i tell you--" "toad," said the water rat, gravely and firmly, "you go off upstairs at once, and take off that old cotton rag that looks as if it might formerly have belonged to some washerwoman, and clean yourself thoroughly, and put on some of my clothes, and try and come down looking like a gentleman if you _can_; for a more shabby, bedraggled, disreputable-looking object than you are i never set eyes on in my whole life! now, stop swaggering and arguing, and be off! i'll have something to say to you later!" toad was at first inclined to stop and do some talking back at him. he had had enough of being ordered about when he was in prison, and here was the thing being begun all over again, apparently; and by a rat, too! however, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass over the hat-stand, with the rusty black bonnet perched rakishly over one eye, and he changed his mind and went very quickly and humbly upstairs to the rat's dressing-room. there he had a thorough wash and brush-up, changed his clothes, and stood for a long time before the glass, contemplating himself with pride and pleasure, and thinking what utter idiots all the people must have been to have ever mistaken him for one moment for a washerwoman. by the time he came down again luncheon was on the table, and very glad toad was to see it, for he had been through some trying experiences and had taken much hard exercise since the excellent breakfast provided for him by the gipsy. while they ate toad told the rat all his adventures, dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies, and cunning in tight places; and rather making out that he had been having a gay and highly-coloured experience. but the more he talked and boasted, the more grave and silent the rat became. when at last toad had talked himself to a standstill, there was silence for a while; and then the rat said, "now, toady, i don't want to give you pain, after all you've been through already; but, seriously, don't you see what an awful ass you've been making of yourself? on your own admission you have been hand-cuffed, imprisoned, starved, chased, terrified out of your life, insulted, jeered at, and ignominiously flung into the water--by a woman, too! where's the amusement in that? where does the fun come in? and all because you must needs go and steal a motor-car. you know that you've never had anything but trouble from motor-cars from the moment you first set eyes on one. but if you _will_ be mixed up with them--as you generally are, five minutes after you've started--why _steal_ them? be a cripple, if you think it's exciting; be a bankrupt, for a change, if you've set your mind on it: but why choose to be a convict? when are you going to be sensible and think of your friends, and try and be a credit to them? do you suppose it's any pleasure to me, for instance, to hear animals saying, as i go about, that i'm the chap that keeps company with gaol-birds?" [illustration: _dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies_] now, it was a very comforting point in toad's character that he was a thoroughly good-hearted animal, and never minded being jawed by those who were his real friends. and even when most set upon a thing, he was always able to see the other side of the question. so although, while the rat was talking so seriously, he kept saying to himself mutinously, "but it _was_ fun, though! awful fun!" and making strange suppressed noises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, and poop-p-p, and other sounds resembling stifled snorts, or the opening of soda-water bottles, yet when the rat had quite finished, he heaved a deep sigh and said, very nicely and humbly, "quite right, ratty! how _sound_ you always are! yes, i've been a conceited old ass, i can quite see that; but now i'm going to be a good toad, and not do it any more. as for motor-cars, i've not been at all so keen about them since my last ducking in that river of yours. the fact is, while i was hanging on to the edge of your hole and getting my breath, i had a sudden idea--a really brilliant idea--connected with motor-boats--there, there! don't take on so, old chap, and stamp, and upset things; it was only an idea, and we won't talk any more about it now. we'll have our coffee, _and_ a smoke, and a quiet chat, and then i'm going to stroll quietly down to toad hall, and get into clothes of my own, and set things going again on the old lines. i've had enough of adventures. i shall lead a quiet, steady, respectable life, pottering about my property, and improving it, and doing a little landscape gardening at times. there will always be a bit of dinner for my friends when they come to see me; and i shall keep a pony-chaise to jog about the country in, just as i used to in the good old days, before i got restless, and wanted to _do_ things." "stroll quietly down to toad hall?" cried the rat, greatly excited. "what are you talking about? do you mean to say you haven't _heard_?" "heard what?" said toad, turning rather pale. "go on, ratty! quick! don't spare me! what haven't i heard?" "do you mean to tell me," shouted the rat, thumping with his little fist upon the table, "that you've heard nothing about the stoats and weasels?" "what, the wild wooders?" cried toad, trembling in every limb. "no, not a word! what have they been doing?" "--and how they've been and taken toad hall?" continued the rat. toad leaned his elbows on the table, and his chin on his paws; and a large tear welled up in each of his eyes, overflowed and splashed on the table, plop! plop! "go on, ratty," he murmured presently; "tell me all. the worst is over. i am an animal again. i can bear it." "when you--got--into that--that--trouble of yours," said the rat, slowly and impressively; "i mean, when you--disappeared from society for a time, over that misunderstanding about a--a machine, you know--" toad merely nodded. "well, it was a good deal talked about down here, naturally," continued the rat, "not only along the riverside, but even in the wild wood. animals took sides, as always happens. the river-bankers stuck up for you, and said you had been infamously treated, and there was no justice to be had in the land nowadays. but the wild wood animals said hard things, and served you right, and it was time this sort of thing was stopped. and they got very cocky, and went about saying you were done for this time! you would never come back again, never, never!" toad nodded once more, keeping silence. "that's the sort of little beasts they are," the rat went on. "but mole and badger, they stuck out, through thick and thin, that you would come back again soon, somehow. they didn't know exactly how, but somehow!" toad began to sit up in his chair again, and to smirk a little. "they argued from history," continued the rat. "they said that no criminal laws had ever been known to prevail against cheek and plausibility such as yours, combined with the power of a long purse. so they arranged to move their things in to toad hall, and sleep there, and keep it aired, and have it all ready for you when you turned up. they didn't guess what was going to happen, of course; still, they had their suspicions of the wild wood animals. now i come to the most painful and tragic part of my story. one dark night--it was a _very_ dark night, and blowing hard, too, and raining simply cats and dogs--a band of weasels, armed to the teeth, crept silently up the carriage-drive to the front entrance. simultaneously, a body of desperate ferrets, advancing through the kitchen-garden, possessed themselves of the backyard and offices; while a company of skirmishing stoats who stuck at nothing occupied the conservatory and the billiard-room, and held the french windows opening on to the lawn. "the mole and the badger were sitting by the fire in the smoking-room, telling stories and suspecting nothing, for it wasn't a night for any animals to be out in, when those bloodthirsty villains broke down the doors and rushed in upon them from every side. they made the best fight they could, but what was the good? they were unarmed, and taken by surprise, and what can two animals do against hundreds? they took and beat them severely with sticks, those two poor faithful creatures, and turned them out into the cold and the wet, with many insulting and uncalled-for remarks!" here the unfeeling toad broke into a snigger, and then pulled himself together and tried to look particularly solemn. "and the wild wooders have been living in toad hall ever since," continued the rat; "and going on simply anyhow! lying in bed half the day, and breakfast at all hours, and the place in such a mess (i'm told) it's not fit to be seen! eating your grub, and drinking your drink, and making bad jokes about you, and singing vulgar songs, about--well, about prisons and magistrates, and policemen; horrid personal songs, with no humour in them. and they're telling the tradespeople and everybody that they've come to stay for good." "o, have they!" said toad, getting up and seizing a stick. "i'll jolly soon see about that!" "it's no good, toad!" called the rat after him. "you'd better come back and sit down; you'll only get into trouble." but the toad was off, and there was no holding him. he marched rapidly down the road, his stick over his shoulder, fuming and muttering to himself in his anger, till he got near his front gate, when suddenly there popped up from behind the palings a long yellow ferret with a gun. "who comes there?" said the ferret sharply. "stuff and nonsense!" said toad, very angrily. "what do you mean by talking like that to me? come out of that at once or i'll--" the ferret said never a word, but he brought his gun up to his shoulder. toad prudently dropped flat in the road, and _bang_! a bullet whistled over his head. the startled toad scrambled to his feet and scampered off down the road as hard as he could; and as he ran he heard the ferret laughing and other horrid thin little laughs taking it up and carrying on the sound. he went back, very crestfallen, and told the water rat. "what did i tell you?" said the rat. "it's no good. they've got sentries posted, and they are all armed. you must just wait." still, toad was not inclined to give in all at once. so he got out the boat, and set off rowing up the river to where the garden front of toad hall came down to the water-side. arriving within sight of his old home, he rested on his oars and surveyed the land cautiously. all seemed very peaceful and deserted and quiet. he could see the whole front of toad hall, glowing in the evening sunshine, the pigeons settling by twos and threes along the straight line of the roof; the garden, a blaze of flowers; the creek that led up to the boat-house, the little wooden bridge that crossed it; all tranquil, uninhabited, apparently waiting for his return. he would try the boat-house first, he thought. very warily he paddled up to the mouth of the creek, and was just passing under the bridge, when ... _crash_! a great stone, dropped from above, smashed through the bottom of the boat. it filled and sank, and toad found himself struggling in deep water. looking up, he saw two stoats leaning over the parapet of the bridge and watching him with great glee. "it will be your head next time, toady!" they called out to him. the indignant toad swam to shore, while the stoats laughed and laughed, supporting each other, and laughed again, till they nearly had two fits--that is, one fit each, of course. the toad retraced his weary way on foot, and related his disappointing experiences to the water rat once more. "well, _what_ did i tell you?" said the rat very crossly. "and, now, look here! see what you've been and done! lost me my boat that i was so fond of, that's what you've done! and simply ruined that nice suit of clothes that i lent you! really, toad, of all the trying animals--i wonder you manage to keep any friends at all!" the toad saw at once how wrongly and foolishly he had acted. he admitted his errors and wrong-headedness and made a full apology to rat for losing his boat and spoiling his clothes. and he wound up by saying, with that frank self-surrender which always disarmed his friends' criticism and won them back to his side, "ratty! i see that i have been a headstrong and a wilful toad! henceforth, believe me, i will be humble and submissive, and will take no action without your kind advice and full approval!" "if that is really so," said the good-natured rat, already appeased, "then my advice to you is, considering the lateness of the hour, to sit down and have your supper, which will be on the table in a minute, and be very patient. for i am convinced that we can do nothing until we have seen the mole and the badger, and heard their latest news, and held conference and taken their advice in this difficult matter." "oh, ah, yes, of course, the mole and the badger," said toad, lightly. "what's become of them, the dear fellows? i had forgotten all about them." "well may you ask!" said the rat reproachfully. "while you were riding about the country in expensive motor-cars, and galloping proudly on blood-horses, and breakfasting on the fat of the land, those two poor devoted animals have been camping out in the open, in every sort of weather, living very rough by day and lying very hard by night; watching over your house, patrolling your boundaries, keeping a constant eye on the stoats and the weasels, scheming and planning and contriving how to get your property back for you. you don't deserve to have such true and loyal friends, toad, you don't, really. some day, when it's too late, you'll be sorry you didn't value them more while you had them!" "i'm an ungrateful beast, i know," sobbed toad, shedding bitter tears. "let me go out and find them, out into the cold, dark night, and share their hardships, and try and prove by--hold on a bit! surely i heard the chink of dishes on a tray! supper's here at last, hooray! come on, ratty!" the rat remembered that poor toad had been on prison fare for a considerable time, and that large allowances had therefore to be made. he followed him to the table accordingly, and hospitably encouraged him in his gallant efforts to make up for past privations. they had just finished their meal and resumed their arm-chairs, when there came a heavy knock at the door. toad was nervous, but the rat, nodding mysteriously at him, went straight up to the door and opened it, and in walked mr. badger. he had all the appearance of one who for some nights had been kept away from home and all its little comforts and conveniences. his shoes were covered with mud, and he was looking very rough and touzled; but then he had never been a very smart man, the badger, at the best of times. he came solemnly up to toad, shook him by the paw, and said, "welcome home, toad! alas! what am i saying? home, indeed! this is a poor home-coming. unhappy toad!" then he turned his back on him, sat down to the table, drew his chair up, and helped himself to a large slice of cold pie. toad was quite alarmed at this very serious and portentous style of greeting; but the rat whispered to him, "never mind; don't take any notice; and don't say anything to him just yet. he's always rather low and despondent when he's wanting his victuals. in half an hour's time he'll be quite a different animal." so they waited in silence, and presently there came another and a lighter knock. the rat, with a nod to toad, went to the door and ushered in the mole, very shabby and unwashed, with bits of hay and straw sticking in his fur. "hooray! here's old toad!" cried the mole, his face beaming. "fancy having you back again!" and he began to dance round him. "we never dreamt you would turn up so soon! why, you must have managed to escape, you clever, ingenious, intelligent toad!" the rat, alarmed, pulled him by the elbow; but it was too late. toad was puffing and swelling already. "clever? o, no!" he said. "i'm not really clever, according to my friends. i've only broken out of the strongest prison in england, that's all! and captured a railway train and escaped on it, that's all! and disguised myself and gone about the country humbugging everybody, that's all! o, no! i'm a stupid ass, i am! i'll tell you one or two of my little adventures, mole, and you shall judge for yourself!" "well, well," said the mole, moving towards the supper-table; "supposing you talk while i eat. not a bite since breakfast! o my! o my!" and he sat down and helped himself liberally to cold beef and pickles. toad straddled on the hearth-rug, thrust his paw into his trouser-pocket and pulled out a handful of silver. "look at that!" he cried, displaying it. "that's not so bad, is it, for a few minutes' work? and how do you think i done it, mole? horse-dealing! that's how i done it!" "go on, toad," said the mole, immensely interested. "toad, do be quiet, please!" said the rat. "and don't you egg him on, mole, when you know what he is; but please tell us as soon as possible what the position is, and what's best to be done, now that toad is back at last." "the position's about as bad as it can be," replied the mole grumpily; "and as for what's to be done, why, blest if i know! the badger and i have been round and round the place, by night and by day; always the same thing. sentries posted everywhere, guns poked out at us, stones thrown at us; always an animal on the look-out, and when they see us, my! how they do laugh! that's what annoys me most!" "it's a very difficult situation," said the rat, reflecting deeply. "but i think i see now, in the depths of my mind, what toad really ought to do. i will tell you. he ought to--" "no, he oughtn't!" shouted the mole, with his mouth full. "nothing of the sort! you don't understand. what he ought to do is, he ought to--" "well, i shan't do it, anyway!" cried toad, getting excited. "i'm not going to be ordered about by you fellows! it's my house we're talking about, and i know exactly what to do, and i'll tell you. i'm going to--" by this time they were all three talking at once, at the top of their voices, and the noise was simply deafening, when a thin, dry voice made itself heard, saying, "be quiet at once, all of you!" and instantly every one was silent. it was the badger, who, having finished his pie, had turned round in his chair and was looking at them severely. when he saw that he had secured their attention, and that they were evidently waiting for him to address them, he turned back to the table again and reached out for the cheese. and so great was the respect commanded by the solid qualities of that admirable animal, that not another word was uttered, until he had quite finished his repast and brushed the crumbs from his knees. the toad fidgeted a good deal, but the rat held him firmly down. when the badger had quite done, he got up from his seat and stood before the fireplace, reflecting deeply. at last he spoke. "toad," he said severely. "you bad, troublesome little animal! aren't you ashamed of yourself? what do you think your father, my old friend, would have said if he had been here to-night, and had known of all your goings on?" toad, who was on the sofa by this time, with his legs up, rolled over on his face, shaken by sobs of contrition. "there, there!" went on the badger, more kindly. "never mind. stop crying. we're going to let bygones be bygones, and try and turn over a new leaf. but what the mole says is quite true. the stoats are on guard, at every point, and they make the best sentinels in the world. it's quite useless to think of attacking the place. they're too strong for us." "then it's all over," sobbed the toad, crying into the sofa cushions. "i shall go and enlist for a soldier, and never see my dear toad hall any more!" "come, cheer up, toady!" said the badger. "there are more ways of getting back a place than taking it by storm. i haven't said my last word yet. now i'm going to tell you a great secret." toad sat up slowly and dried his eyes. secrets had an immense attraction for him, because he never could keep one, and he enjoyed the sort of unhallowed thrill he experienced when he went and told another animal, after having faithfully promised not to. "there--is--an--underground--passage," said the badger, impressively, "that leads from the river-bank, quite near here, right up into the middle of toad hall." "o, nonsense! badger," said toad, rather airily. "you've been listening to some of the yarns they spin in the public-houses about here. i know every inch of toad hall, inside and out. nothing of the sort, i do assure you!" "my young friend," said the badger, with great severity, "your father, who was a worthy animal--a lot worthier than some others i know--was a particular friend of mine, and told me a great deal he wouldn't have dreamt of telling you. he discovered that passage--he didn't make it, of course; that was done hundreds of years before he ever came to live there--and he repaired it and cleaned it out, because he thought it might come in useful some day, in case of trouble or danger; and he showed it to me. 'don't let my son know about it,' he said. 'he's a good boy, but very light and volatile in character, and simply cannot hold his tongue. if he's ever in a real fix, and it would be of use to him, you may tell him about the secret passage; but not before.'" the other animals looked hard at toad to see how he would take it. toad was inclined to be sulky at first; but he brightened up immediately, like the good fellow he was. "well, well," he said; "perhaps i am a bit of a talker. a popular fellow such as i am--my friends get round me--we chaff, we sparkle, we tell witty stories--and somehow my tongue gets wagging. i have the gift of conversation. i've been told i ought to have a _salon_, whatever that may be. never mind. go on, badger. how's this passage of yours going to help us?" "i've found out a thing or two lately," continued the badger. "i got otter to disguise himself as a sweep and call at the back-door with brushes over his shoulder, asking for a job. there's going to be a big banquet to-morrow night. it's somebody's birthday--the chief weasel's, i believe--and all the weasels will be gathered together in the dining-hall, eating and drinking and laughing and carrying on, suspecting nothing. no guns, no swords, no sticks, no arms of any sort whatever!" "but the sentinels will be posted as usual," remarked the rat. "exactly," said the badger; "that is my point. the weasels will trust entirely to their excellent sentinels. and that is where the passage comes in. that very useful tunnel leads right up under the butler's pantry, next to the dining-hall!" "aha! that squeaky board in the butler's pantry!" said toad. "now i understand it!" "we shall creep out quietly into the butler's pantry--" cried the mole. "--with our pistols and swords and sticks--" shouted the rat. "--and rush in upon them," said the badger. "--and whack 'em, and whack 'em, and whack 'em!" cried the toad in ecstasy, running round and round the room, and jumping over the chairs. "very well, then," said the badger, resuming his usual dry manner, "our plan is settled, and there's nothing more for you to argue and squabble about. so, as it's getting very late, all of you go right off to bed at once. we will make all the necessary arrangements in the course of the morning to-morrow." toad, of course, went off to bed dutifully with the rest--he knew better than to refuse--though he was feeling much too excited to sleep. but he had had a long day, with many events crowded into it; and sheets and blankets were very friendly and comforting things, after plain straw, and not too much of it, spread on the stone floor of a draughty cell; and his head had not been many seconds on his pillow before he was snoring happily. naturally, he dreamt a good deal; about roads that ran away from him just when he wanted them, and canals that chased him and caught him, and a barge that sailed into the banqueting-hall with his week's washing, just as he was giving a dinner-party; and he was alone in the secret passage, pushing onwards, but it twisted and turned round and shook itself, and sat up on its end; yet somehow, at the last, he found himself back in toad hall, safe and triumphant, with all his friends gathered round about him, earnestly assuring him that he really was a clever toad. he slept till a late hour next morning, and by the time he got down he found that the other animals had finished their breakfast some time before. the mole had slipped off somewhere by himself, without telling any one where he was going to. the badger sat in the arm-chair, reading the paper, and not concerning himself in the slightest about what was going to happen that very evening. the rat, on the other hand, was running round the room busily, with his arms full of weapons of every kind, distributing them in four little heaps on the floor, and saying excitedly under his breath, as he ran, "here's-a-sword-for-the-rat, here's-a-sword-for-the-mole, here's-a-sword-for-the-toad, here's-a-sword-for-the-badger! here's-a-pistol-for-the-rat, here's-a-pistol-for-the-mole, here's-a-pistol-for-the-toad, here's-a-pistol-for-the-badger!" and so on, in a regular, rhythmical way, while the four little heaps gradually grew and grew. "that's all very well, rat," said the badger presently, looking at the busy little animal over the edge of his newspaper; "i'm not blaming you. but just let us once get past the stoats, with those detestable guns of theirs, and i assure you we shan't want any swords or pistols. we four, with our sticks, once we're inside the dining-hall, why, we shall clear the floor of all the lot of them in five minutes. i'd have done the whole thing by myself, only i didn't want to deprive you fellows of the fun!" "it's as well to be on the safe side," said the rat reflectively, polishing a pistol-barrel on his sleeve and looking along it. the toad, having finished his breakfast, picked up a stout stick and swung it vigorously, belabouring imaginary animals. "i'll learn 'em to steal my house!" he cried. "i'll learn 'em, i'll learn 'em!" "don't say 'learn 'em,' toad," said the rat, greatly shocked. "it's not good english." "what are you always nagging at toad for?" inquired the badger, rather peevishly. "what's the matter with his english? it's the same what i use myself, and if it's good enough for me, it ought to be good enough for you!" "i'm very sorry," said the rat humbly. "only i _think_ it ought to be 'teach 'em,' not 'learn 'em.'" "but we don't _want_ to teach 'em," replied the badger. "we want to _learn_ 'em--learn 'em, learn 'em! and what's more, we're going to _do_ it, too!" "oh, very well, have it your own way," said the rat. he was getting rather muddled about it himself, and presently he retired into a corner, where he could be heard muttering, "learn 'em, teach 'em, teach 'em, learn 'em!" till the badger told him rather sharply to leave off. presently the mole came tumbling into the room, evidently very pleased with himself. "i've been having such fun!" he began at once; "i've been getting a rise out of the stoats!" "i hope you've been very careful, mole?" said the rat anxiously. "i should hope so, too," said the mole confidently. "i got the idea when i went into the kitchen, to see about toad's breakfast being kept hot for him. i found that old washerwoman-dress that he came home in yesterday, hanging on a towel-horse before the fire. so i put it on, and the bonnet as well, and the shawl, and off i went to toad hall, as bold as you please. the sentries were on the look-out, of course, with their guns and their 'who comes there?' and all the rest of their nonsense. 'good morning, gentlemen!' says i, very respectful. 'want any washing done to-day?' they looked at me very proud and stiff and haughty, and said, 'go away, washerwoman! we don't do any washing on duty.' 'or any other time?' says i. ho, ho, ho! wasn't i _funny_, toad?" "poor, frivolous animal!" said toad, very loftily. the fact is, he felt exceedingly jealous of mole for what he had just done. it was exactly what he would have liked to have done himself, if only he had thought of it first, and hadn't gone and overslept himself. "some of the stoats turned quite pink," continued the mole, "and the sergeant in charge, he said to me, very short, he said, 'now run away, my good woman, run away! don't keep my men idling and talking on their posts.' 'run away?' says i; 'it won't be me that'll be running away, in a very short time from now!'" "o _moly_, how could you?" said the rat, dismayed. the badger laid down his paper. "i could see them pricking up their ears and looking at each other," went on the mole; "and the sergeant said to them, 'never mind _her_; she doesn't know what she's talking about.'" "'o! don't i?' said i. 'well, let me tell you this. my daughter, she washes for mr. badger, and that'll show you whether i know what i'm talking about; and _you'll_ know pretty soon, too! a hundred bloodthirsty badgers, armed with rifles, are going to attack toad hall this very night, by way of the paddock. six boatloads of rats, with pistols and cutlasses, will come up the river and effect a landing in the garden; while a picked body of toads, known as the die-hards, or the death-or-glory toads, will storm the orchard and carry everything before them, yelling for vengeance. there won't be much left of you to wash, by the time they've done with you, unless you clear out while you have the chance!' then i ran away, and when i was out of sight i hid; and presently i came creeping back along the ditch and took a peep at them through the hedge. they were all as nervous and flustered as could be, running all ways at once, and falling over each other, and every one giving orders to everybody else and not listening; and the sergeant kept sending off parties of stoats to distant parts of the grounds, and then sending other fellows to fetch 'em back again; and i heard them saying to each other, 'that's just like the weasels; they're to stop comfortably in the banqueting-hall, and have feasting and toasts and songs and all sorts of fun, while we must stay on guard in the cold and the dark, and in the end be cut to pieces by bloodthirsty badgers!'" "oh, you silly ass, mole!" cried toad, "you've been and spoilt everything!" "mole," said the badger, in his dry, quiet way, "i perceive you have more sense in your little finger than some other animals have in the whole of their fat bodies. you have managed excellently, and i begin to have great hopes of you. good mole! clever mole!" the toad was simply wild with jealousy, more especially as he couldn't make out for the life of him what the mole had done that was so particularly clever; but, fortunately for him, before he could show temper or expose himself to the badger's sarcasm, the bell rang for luncheon. it was a simple but sustaining meal--bacon and broad beans, and a macaroni pudding; and when they had quite done, the badger settled himself into an arm-chair, and said, "well, we've got our work cut out for us to-night, and it will probably be pretty late before we're quite through with it; so i'm just going to take forty winks, while i can." and he drew a handkerchief over his face and was soon snoring. the anxious and laborious rat at once resumed his preparations, and started running between his four little heaps, muttering, "here's-a-belt-for-the-rat, here's-a-belt-for-the-mole, here's-a-belt-for-the-toad, here's-a-belt-for-the-badger!" and so on, with every fresh accoutrement he produced, to which there seemed really no end; so the mole drew his arm through toad's, led him out into the open air, shoved him into a wicker chair, and made him tell him all his adventures from beginning to end, which toad was only too willing to do. the mole was a good listener, and toad, with no one to check his statements or to criticise in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go. indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-i-only-thought-of-it-in- time-instead-of-ten-minutes-afterwards. those are always the best and the raciest adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the somewhat inadequate things that really come off? xii the return of ulysses when it began to grow dark, the rat, with an air of excitement and mystery, summoned them back into the parlour, stood each of them up alongside of his little heap, and proceeded to dress them up for the coming expedition. he was very earnest and thorough-going about it, and the affair took quite a long time. first, there was a belt to go round each animal, and then a sword to be stuck into each belt, and then a cutlass on the other side to balance it. then a pair of pistols, a policeman's truncheon, several sets of handcuffs, some bandages and sticking-plaster, and a flask and a sandwich-case. the badger laughed good-humouredly and said, "all right, ratty! it amuses you and it doesn't hurt me. i'm going to do all i've got to do with this here stick." but the rat only said, "_please_, badger. you know i shouldn't like you to blame me afterwards and say i had forgotten _anything_!" when all was quite ready, the badger took a dark lantern in one paw, grasped his great stick with the other, and said, "now then, follow me! mole first, 'cos i'm very pleased with him; rat next; toad last. and look here, toady! don't you chatter so much as usual, or you'll be sent back, as sure as fate!" the toad was so anxious not to be left out that he took up the inferior position assigned to him without a murmur, and the animals set off. the badger led them along by the river for a little way, and then suddenly swung himself over the edge into a hole in the river bank, a little above the water. the mole and the rat followed silently, swinging themselves successfully into the hole as they had seen the badger do; but when it came to toad's turn, of course he managed to slip and fall into the water with a loud splash and a squeal of alarm. he was hauled out by his friends, rubbed down and wrung out hastily, comforted, and set on his legs; but the badger was seriously angry, and told him that the very next time he made a fool of himself he would most certainly be left behind. [illustration: _the badger said, "now then, follow me!"_] so at last they were in the secret passage, and the cutting-out expedition had really begun! it was cold, and dark, and damp, and low, and narrow, and poor toad began to shiver, partly from dread of what might be before him, partly because he was wet through. the lantern was far ahead, and he could not help lagging behind a little in the darkness. then he heard the rat call out warningly, "_come_ on, toad!" and a terror seized him of being left behind, alone in the darkness, and he "came on" with such a rush that he upset the rat into the mole, and the mole into the badger, and for a moment all was confusion. the badger thought they were being attacked from behind, and, as there was no room to use a stick or a cutlass, drew a pistol, and was on the point of putting a bullet into toad. when he found out what had really happened he was very angry indeed, and said, "now this time that tiresome toad _shall_ be left behind!" but toad whimpered, and the other two promised that they would be answerable for his good conduct, and at last the badger was pacified, and the procession moved on; only this time the rat brought up the rear, with a firm grip on the shoulder of toad. so they groped and shuffled along, with their ears pricked up and their paws on their pistols, till at last the badger said, "we ought by now to be pretty nearly under the hall." then suddenly they heard, far away as it might be, and yet apparently nearly over their heads, a confused murmur of sound, as if people were shouting and cheering and stamping on the floor and hammering on tables. the toad's nervous terrors all returned, but the badger only remarked placidly, "they _are_ going it, the weasels!" the passage now began to slope upwards; they groped onward a little further, and then the noise broke out again, quite distinct this time, and very close above them. "ooo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray-ooray!" they heard, and the stamping of little feet on the floor, and the clinking of glasses as little fists pounded on the table. "_what_ a time they're having!" said the badger. "come on!" they hurried along the passage till it came to a full stop, and they found themselves standing under the trap-door that led up into the butler's pantry. such a tremendous noise was going on in the banqueting-hall that there was little danger of their being overheard. the badger said, "now, boys, all together!" and the four of them put their shoulders to the trap-door and heaved it back. hoisting each other up, they found themselves standing in the pantry, with only a door between them and the banqueting-hall, where their unconscious enemies were carousing. the noise, as they emerged from the passage, was simply deafening. at last, as the cheering and hammering slowly subsided, a voice could be made out saying, "well, i do not propose to detain you much longer"--(great applause)--"but before i resume my seat"--(renewed cheering)--"i should like to say one word about our kind host, mr. toad. we all know toad!"--(great laughter)--"_good_ toad, _modest_ toad, _honest_ toad!" (shrieks of merriment). "only just let me get at him!" muttered toad, grinding his teeth. "hold hard a minute!" said the badger, restraining him with difficulty. "get ready, all of you!" "--let me sing you a little song," went on the voice, "which i have composed on the subject of toad"--(prolonged applause). then the chief weasel--for it was he--began in a high, squeaky voice-- "toad he went a-pleasuring gaily down the street--" the badger drew himself up, took a firm grip of his stick with both paws, glanced round at his comrades, and cried-- "the hour is come! follow me!" and flung the door open wide. my! what a squealing and a squeaking and a screeching filled the air! well might the terrified weasels dive under the tables and spring madly up at the windows! well might the ferrets rush wildly for the fireplace and get hopelessly jammed in the chimney! well might tables and chairs be upset, and glass and china be sent crashing on the floor, in the panic of that terrible moment when the four heroes strode wrathfully into the room! the mighty badger, his whiskers bristling, his great cudgel whistling through the air; mole, black and grim, brandishing his stick and shouting his awful war-cry, "a mole! a mole!" rat, desperate and determined, his belt bulging with weapons of every age and every variety; toad, frenzied with excitement and injured pride, swollen to twice his ordinary size, leaping into the air and emitting toad-whoops that chilled them to the marrow! "toad he went a-pleasuring!" he yelled. "_i'll_ pleasure 'em!" and he went straight for the chief weasel. they were but four in all, but to the panic-stricken weasels the hall seemed full of monstrous animals, grey, black, brown and yellow, whooping and flourishing enormous cudgels; and they broke and fled with squeals of terror and dismay, this way and that, through the windows, up the chimney, anywhere to get out of reach of those terrible sticks. the affair was soon over. up and down, the whole length of the hall, strode the four friends, whacking with their sticks at every head that showed itself; and in five minutes the room was cleared. through the broken windows the shrieks of terrified weasels escaping across the lawn were borne faintly to their ears; on the floor lay prostrate some dozen or so of the enemy, on whom the mole was busily engaged in fitting handcuffs. the badger, resting from his labours, leant on his stick and wiped his honest brow. "mole," he said, "you're the best of fellows! just cut along outside and look after those stoat-sentries of yours, and see what they're doing. i've an idea that, thanks to you, we shan't have much trouble from _them_ to-night!" the mole vanished promptly through a window; and the badger bade the other two set a table on its legs again, pick up knives and forks and plates and glasses from the _débris_ on the floor, and see if they could find materials for a supper. "i want some grub, i do," he said, in that rather common way he had of speaking. "stir your stumps, toad, and look lively! we've got your house back for you, and you don't offer us so much as a sandwich." toad felt rather hurt that the badger didn't say pleasant things to him, as he had to the mole, and tell him what a fine fellow he was, and how splendidly he had fought; for he was rather particularly pleased with himself and the way he had gone for the chief weasel and sent him flying across the table with one blow of his stick. but he bustled about, and so did the rat, and soon they found some guava jelly in a glass dish, and a cold chicken, a tongue that had hardly been touched, some trifle, and quite a lot of lobster salad; and in the pantry they came upon a basketful of french rolls and any quantity of cheese, butter, and celery. they were just about to sit down when the mole clambered in through the window, chuckling, with an armful of rifles. "it's all over," he reported. "from what i can make out, as soon as the stoats, who were very nervous and jumpy already, heard the shrieks and the yells and the uproar inside the hall, some of them threw down their rifles and fled. the others stood fast for a bit, but when the weasels came rushing out upon them they thought they were betrayed; and the stoats grappled with the weasels, and the weasels fought to get away, and they wrestled and wriggled and punched each other, and rolled over and over, till most of 'em rolled into the river! they've all disappeared by now, one way or another; and i've got their rifles. so _that's_ all right!" "excellent and deserving animal!" said the badger, his mouth full of chicken and trifle. "now, there's just one more thing i want you to do, mole, before you sit down to your supper along of us; and i wouldn't trouble you only i know i can trust you to see a thing done, and i wish i could say the same of every one i know. i'd send rat, if he wasn't a poet. i want you to take those fellows on the floor there upstairs with you, and have some bedrooms cleaned out and tidied up and made really comfortable. see that they sweep _under_ the beds, and put clean sheets and pillow-cases on, and turn down one corner of the bed-clothes, just as you know it ought to be done; and have a can of hot water, and clean towels, and fresh cakes of soap, put in each room. and then you can give them a licking a-piece, if it's any satisfaction to you, and put them out by the back-door, and we shan't see any more of _them_, i fancy. and then come along and have some of this cold tongue. it's first rate. i'm very pleased with you, mole!" the good-natured mole picked up a stick, formed his prisoners up in a line on the floor, gave them the order "quick march!" and led his squad off to the upper floor. after a time, he appeared again, smiling, and said that every room was ready and as clean as a new pin. "and i didn't have to lick them, either," he added. "i thought, on the whole, they had had licking enough for one night, and the weasels, when i put the point to them, quite agreed with me, and said they wouldn't think of troubling me. they were very penitent, and said they were extremely sorry for what they had done, but it was all the fault of the chief weasel and the stoats, and if ever they could do anything for us at any time to make up, we had only got to mention it. so i gave them a roll a-piece, and let them out at the back, and off they ran, as hard as they could!" then the mole pulled his chair up to the table, and pitched into the cold tongue; and toad, like the gentleman he was, put all his jealousy from him, and said heartily, "thank you kindly, dear mole, for all your pains and trouble to-night, and especially for your cleverness this morning!" the badger was pleased at that, and said, "there spoke my brave toad!" so they finished their supper in great joy and contentment, and presently retired to rest between clean sheets, safe in toad's ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate strategy, and a proper handling of sticks. the following morning, toad, who had overslept himself as usual, came down to breakfast disgracefully late, and found on the table a certain quantity of egg-shells, some fragments of cold and leathery toast, a coffee-pot three-fourths empty, and really very little else; which did not tend to improve his temper, considering that, after all, it was his own house. through the french windows of the breakfast-room he could see the mole and the water rat sitting in wicker chairs out on the lawn, evidently telling each other stories; roaring with laughter and kicking their short legs up in the air. the badger, who was in an arm-chair and deep in the morning paper, merely looked up and nodded when toad entered the room. but toad knew his man, so he sat down and made the best breakfast he could, merely observing to himself that he would get square with the others sooner or later. when he had nearly finished, the badger looked up and remarked rather shortly: "i'm sorry, toad, but i'm afraid there's a heavy morning's work in front of you. you see, we really ought to have a banquet at once, to celebrate this affair. it's expected of you--in fact, it's the rule." "o, all right!" said the toad, readily. "anything to oblige. though why on earth you should want to have a banquet in the morning i cannot understand. but you know i do not live to please myself, but merely to find out what my friends want, and then try and arrange it for 'em, you dear old badger!" "don't pretend to be stupider than you really are," replied the badger, crossly; "and don't chuckle and splutter in your coffee while you're talking; it's not manners. what i mean is, the banquet will be at night, of course, but the invitations will have to be written and got off at once, and you've got to write 'em. now sit down at that table--there's stacks of letter-paper on it, with 'toad hall' at the top in blue and gold--and write invitations to all our friends, and if you stick to it we shall get them out before luncheon. and _i'll_ bear a hand, too, and take my share of the burden. _i'll_ order the banquet." "what!" cried toad, dismayed. "me stop indoors and write a lot of rotten letters on a jolly morning like this, when i want to go around my property and set everything and everybody to rights, and swagger about and enjoy myself! certainly not! i'll be--i'll see you--stop a minute, though! why, of course, dear badger! what is my pleasure or convenience compared with that of others! you wish it done, and it shall be done. go, badger, order the banquet, order what you like; then join our young friends outside in their innocent mirth, oblivious of me and my cares and toils. i sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of duty and friendship!" the badger looked at him very suspiciously, but toad's frank, open countenance made it difficult to suggest any unworthy motive in this change of attitude. he quitted the room, accordingly, in the direction of the kitchen, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, toad hurried to the writing-table. a fine idea had occurred to him while he was talking. he _would_ write the invitations; and he would take care to mention the leading part he had taken in the fight, and how he had laid the chief weasel flat; and he would hint at his adventures, and what a career of triumph he had to tell about; and on the fly-leaf he would set out a sort of a programme of entertainment for the evening--something like this, as he sketched it out in his head:-- speech by toad. (there will be other speeches by toad during the evening.) address by toad. synopsis--our prison system--the waterways of old england--horse-dealing, and how to deal--property, its rights and its duties--back to the land--a typical english squire. song by toad. (_composed by himself._) other compositions by toad will be sung in the course of the evening by the composer. the idea pleased him mightily, and he worked very hard and got all the letters finished by noon, at which hour it was reported to him that there was a small and rather bedraggled weasel at the door, inquiring timidly whether he could be of any service to the gentleman. toad swaggered out and found it was one of the prisoners of the previous evening, very respectful and anxious to please. he patted him on the head, shoved the bundle of invitations into his paw, and told him to cut along quick and deliver them as fast as he could, and if he liked to come back again in the evening, perhaps there might be a shilling for him, or, again, perhaps there mightn't; and the poor weasel seemed really quite grateful, and hurried off eagerly to do his mission. when the other animals came back to luncheon, very boisterous and breezy after a morning on the river, the mole, whose conscience had been pricking him, looked doubtfully at toad, expecting to find him sulky or depressed. instead, he was so uppish and inflated that the mole began to suspect something; while the rat and the badger exchanged significant glances. as soon as the meal was over, toad thrust his paws deep into his trouser-pockets, remarked casually, "well, look after yourselves, you fellows! ask for anything you want!" and was swaggering off in the direction of the garden, where he wanted to think out an idea or two for his coming speeches, when the rat caught him by the arm. toad rather suspected what he was after, and did his best to get away; but when the badger took him firmly by the other arm he began to see that the game was up. the two animals conducted him between them into the small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the door, and put him into a chair. then they both stood in front of him, while toad sat silent and regarded them with much suspicion and ill-humour. "now, look here, toad," said the rat. "it's about this banquet, and very sorry i am to have to speak to you like this. but we want you to understand clearly, once and for all, that there are going to be no speeches and no songs. try and grasp the fact that on this occasion we're not arguing with you; we're just telling you." toad saw that he was trapped. they understood him, they saw through him, they had got ahead of him. his pleasant dream was shattered. "mayn't i sing them just one _little_ song?" he pleaded piteously. "no, not _one_ little song," replied the rat firmly, though his heart bled as he noticed the trembling lip of the poor disappointed toad. "it's no good, toady; you know well that your songs are all conceit and boasting and vanity; and your speeches are all self-praise and--and--well, and gross exaggeration and--and--" "and gas," put in the badger, in his common way. "it's for your own good, toady," went on the rat. "you know you _must_ turn over a new leaf sooner or later, and now seems a splendid time to begin; a sort of turning-point in your career. please don't think that saying all this doesn't hurt me more than it hurts you." toad remained a long while plunged in thought. at last he raised his head, and the traces of strong emotion were visible on his features. "you have conquered, my friends," he said in broken accents. "it was, to be sure, but a small thing that i asked--merely leave to blossom and expand for yet one more evening, to let myself go and hear the tumultuous applause that always seems to me--somehow--to bring out my best qualities. however, you are right, i know, and i am wrong. henceforth i will be a very different toad. my friends, you shall never have occasion to blush for me again. but, o dear, o dear, this is a hard world!" and, pressing his handkerchief to his face, he left the room, with faltering footsteps. "badger," said the rat, "i feel like a brute; i wonder what _you_ feel like?" "o, i know, i know," said the badger gloomily. "but the thing had to be done. this good fellow has got to live here, and hold his own, and be respected. would you have him a common laughing-stock, mocked and jeered at by stoats and weasels?" "of course not," said the rat. "and, talking of weasels, it's lucky we came upon that little weasel, just as he was setting out with toad's invitations. i suspected something from what you told me, and had a look at one or two; they were simply disgraceful. i confiscated the lot, and the good mole is now sitting in the blue _boudoir_, filling up plain, simple invitation cards." * * * * * at last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, and toad, who on leaving the others had retired to his bedroom, was still sitting there, melancholy and thoughtful. his brow resting on his paw, he pondered long and deeply. gradually his countenance cleared, and he began to smile long, slow smiles. then he took to giggling in a shy, self-conscious manner. at last he got up, locked the door, drew the curtains across the windows, collected all the chairs in the room and arranged them in a semicircle, and took up his position in front of them, swelling visibly. then he bowed, coughed twice, and, letting himself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience that his imagination so clearly saw: toad's last little song the toad--came--home! there was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls, there was crying in the cow-sheds and shrieking in the stalls, when the toad--came--home! when the toad--came--home! there was smashing in of window and crashing in of door, there was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor, when the toad--came--home! bang! go the drums! the trumpeters are tooting and the soldiers are saluting, and the cannon they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting, as the--hero--comes! shout--hoo-ray! and let each one of the crowd try and shout it very loud, in honour of an animal of whom you're justly proud, for it's toad's--great--day! he sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he had done, he sang it all over again. then he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh. then he dipped his hairbrush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the middle, and plastered it down very straight and sleek on each side of his face; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the stairs to greet his guests, who he knew must be assembling in the drawing-room. all the animals cheered when he entered, and crowded round to congratulate him and say nice things about his courage, and his cleverness, and his fighting qualities; but toad only smiled faintly, and murmured, "not at all!" or, sometimes, for a change, "on the contrary!" otter, who was standing on the hearthrug, describing to an admiring circle of friends exactly how he would have managed things had he been there, came forward with a shout, threw his arm round toad's neck, and tried to take him round the room in triumphal progress; but toad, in a mild way, was rather snubby to him, remarking gently, as he disengaged himself, "badger's was the master mind; the mole and the water rat bore the brunt of the fighting; i merely served in the ranks and did little or nothing." the animals were evidently puzzled and taken aback by this unexpected attitude of his; and toad felt, as he moved from one guest to the other, making his modest responses, that he was an object of absorbing interest to every one. the badger had ordered everything of the best, and the banquet was a great success. there was much talking and laughter and chaff among the animals, but through it all toad, who of course was in the chair, looked down his nose and murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on either side of him. at intervals he stole a glance at the badger and the rat, and always when he looked they were staring at each other with their mouths open; and this gave him the greatest satisfaction. some of the younger and livelier animals, as the evening wore on, got whispering to each other that things were not so amusing as they used to be in the good old days; and there were some knockings on the table and cries of "toad! speech! speech from toad! song! mr. toad's song!" but toad only shook his head gently, raised one paw in mild protest, and, by pressing delicacies on his guests, by topical small-talk, and by earnest inquiries after members of their families not yet old enough to appear at social functions, managed to convey to them that this dinner was being run on strictly conventional lines. he was indeed an altered toad! * * * * * after this climax, the four animals continued to lead their lives, so rudely broken in upon by civil war, in great joy and contentment, undisturbed by further risings or invasions. toad, after due consultation with his friends, selected a handsome gold chain and locket set with pearls, which he dispatched to the gaoler's daughter, with a letter that even the badger admitted to be modest, grateful, and appreciative; and the engine-driver, in his turn, was properly thanked and compensated for all his pains and trouble. under severe compulsion from the badger, even the barge-woman was, with some trouble, sought out and the value of her horse discreetly made good to her; though toad kicked terribly at this, holding himself to be an instrument of fate, sent to punish fat women with mottled arms who couldn't tell a real gentleman when they saw one. the amount involved, it was true, was not very burdensome, the gipsy's valuation being admitted by local assessors to be approximately correct. sometimes, in the course of long summer evenings, the friends would take a stroll together in the wild wood, now successfully tamed so far as they were concerned; and it was pleasing to see how respectfully they were greeted by the inhabitants, and how the mother-weasels would bring their young ones to the mouths of their holes, and say, pointing, "look, baby! there goes the great mr. toad! and that's the gallant water rat, a terrible fighter, walking along o' him! and yonder comes the famous mr. mole, of whom you so often have heard your father tell!" but when their infants were fractious and quite beyond control, they would quiet them by telling how, if they didn't hush them and not fret them, the terrible grey badger would up and get them. this was a base libel on badger, who, though he cared little about society, was rather fond of children; but it never failed to have its full effect. _the wind in the willows_ none this etext was created by judith boss, omaha, nebraska. sherwood anderson winesburg, ohio contents introduction by irving howe the tales and the persons the book of the grotesque hands, concerning wing biddlebaum paper pills, concerning doctor reefy mother, concerning elizabeth willard the philosopher, concerning doctor parcival nobody knows, concerning louise trunnion godliness, a tale in four parts i, concerning jesse bentley ii, also concerning jesse bentley iii surrender, concerning louise bentley iv terror, concerning david hardy a man of ideas, concerning joe welling adventure, concerning alice hindman respectability, concerning wash williams the thinker, concerning seth richmond tandy, concerning tandy hard the strength of god, concerning the reverend curtis hartman the teacher, concerning kate swift loneliness, concerning enoch robinson an awakening, concerning belle carpenter "queer," concerning elmer cowley the untold lie, concerning ray pearson drink, concerning tom foster death, concerning doctor reefy and elizabeth willard sophistication, concerning helen white departure, concerning george willard introduction by irving howe i must have been no more than fifteen or sixteen years old when i first chanced upon winesburg, ohio. gripped by these stories and sketches of sherwood anderson's small-town "grotesques," i felt that he was opening for me new depths of experience, touching upon half-buried truths which nothing in my young life had prepared me for. a new york city boy who never saw the crops grow or spent time in the small towns that lay sprinkled across america, i found myself overwhelmed by the scenes of wasted life, wasted love--was this the "real" america?--that anderson sketched in winesburg. in those days only one other book seemed to offer so powerful a revelation, and that was thomas hardy's jude the obscure. several years later, as i was about to go overseas as a soldier, i spent my last week-end pass on a somewhat quixotic journey to clyde, ohio, the town upon which winesburg was partly modeled. clyde looked, i suppose, not very different from most other american towns, and the few of its residents i tried to engage in talk about anderson seemed quite uninterested. this indifference would not have surprised him; it certainly should not surprise anyone who reads his book. once freed from the army, i started to write literary criticism, and in i published a critical biography of anderson. it came shortly after lionel trilling's influential essay attacking anderson, an attack from which anderson's reputation would never quite recover. trilling charged anderson with indulging a vaporous sentimentalism, a kind of vague emotional meandering in stories that lacked social or spiritual solidity. there was a certain cogency in trilling's attack, at least with regard to anderson's inferior work, most of which he wrote after winesburg, ohio. in my book i tried, somewhat awkwardly, to bring together the kinds of judgment trilling had made with my still keen affection for the best of anderson's writings. by then, i had read writers more complex, perhaps more distinguished than anderson, but his muted stories kept a firm place in my memories, and the book i wrote might be seen as a gesture of thanks for the light--a glow of darkness, you might say--that he had brought to me. decades passed. i no longer read anderson, perhaps fearing i might have to surrender an admiration of youth. (there are some writers one should never return to.) but now, in the fullness of age, when asked to say a few introductory words about anderson and his work, i have again fallen under the spell of winesburg, ohio, again responded to the half-spoken desires, the flickers of longing that spot its pages. naturally, i now have some changes of response: a few of the stories no longer haunt me as once they did, but the long story "godliness," which years ago i considered a failure, i now see as a quaintly effective account of the way religious fanaticism and material acquisitiveness can become intertwined in american experience. * * * sherwood anderson was born in ohio in . his childhood and youth in clyde, a town with perhaps three thousand souls, were scarred by bouts of poverty, but he also knew some of the pleasures of pre-industrial american society. the country was then experiencing what he would later call "a sudden and almost universal turning of men from the old handicrafts towards our modern life of machines." there were still people in clyde who remembered the frontier, and like america itself, the town lived by a mixture of diluted calvinism and a strong belief in "progress," young sherwood, known as "jobby"--the boy always ready to work--showed the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that clyde respected: folks expected him to become a "go-getter," and for a time he did. moving to chicago in his early twenties, he worked in an advertising agency where he proved adept at turning out copy. "i create nothing, i boost, i boost," he said about himself, even as, on the side, he was trying to write short stories. in anderson married and three years later moved to elyria, a town forty miles west of cleveland, where he established a firm that sold paint. "i was going to be a rich man.... next year a bigger house; and after that, presumably, a country estate." later he would say about his years in elyria, "i was a good deal of a babbitt, but never completely one." something drove him to write, perhaps one of those shapeless hungers--a need for self-expression? a wish to find a more authentic kind of experience?--that would become a recurrent motif in his fiction. and then, in , occurred the great turning point in anderson's life. plainly put, he suffered a nervous breakdown, though in his memoirs he would elevate this into a moment of liberation in which he abandoned the sterility of commerce and turned to the rewards of literature. nor was this, i believe, merely a deception on anderson's part, since the breakdown painful as it surely was, did help precipitate a basic change in his life. at the age of , he left behind his business and moved to chicago, becoming one of the rebellious writers and cultural bohemians in the group that has since come to be called the "chicago renaissance." anderson soon adopted the posture of a free, liberated spirit, and like many writers of the time, he presented himself as a sardonic critic of american provincialism and materialism. it was in the freedom of the city, in its readiness to put up with deviant styles of life, that anderson found the strength to settle accounts with--but also to release his affection for--the world of small-town america. the dream of an unconditional personal freedom, that hazy american version of utopia, would remain central throughout anderson's life and work. it was an inspiration; it was a delusion. in and anderson published two novels mostly written in elyria, windy mcpherson's son and marching men, both by now largely forgotten. they show patches of talent but also a crudity of thought and unsteadiness of language. no one reading these novels was likely to suppose that its author could soon produce anything as remarkable as winesburg, ohio. occasionally there occurs in a writer's career a sudden, almost mysterious leap of talent, beyond explanation, perhaps beyond any need for explanation. in - anderson had begun to write and in he published the stories that comprise winesburg, ohio, stories that form, in sum, a sort of loosely-strung episodic novel. the book was an immediate critical success, and soon anderson was being ranked as a significant literary figure. in the distinguished literary magazine the dial awarded him its first annual literary prize of $ , , the significance of which is perhaps best understood if one also knows that the second recipient was t. s. eliot. but anderson's moment of glory was brief, no more than a decade, and sadly, the remaining years until his death in were marked by a sharp decline in his literary standing. somehow, except for an occasional story like the haunting "death in the woods," he was unable to repeat or surpass his early success. still, about winesburg, ohio and a small number of stories like "the egg" and "the man who became a woman" there has rarely been any critical doubt. * * * no sooner did winesburg, ohio make its appearance than a number of critical labels were fixed on it: the revolt against the village, the espousal of sexual freedom, the deepening of american realism. such tags may once have had their point, but by now they seem dated and stale. the revolt against the village (about which anderson was always ambivalent) has faded into history. the espousal of sexual freedom would soon be exceeded in boldness by other writers. and as for the effort to place winesburg, ohio in a tradition of american realism, that now seems dubious. only rarely is the object of anderson's stories social verisimilitude, or the "photographing" of familiar appearances, in the sense, say, that one might use to describe a novel by theodore dreiser or sinclair lewis. only occasionally, and then with a very light touch, does anderson try to fill out the social arrangements of his imaginary town--although the fact that his stories are set in a mid-american place like winesburg does constitute an important formative condition. you might even say, with only slight overstatement, that what anderson is doing in winesburg, ohio could be described as "antirealistic," fictions notable less for precise locale and social detail than for a highly personal, even strange vision of american life. narrow, intense, almost claustrophobic, the result is a book about extreme states of being, the collapse of men and women who have lost their psychic bearings and now hover, at best tolerated, at the edge of the little community in which they live. it would be a gross mistake, though not one likely to occur by now, if we were to take winesburg, ohio as a social photograph of "the typical small town" (whatever that might be.) anderson evokes a depressed landscape in which lost souls wander about; they make their flitting appearances mostly in the darkness of night, these stumps and shades of humanity. this vision has its truth, and at its best it is a terrible if narrow truth--but it is itself also grotesque, with the tone of the authorial voice and the mode of composition forming muted signals of the book's content. figures like dr. parcival, kate swift, and wash williams are not, nor are they meant to be, "fully-rounded" characters such as we can expect in realistic fiction; they are the shards of life, glimpsed for a moment, the debris of suffering and defeat. in each story one of them emerges, shyly or with a false assertiveness, trying to reach out to companionship and love, driven almost mad by the search for human connection. in the economy of winesburg these grotesques matter less in their own right than as agents or symptoms of that "indefinable hunger" for meaning which is anderson's preoccupation. brushing against one another, passing one another in the streets or the fields, they see bodies and hear voices, but it does not really matter--they are disconnected, psychically lost. is this due to the particular circumstances of small-town america as anderson saw it at the turn of the century? or does he feel that he is sketching an inescapable human condition which makes all of us bear the burden of loneliness? alice hindman in the story "adventure" turns her face to the wall and tries "to force herself to face the fact that many people must live and die alone, even in winesburg." or especially in winesburg? such impressions have been put in more general terms in anderson's only successful novel, poor white: all men lead their lives behind a wall of misunderstanding they have themselves built, and most men die in silence and unnoticed behind the walls. now and then a man, cut off from his fellows by the peculiarities of his nature, becomes absorbed in doing something that is personal, useful and beautiful. word of his activities is carried over the walls. these "walls" of misunderstanding are only seldom due to physical deformities (wing biddlebaum in "hands") or oppressive social arrangements (kate swift in "the teacher.") misunderstanding, loneliness, the inability to articulate, are all seen by anderson as virtually a root condition, something deeply set in our natures. nor are these people, the grotesques, simply to be pitied and dismissed; at some point in their lives they have known desire, have dreamt of ambition, have hoped for friendship. in all of them there was once something sweet, "like the twisted little apples that grow in the orchards in winesburg." now, broken and adrift, they clutch at some rigid notion or idea, a "truth" which turns out to bear the stamp of monomania, leaving them helplessly sputtering, desperate to speak out but unable to. winesburg, ohio registers the losses inescapable to life, and it does so with a deep fraternal sadness, a sympathy casting a mild glow over the entire book. "words," as the american writer paula fox has said, "are nets through which all truth escapes." yet what do we have but words? they want, these winesburg grotesques, to unpack their hearts, to release emotions buried and festering. wash williams tries to explain his eccentricity but hardly can; louise bentley "tried to talk but could say nothing"; enoch robinson retreats to a fantasy world, inventing "his own people to whom he could really talk and to whom he explained the things he had been unable to explain to living people." in his own somber way, anderson has here touched upon one of the great themes of american literature, especially midwestern literature, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: the struggle for speech as it entails a search for the self. perhaps the central winesburg story, tracing the basic movements of the book, is "paper pills," in which the old doctor reefy sits "in his empty office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs," writes down some thoughts on slips of paper ("pyramids of truth," he calls them) and then stuffs them into his pockets where they "become round hard balls" soon to be discarded. what dr. reefy's "truths" may be we never know; anderson simply persuades us that to this lonely old man they are utterly precious and thereby incommunicable, forming a kind of blurred moral signature. after a time the attentive reader will notice in these stories a recurrent pattern of theme and incident: the grotesques, gathering up a little courage, venture out into the streets of winesburg, often in the dark, there to establish some initiatory relationship with george willard, the young reporter who hasn't yet lived long enough to become a grotesque. hesitantly, fearfully, or with a sputtering incoherent rage, they approach him, pleading that he listen to their stories in the hope that perhaps they can find some sort of renewal in his youthful voice. upon this sensitive and fragile boy they pour out their desires and frustrations. dr. parcival hopes that george willard "will write the book i may never get written," and for enoch robinson, the boy represents "the youthful sadness, young man's sadness, the sadness of a growing boy in a village at the year's end [which may open] the lips of the old man." what the grotesques really need is each other, but their estrangement is so extreme they cannot establish direct ties--they can only hope for connection through george willard. the burden this places on the boy is more than he can bear. he listens to them attentively, he is sympathetic to their complaints, but finally he is too absorbed in his own dreams. the grotesques turn to him because he seems "different"--younger, more open, not yet hardened--but it is precisely this "difference" that keeps him from responding as warmly as they want. it is hardly the boy's fault; it is simply in the nature of things. for george willard, the grotesques form a moment in his education; for the grotesques, their encounters with george willard come to seem like a stamp of hopelessness. the prose anderson employs in telling these stories may seem at first glance to be simple: short sentences, a sparse vocabulary, uncomplicated syntax. in actuality, anderson developed an artful style in which, following mark twain and preceding ernest hemingway, he tried to use american speech as the base of a tensed rhythmic prose that has an economy and a shapeliness seldom found in ordinary speech or even oral narration. what anderson employs here is a stylized version of the american language, sometimes rising to quite formal rhetorical patterns and sometimes sinking to a self-conscious mannerism. but at its best, anderson's prose style in winesburg, ohio is a supple instrument, yielding that "low fine music" which he admired so much in the stories of turgenev. one of the worst fates that can befall a writer is that of self-imitation: the effort later in life, often desperate, to recapture the tones and themes of youthful beginnings. something of the sort happened with anderson's later writings. most critics and readers grew impatient with the work he did after, say, or ; they felt he was constantly repeating his gestures of emotional "groping"--what he had called in winesburg, ohio the "indefinable hunger" that prods and torments people. it became the critical fashion to see anderson's "gropings" as a sign of delayed adolescence, a failure to develop as a writer. once he wrote a chilling reply to those who dismissed him in this way: "i don't think it matters much, all this calling a man a muddler, a groper, etc.... the very man who throws such words as these knows in his heart that he is also facing a wall." this remark seems to me both dignified and strong, yet it must be admitted that there was some justice in the negative responses to his later work. for what characterized it was not so much "groping" as the imitation of "groping," the self-caricature of a writer who feels driven back upon an earlier self that is, alas, no longer available. but winesburg, ohio remains a vital work, fresh and authentic. most of its stories are composed in a minor key, a tone of subdued pathos--pathos marking both the nature and limit of anderson's talent. (he spoke of himself as a "minor writer.") in a few stories, however, he was able to reach beyond pathos and to strike a tragic note. the single best story in winesburg, ohio is, i think, "the untold lie," in which the urgency of choice becomes an outer sign of a tragic element in the human condition. and in anderson's single greatest story, "the egg," which appeared a few years after winesburg, ohio, he succeeded in bringing together a surface of farce with an undertone of tragedy. "the egg" is an american masterpiece. anderson's influence upon later american writers, especially those who wrote short stories, has been enormous. ernest hemingway and william faulkner both praised him as a writer who brought a new tremor of feeling, a new sense of introspectiveness to the american short story. as faulkner put it, anderson's "was the fumbling for exactitude, the exact word and phrase within the limited scope of a vocabulary controlled and even repressed by what was in him almost a fetish of simplicity ... to seek always to penetrate to thought's uttermost end." and in many younger writers who may not even be aware of the anderson influence, you can see touches of his approach, echoes of his voice. writing about the elizabethan playwright john ford, the poet algernon swinburne once said: "if he touches you once he takes you, and what he takes he keeps hold of; his work becomes part of your thought and parcel of your spiritual furniture forever." so it is, for me and many others, with sherwood anderson. to the memory of my mother, emma smith anderson, whose keen observations on the life about her first awoke in me the hunger to see beneath the surface of lives, this book is dedicated. the tales and the persons the book of the grotesque the writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. the windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. a carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. quite a fuss was made about the matter. the carpenter, who had been a soldier in the civil war, came into the writer's room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. the writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. for a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. the soldier got on the subject of the war. the writer, in fact, led him to that subject. the carpenter had once been a prisoner in andersonville prison and had lost a brother. the brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. he, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. the weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. the plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. in his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. for years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. he was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. the idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. it did not alarm him. the effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. it made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. he was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. no, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. it is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. the thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. the old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long life, a great many notions in his head. he had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. and then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and i know people. at least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? in the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. as he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. he imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. you see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. they were all grotesques. all of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. the grotesques were not all horrible. some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. when she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. for an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. at his desk the writer worked for an hour. in the end he wrote a book which he called "the book of the grotesque." it was never published, but i saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. the book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me. by remembering it i have been able to understand many people and things that i was never able to understand before. the thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: that in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. all about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. the old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. i will not try to tell you of all of them. there was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. and then the people came along. each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. it was the truths that made the people grotesques. the old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. it was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. you can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. the subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. he didn't, i suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. it was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer, i only mentioned him because he, like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer's book. hands upon the half decayed veranda of a small frame house that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of winesburg, ohio, a fat little old man walked nervously up and down. across a long field that had been seeded for clover but that had produced only a dense crop of yellow mustard weeds, he could see the public highway along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers returning from the fields. the berry pickers, youths and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. a boy clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to drag after him one of the maidens, who screamed and protested shrilly. the feet of the boy in the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across the face of the departing sun. over the long field came a thin girlish voice. "oh, you wing biddlebaum, comb your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded the voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though arranging a mass of tangled locks. wing biddlebaum, forever frightened and beset by a ghostly band of doubts, did not think of himself as in any way a part of the life of the town where he had lived for twenty years. among all the people of winesburg but one had come close to him. with george willard, son of tom willard, the proprietor of the new willard house, he had formed something like a friendship. george willard was the reporter on the winesburg eagle and sometimes in the evenings he walked out along the highway to wing biddlebaum's house. now as the old man walked up and down on the veranda, his hands moving nervously about, he was hoping that george willard would come and spend the evening with him. after the wagon containing the berry pickers had passed, he went across the field through the tall mustard weeds and climbing a rail fence peered anxiously along the road to the town. for a moment he stood thus, rubbing his hands together and looking up and down the road, and then, fear overcoming him, ran back to walk again upon the porch on his own house. in the presence of george willard, wing biddlebaum, who for twenty years had been the town mystery, lost something of his timidity, and his shadowy personality, submerged in a sea of doubts, came forth to look at the world. with the young reporter at his side, he ventured in the light of day into main street or strode up and down on the rickety front porch of his own house, talking excitedly. the voice that had been low and trembling became shrill and loud. the bent figure straightened. with a kind of wriggle, like a fish returned to the brook by the fisherman, biddlebaum the silent began to talk, striving to put into words the ideas that had been accumulated by his mind during long years of silence. wing biddlebaum talked much with his hands. the slender expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back, came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery of expression. the story of wing biddlebaum is a story of hands. their restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. some obscure poet of the town had thought of it. the hands alarmed their owner. he wanted to keep them hidden away and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields, or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads. when he talked to george willard, wing biddlebaum closed his fists and beat with them upon a table or on the walls of his house. the action made him more comfortable. if the desire to talk came to him when the two were walking in the fields, he sought out a stump or the top board of a fence and with his hands pounding busily talked with renewed ease. the story of wing biddlebaum's hands is worth a book in itself. sympathetically set forth it would tap many strange, beautiful qualities in obscure men. it is a job for a poet. in winesburg the hands had attracted attention merely because of their activity. with them wing biddlebaum had picked as high as a hundred and forty quarts of strawberries in a day. they became his distinguishing feature, the source of his fame. also they made more grotesque an already grotesque and elusive individuality. winesburg was proud of the hands of wing biddlebaum in the same spirit in which it was proud of banker white's new stone house and wesley moyer's bay stallion, tony tip, that had won the two-fifteen trot at the fall races in cleveland. as for george willard, he had many times wanted to ask about the hands. at times an almost overwhelming curiosity had taken hold of him. he felt that there must be a reason for their strange activity and their inclination to keep hidden away and only a growing respect for wing biddlebaum kept him from blurting out the questions that were often in his mind. once he had been on the point of asking. the two were walking in the fields on a summer afternoon and had stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. all afternoon wing biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. by a fence he had stopped and beating like a giant woodpecker upon the top board had shouted at george willard, condemning his tendency to be too much influenced by the people about him, "you are destroying yourself," he cried. "you have the inclination to be alone and to dream and you are afraid of dreams. you want to be like others in town here. you hear them talk and you try to imitate them." on the grassy bank wing biddlebaum had tried again to drive his point home. his voice became soft and reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he launched into a long rambling talk, speaking as one lost in a dream. out of the dream wing biddlebaum made a picture for george willard. in the picture men lived again in a kind of pastoral golden age. across a green open country came clean-limbed young men, some afoot, some mounted upon horses. in crowds the young men came to gather about the feet of an old man who sat beneath a tree in a tiny garden and who talked to them. wing biddlebaum became wholly inspired. for once he forgot the hands. slowly they stole forth and lay upon george willard's shoulders. something new and bold came into the voice that talked. "you must try to forget all you have learned," said the old man. "you must begin to dream. from this time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of the voices." pausing in his speech, wing biddlebaum looked long and earnestly at george willard. his eyes glowed. again he raised the hands to caress the boy and then a look of horror swept over his face. with a convulsive movement of his body, wing biddlebaum sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets. tears came to his eyes. "i must be getting along home. i can talk no more with you," he said nervously. without looking back, the old man had hurried down the hillside and across a meadow, leaving george willard perplexed and frightened upon the grassy slope. with a shiver of dread the boy arose and went along the road toward town. "i'll not ask him about his hands," he thought, touched by the memory of the terror he had seen in the man's eyes. "there's something wrong, but i don't want to know what it is. his hands have something to do with his fear of me and of everyone." and george willard was right. let us look briefly into the story of the hands. perhaps our talking of them will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder story of the influence for which the hands were but fluttering pennants of promise. in his youth wing biddlebaum had been a school teacher in a town in pennsylvania. he was not then known as wing biddlebaum, but went by the less euphonic name of adolph myers. as adolph myers he was much loved by the boys of his school. adolph myers was meant by nature to be a teacher of youth. he was one of those rare, little-understood men who rule by a power so gentle that it passes as a lovable weakness. in their feeling for the boys under their charge such men are not unlike the finer sort of women in their love of men. and yet that is but crudely stated. it needs the poet there. with the boys of his school, adolph myers had walked in the evening or had sat talking until dusk upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind of dream. here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. as he talked his voice became soft and musical. there was a caress in that also. in a way the voice and the hands, the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the hair were a part of the schoolmaster's effort to carry a dream into the young minds. by the caress that was in his fingers he expressed himself. he was one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, not centralized. under the caress of his hands doubt and disbelief went out of the minds of the boys and they began also to dream. and then the tragedy. a half-witted boy of the school became enamored of the young master. in his bed at night he imagined unspeakable things and in the morning went forth to tell his dreams as facts. strange, hideous accusations fell from his loosehung lips. through the pennsylvania town went a shiver. hidden, shadowy doubts that had been in men's minds concerning adolph myers were galvanized into beliefs. the tragedy did not linger. trembling lads were jerked out of bed and questioned. "he put his arms about me," said one. "his fingers were always playing in my hair," said another. one afternoon a man of the town, henry bradford, who kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse door. calling adolph myers into the school yard he began to beat him with his fists. as his hard knuckles beat down into the frightened face of the school-master, his wrath became more and more terrible. screaming with dismay, the children ran here and there like disturbed insects. "i'll teach you to put your hands on my boy, you beast," roared the saloon keeper, who, tired of beating the master, had begun to kick him about the yard. adolph myers was driven from the pennsylvania town in the night. with lanterns in their hands a dozen men came to the door of the house where he lived alone and commanded that he dress and come forth. it was raining and one of the men had a rope in his hands. they had intended to hang the school-master, but something in his figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their hearts and they let him escape. as he ran away into the darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and faster into the darkness. for twenty years adolph myers had lived alone in winesburg. he was but forty but looked sixty-five. the name of biddlebaum he got from a box of goods seen at a freight station as he hurried through an eastern ohio town. he had an aunt in winesburg, a black-toothed old woman who raised chickens, and with her he lived until she died. he had been ill for a year after the experience in pennsylvania, and after his recovery worked as a day laborer in the fields, going timidly about and striving to conceal his hands. although he did not understand what had happened he felt that the hands must be to blame. again and again the fathers of the boys had talked of the hands. "keep your hands to yourself," the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with fury in the schoolhouse yard. upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, wing biddlebaum continued to walk up and down until the sun had disappeared and the road beyond the field was lost in the grey shadows. going into his house he cut slices of bread and spread honey upon them. when the rumble of the evening train that took away the express cars loaded with the day's harvest of berries had passed and restored the silence of the summer night, he went again to walk upon the veranda. in the darkness he could not see the hands and they became quiet. although he still hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the medium through which he expressed his love of man, the hunger became again a part of his loneliness and his waiting. lighting a lamp, wing biddlebaum washed the few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the night. a few stray white bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by one with unbelievable rapidity. in the dense blotch of light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked like a priest engaged in some service of his church. the nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light, might well have been mistaken for the fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade after decade of his rosary. paper pills he was an old man with a white beard and huge nose and hands. long before the time during which we will know him, he was a doctor and drove a jaded white horse from house to house through the streets of winesburg. later he married a girl who had money. she had been left a large fertile farm when her father died. the girl was quiet, tall, and dark, and to many people she seemed very beautiful. everyone in winesburg wondered why she married the doctor. within a year after the marriage she died. the knuckles of the doctor's hands were extraordinarily large. when the hands were closed they looked like clusters of unpainted wooden balls as large as walnuts fastened together by steel rods. he smoked a cob pipe and after his wife's death sat all day in his empty office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs. he never opened the window. once on a hot day in august he tried but found it stuck fast and after that he forgot all about it. winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in doctor reefy there were the seeds of something very fine. alone in his musty office in the heffner block above the paris dry goods company's store, he worked ceaselessly, building up something that he himself destroyed. little pyramids of truth he erected and after erecting knocked them down again that he might have the truths to erect other pyramids. doctor reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of clothes for ten years. it was frayed at the sleeves and little holes had appeared at the knees and elbows. in the office he wore also a linen duster with huge pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of paper. after some weeks the scraps of paper became little hard round balls, and when the pockets were filled he dumped them out upon the floor. for ten years he had but one friend, another old man named john spaniard who owned a tree nursery. sometimes, in a playful mood, old doctor reefy took from his pockets a handful of the paper balls and threw them at the nursery man. "that is to confound you, you blathering old sentimentalist," he cried, shaking with laughter. the story of doctor reefy and his courtship of the tall dark girl who became his wife and left her money to him is a very curious story. it is delicious, like the twisted little apples that grow in the orchards of winesburg. in the fall one walks in the orchards and the ground is hard with frost underfoot. the apples have been taken from the trees by the pickers. they have been put in barrels and shipped to the cities where they will be eaten in apartments that are filled with books, magazines, furniture, and people. on the trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. they look like the knuckles of doctor reefy's hands. one nibbles at them and they are delicious. into a little round place at the side of the apple has been gathered all of its sweetness. one runs from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with them. only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples. the girl and doctor reefy began their courtship on a summer afternoon. he was forty-five then and already he had begun the practice of filling his pockets with the scraps of paper that became hard balls and were thrown away. the habit had been formed as he sat in his buggy behind the jaded white horse and went slowly along country roads. on the papers were written thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts. one by one the mind of doctor reefy had made the thoughts. out of many of them he formed a truth that arose gigantic in his mind. the truth clouded the world. it became terrible and then faded away and the little thoughts began again. the tall dark girl came to see doctor reefy because she was in the family way and had become frightened. she was in that condition because of a series of circumstances also curious. the death of her father and mother and the rich acres of land that had come down to her had set a train of suitors on her heels. for two years she saw suitors almost every evening. except two they were all alike. they talked to her of passion and there was a strained eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when they looked at her. the two who were different were much unlike each other. one of them, a slender young man with white hands, the son of a jeweler in winesburg, talked continually of virginity. when he was with her he was never off the subject. the other, a black-haired boy with large ears, said nothing at all but always managed to get her into the darkness, where he began to kiss her. for a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry the jeweler's son. for hours she sat in silence listening as he talked to her and then she began to be afraid of something. beneath his talk of virginity she began to think there was a lust greater than in all the others. at times it seemed to her that as he talked he was holding her body in his hands. she imagined him turning it slowly about in the white hands and staring at it. at night she dreamed that he had bitten into her body and that his jaws were dripping. she had the dream three times, then she became in the family way to the one who said nothing at all but who in the moment of his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for days the marks of his teeth showed. after the tall dark girl came to know doctor reefy it seemed to her that she never wanted to leave him again. she went into his office one morning and without her saying anything he seemed to know what had happened to her. in the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife of the man who kept the bookstore in winesburg. like all old-fashioned country practitioners, doctor reefy pulled teeth, and the woman who waited held a handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. her husband was with her and when the tooth was taken out they both screamed and blood ran down on the woman's white dress. the tall dark girl did not pay any attention. when the woman and the man had gone the doctor smiled. "i will take you driving into the country with me," he said. for several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor were together almost every day. the condition that had brought her to him passed in an illness, but she was like one who has discovered the sweetness of the twisted apples, she could not get her mind fixed again upon the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the city apartments. in the fall after the beginning of her acquaintanceship with him she married doctor reefy and in the following spring she died. during the winter he read to her all of the odds and ends of thoughts he had scribbled on the bits of paper. after he had read them he laughed and stuffed them away in his pockets to become round hard balls. mother elizabeth willard, the mother of george willard, was tall and gaunt and her face was marked with smallpox scars. although she was but forty-five, some obscure disease had taken the fire out of her figure. listlessly she went about the disorderly old hotel looking at the faded wall-paper and the ragged carpets and, when she was able to be about, doing the work of a chambermaid among beds soiled by the slumbers of fat traveling men. her husband, tom willard, a slender, graceful man with square shoulders, a quick military step, and a black mustache trained to turn sharply up at the ends, tried to put the wife out of his mind. the presence of the tall ghostly figure, moving slowly through the halls, he took as a reproach to himself. when he thought of her he grew angry and swore. the hotel was unprofitable and forever on the edge of failure and he wished himself out of it. he thought of the old house and the woman who lived there with him as things defeated and done for. the hotel in which he had begun life so hopefully was now a mere ghost of what a hotel should be. as he went spruce and business-like through the streets of winesburg, he sometimes stopped and turned quickly about as though fearing that the spirit of the hotel and of the woman would follow him even into the streets. "damn such a life, damn it!" he sputtered aimlessly. tom willard had a passion for village politics and for years had been the leading democrat in a strongly republican community. some day, he told himself, the tide of things political will turn in my favor and the years of ineffectual service count big in the bestowal of rewards. he dreamed of going to congress and even of becoming governor. once when a younger member of the party arose at a political conference and began to boast of his faithful service, tom willard grew white with fury. "shut up, you," he roared, glaring about. "what do you know of service? what are you but a boy? look at what i've done here! i was a democrat here in winesburg when it was a crime to be a democrat. in the old days they fairly hunted us with guns." between elizabeth and her one son george there was a deep unexpressed bond of sympathy, based on a girlhood dream that had long ago died. in the son's presence she was timid and reserved, but sometimes while he hurried about town intent upon his duties as a reporter, she went into his room and closing the door knelt by a little desk, made of a kitchen table, that sat near a window. in the room by the desk she went through a ceremony that was half a prayer, half a demand, addressed to the skies. in the boyish figure she yearned to see something half forgotten that had once been a part of herself recreated. the prayer concerned that. "even though i die, i will in some way keep defeat from you," she cried, and so deep was her determination that her whole body shook. her eyes glowed and she clenched her fists. "if i am dead and see him becoming a meaningless drab figure like myself, i will come back," she declared. "i ask god now to give me that privilege. i demand it. i will pay for it. god may beat me with his fists. i will take any blow that may befall if but this my boy be allowed to express something for us both." pausing uncertainly, the woman stared about the boy's room. "and do not let him become smart and successful either," she added vaguely. the communion between george willard and his mother was outwardly a formal thing without meaning. when she was ill and sat by the window in her room he sometimes went in the evening to make her a visit. they sat by a window that looked over the roof of a small frame building into main street. by turning their heads they could see through another window, along an alleyway that ran behind the main street stores and into the back door of abner groff's bakery. sometimes as they sat thus a picture of village life presented itself to them. at the back door of his shop appeared abner groff with a stick or an empty milk bottle in his hand. for a long time there was a feud between the baker and a grey cat that belonged to sylvester west, the druggist. the boy and his mother saw the cat creep into the door of the bakery and presently emerge followed by the baker, who swore and waved his arms about. the baker's eyes were small and red and his black hair and beard were filled with flour dust. sometimes he was so angry that, although the cat had disappeared, he hurled sticks, bits of broken glass, and even some of the tools of his trade about. once he broke a window at the back of sinning's hardware store. in the alley the grey cat crouched behind barrels filled with torn paper and broken bottles above which flew a black swarm of flies. once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged and ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, elizabeth willard put her head down on her long white hands and wept. after that she did not look along the alleyway any more, but tried to forget the contest between the bearded man and the cat. it seemed like a rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its vividness. in the evening when the son sat in the room with his mother, the silence made them both feel awkward. darkness came on and the evening train came in at the station. in the street below feet tramped up and down upon a board sidewalk. in the station yard, after the evening train had gone, there was a heavy silence. perhaps skinner leason, the express agent, moved a truck the length of the station platform. over on main street sounded a man's voice, laughing. the door of the express office banged. george willard arose and crossing the room fumbled for the doorknob. sometimes he knocked against a chair, making it scrape along the floor. by the window sat the sick woman, perfectly still, listless. her long hands, white and bloodless, could be seen drooping over the ends of the arms of the chair. "i think you had better be out among the boys. you are too much indoors," she said, striving to relieve the embarrassment of the departure. "i thought i would take a walk," replied george willard, who felt awkward and confused. one evening in july, when the transient guests who made the new willard house their temporary home had become scarce, and the hallways, lighted only by kerosene lamps turned low, were plunged in gloom, elizabeth willard had an adventure. she had been ill in bed for several days and her son had not come to visit her. she was alarmed. the feeble blaze of life that remained in her body was blown into a flame by her anxiety and she crept out of bed, dressed and hurried along the hallway toward her son's room, shaking with exaggerated fears. as she went along she steadied herself with her hand, slipped along the papered walls of the hall and breathed with difficulty. the air whistled through her teeth. as she hurried forward she thought how foolish she was. "he is concerned with boyish affairs," she told herself. "perhaps he has now begun to walk about in the evening with girls." elizabeth willard had a dread of being seen by guests in the hotel that had once belonged to her father and the ownership of which still stood recorded in her name in the county courthouse. the hotel was continually losing patronage because of its shabbiness and she thought of herself as also shabby. her own room was in an obscure corner and when she felt able to work she voluntarily worked among the beds, preferring the labor that could be done when the guests were abroad seeking trade among the merchants of winesburg. by the door of her son's room the mother knelt upon the floor and listened for some sound from within. when she heard the boy moving about and talking in low tones a smile came to her lips. george willard had a habit of talking aloud to himself and to hear him doing so had always given his mother a peculiar pleasure. the habit in him, she felt, strengthened the secret bond that existed between them. a thousand times she had whispered to herself of the matter. "he is groping about, trying to find himself," she thought. "he is not a dull clod, all words and smartness. within him there is a secret something that is striving to grow. it is the thing i let be killed in myself." in the darkness in the hallway by the door the sick woman arose and started again toward her own room. she was afraid that the door would open and the boy come upon her. when she had reached a safe distance and was about to turn a corner into a second hallway she stopped and bracing herself with her hands waited, thinking to shake off a trembling fit of weakness that had come upon her. the presence of the boy in the room had made her happy. in her bed, during the long hours alone, the little fears that had visited her had become giants. now they were all gone. "when i get back to my room i shall sleep," she murmured gratefully. but elizabeth willard was not to return to her bed and to sleep. as she stood trembling in the darkness the door of her son's room opened and the boy's father, tom willard, stepped out. in the light that steamed out at the door he stood with the knob in his hand and talked. what he said infuriated the woman. tom willard was ambitious for his son. he had always thought of himself as a successful man, although nothing he had ever done had turned out successfully. however, when he was out of sight of the new willard house and had no fear of coming upon his wife, he swaggered and began to dramatize himself as one of the chief men of the town. he wanted his son to succeed. he it was who had secured for the boy the position on the winesburg eagle. now, with a ring of earnestness in his voice, he was advising concerning some course of conduct. "i tell you what, george, you've got to wake up," he said sharply. "will henderson has spoken to me three times concerning the matter. he says you go along for hours not hearing when you are spoken to and acting like a gawky girl. what ails you?" tom willard laughed good-naturedly. "well, i guess you'll get over it," he said. "i told will that. you're not a fool and you're not a woman. you're tom willard's son and you'll wake up. i'm not afraid. what you say clears things up. if being a newspaper man had put the notion of becoming a writer into your mind that's all right. only i guess you'll have to wake up to do that too, eh?" tom willard went briskly along the hallway and down a flight of stairs to the office. the woman in the darkness could hear him laughing and talking with a guest who was striving to wear away a dull evening by dozing in a chair by the office door. she returned to the door of her son's room. the weakness had passed from her body as by a miracle and she stepped boldly along. a thousand ideas raced through her head. when she heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of a pen scratching upon paper, she again turned and went back along the hallway to her own room. a definite determination had come into the mind of the defeated wife of the winesburg hotel keeper. the determination was the result of long years of quiet and rather ineffectual thinking. "now," she told herself, "i will act. there is something threatening my boy and i will ward it off." the fact that the conversation between tom willard and his son had been rather quiet and natural, as though an understanding existed between them, maddened her. although for years she had hated her husband, her hatred had always before been a quite impersonal thing. he had been merely a part of something else that she hated. now, and by the few words at the door, he had become the thing personified. in the darkness of her own room she clenched her fists and glared about. going to a cloth bag that hung on a nail by the wall she took out a long pair of sewing scissors and held them in her hand like a dagger. "i will stab him," she said aloud. "he has chosen to be the voice of evil and i will kill him. when i have killed him something will snap within myself and i will die also. it will be a release for all of us." in her girlhood and before her marriage with tom willard, elizabeth had borne a somewhat shaky reputation in winesburg. for years she had been what is called "stage-struck" and had paraded through the streets with traveling men guests at her father's hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell her of life in the cities out of which they had come. once she startled the town by putting on men's clothes and riding a bicycle down main street. in her own mind the tall dark girl had been in those days much confused. a great restlessness was in her and it expressed itself in two ways. first there was an uneasy desire for change, for some big definite movement to her life. it was this feeling that had turned her mind to the stage. she dreamed of joining some company and wandering over the world, seeing always new faces and giving something out of herself to all people. sometimes at night she was quite beside herself with the thought, but when she tried to talk of the matter to the members of the theatrical companies that came to winesburg and stopped at her father's hotel, she got nowhere. they did not seem to know what she meant, or if she did get something of her passion expressed, they only laughed. "it's not like that," they said. "it's as dull and uninteresting as this here. nothing comes of it." with the traveling men when she walked about with them, and later with tom willard, it was quite different. always they seemed to understand and sympathize with her. on the side streets of the village, in the darkness under the trees, they took hold of her hand and she thought that something unexpressed in herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them. and then there was the second expression of her restlessness. when that came she felt for a time released and happy. she did not blame the men who walked with her and later she did not blame tom willard. it was always the same, beginning with kisses and ending, after strange wild emotions, with peace and then sobbing repentance. when she sobbed she put her hand upon the face of the man and had always the same thought. even though he were large and bearded she thought he had become suddenly a little boy. she wondered why he did not sob also. in her room, tucked away in a corner of the old willard house, elizabeth willard lighted a lamp and put it on a dressing table that stood by the door. a thought had come into her mind and she went to a closet and brought out a small square box and set it on the table. the box contained material for make-up and had been left with other things by a theatrical company that had once been stranded in winesburg. elizabeth willard had decided that she would be beautiful. her hair was still black and there was a great mass of it braided and coiled about her head. the scene that was to take place in the office below began to grow in her mind. no ghostly worn-out figure should confront tom willard, but something quite unexpected and startling. tall and with dusky cheeks and hair that fell in a mass from her shoulders, a figure should come striding down the stairway before the startled loungers in the hotel office. the figure would be silent--it would be swift and terrible. as a tigress whose cub had been threatened would she appear, coming out of the shadows, stealing noiselessly along and holding the long wicked scissors in her hand. with a little broken sob in her throat, elizabeth willard blew out the light that stood upon the table and stood weak and trembling in the darkness. the strength that had been as a miracle in her body left and she half reeled across the floor, clutching at the back of the chair in which she had spent so many long days staring out over the tin roofs into the main street of winesburg. in the hallway there was the sound of footsteps and george willard came in at the door. sitting in a chair beside his mother he began to talk. "i'm going to get out of here," he said. "i don't know where i shall go or what i shall do but i am going away." the woman in the chair waited and trembled. an impulse came to her. "i suppose you had better wake up," she said. "you think that? you will go to the city and make money, eh? it will be better for you, you think, to be a business man, to be brisk and smart and alive?" she waited and trembled. the son shook his head. "i suppose i can't make you understand, but oh, i wish i could," he said earnestly. "i can't even talk to father about it. i don't try. there isn't any use. i don't know what i shall do. i just want to go away and look at people and think." silence fell upon the room where the boy and woman sat together. again, as on the other evenings, they were embarrassed. after a time the boy tried again to talk. "i suppose it won't be for a year or two but i've been thinking about it," he said, rising and going toward the door. "something father said makes it sure that i shall have to go away." he fumbled with the doorknob. in the room the silence became unbearable to the woman. she wanted to cry out with joy because of the words that had come from the lips of her son, but the expression of joy had become impossible to her. "i think you had better go out among the boys. you are too much indoors," she said. "i thought i would go for a little walk," replied the son stepping awkwardly out of the room and closing the door. the philosopher doctor parcival was a large man with a drooping mouth covered by a yellow mustache. he always wore a dirty white waistcoat out of the pockets of which protruded a number of the kind of black cigars known as stogies. his teeth were black and irregular and there was something strange about his eyes. the lid of the left eye twitched; it fell down and snapped up; it was exactly as though the lid of the eye were a window shade and someone stood inside the doctor's head playing with the cord. doctor parcival had a liking for the boy, george willard. it began when george had been working for a year on the winesburg eagle and the acquaintanceship was entirely a matter of the doctor's own making. in the late afternoon will henderson, owner and editor of the eagle, went over to tom willy's saloon. along an alleyway he went and slipping in at the back door of the saloon began drinking a drink made of a combination of sloe gin and soda water. will henderson was a sensualist and had reached the age of forty-five. he imagined the gin renewed the youth in him. like most sensualists he enjoyed talking of women, and for an hour he lingered about gossiping with tom willy. the saloon keeper was a short, broad-shouldered man with peculiarly marked hands. that flaming kind of birthmark that sometimes paints with red the faces of men and women had touched with red tom willy's fingers and the backs of his hands. as he stood by the bar talking to will henderson he rubbed the hands together. as he grew more and more excited the red of his fingers deepened. it was as though the hands had been dipped in blood that had dried and faded. as will henderson stood at the bar looking at the red hands and talking of women, his assistant, george willard, sat in the office of the winesburg eagle and listened to the talk of doctor parcival. doctor parcival appeared immediately after will henderson had disappeared. one might have supposed that the doctor had been watching from his office window and had seen the editor going along the alleyway. coming in at the front door and finding himself a chair, he lighted one of the stogies and crossing his legs began to talk. he seemed intent upon convincing the boy of the advisability of adopting a line of conduct that he was himself unable to define. "if you have your eyes open you will see that although i call myself a doctor i have mighty few patients," he began. "there is a reason for that. it is not an accident and it is not because i do not know as much of medicine as anyone here. i do not want patients. the reason, you see, does not appear on the surface. it lies in fact in my character, which has, if you think about it, many strange turns. why i want to talk to you of the matter i don't know. i might keep still and get more credit in your eyes. i have a desire to make you admire me, that's a fact. i don't know why. that's why i talk. it's very amusing, eh?" sometimes the doctor launched into long tales concerning himself. to the boy the tales were very real and full of meaning. he began to admire the fat unclean-looking man and, in the afternoon when will henderson had gone, looked forward with keen interest to the doctor's coming. doctor parcival had been in winesburg about five years. he came from chicago and when he arrived was drunk and got into a fight with albert longworth, the baggageman. the fight concerned a trunk and ended by the doctor's being escorted to the village lockup. when he was released he rented a room above a shoe-repairing shop at the lower end of main street and put out the sign that announced himself as a doctor. although he had but few patients and these of the poorer sort who were unable to pay, he seemed to have plenty of money for his needs. he slept in the office that was unspeakably dirty and dined at biff carter's lunch room in a small frame building opposite the railroad station. in the summer the lunch room was filled with flies and biff carter's white apron was more dirty than his floor. doctor parcival did not mind. into the lunch room he stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the counter. "feed me what you wish for that," he said laughing. "use up food that you wouldn't otherwise sell. it makes no difference to me. i am a man of distinction, you see. why should i concern myself with what i eat." the tales that doctor parcival told george willard began nowhere and ended nowhere. sometimes the boy thought they must all be inventions, a pack of lies. and then again he was convinced that they contained the very essence of truth. "i was a reporter like you here," doctor parcival began. "it was in a town in iowa--or was it in illinois? i don't remember and anyway it makes no difference. perhaps i am trying to conceal my identity and don't want to be very definite. have you ever thought it strange that i have money for my needs although i do nothing? i may have stolen a great sum of money or been involved in a murder before i came here. there is food for thought in that, eh? if you were a really smart newspaper reporter you would look me up. in chicago there was a doctor cronin who was murdered. have you heard of that? some men murdered him and put him in a trunk. in the early morning they hauled the trunk across the city. it sat on the back of an express wagon and they were on the seat as unconcerned as anything. along they went through quiet streets where everyone was asleep. the sun was just coming up over the lake. funny, eh--just to think of them smoking pipes and chattering as they drove along as unconcerned as i am now. perhaps i was one of those men. that would be a strange turn of things, now wouldn't it, eh?" again doctor parcival began his tale: "well, anyway there i was, a reporter on a paper just as you are here, running about and getting little items to print. my mother was poor. she took in washing. her dream was to make me a presbyterian minister and i was studying with that end in view. "my father had been insane for a number of years. he was in an asylum over at dayton, ohio. there you see i have let it slip out! all of this took place in ohio, right here in ohio. there is a clew if you ever get the notion of looking me up. "i was going to tell you of my brother. that's the object of all this. that's what i'm getting at. my brother was a railroad painter and had a job on the big four. you know that road runs through ohio here. with other men he lived in a box car and away they went from town to town painting the railroad property-switches, crossing gates, bridges, and stations. "the big four paints its stations a nasty orange color. how i hated that color! my brother was always covered with it. on pay days he used to get drunk and come home wearing his paint-covered clothes and bringing his money with him. he did not give it to mother but laid it in a pile on our kitchen table. "about the house he went in the clothes covered with the nasty orange colored paint. i can see the picture. my mother, who was small and had red, sad-looking eyes, would come into the house from a little shed at the back. that's where she spent her time over the washtub scrubbing people's dirty clothes. in she would come and stand by the table, rubbing her eyes with her apron that was covered with soap-suds. "'don't touch it! don't you dare touch that money,' my brother roared, and then he himself took five or ten dollars and went tramping off to the saloons. when he had spent what he had taken he came back for more. he never gave my mother any money at all but stayed about until he had spent it all, a little at a time. then he went back to his job with the painting crew on the railroad. after he had gone things began to arrive at our house, groceries and such things. sometimes there would be a dress for mother or a pair of shoes for me. "strange, eh? my mother loved my brother much more than she did me, although he never said a kind word to either of us and always raved up and down threatening us if we dared so much as touch the money that sometimes lay on the table three days. "we got along pretty well. i studied to be a minister and prayed. i was a regular ass about saying prayers. you should have heard me. when my father died i prayed all night, just as i did sometimes when my brother was in town drinking and going about buying the things for us. in the evening after supper i knelt by the table where the money lay and prayed for hours. when no one was looking i stole a dollar or two and put it in my pocket. that makes me laugh now but then it was terrible. it was on my mind all the time. i got six dollars a week from my job on the paper and always took it straight home to mother. the few dollars i stole from my brother's pile i spent on myself, you know, for trifles, candy and cigarettes and such things. "when my father died at the asylum over at dayton, i went over there. i borrowed some money from the man for whom i worked and went on the train at night. it was raining. in the asylum they treated me as though i were a king. "the men who had jobs in the asylum had found out i was a newspaper reporter. that made them afraid. there had been some negligence, some carelessness, you see, when father was ill. they thought perhaps i would write it up in the paper and make a fuss. i never intended to do anything of the kind. "anyway, in i went to the room where my father lay dead and blessed the dead body. i wonder what put that notion into my head. wouldn't my brother, the painter, have laughed, though. there i stood over the dead body and spread out my hands. the superintendent of the asylum and some of his helpers came in and stood about looking sheepish. it was very amusing. i spread out my hands and said, 'let peace brood over this carcass.' that's what i said." jumping to his feet and breaking off the tale, doctor parcival began to walk up and down in the office of the winesburg eagle where george willard sat listening. he was awkward and, as the office was small, continually knocked against things. "what a fool i am to be talking," he said. "that is not my object in coming here and forcing my acquaintanceship upon you. i have something else in mind. you are a reporter just as i was once and you have attracted my attention. you may end by becoming just such another fool. i want to warn you and keep on warning you. that's why i seek you out." doctor parcival began talking of george willard's attitude toward men. it seemed to the boy that the man had but one object in view, to make everyone seem despicable. "i want to fill you with hatred and contempt so that you will be a superior being," he declared. "look at my brother. there was a fellow, eh? he despised everyone, you see. you have no idea with what contempt he looked upon mother and me. and was he not our superior? you know he was. you have not seen him and yet i have made you feel that. i have given you a sense of it. he is dead. once when he was drunk he lay down on the tracks and the car in which he lived with the other painters ran over him." * * * one day in august doctor parcival had an adventure in winesburg. for a month george willard had been going each morning to spend an hour in the doctor's office. the visits came about through a desire on the part of the doctor to read to the boy from the pages of a book he was in the process of writing. to write the book doctor parcival declared was the object of his coming to winesburg to live. on the morning in august before the coming of the boy, an incident had happened in the doctor's office. there had been an accident on main street. a team of horses had been frightened by a train and had run away. a little girl, the daughter of a farmer, had been thrown from a buggy and killed. on main street everyone had become excited and a cry for doctors had gone up. all three of the active practitioners of the town had come quickly but had found the child dead. from the crowd someone had run to the office of doctor parcival who had bluntly refused to go down out of his office to the dead child. the useless cruelty of his refusal had passed unnoticed. indeed, the man who had come up the stairway to summon him had hurried away without hearing the refusal. all of this, doctor parcival did not know and when george willard came to his office he found the man shaking with terror. "what i have done will arouse the people of this town," he declared excitedly. "do i not know human nature? do i not know what will happen? word of my refusal will be whispered about. presently men will get together in groups and talk of it. they will come here. we will quarrel and there will be talk of hanging. then they will come again bearing a rope in their hands." doctor parcival shook with fright. "i have a presentiment," he declared emphatically. "it may be that what i am talking about will not occur this morning. it may be put off until tonight but i will be hanged. everyone will get excited. i will be hanged to a lamp-post on main street." going to the door of his dirty office, doctor parcival looked timidly down the stairway leading to the street. when he returned the fright that had been in his eyes was beginning to be replaced by doubt. coming on tiptoe across the room he tapped george willard on the shoulder. "if not now, sometime," he whispered, shaking his head. "in the end i will be crucified, uselessly crucified." doctor parcival began to plead with george willard. "you must pay attention to me," he urged. "if something happens perhaps you will be able to write the book that i may never get written. the idea is very simple, so simple that if you are not careful you will forget it. it is this--that everyone in the world is christ and they are all crucified. that's what i want to say. don't you forget that. whatever happens, don't you dare let yourself forget." nobody knows looking cautiously about, george willard arose from his desk in the office of the winesburg eagle and went hurriedly out at the back door. the night was warm and cloudy and although it was not yet eight o'clock, the alleyway back of the eagle office was pitch dark. a team of horses tied to a post somewhere in the darkness stamped on the hard-baked ground. a cat sprang from under george willard's feet and ran away into the night. the young man was nervous. all day he had gone about his work like one dazed by a blow. in the alleyway he trembled as though with fright. in the darkness george willard walked along the alleyway, going carefully and cautiously. the back doors of the winesburg stores were open and he could see men sitting about under the store lamps. in myerbaum's notion store mrs. willy the saloon keeper's wife stood by the counter with a basket on her arm. sid green the clerk was waiting on her. he leaned over the counter and talked earnestly. george willard crouched and then jumped through the path of light that came out at the door. he began to run forward in the darkness. behind ed griffith's saloon old jerry bird the town drunkard lay asleep on the ground. the runner stumbled over the sprawling legs. he laughed brokenly. george willard had set forth upon an adventure. all day he had been trying to make up his mind to go through with the adventure and now he was acting. in the office of the winesburg eagle he had been sitting since six o'clock trying to think. there had been no decision. he had just jumped to his feet, hurried past will henderson who was reading proof in the printshop and started to run along the alleyway. through street after street went george willard, avoiding the people who passed. he crossed and recrossed the road. when he passed a street lamp he pulled his hat down over his face. he did not dare think. in his mind there was a fear but it was a new kind of fear. he was afraid the adventure on which he had set out would be spoiled, that he would lose courage and turn back. george willard found louise trunnion in the kitchen of her father's house. she was washing dishes by the light of a kerosene lamp. there she stood behind the screen door in the little shedlike kitchen at the back of the house. george willard stopped by a picket fence and tried to control the shaking of his body. only a narrow potato patch separated him from the adventure. five minutes passed before he felt sure enough of himself to call to her. "louise! oh, louise!" he called. the cry stuck in his throat. his voice became a hoarse whisper. louise trunnion came out across the potato patch holding the dish cloth in her hand. "how do you know i want to go out with you," she said sulkily. "what makes you so sure?" george willard did not answer. in silence the two stood in the darkness with the fence between them. "you go on along," she said. "pa's in there. i'll come along. you wait by williams' barn." the young newspaper reporter had received a letter from louise trunnion. it had come that morning to the office of the winesburg eagle. the letter was brief. "i'm yours if you want me," it said. he thought it annoying that in the darkness by the fence she had pretended there was nothing between them. "she has a nerve! well, gracious sakes, she has a nerve," he muttered as he went along the street and passed a row of vacant lots where corn grew. the corn was shoulder high and had been planted right down to the sidewalk. when louise trunnion came out of the front door of her house she still wore the gingham dress in which she had been washing dishes. there was no hat on her head. the boy could see her standing with the doorknob in her hand talking to someone within, no doubt to old jake trunnion, her father. old jake was half deaf and she shouted. the door closed and everything was dark and silent in the little side street. george willard trembled more violently than ever. in the shadows by williams' barn george and louise stood, not daring to talk. she was not particularly comely and there was a black smudge on the side of her nose. george thought she must have rubbed her nose with her finger after she had been handling some of the kitchen pots. the young man began to laugh nervously. "it's warm," he said. he wanted to touch her with his hand. "i'm not very bold," he thought. just to touch the folds of the soiled gingham dress would, he decided, be an exquisite pleasure. she began to quibble. "you think you're better than i am. don't tell me, i guess i know," she said drawing closer to him. a flood of words burst from george willard. he remembered the look that had lurked in the girl's eyes when they had met on the streets and thought of the note she had written. doubt left him. the whispered tales concerning her that had gone about town gave him confidence. he became wholly the male, bold and aggressive. in his heart there was no sympathy for her. "ah, come on, it'll be all right. there won't be anyone know anything. how can they know?" he urged. they began to walk along a narrow brick sidewalk between the cracks of which tall weeds grew. some of the bricks were missing and the sidewalk was rough and irregular. he took hold of her hand that was also rough and thought it delightfully small. "i can't go far," she said and her voice was quiet, unperturbed. they crossed a bridge that ran over a tiny stream and passed another vacant lot in which corn grew. the street ended. in the path at the side of the road they were compelled to walk one behind the other. will overton's berry field lay beside the road and there was a pile of boards. "will is going to build a shed to store berry crates here," said george and they sat down upon the boards. * * * when george willard got back into main street it was past ten o'clock and had begun to rain. three times he walked up and down the length of main street. sylvester west's drug store was still open and he went in and bought a cigar. when shorty crandall the clerk came out at the door with him he was pleased. for five minutes the two stood in the shelter of the store awning and talked. george willard felt satisfied. he had wanted more than anything else to talk to some man. around a corner toward the new willard house he went whistling softly. on the sidewalk at the side of winney's dry goods store where there was a high board fence covered with circus pictures, he stopped whistling and stood perfectly still in the darkness, attentive, listening as though for a voice calling his name. then again he laughed nervously. "she hasn't got anything on me. nobody knows," he muttered doggedly and went on his way. godliness a tale in four parts there were always three or four old people sitting on the front porch of the house or puttering about the garden of the bentley farm. three of the old people were women and sisters to jesse. they were a colorless, soft voiced lot. then there was a silent old man with thin white hair who was jesse's uncle. the farmhouse was built of wood, a board outer-covering over a framework of logs. it was in reality not one house but a cluster of houses joined together in a rather haphazard manner. inside, the place was full of surprises. one went up steps from the living room into the dining room and there were always steps to be ascended or descended in passing from one room to another. at meal times the place was like a beehive. at one moment all was quiet, then doors began to open, feet clattered on stairs, a murmur of soft voices arose and people appeared from a dozen obscure corners. besides the old people, already mentioned, many others lived in the bentley house. there were four hired men, a woman named aunt callie beebe, who was in charge of the housekeeping, a dull-witted girl named eliza stoughton, who made beds and helped with the milking, a boy who worked in the stables, and jesse bentley himself, the owner and overlord of it all. by the time the american civil war had been over for twenty years, that part of northern ohio where the bentley farms lay had begun to emerge from pioneer life. jesse then owned machinery for harvesting grain. he had built modern barns and most of his land was drained with carefully laid tile drain, but in order to understand the man we will have to go back to an earlier day. the bentley family had been in northern ohio for several generations before jesse's time. they came from new york state and took up land when the country was new and land could be had at a low price. for a long time they, in common with all the other middle western people, were very poor. the land they had settled upon was heavily wooded and covered with fallen logs and underbrush. after the long hard labor of clearing these away and cutting the timber, there were still the stumps to be reckoned with. plows run through the fields caught on hidden roots, stones lay all about, on the low places water gathered, and the young corn turned yellow, sickened and died. when jesse bentley's father and brothers had come into their ownership of the place, much of the harder part of the work of clearing had been done, but they clung to old traditions and worked like driven animals. they lived as practically all of the farming people of the time lived. in the spring and through most of the winter the highways leading into the town of winesburg were a sea of mud. the four young men of the family worked hard all day in the fields, they ate heavily of coarse, greasy food, and at night slept like tired beasts on beds of straw. into their lives came little that was not coarse and brutal and outwardly they were themselves coarse and brutal. on saturday afternoons they hitched a team of horses to a three-seated wagon and went off to town. in town they stood about the stoves in the stores talking to other farmers or to the store keepers. they were dressed in overalls and in the winter wore heavy coats that were flecked with mud. their hands as they stretched them out to the heat of the stoves were cracked and red. it was difficult for them to talk and so they for the most part kept silent. when they had bought meat, flour, sugar, and salt, they went into one of the winesburg saloons and drank beer. under the influence of drink the naturally strong lusts of their natures, kept suppressed by the heroic labor of breaking up new ground, were released. a kind of crude and animal-like poetic fervor took possession of them. on the road home they stood up on the wagon seats and shouted at the stars. sometimes they fought long and bitterly and at other times they broke forth into songs. once enoch bentley, the older one of the boys, struck his father, old tom bentley, with the butt of a teamster's whip, and the old man seemed likely to die. for days enoch lay hid in the straw in the loft of the stable ready to flee if the result of his momentary passion turned out to be murder. he was kept alive with food brought by his mother, who also kept him informed of the injured man's condition. when all turned out well he emerged from his hiding place and went back to the work of clearing land as though nothing had happened. * * * the civil war brought a sharp turn to the fortunes of the bentleys and was responsible for the rise of the youngest son, jesse. enoch, edward, harry, and will bentley all enlisted and before the long war ended they were all killed. for a time after they went away to the south, old tom tried to run the place, but he was not successful. when the last of the four had been killed he sent word to jesse that he would have to come home. then the mother, who had not been well for a year, died suddenly, and the father became altogether discouraged. he talked of selling the farm and moving into town. all day he went about shaking his head and muttering. the work in the fields was neglected and weeds grew high in the corn. old tom hired men but he did not use them intelligently. when they had gone away to the fields in the morning he wandered into the woods and sat down on a log. sometimes he forgot to come home at night and one of the daughters had to go in search of him. when jesse bentley came home to the farm and began to take charge of things he was a slight, sensitive-looking man of twenty-two. at eighteen he had left home to go to school to become a scholar and eventually to become a minister of the presbyterian church. all through his boyhood he had been what in our country was called an "odd sheep" and had not got on with his brothers. of all the family only his mother had understood him and she was now dead. when he came home to take charge of the farm, that had at that time grown to more than six hundred acres, everyone on the farms about and in the nearby town of winesburg smiled at the idea of his trying to handle the work that had been done by his four strong brothers. there was indeed good cause to smile. by the standards of his day jesse did not look like a man at all. he was small and very slender and womanish of body and, true to the traditions of young ministers, wore a long black coat and a narrow black string tie. the neighbors were amused when they saw him, after the years away, and they were even more amused when they saw the woman he had married in the city. as a matter of fact, jesse's wife did soon go under. that was perhaps jesse's fault. a farm in northern ohio in the hard years after the civil war was no place for a delicate woman, and katherine bentley was delicate. jesse was hard with her as he was with everybody about him in those days. she tried to do such work as all the neighbor women about her did and he let her go on without interference. she helped to do the milking and did part of the housework; she made the beds for the men and prepared their food. for a year she worked every day from sunrise until late at night and then after giving birth to a child she died. as for jesse bentley--although he was a delicately built man there was something within him that could not easily be killed. he had brown curly hair and grey eyes that were at times hard and direct, at times wavering and uncertain. not only was he slender but he was also short of stature. his mouth was like the mouth of a sensitive and very determined child. jesse bentley was a fanatic. he was a man born out of his time and place and for this he suffered and made others suffer. never did he succeed in getting what he wanted out of life and he did not know what he wanted. within a very short time after he came home to the bentley farm he made everyone there a little afraid of him, and his wife, who should have been close to him as his mother had been, was afraid also. at the end of two weeks after his coming, old tom bentley made over to him the entire ownership of the place and retired into the background. everyone retired into the background. in spite of his youth and inexperience, jesse had the trick of mastering the souls of his people. he was so in earnest in everything he did and said that no one understood him. he made everyone on the farm work as they had never worked before and yet there was no joy in the work. if things went well they went well for jesse and never for the people who were his dependents. like a thousand other strong men who have come into the world here in america in these later times, jesse was but half strong. he could master others but he could not master himself. the running of the farm as it had never been run before was easy for him. when he came home from cleveland where he had been in school, he shut himself off from all of his people and began to make plans. he thought about the farm night and day and that made him successful. other men on the farms about him worked too hard and were too fired to think, but to think of the farm and to be everlastingly making plans for its success was a relief to jesse. it partially satisfied something in his passionate nature. immediately after he came home he had a wing built on to the old house and in a large room facing the west he had windows that looked into the barnyard and other windows that looked off across the fields. by the window he sat down to think. hour after hour and day after day he sat and looked over the land and thought out his new place in life. the passionate burning thing in his nature flamed up and his eyes became hard. he wanted to make the farm produce as no farm in his state had ever produced before and then he wanted something else. it was the indefinable hunger within that made his eyes waver and that kept him always more and more silent before people. he would have given much to achieve peace and in him was a fear that peace was the thing he could not achieve. all over his body jesse bentley was alive. in his small frame was gathered the force of a long line of strong men. he had always been extraordinarily alive when he was a small boy on the farm and later when he was a young man in school. in the school he had studied and thought of god and the bible with his whole mind and heart. as time passed and he grew to know people better, he began to think of himself as an extraordinary man, one set apart from his fellows. he wanted terribly to make his life a thing of great importance, and as he looked about at his fellow men and saw how like clods they lived it seemed to him that he could not bear to become also such a clod. although in his absorption in himself and in his own destiny he was blind to the fact that his young wife was doing a strong woman's work even after she had become large with child and that she was killing herself in his service, he did not intend to be unkind to her. when his father, who was old and twisted with toil, made over to him the ownership of the farm and seemed content to creep away to a corner and wait for death, he shrugged his shoulders and dismissed the old man from his mind. in the room by the window overlooking the land that had come down to him sat jesse thinking of his own affairs. in the stables he could hear the tramping of his horses and the restless movement of his cattle. away in the fields he could see other cattle wandering over green hills. the voices of men, his men who worked for him, came in to him through the window. from the milkhouse there was the steady thump, thump of a churn being manipulated by the half-witted girl, eliza stoughton. jesse's mind went back to the men of old testament days who had also owned lands and herds. he remembered how god had come down out of the skies and talked to these men and he wanted god to notice and to talk to him also. a kind of feverish boyish eagerness to in some way achieve in his own life the flavor of significance that had hung over these men took possession of him. being a prayerful man he spoke of the matter aloud to god and the sound of his own words strengthened and fed his eagerness. "i am a new kind of man come into possession of these fields," he declared. "look upon me, o god, and look thou also upon my neighbors and all the men who have gone before me here! o god, create in me another jesse, like that one of old, to rule over men and to be the father of sons who shall be rulers!" jesse grew excited as he talked aloud and jumping to his feet walked up and down in the room. in fancy he saw himself living in old times and among old peoples. the land that lay stretched out before him became of vast significance, a place peopled by his fancy with a new race of men sprung from himself. it seemed to him that in his day as in those other and older days, kingdoms might be created and new impulses given to the lives of men by the power of god speaking through a chosen servant. he longed to be such a servant. "it is god's work i have come to the land to do," he declared in a loud voice and his short figure straightened and he thought that something like a halo of godly approval hung over him. * * * it will perhaps be somewhat difficult for the men and women of a later day to understand jesse bentley. in the last fifty years a vast change has taken place in the lives of our people. a revolution has in fact taken place. the coming of industrialism, attended by all the roar and rattle of affairs, the shrill cries of millions of new voices that have come among us from overseas, the going and coming of trains, the growth of cities, the building of the inter-urban car lines that weave in and out of towns and past farmhouses, and now in these later days the coming of the automobiles has worked a tremendous change in the lives and in the habits of thought of our people of mid-america. books, badly imagined and written though they may be in the hurry of our times, are in every household, magazines circulate by the millions of copies, newspapers are everywhere. in our day a farmer standing by the stove in the store in his village has his mind filled to overflowing with the words of other men. the newspapers and the magazines have pumped him full. much of the old brutal ignorance that had in it also a kind of beautiful childlike innocence is gone forever. the farmer by the stove is brother to the men of the cities, and if you listen you will find him talking as glibly and as senselessly as the best city man of us all. in jesse bentley's time and in the country districts of the whole middle west in the years after the civil war it was not so. men labored too hard and were too tired to read. in them was no desire for words printed upon paper. as they worked in the fields, vague, half-formed thoughts took possession of them. they believed in god and in god's power to control their lives. in the little protestant churches they gathered on sunday to hear of god and his works. the churches were the center of the social and intellectual life of the times. the figure of god was big in the hearts of men. and so, having been born an imaginative child and having within him a great intellectual eagerness, jesse bentley had turned wholeheartedly toward god. when the war took his brothers away, he saw the hand of god in that. when his father became ill and could no longer attend to the running of the farm, he took that also as a sign from god. in the city, when the word came to him, he walked about at night through the streets thinking of the matter and when he had come home and had got the work on the farm well under way, he went again at night to walk through the forests and over the low hills and to think of god. as he walked the importance of his own figure in some divine plan grew in his mind. he grew avaricious and was impatient that the farm contained only six hundred acres. kneeling in a fence corner at the edge of some meadow, he sent his voice abroad into the silence and looking up he saw the stars shining down at him. one evening, some months after his father's death, and when his wife katherine was expecting at any moment to be laid abed of childbirth, jesse left his house and went for a long walk. the bentley farm was situated in a tiny valley watered by wine creek, and jesse walked along the banks of the stream to the end of his own land and on through the fields of his neighbors. as he walked the valley broadened and then narrowed again. great open stretches of field and wood lay before him. the moon came out from behind clouds, and, climbing a low hill, he sat down to think. jesse thought that as the true servant of god the entire stretch of country through which he had walked should have come into his possession. he thought of his dead brothers and blamed them that they had not worked harder and achieved more. before him in the moonlight the tiny stream ran down over stones, and he began to think of the men of old times who like himself had owned flocks and lands. a fantastic impulse, half fear, half greediness, took possession of jesse bentley. he remembered how in the old bible story the lord had appeared to that other jesse and told him to send his son david to where saul and the men of israel were fighting the philistines in the valley of elah. into jesse's mind came the conviction that all of the ohio farmers who owned land in the valley of wine creek were philistines and enemies of god. "suppose," he whispered to himself, "there should come from among them one who, like goliath the philistine of gath, could defeat me and take from me my possessions." in fancy he felt the sickening dread that he thought must have lain heavy on the heart of saul before the coming of david. jumping to his feet, he began to run through the night. as he ran he called to god. his voice carried far over the low hills. "jehovah of hosts," he cried, "send to me this night out of the womb of katherine, a son. let thy grace alight upon me. send me a son to be called david who shall help me to pluck at last all of these lands out of the hands of the philistines and turn them to thy service and to the building of thy kingdom on earth." ii david hardy of winesburg, ohio, was the grandson of jesse bentley, the owner of bentley farms. when he was twelve years old he went to the old bentley place to live. his mother, louise bentley, the girl who came into the world on that night when jesse ran through the fields crying to god that he be given a son, had grown to womanhood on the farm and had married young john hardy of winesburg, who became a banker. louise and her husband did not live happily together and everyone agreed that she was to blame. she was a small woman with sharp grey eyes and black hair. from childhood she had been inclined to fits of temper and when not angry she was often morose and silent. in winesburg it was said that she drank. her husband, the banker, who was a careful, shrewd man, tried hard to make her happy. when he began to make money he bought for her a large brick house on elm street in winesburg and he was the first man in that town to keep a manservant to drive his wife's carriage. but louise could not be made happy. she flew into half insane fits of temper during which she was sometimes silent, sometimes noisy and quarrelsome. she swore and cried out in her anger. she got a knife from the kitchen and threatened her husband's life. once she deliberately set fire to the house, and often she hid herself away for days in her own room and would see no one. her life, lived as a half recluse, gave rise to all sorts of stories concerning her. it was said that she took drugs and that she hid herself away from people because she was often so under the influence of drink that her condition could not be concealed. sometimes on summer afternoons she came out of the house and got into her carriage. dismissing the driver she took the reins in her own hands and drove off at top speed through the streets. if a pedestrian got in her way she drove straight ahead and the frightened citizen had to escape as best he could. to the people of the town it seemed as though she wanted to run them down. when she had driven through several streets, tearing around corners and beating the horses with the whip, she drove off into the country. on the country roads after she had gotten out of sight of the houses she let the horses slow down to a walk and her wild, reckless mood passed. she became thoughtful and muttered words. sometimes tears came into her eyes. and then when she came back into town she again drove furiously through the quiet streets. but for the influence of her husband and the respect he inspired in people's minds she would have been arrested more than once by the town marshal. young david hardy grew up in the house with this woman and as can well be imagined there was not much joy in his childhood. he was too young then to have opinions of his own about people, but at times it was difficult for him not to have very definite opinions about the woman who was his mother. david was always a quiet, orderly boy and for a long time was thought by the people of winesburg to be something of a dullard. his eyes were brown and as a child he had a habit of looking at things and people a long time without appearing to see what he was looking at. when he heard his mother spoken of harshly or when he overheard her berating his father, he was frightened and ran away to hide. sometimes he could not find a hiding place and that confused him. turning his face toward a tree or if he was indoors toward the wall, he closed his eyes and tried not to think of anything. he had a habit of talking aloud to himself, and early in life a spirit of quiet sadness often took possession of him. on the occasions when david went to visit his grandfather on the bentley farm, he was altogether contented and happy. often he wished that he would never have to go back to town and once when he had come home from the farm after a long visit, something happened that had a lasting effect on his mind. david had come back into town with one of the hired men. the man was in a hurry to go about his own affairs and left the boy at the head of the street in which the hardy house stood. it was early dusk of a fall evening and the sky was overcast with clouds. something happened to david. he could not bear to go into the house where his mother and father lived, and on an impulse he decided to run away from home. he intended to go back to the farm and to his grandfather, but lost his way and for hours he wandered weeping and frightened on country roads. it started to rain and lightning flashed in the sky. the boy's imagination was excited and he fancied that he could see and hear strange things in the darkness. into his mind came the conviction that he was walking and running in some terrible void where no one had ever been before. the darkness about him seemed limitless. the sound of the wind blowing in trees was terrifying. when a team of horses approached along the road in which he walked he was frightened and climbed a fence. through a field he ran until he came into another road and getting upon his knees felt of the soft ground with his fingers. but for the figure of his grandfather, whom he was afraid he would never find in the darkness, he thought the world must be altogether empty. when his cries were heard by a farmer who was walking home from town and he was brought back to his father's house, he was so tired and excited that he did not know what was happening to him. by chance david's father knew that he had disappeared. on the street he had met the farm hand from the bentley place and knew of his son's return to town. when the boy did not come home an alarm was set up and john hardy with several men of the town went to search the country. the report that david had been kidnapped ran about through the streets of winesburg. when he came home there were no lights in the house, but his mother appeared and clutched him eagerly in her arms. david thought she had suddenly become another woman. he could not believe that so delightful a thing had happened. with her own hands louise hardy bathed his tired young body and cooked him food. she would not let him go to bed but, when he had put on his nightgown, blew out the lights and sat down in a chair to hold him in her arms. for an hour the woman sat in the darkness and held her boy. all the time she kept talking in a low voice. david could not understand what had so changed her. her habitually dissatisfied face had become, he thought, the most peaceful and lovely thing he had ever seen. when he began to weep she held him more and more tightly. on and on went her voice. it was not harsh or shrill as when she talked to her husband, but was like rain falling on trees. presently men began coming to the door to report that he had not been found, but she made him hide and be silent until she had sent them away. he thought it must be a game his mother and the men of the town were playing with him and laughed joyously. into his mind came the thought that his having been lost and frightened in the darkness was an altogether unimportant matter. he thought that he would have been willing to go through the frightful experience a thousand times to be sure of finding at the end of the long black road a thing so lovely as his mother had suddenly become. * * * during the last years of young david's boyhood he saw his mother but seldom and she became for him just a woman with whom he had once lived. still he could not get her figure out of his mind and as he grew older it became more definite. when he was twelve years old he went to the bentley farm to live. old jesse came into town and fairly demanded that he be given charge of the boy. the old man was excited and determined on having his own way. he talked to john hardy in the office of the winesburg savings bank and then the two men went to the house on elm street to talk with louise. they both expected her to make trouble but were mistaken. she was very quiet and when jesse had explained his mission and had gone on at some length about the advantages to come through having the boy out of doors and in the quiet atmosphere of the old farmhouse, she nodded her head in approval. "it is an atmosphere not corrupted by my presence," she said sharply. her shoulders shook and she seemed about to fly into a fit of temper. "it is a place for a man child, although it was never a place for me," she went on. "you never wanted me there and of course the air of your house did me no good. it was like poison in my blood but it will be different with him." louise turned and went out of the room, leaving the two men to sit in embarrassed silence. as very often happened she later stayed in her room for days. even when the boy's clothes were packed and he was taken away she did not appear. the loss of her son made a sharp break in her life and she seemed less inclined to quarrel with her husband. john hardy thought it had all turned out very well indeed. and so young david went to live in the bentley farmhouse with jesse. two of the old farmer's sisters were alive and still lived in the house. they were afraid of jesse and rarely spoke when he was about. one of the women who had been noted for her flaming red hair when she was younger was a born mother and became the boy's caretaker. every night when he had gone to bed she went into his room and sat on the floor until he fell asleep. when he became drowsy she became bold and whispered things that he later thought he must have dreamed. her soft low voice called him endearing names and he dreamed that his mother had come to him and that she had changed so that she was always as she had been that time after he ran away. he also grew bold and reaching out his hand stroked the face of the woman on the floor so that she was ecstatically happy. everyone in the old house became happy after the boy went there. the hard insistent thing in jesse bentley that had kept the people in the house silent and timid and that had never been dispelled by the presence of the girl louise was apparently swept away by the coming of the boy. it was as though god had relented and sent a son to the man. the man who had proclaimed himself the only true servant of god in all the valley of wine creek, and who had wanted god to send him a sign of approval by way of a son out of the womb of katherine, began to think that at last his prayers had been answered. although he was at that time only fifty-five years old he looked seventy and was worn out with much thinking and scheming. the effort he had made to extend his land holdings had been successful and there were few farms in the valley that did not belong to him, but until david came he was a bitterly disappointed man. there were two influences at work in jesse bentley and all his life his mind had been a battleground for these influences. first there was the old thing in him. he wanted to be a man of god and a leader among men of god. his walking in the fields and through the forests at night had brought him close to nature and there were forces in the passionately religious man that ran out to the forces in nature. the disappointment that had come to him when a daughter and not a son had been born to katherine had fallen upon him like a blow struck by some unseen hand and the blow had somewhat softened his egotism. he still believed that god might at any moment make himself manifest out of the winds or the clouds, but he no longer demanded such recognition. instead he prayed for it. sometimes he was altogether doubtful and thought god had deserted the world. he regretted the fate that had not let him live in a simpler and sweeter time when at the beckoning of some strange cloud in the sky men left their lands and houses and went forth into the wilderness to create new races. while he worked night and day to make his farms more productive and to extend his holdings of land, he regretted that he could not use his own restless energy in the building of temples, the slaying of unbelievers and in general in the work of glorifying god's name on earth. that is what jesse hungered for and then also he hungered for something else. he had grown into maturity in america in the years after the civil war and he, like all men of his time, had been touched by the deep influences that were at work in the country during those years when modern industrialism was being born. he began to buy machines that would permit him to do the work of the farms while employing fewer men and he sometimes thought that if he were a younger man he would give up farming altogether and start a factory in winesburg for the making of machinery. jesse formed the habit of reading newspapers and magazines. he invented a machine for the making of fence out of wire. faintly he realized that the atmosphere of old times and places that he had always cultivated in his own mind was strange and foreign to the thing that was growing up in the minds of others. the beginning of the most materialistic age in the history of the world, when wars would be fought without patriotism, when men would forget god and only pay attention to moral standards, when the will to power would replace the will to serve and beauty would be well-nigh forgotten in the terrible headlong rush of mankind toward the acquiring of possessions, was telling its story to jesse the man of god as it was to the men about him. the greedy thing in him wanted to make money faster than it could be made by tilling the land. more than once he went into winesburg to talk with his son-in-law john hardy about it. "you are a banker and you will have chances i never had," he said and his eyes shone. "i am thinking about it all the time. big things are going to be done in the country and there will be more money to be made than i ever dreamed of. you get into it. i wish i were younger and had your chance." jesse bentley walked up and down in the bank office and grew more and more excited as he talked. at one time in his life he had been threatened with paralysis and his left side remained somewhat weakened. as he talked his left eyelid twitched. later when he drove back home and when night came on and the stars came out it was harder to get back the old feeling of a close and personal god who lived in the sky overhead and who might at any moment reach out his hand, touch him on the shoulder, and appoint for him some heroic task to be done. jesse's mind was fixed upon the things read in newspapers and magazines, on fortunes to be made almost without effort by shrewd men who bought and sold. for him the coming of the boy david did much to bring back with renewed force the old faith and it seemed to him that god had at last looked with favor upon him. as for the boy on the farm, life began to reveal itself to him in a thousand new and delightful ways. the kindly attitude of all about him expanded his quiet nature and he lost the half timid, hesitating manner he had always had with his people. at night when he went to bed after a long day of adventures in the stables, in the fields, or driving about from farm to farm with his grandfather, he wanted to embrace everyone in the house. if sherley bentley, the woman who came each night to sit on the floor by his bedside, did not appear at once, he went to the head of the stairs and shouted, his young voice ringing through the narrow halls where for so long there had been a tradition of silence. in the morning when he awoke and lay still in bed, the sounds that came in to him through the windows filled him with delight. he thought with a shudder of the life in the house in winesburg and of his mother's angry voice that had always made him tremble. there in the country all sounds were pleasant sounds. when he awoke at dawn the barnyard back of the house also awoke. in the house people stirred about. eliza stoughton the half-witted girl was poked in the ribs by a farm hand and giggled noisily, in some distant field a cow bawled and was answered by the cattle in the stables, and one of the farm hands spoke sharply to the horse he was grooming by the stable door. david leaped out of bed and ran to a window. all of the people stirring about excited his mind, and he wondered what his mother was doing in the house in town. from the windows of his own room he could not see directly into the barnyard where the farm hands had now all assembled to do the morning shores, but he could hear the voices of the men and the neighing of the horses. when one of the men laughed, he laughed also. leaning out at the open window, he looked into an orchard where a fat sow wandered about with a litter of tiny pigs at her heels. every morning he counted the pigs. "four, five, six, seven," he said slowly, wetting his finger and making straight up and down marks on the window ledge. david ran to put on his trousers and shirt. a feverish desire to get out of doors took possession of him. every morning he made such a noise coming down stairs that aunt callie, the housekeeper, declared he was trying to tear the house down. when he had run through the long old house, shutting the doors behind him with a bang, he came into the barnyard and looked about with an amazed air of expectancy. it seemed to him that in such a place tremendous things might have happened during the night. the farm hands looked at him and laughed. henry strader, an old man who had been on the farm since jesse came into possession and who before david's time had never been known to make a joke, made the same joke every morning. it amused david so that he laughed and clapped his hands. "see, come here and look," cried the old man. "grandfather jesse's white mare has torn the black stocking she wears on her foot." day after day through the long summer, jesse bentley drove from farm to farm up and down the valley of wine creek, and his grandson went with him. they rode in a comfortable old phaeton drawn by the white horse. the old man scratched his thin white beard and talked to himself of his plans for increasing the productiveness of the fields they visited and of god's part in the plans all men made. sometimes he looked at david and smiled happily and then for a long time he appeared to forget the boy's existence. more and more every day now his mind turned back again to the dreams that had filled his mind when he had first come out of the city to live on the land. one afternoon he startled david by letting his dreams take entire possession of him. with the boy as a witness, he went through a ceremony and brought about an accident that nearly destroyed the companionship that was growing up between them. jesse and his grandson were driving in a distant part of the valley some miles from home. a forest came down to the road and through the forest wine creek wriggled its way over stones toward a distant river. all the afternoon jesse had been in a meditative mood and now he began to talk. his mind went back to the night when he had been frightened by thoughts of a giant that might come to rob and plunder him of his possessions, and again as on that night when he had run through the fields crying for a son, he became excited to the edge of insanity. stopping the horse he got out of the buggy and asked david to get out also. the two climbed over a fence and walked along the bank of the stream. the boy paid no attention to the muttering of his grandfather, but ran along beside him and wondered what was going to happen. when a rabbit jumped up and ran away through the woods, he clapped his hands and danced with delight. he looked at the tall trees and was sorry that he was not a little animal to climb high in the air without being frightened. stooping, he picked up a small stone and threw it over the head of his grandfather into a clump of bushes. "wake up, little animal. go and climb to the top of the trees," he shouted in a shrill voice. jesse bentley went along under the trees with his head bowed and with his mind in a ferment. his earnestness affected the boy, who presently became silent and a little alarmed. into the old man's mind had come the notion that now he could bring from god a word or a sign out of the sky, that the presence of the boy and man on their knees in some lonely spot in the forest would make the miracle he had been waiting for almost inevitable. "it was in just such a place as this that other david tended the sheep when his father came and told him to go down unto saul," he muttered. taking the boy rather roughly by the shoulder, he climbed over a fallen log and when he had come to an open place among the trees he dropped upon his knees and began to pray in a loud voice. a kind of terror he had never known before took possession of david. crouching beneath a tree he watched the man on the ground before him and his own knees began to tremble. it seemed to him that he was in the presence not only of his grandfather but of someone else, someone who might hurt him, someone who was not kindly but dangerous and brutal. he began to cry and reaching down picked up a small stick, which he held tightly gripped in his fingers. when jesse bentley, absorbed in his own idea, suddenly arose and advanced toward him, his terror grew until his whole body shook. in the woods an intense silence seemed to lie over everything and suddenly out of the silence came the old man's harsh and insistent voice. gripping the boy's shoulders, jesse turned his face to the sky and shouted. the whole left side of his face twitched and his hand on the boy's shoulder twitched also. "make a sign to me, god," he cried. "here i stand with the boy david. come down to me out of the sky and make thy presence known to me." with a cry of fear, david turned and, shaking himself loose from the hands that held him, ran away through the forest. he did not believe that the man who turned up his face and in a harsh voice shouted at the sky was his grandfather at all. the man did not look like his grandfather. the conviction that something strange and terrible had happened, that by some miracle a new and dangerous person had come into the body of the kindly old man, took possession of him. on and on he ran down the hillside, sobbing as he ran. when he fell over the roots of a tree and in falling struck his head, he arose and tried to run on again. his head hurt so that presently he fell down and lay still, but it was only after jesse had carried him to the buggy and he awoke to find the old man's hand stroking his head tenderly that the terror left him. "take me away. there is a terrible man back there in the woods," he declared firmly, while jesse looked away over the tops of the trees and again his lips cried out to god. "what have i done that thou dost not approve of me," he whispered softly, saying the words over and over as he drove rapidly along the road with the boy's cut and bleeding head held tenderly against his shoulder. iii surrender the story of louise bentley, who became mrs. john hardy and lived with her husband in a brick house on elm street in winesburg, is a story of misunderstanding. before such women as louise can be understood and their lives made livable, much will have to be done. thoughtful books will have to be written and thoughtful lives lived by people about them. born of a delicate and overworked mother, and an impulsive, hard, imaginative father, who did not look with favor upon her coming into the world, louise was from childhood a neurotic, one of the race of over-sensitive women that in later days industrialism was to bring in such great numbers into the world. during her early years she lived on the bentley farm, a silent, moody child, wanting love more than anything else in the world and not getting it. when she was fifteen she went to live in winesburg with the family of albert hardy, who had a store for the sale of buggies and wagons, and who was a member of the town board of education. louise went into town to be a student in the winesburg high school and she went to live at the hardys' because albert hardy and her father were friends. hardy, the vehicle merchant of winesburg, like thousands of other men of his times, was an enthusiast on the subject of education. he had made his own way in the world without learning got from books, but he was convinced that had he but known books things would have gone better with him. to everyone who came into his shop he talked of the matter, and in his own household he drove his family distracted by his constant harping on the subject. he had two daughters and one son, john hardy, and more than once the daughters threatened to leave school altogether. as a matter of principle they did just enough work in their classes to avoid punishment. "i hate books and i hate anyone who likes books," harriet, the younger of the two girls, declared passionately. in winesburg as on the farm louise was not happy. for years she had dreamed of the time when she could go forth into the world, and she looked upon the move into the hardy household as a great step in the direction of freedom. always when she had thought of the matter, it had seemed to her that in town all must be gaiety and life, that there men and women must live happily and freely, giving and taking friendship and affection as one takes the feel of a wind on the cheek. after the silence and the cheerlessness of life in the bentley house, she dreamed of stepping forth into an atmosphere that was warm and pulsating with life and reality. and in the hardy household louise might have got something of the thing for which she so hungered but for a mistake she made when she had just come to town. louise won the disfavor of the two hardy girls, mary and harriet, by her application to her studies in school. she did not come to the house until the day when school was to begin and knew nothing of the feeling they had in the matter. she was timid and during the first month made no acquaintances. every friday afternoon one of the hired men from the farm drove into winesburg and took her home for the week-end, so that she did not spend the saturday holiday with the town people. because she was embarrassed and lonely she worked constantly at her studies. to mary and harriet, it seemed as though she tried to make trouble for them by her proficiency. in her eagerness to appear well louise wanted to answer every question put to the class by the teacher. she jumped up and down and her eyes flashed. then when she had answered some question the others in the class had been unable to answer, she smiled happily. "see, i have done it for you," her eyes seemed to say. "you need not bother about the matter. i will answer all questions. for the whole class it will be easy while i am here." in the evening after supper in the hardy house, albert hardy began to praise louise. one of the teachers had spoken highly of her and he was delighted. "well, again i have heard of it," he began, looking hard at his daughters and then turning to smile at louise. "another of the teachers has told me of the good work louise is doing. everyone in winesburg is telling me how smart she is. i am ashamed that they do not speak so of my own girls." arising, the merchant marched about the room and lighted his evening cigar. the two girls looked at each other and shook their heads wearily. seeing their indifference the father became angry. "i tell you it is something for you two to be thinking about," he cried, glaring at them. "there is a big change coming here in america and in learning is the only hope of the coming generations. louise is the daughter of a rich man but she is not ashamed to study. it should make you ashamed to see what she does." the merchant took his hat from a rack by the door and prepared to depart for the evening. at the door he stopped and glared back. so fierce was his manner that louise was frightened and ran upstairs to her own room. the daughters began to speak of their own affairs. "pay attention to me," roared the merchant. "your minds are lazy. your indifference to education is affecting your characters. you will amount to nothing. now mark what i say--louise will be so far ahead of you that you will never catch up." the distracted man went out of the house and into the street shaking with wrath. he went along muttering words and swearing, but when he got into main street his anger passed. he stopped to talk of the weather or the crops with some other merchant or with a farmer who had come into town and forgot his daughters altogether or, if he thought of them, only shrugged his shoulders. "oh, well, girls will be girls," he muttered philosophically. in the house when louise came down into the room where the two girls sat, they would have nothing to do with her. one evening after she had been there for more than six weeks and was heartbroken because of the continued air of coldness with which she was always greeted, she burst into tears. "shut up your crying and go back to your own room and to your books," mary hardy said sharply. * * * the room occupied by louise was on the second floor of the hardy house, and her window looked out upon an orchard. there was a stove in the room and every evening young john hardy carried up an armful of wood and put it in a box that stood by the wall. during the second month after she came to the house, louise gave up all hope of getting on a friendly footing with the hardy girls and went to her own room as soon as the evening meal was at an end. her mind began to play with thoughts of making friends with john hardy. when he came into the room with the wood in his arms, she pretended to be busy with her studies but watched him eagerly. when he had put the wood in the box and turned to go out, she put down her head and blushed. she tried to make talk but could say nothing, and after he had gone she was angry at herself for her stupidity. the mind of the country girl became filled with the idea of drawing close to the young man. she thought that in him might be found the quality she had all her life been seeking in people. it seemed to her that between herself and all the other people in the world, a wall had been built up and that she was living just on the edge of some warm inner circle of life that must be quite open and understandable to others. she became obsessed with the thought that it wanted but a courageous act on her part to make all of her association with people something quite different, and that it was possible by such an act to pass into a new life as one opens a door and goes into a room. day and night she thought of the matter, but although the thing she wanted so earnestly was something very warm and close it had as yet no conscious connection with sex. it had not become that definite, and her mind had only alighted upon the person of john hardy because he was at hand and unlike his sisters had not been unfriendly to her. the hardy sisters, mary and harriet, were both older than louise. in a certain kind of knowledge of the world they were years older. they lived as all of the young women of middle western towns lived. in those days young women did not go out of our towns to eastern colleges and ideas in regard to social classes had hardly begun to exist. a daughter of a laborer was in much the same social position as a daughter of a farmer or a merchant, and there were no leisure classes. a girl was "nice" or she was "not nice." if a nice girl, she had a young man who came to her house to see her on sunday and on wednesday evenings. sometimes she went with her young man to a dance or a church social. at other times she received him at the house and was given the use of the parlor for that purpose. no one intruded upon her. for hours the two sat behind closed doors. sometimes the lights were turned low and the young man and woman embraced. cheeks became hot and hair disarranged. after a year or two, if the impulse within them became strong and insistent enough, they married. one evening during her first winter in winesburg, louise had an adventure that gave a new impulse to her desire to break down the wall that she thought stood between her and john hardy. it was wednesday and immediately after the evening meal albert hardy put on his hat and went away. young john brought the wood and put it in the box in louise's room. "you do work hard, don't you?" he said awkwardly, and then before she could answer he also went away. louise heard him go out of the house and had a mad desire to run after him. opening her window she leaned out and called softly, "john, dear john, come back, don't go away." the night was cloudy and she could not see far into the darkness, but as she waited she fancied she could hear a soft little noise as of someone going on tiptoes through the trees in the orchard. she was frightened and closed the window quickly. for an hour she moved about the room trembling with excitement and when she could not longer bear the waiting, she crept into the hall and down the stairs into a closet-like room that opened off the parlor. louise had decided that she would perform the courageous act that had for weeks been in her mind. she was convinced that john hardy had concealed himself in the orchard beneath her window and she was determined to find him and tell him that she wanted him to come close to her, to hold her in his arms, to tell her of his thoughts and dreams and to listen while she told him her thoughts and dreams. "in the darkness it will be easier to say things," she whispered to herself, as she stood in the little room groping for the door. and then suddenly louise realized that she was not alone in the house. in the parlor on the other side of the door a man's voice spoke softly and the door opened. louise just had time to conceal herself in a little opening beneath the stairway when mary hardy, accompanied by her young man, came into the little dark room. for an hour louise sat on the floor in the darkness and listened. without words mary hardy, with the aid of the man who had come to spend the evening with her, brought to the country girl a knowledge of men and women. putting her head down until she was curled into a little ball she lay perfectly still. it seemed to her that by some strange impulse of the gods, a great gift had been brought to mary hardy and she could not understand the older woman's determined protest. the young man took mary hardy into his arms and kissed her. when she struggled and laughed, he but held her the more tightly. for an hour the contest between them went on and then they went back into the parlor and louise escaped up the stairs. "i hope you were quiet out there. you must not disturb the little mouse at her studies," she heard harriet saying to her sister as she stood by her own door in the hallway above. louise wrote a note to john hardy and late that night, when all in the house were asleep, she crept downstairs and slipped it under his door. she was afraid that if she did not do the thing at once her courage would fail. in the note she tried to be quite definite about what she wanted. "i want someone to love me and i want to love someone," she wrote. "if you are the one for me i want you to come into the orchard at night and make a noise under my window. it will be easy for me to crawl down over the shed and come to you. i am thinking about it all the time, so if you are to come at all you must come soon." for a long time louise did not know what would be the outcome of her bold attempt to secure for herself a lover. in a way she still did not know whether or not she wanted him to come. sometimes it seemed to her that to be held tightly and kissed was the whole secret of life, and then a new impulse came and she was terribly afraid. the age-old woman's desire to be possessed had taken possession of her, but so vague was her notion of life that it seemed to her just the touch of john hardy's hand upon her own hand would satisfy. she wondered if he would understand that. at the table next day while albert hardy talked and the two girls whispered and laughed, she did not look at john but at the table and as soon as possible escaped. in the evening she went out of the house until she was sure he had taken the wood to her room and gone away. when after several evenings of intense listening she heard no call from the darkness in the orchard, she was half beside herself with grief and decided that for her there was no way to break through the wall that had shut her off from the joy of life. and then on a monday evening two or three weeks after the writing of the note, john hardy came for her. louise had so entirely given up the thought of his coming that for a long time she did not hear the call that came up from the orchard. on the friday evening before, as she was being driven back to the farm for the week-end by one of the hired men, she had on an impulse done a thing that had startled her, and as john hardy stood in the darkness below and called her name softly and insistently, she walked about in her room and wondered what new impulse had led her to commit so ridiculous an act. the farm hand, a young fellow with black curly hair, had come for her somewhat late on that friday evening and they drove home in the darkness. louise, whose mind was filled with thoughts of john hardy, tried to make talk but the country boy was embarrassed and would say nothing. her mind began to review the loneliness of her childhood and she remembered with a pang the sharp new loneliness that had just come to her. "i hate everyone," she cried suddenly, and then broke forth into a tirade that frightened her escort. "i hate father and the old man hardy, too," she declared vehemently. "i get my lessons there in the school in town but i hate that also." louise frightened the farm hand still more by turning and putting her cheek down upon his shoulder. vaguely she hoped that he like that young man who had stood in the darkness with mary would put his arms about her and kiss her, but the country boy was only alarmed. he struck the horse with the whip and began to whistle. "the road is rough, eh?" he said loudly. louise was so angry that reaching up she snatched his hat from his head and threw it into the road. when he jumped out of the buggy and went to get it, she drove off and left him to walk the rest of the way back to the farm. louise bentley took john hardy to be her lover. that was not what she wanted but it was so the young man had interpreted her approach to him, and so anxious was she to achieve something else that she made no resistance. when after a few months they were both afraid that she was about to become a mother, they went one evening to the county seat and were married. for a few months they lived in the hardy house and then took a house of their own. all during the first year louise tried to make her husband understand the vague and intangible hunger that had led to the writing of the note and that was still unsatisfied. again and again she crept into his arms and tried to talk of it, but always without success. filled with his own notions of love between men and women, he did not listen but began to kiss her upon the lips. that confused her so that in the end she did not want to be kissed. she did not know what she wanted. when the alarm that had tricked them into marriage proved to be groundless, she was angry and said bitter, hurtful things. later when her son david was born, she could not nurse him and did not know whether she wanted him or not. sometimes she stayed in the room with him all day, walking about and occasionally creeping close to touch him tenderly with her hands, and then other days came when she did not want to see or be near the tiny bit of humanity that had come into the house. when john hardy reproached her for her cruelty, she laughed. "it is a man child and will get what it wants anyway," she said sharply. "had it been a woman child there is nothing in the world i would not have done for it." iv terror when david hardy was a tall boy of fifteen, he, like his mother, had an adventure that changed the whole current of his life and sent him out of his quiet corner into the world. the shell of the circumstances of his life was broken and he was compelled to start forth. he left winesburg and no one there ever saw him again. after his disappearance, his mother and grandfather both died and his father became very rich. he spent much money in trying to locate his son, but that is no part of this story. it was in the late fall of an unusual year on the bentley farms. everywhere the crops had been heavy. that spring, jesse had bought part of a long strip of black swamp land that lay in the valley of wine creek. he got the land at a low price but had spent a large sum of money to improve it. great ditches had to be dug and thousands of tile laid. neighboring farmers shook their heads over the expense. some of them laughed and hoped that jesse would lose heavily by the venture, but the old man went silently on with the work and said nothing. when the land was drained he planted it to cabbages and onions, and again the neighbors laughed. the crop was, however, enormous and brought high prices. in the one year jesse made enough money to pay for all the cost of preparing the land and had a surplus that enabled him to buy two more farms. he was exultant and could not conceal his delight. for the first time in all the history of his ownership of the farms, he went among his men with a smiling face. jesse bought a great many new machines for cutting down the cost of labor and all of the remaining acres in the strip of black fertile swamp land. one day he went into winesburg and bought a bicycle and a new suit of clothes for david and he gave his two sisters money with which to go to a religious convention at cleveland, ohio. in the fall of that year when the frost came and the trees in the forests along wine creek were golden brown, david spent every moment when he did not have to attend school, out in the open. alone or with other boys he went every afternoon into the woods to gather nuts. the other boys of the countryside, most of them sons of laborers on the bentley farms, had guns with which they went hunting rabbits and squirrels, but david did not go with them. he made himself a sling with rubber bands and a forked stick and went off by himself to gather nuts. as he went about thoughts came to him. he realized that he was almost a man and wondered what he would do in life, but before they came to anything, the thoughts passed and he was a boy again. one day he killed a squirrel that sat on one of the lower branches of a tree and chattered at him. home he ran with the squirrel in his hand. one of the bentley sisters cooked the little animal and he ate it with great gusto. the skin he tacked on a board and suspended the board by a string from his bedroom window. that gave his mind a new turn. after that he never went into the woods without carrying the sling in his pocket and he spent hours shooting at imaginary animals concealed among the brown leaves in the trees. thoughts of his coming manhood passed and he was content to be a boy with a boy's impulses. one saturday morning when he was about to set off for the woods with the sling in his pocket and a bag for nuts on his shoulder, his grandfather stopped him. in the eyes of the old man was the strained serious look that always a little frightened david. at such times jesse bentley's eyes did not look straight ahead but wavered and seemed to be looking at nothing. something like an invisible curtain appeared to have come between the man and all the rest of the world. "i want you to come with me," he said briefly, and his eyes looked over the boy's head into the sky. "we have something important to do today. you may bring the bag for nuts if you wish. it does not matter and anyway we will be going into the woods." jesse and david set out from the bentley farmhouse in the old phaeton that was drawn by the white horse. when they had gone along in silence for a long way they stopped at the edge of a field where a flock of sheep were grazing. among the sheep was a lamb that had been born out of season, and this david and his grandfather caught and tied so tightly that it looked like a little white ball. when they drove on again jesse let david hold the lamb in his arms. "i saw it yesterday and it put me in mind of what i have long wanted to do," he said, and again he looked away over the head of the boy with the wavering, uncertain stare in his eyes. after the feeling of exaltation that had come to the farmer as a result of his successful year, another mood had taken possession of him. for a long time he had been going about feeling very humble and prayerful. again he walked alone at night thinking of god and as he walked he again connected his own figure with the figures of old days. under the stars he knelt on the wet grass and raised up his voice in prayer. now he had decided that like the men whose stories filled the pages of the bible, he would make a sacrifice to god. "i have been given these abundant crops and god has also sent me a boy who is called david," he whispered to himself. "perhaps i should have done this thing long ago." he was sorry the idea had not come into his mind in the days before his daughter louise had been born and thought that surely now when he had erected a pile of burning sticks in some lonely place in the woods and had offered the body of a lamb as a burnt offering, god would appear to him and give him a message. more and more as he thought of the matter, he thought also of david and his passionate self-love was partially forgotten. "it is time for the boy to begin thinking of going out into the world and the message will be one concerning him," he decided. "god will make a pathway for him. he will tell me what place david is to take in life and when he shall set out on his journey. it is right that the boy should be there. if i am fortunate and an angel of god should appear, david will see the beauty and glory of god made manifest to man. it will make a true man of god of him also." in silence jesse and david drove along the road until they came to that place where jesse had once before appealed to god and had frightened his grandson. the morning had been bright and cheerful, but a cold wind now began to blow and clouds hid the sun. when david saw the place to which they had come he began to tremble with fright, and when they stopped by the bridge where the creek came down from among the trees, he wanted to spring out of the phaeton and run away. a dozen plans for escape ran through david's head, but when jesse stopped the horse and climbed over the fence into the wood, he followed. "it is foolish to be afraid. nothing will happen," he told himself as he went along with the lamb in his arms. there was something in the helplessness of the little animal held so tightly in his arms that gave him courage. he could feel the rapid beating of the beast's heart and that made his own heart beat less rapidly. as he walked swiftly along behind his grandfather, he untied the string with which the four legs of the lamb were fastened together. "if anything happens we will run away together," he thought. in the woods, after they had gone a long way from the road, jesse stopped in an opening among the trees where a clearing, overgrown with small bushes, ran up from the creek. he was still silent but began at once to erect a heap of dry sticks which he presently set afire. the boy sat on the ground with the lamb in his arms. his imagination began to invest every movement of the old man with significance and he became every moment more afraid. "i must put the blood of the lamb on the head of the boy," jesse muttered when the sticks had begun to blaze greedily, and taking a long knife from his pocket he turned and walked rapidly across the clearing toward david. terror seized upon the soul of the boy. he was sick with it. for a moment he sat perfectly still and then his body stiffened and he sprang to his feet. his face became as white as the fleece of the lamb that, now finding itself suddenly released, ran down the hill. david ran also. fear made his feet fly. over the low bushes and logs he leaped frantically. as he ran he put his hand into his pocket and took out the branched stick from which the sling for shooting squirrels was suspended. when he came to the creek that was shallow and splashed down over the stones, he dashed into the water and turned to look back, and when he saw his grandfather still running toward him with the long knife held tightly in his hand he did not hesitate, but reaching down, selected a stone and put it in the sling. with all his strength he drew back the heavy rubber bands and the stone whistled through the air. it hit jesse, who had entirely forgotten the boy and was pursuing the lamb, squarely in the head. with a groan he pitched forward and fell almost at the boy's feet. when david saw that he lay still and that he was apparently dead, his fright increased immeasurably. it became an insane panic. with a cry he turned and ran off through the woods weeping convulsively. "i don't care--i killed him, but i don't care," he sobbed. as he ran on and on he decided suddenly that he would never go back again to the bentley farms or to the town of winesburg. "i have killed the man of god and now i will myself be a man and go into the world," he said stoutly as he stopped running and walked rapidly down a road that followed the windings of wine creek as it ran through fields and forests into the west. on the ground by the creek jesse bentley moved uneasily about. he groaned and opened his eyes. for a long time he lay perfectly still and looked at the sky. when at last he got to his feet, his mind was confused and he was not surprised by the boy's disappearance. by the roadside he sat down on a log and began to talk about god. that is all they ever got out of him. whenever david's name was mentioned he looked vaguely at the sky and said that a messenger from god had taken the boy. "it happened because i was too greedy for glory," he declared, and would have no more to say in the matter. a man of ideas he lived with his mother, a grey, silent woman with a peculiar ashy complexion. the house in which they lived stood in a little grove of trees beyond where the main street of winesburg crossed wine creek. his name was joe welling, and his father had been a man of some dignity in the community, a lawyer, and a member of the state legislature at columbus. joe himself was small of body and in his character unlike anyone else in town. he was like a tiny little volcano that lies silent for days and then suddenly spouts fire. no, he wasn't like that--he was like a man who is subject to fits, one who walks among his fellow men inspiring fear because a fit may come upon him suddenly and blow him away into a strange uncanny physical state in which his eyes roll and his legs and arms jerk. he was like that, only that the visitation that descended upon joe welling was a mental and not a physical thing. he was beset by ideas and in the throes of one of his ideas was uncontrollable. words rolled and tumbled from his mouth. a peculiar smile came upon his lips. the edges of his teeth that were tipped with gold glistened in the light. pouncing upon a bystander he began to talk. for the bystander there was no escape. the excited man breathed into his face, peered into his eyes, pounded upon his chest with a shaking forefinger, demanded, compelled attention. in those days the standard oil company did not deliver oil to the consumer in big wagons and motor trucks as it does now, but delivered instead to retail grocers, hardware stores, and the like. joe was the standard oil agent in winesburg and in several towns up and down the railroad that went through winesburg. he collected bills, booked orders, and did other things. his father, the legislator, had secured the job for him. in and out of the stores of winesburg went joe welling--silent, excessively polite, intent upon his business. men watched him with eyes in which lurked amusement tempered by alarm. they were waiting for him to break forth, preparing to flee. although the seizures that came upon him were harmless enough, they could not be laughed away. they were overwhelming. astride an idea, joe was overmastering. his personality became gigantic. it overrode the man to whom he talked, swept him away, swept all away, all who stood within sound of his voice. in sylvester west's drug store stood four men who were talking of horse racing. wesley moyer's stallion, tony tip, was to race at the june meeting at tiffin, ohio, and there was a rumor that he would meet the stiffest competition of his career. it was said that pop geers, the great racing driver, would himself be there. a doubt of the success of tony tip hung heavy in the air of winesburg. into the drug store came joe welling, brushing the screen door violently aside. with a strange absorbed light in his eyes he pounced upon ed thomas, he who knew pop geers and whose opinion of tony tip's chances was worth considering. "the water is up in wine creek," cried joe welling with the air of pheidippides bringing news of the victory of the greeks in the struggle at marathon. his finger beat a tattoo upon ed thomas's broad chest. "by trunion bridge it is within eleven and a half inches of the flooring," he went on, the words coming quickly and with a little whistling noise from between his teeth. an expression of helpless annoyance crept over the faces of the four. "i have my facts correct. depend upon that. i went to sinnings' hardware store and got a rule. then i went back and measured. i could hardly believe my own eyes. it hasn't rained you see for ten days. at first i didn't know what to think. thoughts rushed through my head. i thought of subterranean passages and springs. down under the ground went my mind, delving about. i sat on the floor of the bridge and rubbed my head. there wasn't a cloud in the sky, not one. come out into the street and you'll see. there wasn't a cloud. there isn't a cloud now. yes, there was a cloud. i don't want to keep back any facts. there was a cloud in the west down near the horizon, a cloud no bigger than a man's hand. "not that i think that has anything to do with it. there it is, you see. you understand how puzzled i was. "then an idea came to me. i laughed. you'll laugh, too. of course it rained over in medina county. that's interesting, eh? if we had no trains, no mails, no telegraph, we would know that it rained over in medina county. that's where wine creek comes from. everyone knows that. little old wine creek brought us the news. that's interesting. i laughed. i thought i'd tell you--it's interesting, eh?" joe welling turned and went out at the door. taking a book from his pocket, he stopped and ran a finger down one of the pages. again he was absorbed in his duties as agent of the standard oil company. "hern's grocery will be getting low on coal oil. i'll see them," he muttered, hurrying along the street, and bowing politely to the right and left at the people walking past. when george willard went to work for the winesburg eagle he was besieged by joe welling. joe envied the boy. it seemed to him that he was meant by nature to be a reporter on a newspaper. "it is what i should be doing, there is no doubt of that," he declared, stopping george willard on the sidewalk before daugherty's feed store. his eyes began to glisten and his forefinger to tremble. "of course i make more money with the standard oil company and i'm only telling you," he added. "i've got nothing against you but i should have your place. i could do the work at odd moments. here and there i would run finding out things you'll never see." becoming more excited joe welling crowded the young reporter against the front of the feed store. he appeared to be lost in thought, rolling his eyes about and running a thin nervous hand through his hair. a smile spread over his face and his gold teeth glittered. "you get out your note book," he commanded. "you carry a little pad of paper in your pocket, don't you? i knew you did. well, you set this down. i thought of it the other day. let's take decay. now what is decay? it's fire. it burns up wood and other things. you never thought of that? of course not. this sidewalk here and this feed store, the trees down the street there--they're all on fire. they're burning up. decay you see is always going on. it doesn't stop. water and paint can't stop it. if a thing is iron, then what? it rusts, you see. that's fire, too. the world is on fire. start your pieces in the paper that way. just say in big letters 'the world is on fire.' that will make 'em look up. they'll say you're a smart one. i don't care. i don't envy you. i just snatched that idea out of the air. i would make a newspaper hum. you got to admit that."' turning quickly, joe welling walked rapidly away. when he had taken several steps he stopped and looked back. "i'm going to stick to you," he said. "i'm going to make you a regular hummer. i should start a newspaper myself, that's what i should do. i'd be a marvel. everybody knows that." when george willard had been for a year on the winesburg eagle, four things happened to joe welling. his mother died, he came to live at the new willard house, he became involved in a love affair, and he organized the winesburg baseball club. joe organized the baseball club because he wanted to be a coach and in that position he began to win the respect of his townsmen. "he is a wonder," they declared after joe's team had whipped the team from medina county. "he gets everybody working together. you just watch him." upon the baseball field joe welling stood by first base, his whole body quivering with excitement. in spite of themselves all the players watched him closely. the opposing pitcher became confused. "now! now! now! now!" shouted the excited man. "watch me! watch me! watch my fingers! watch my hands! watch my feet! watch my eyes! let's work together here! watch me! in me you see all the movements of the game! work with me! work with me! watch me! watch me! watch me!" with runners of the winesburg team on bases, joe welling became as one inspired. before they knew what had come over them, the base runners were watching the man, edging off the bases, advancing, retreating, held as by an invisible cord. the players of the opposing team also watched joe. they were fascinated. for a moment they watched and then, as though to break a spell that hung over them, they began hurling the ball wildly about, and amid a series of fierce animal-like cries from the coach, the runners of the winesburg team scampered home. joe welling's love affair set the town of winesburg on edge. when it began everyone whispered and shook his head. when people tried to laugh, the laughter was forced and unnatural. joe fell in love with sarah king, a lean, sad-looking woman who lived with her father and brother in a brick house that stood opposite the gate leading to the winesburg cemetery. the two kings, edward the father, and tom the son, were not popular in winesburg. they were called proud and dangerous. they had come to winesburg from some place in the south and ran a cider mill on the trunion pike. tom king was reported to have killed a man before he came to winesburg. he was twenty-seven years old and rode about town on a grey pony. also he had a long yellow mustache that dropped down over his teeth, and always carried a heavy, wicked-looking walking stick in his hand. once he killed a dog with the stick. the dog belonged to win pawsey, the shoe merchant, and stood on the sidewalk wagging its tail. tom king killed it with one blow. he was arrested and paid a fine of ten dollars. old edward king was small of stature and when he passed people in the street laughed a queer unmirthful laugh. when he laughed he scratched his left elbow with his right hand. the sleeve of his coat was almost worn through from the habit. as he walked along the street, looking nervously about and laughing, he seemed more dangerous than his silent, fierce-looking son. when sarah king began walking out in the evening with joe welling, people shook their heads in alarm. she was tall and pale and had dark rings under her eyes. the couple looked ridiculous together. under the trees they walked and joe talked. his passionate eager protestations of love, heard coming out of the darkness by the cemetery wall, or from the deep shadows of the trees on the hill that ran up to the fair grounds from waterworks pond, were repeated in the stores. men stood by the bar in the new willard house laughing and talking of joe's courtship. after the laughter came the silence. the winesburg baseball team, under his management, was winning game after game, and the town had begun to respect him. sensing a tragedy, they waited, laughing nervously. late on a saturday afternoon the meeting between joe welling and the two kings, the anticipation of which had set the town on edge, took place in joe welling's room in the new willard house. george willard was a witness to the meeting. it came about in this way: when the young reporter went to his room after the evening meal he saw tom king and his father sitting in the half darkness in joe's room. the son had the heavy walking stick in his hand and sat near the door. old edward king walked nervously about, scratching his left elbow with his right hand. the hallways were empty and silent. george willard went to his own room and sat down at his desk. he tried to write but his hand trembled so that he could not hold the pen. he also walked nervously up and down. like the rest of the town of winesburg he was perplexed and knew not what to do. it was seven-thirty and fast growing dark when joe welling came along the station platform toward the new willard house. in his arms he held a bundle of weeds and grasses. in spite of the terror that made his body shake, george willard was amused at the sight of the small spry figure holding the grasses and half running along the platform. shaking with fright and anxiety, the young reporter lurked in the hallway outside the door of the room in which joe welling talked to the two kings. there had been an oath, the nervous giggle of old edward king, and then silence. now the voice of joe welling, sharp and clear, broke forth. george willard began to laugh. he understood. as he had swept all men before him, so now joe welling was carrying the two men in the room off their feet with a tidal wave of words. the listener in the hall walked up and down, lost in amazement. inside the room joe welling had paid no attention to the grumbled threat of tom king. absorbed in an idea he closed the door and, lighting a lamp, spread the handful of weeds and grasses upon the floor. "i've got something here," he announced solemnly. "i was going to tell george willard about it, let him make a piece out of it for the paper. i'm glad you're here. i wish sarah were here also. i've been going to come to your house and tell you of some of my ideas. they're interesting. sarah wouldn't let me. she said we'd quarrel. that's foolish." running up and down before the two perplexed men, joe welling began to explain. "don't you make a mistake now," he cried. "this is something big." his voice was shrill with excitement. "you just follow me, you'll be interested. i know you will. suppose this--suppose all of the wheat, the corn, the oats, the peas, the potatoes, were all by some miracle swept away. now here we are, you see, in this county. there is a high fence built all around us. we'll suppose that. no one can get over the fence and all the fruits of the earth are destroyed, nothing left but these wild things, these grasses. would we be done for? i ask you that. would we be done for?" again tom king growled and for a moment there was silence in the room. then again joe plunged into the exposition of his idea. "things would go hard for a time. i admit that. i've got to admit that. no getting around it. we'd be hard put to it. more than one fat stomach would cave in. but they couldn't down us. i should say not." tom king laughed good naturedly and the shivery, nervous laugh of edward king rang through the house. joe welling hurried on. "we'd begin, you see, to breed up new vegetables and fruits. soon we'd regain all we had lost. mind, i don't say the new things would be the same as the old. they wouldn't. maybe they'd be better, maybe not so good. that's interesting, eh? you can think about that. it starts your mind working, now don't it?" in the room there was silence and then again old edward king laughed nervously. "say, i wish sarah was here," cried joe welling. "let's go up to your house. i want to tell her of this." there was a scraping of chairs in the room. it was then that george willard retreated to his own room. leaning out at the window he saw joe welling going along the street with the two kings. tom king was forced to take extraordinary long strides to keep pace with the little man. as he strode along, he leaned over, listening--absorbed, fascinated. joe welling again talked excitedly. "take milkweed now," he cried. "a lot might be done with milkweed, eh? it's almost unbelievable. i want you to think about it. i want you two to think about it. there would be a new vegetable kingdom you see. it's interesting, eh? it's an idea. wait till you see sarah, she'll get the idea. she'll be interested. sarah is always interested in ideas. you can't be too smart for sarah, now can you? of course you can't. you know that." adventure alice hindman, a woman of twenty-seven when george willard was a mere boy, had lived in winesburg all her life. she clerked in winney's dry goods store and lived with her mother, who had married a second husband. alice's step-father was a carriage painter, and given to drink. his story is an odd one. it will be worth telling some day. at twenty-seven alice was tall and somewhat slight. her head was large and overshadowed her body. her shoulders were a little stooped and her hair and eyes brown. she was very quiet but beneath a placid exterior a continual ferment went on. when she was a girl of sixteen and before she began to work in the store, alice had an affair with a young man. the young man, named ned currie, was older than alice. he, like george willard, was employed on the winesburg eagle and for a long time he went to see alice almost every evening. together the two walked under the trees through the streets of the town and talked of what they would do with their lives. alice was then a very pretty girl and ned currie took her into his arms and kissed her. he became excited and said things he did not intend to say and alice, betrayed by her desire to have something beautiful come into her rather narrow life, also grew excited. she also talked. the outer crust of her life, all of her natural diffidence and reserve, was torn away and she gave herself over to the emotions of love. when, late in the fall of her sixteenth year, ned currie went away to cleveland where he hoped to get a place on a city newspaper and rise in the world, she wanted to go with him. with a trembling voice she told him what was in her mind. "i will work and you can work," she said. "i do not want to harness you to a needless expense that will prevent your making progress. don't marry me now. we will get along without that and we can be together. even though we live in the same house no one will say anything. in the city we will be unknown and people will pay no attention to us." ned currie was puzzled by the determination and abandon of his sweetheart and was also deeply touched. he had wanted the girl to become his mistress but changed his mind. he wanted to protect and care for her. "you don't know what you're talking about," he said sharply; "you may be sure i'll let you do no such thing. as soon as i get a good job i'll come back. for the present you'll have to stay here. it's the only thing we can do." on the evening before he left winesburg to take up his new life in the city, ned currie went to call on alice. they walked about through the streets for an hour and then got a rig from wesley moyer's livery and went for a drive in the country. the moon came up and they found themselves unable to talk. in his sadness the young man forgot the resolutions he had made regarding his conduct with the girl. they got out of the buggy at a place where a long meadow ran down to the bank of wine creek and there in the dim light became lovers. when at midnight they returned to town they were both glad. it did not seem to them that anything that could happen in the future could blot out the wonder and beauty of the thing that had happened. "now we will have to stick to each other, whatever happens we will have to do that," ned currie said as he left the girl at her father's door. the young newspaper man did not succeed in getting a place on a cleveland paper and went west to chicago. for a time he was lonely and wrote to alice almost every day. then he was caught up by the life of the city; he began to make friends and found new interests in life. in chicago he boarded at a house where there were several women. one of them attracted his attention and he forgot alice in winesburg. at the end of a year he had stopped writing letters, and only once in a long time, when he was lonely or when he went into one of the city parks and saw the moon shining on the grass as it had shone that night on the meadow by wine creek, did he think of her at all. in winesburg the girl who had been loved grew to be a woman. when she was twenty-two years old her father, who owned a harness repair shop, died suddenly. the harness maker was an old soldier, and after a few months his wife received a widow's pension. she used the first money she got to buy a loom and became a weaver of carpets, and alice got a place in winney's store. for a number of years nothing could have induced her to believe that ned currie would not in the end return to her. she was glad to be employed because the daily round of toil in the store made the time of waiting seem less long and uninteresting. she began to save money, thinking that when she had saved two or three hundred dollars she would follow her lover to the city and try if her presence would not win back his affections. alice did not blame ned currie for what had happened in the moonlight in the field, but felt that she could never marry another man. to her the thought of giving to another what she still felt could belong only to ned seemed monstrous. when other young men tried to attract her attention she would have nothing to do with them. "i am his wife and shall remain his wife whether he comes back or not," she whispered to herself, and for all of her willingness to support herself could not have understood the growing modern idea of a woman's owning herself and giving and taking for her own ends in life. alice worked in the dry goods store from eight in the morning until six at night and on three evenings a week went back to the store to stay from seven until nine. as time passed and she became more and more lonely she began to practice the devices common to lonely people. when at night she went upstairs into her own room she knelt on the floor to pray and in her prayers whispered things she wanted to say to her lover. she became attached to inanimate objects, and because it was her own, could not bare to have anyone touch the furniture of her room. the trick of saving money, begun for a purpose, was carried on after the scheme of going to the city to find ned currie had been given up. it became a fixed habit, and when she needed new clothes she did not get them. sometimes on rainy afternoons in the store she got out her bank book and, letting it lie open before her, spent hours dreaming impossible dreams of saving money enough so that the interest would support both herself and her future husband. "ned always liked to travel about," she thought. "i'll give him the chance. some day when we are married and i can save both his money and my own, we will be rich. then we can travel together all over the world." in the dry goods store weeks ran into months and months into years as alice waited and dreamed of her lover's return. her employer, a grey old man with false teeth and a thin grey mustache that drooped down over his mouth, was not given to conversation, and sometimes, on rainy days and in the winter when a storm raged in main street, long hours passed when no customers came in. alice arranged and rearranged the stock. she stood near the front window where she could look down the deserted street and thought of the evenings when she had walked with ned currie and of what he had said. "we will have to stick to each other now." the words echoed and re-echoed through the mind of the maturing woman. tears came into her eyes. sometimes when her employer had gone out and she was alone in the store she put her head on the counter and wept. "oh, ned, i am waiting," she whispered over and over, and all the time the creeping fear that he would never come back grew stronger within her. in the spring when the rains have passed and before the long hot days of summer have come, the country about winesburg is delightful. the town lies in the midst of open fields, but beyond the fields are pleasant patches of woodlands. in the wooded places are many little cloistered nooks, quiet places where lovers go to sit on sunday afternoons. through the trees they look out across the fields and see farmers at work about the barns or people driving up and down on the roads. in the town bells ring and occasionally a train passes, looking like a toy thing in the distance. for several years after ned currie went away alice did not go into the wood with the other young people on sunday, but one day after he had been gone for two or three years and when her loneliness seemed unbearable, she put on her best dress and set out. finding a little sheltered place from which she could see the town and a long stretch of the fields, she sat down. fear of age and ineffectuality took possession of her. she could not sit still, and arose. as she stood looking out over the land something, perhaps the thought of never ceasing life as it expresses itself in the flow of the seasons, fixed her mind on the passing years. with a shiver of dread, she realized that for her the beauty and freshness of youth had passed. for the first time she felt that she had been cheated. she did not blame ned currie and did not know what to blame. sadness swept over her. dropping to her knees, she tried to pray, but instead of prayers words of protest came to her lips. "it is not going to come to me. i will never find happiness. why do i tell myself lies?" she cried, and an odd sense of relief came with this, her first bold attempt to face the fear that had become a part of her everyday life. in the year when alice hindman became twenty-five two things happened to disturb the dull uneventfulness of her days. her mother married bush milton, the carriage painter of winesburg, and she herself became a member of the winesburg methodist church. alice joined the church because she had become frightened by the loneliness of her position in life. her mother's second marriage had emphasized her isolation. "i am becoming old and queer. if ned comes he will not want me. in the city where he is living men are perpetually young. there is so much going on that they do not have time to grow old," she told herself with a grim little smile, and went resolutely about the business of becoming acquainted with people. every thursday evening when the store had closed she went to a prayer meeting in the basement of the church and on sunday evening attended a meeting of an organization called the epworth league. when will hurley, a middle-aged man who clerked in a drug store and who also belonged to the church, offered to walk home with her she did not protest. "of course i will not let him make a practice of being with me, but if he comes to see me once in a long time there can be no harm in that," she told herself, still determined in her loyalty to ned currie. without realizing what was happening, alice was trying feebly at first, but with growing determination, to get a new hold upon life. beside the drug clerk she walked in silence, but sometimes in the darkness as they went stolidly along she put out her hand and touched softly the folds of his coat. when he left her at the gate before her mother's house she did not go indoors, but stood for a moment by the door. she wanted to call to the drug clerk, to ask him to sit with her in the darkness on the porch before the house, but was afraid he would not understand. "it is not him that i want," she told herself; "i want to avoid being so much alone. if i am not careful i will grow unaccustomed to being with people." * * * during the early fall of her twenty-seventh year a passionate restlessness took possession of alice. she could not bear to be in the company of the drug clerk, and when, in the evening, he came to walk with her she sent him away. her mind became intensely active and when, weary from the long hours of standing behind the counter in the store, she went home and crawled into bed, she could not sleep. with staring eyes she looked into the darkness. her imagination, like a child awakened from long sleep, played about the room. deep within her there was something that would not be cheated by phantasies and that demanded some definite answer from life. alice took a pillow into her arms and held it tightly against her breasts. getting out of bed, she arranged a blanket so that in the darkness it looked like a form lying between the sheets and, kneeling beside the bed, she caressed it, whispering words over and over, like a refrain. "why doesn't something happen? why am i left here alone?" she muttered. although she sometimes thought of ned currie, she no longer depended on him. her desire had grown vague. she did not want ned currie or any other man. she wanted to be loved, to have something answer the call that was growing louder and louder within her. and then one night when it rained alice had an adventure. it frightened and confused her. she had come home from the store at nine and found the house empty. bush milton had gone off to town and her mother to the house of a neighbor. alice went upstairs to her room and undressed in the darkness. for a moment she stood by the window hearing the rain beat against the glass and then a strange desire took possession of her. without stopping to think of what she intended to do, she ran downstairs through the dark house and out into the rain. as she stood on the little grass plot before the house and felt the cold rain on her body a mad desire to run naked through the streets took possession of her. she thought that the rain would have some creative and wonderful effect on her body. not for years had she felt so full of youth and courage. she wanted to leap and run, to cry out, to find some other lonely human and embrace him. on the brick sidewalk before the house a man stumbled homeward. alice started to run. a wild, desperate mood took possession of her. "what do i care who it is. he is alone, and i will go to him," she thought; and then without stopping to consider the possible result of her madness, called softly. "wait!" she cried. "don't go away. whoever you are, you must wait." the man on the sidewalk stopped and stood listening. he was an old man and somewhat deaf. putting his hand to his mouth, he shouted. "what? what say?" he called. alice dropped to the ground and lay trembling. she was so frightened at the thought of what she had done that when the man had gone on his way she did not dare get to her feet, but crawled on hands and knees through the grass to the house. when she got to her own room she bolted the door and drew her dressing table across the doorway. her body shook as with a chill and her hands trembled so that she had difficulty getting into her nightdress. when she got into bed she buried her face in the pillow and wept brokenheartedly. "what is the matter with me? i will do something dreadful if i am not careful," she thought, and turning her face to the wall, began trying to force herself to face bravely the fact that many people must live and die alone, even in winesburg. respectability if you have lived in cities and have walked in the park on a summer afternoon, you have perhaps seen, blinking in a corner of his iron cage, a huge, grotesque kind of monkey, a creature with ugly, sagging, hairless skin below his eyes and a bright purple underbody. this monkey is a true monster. in the completeness of his ugliness he achieved a kind of perverted beauty. children stopping before the cage are fascinated, men turn away with an air of disgust, and women linger for a moment, trying perhaps to remember which one of their male acquaintances the thing in some faint way resembles. had you been in the earlier years of your life a citizen of the village of winesburg, ohio, there would have been for you no mystery in regard to the beast in his cage. "it is like wash williams," you would have said. "as he sits in the corner there, the beast is exactly like old wash sitting on the grass in the station yard on a summer evening after he has closed his office for the night." wash williams, the telegraph operator of winesburg, was the ugliest thing in town. his girth was immense, his neck thin, his legs feeble. he was dirty. everything about him was unclean. even the whites of his eyes looked soiled. i go too fast. not everything about wash was unclean. he took care of his hands. his fingers were fat, but there was something sensitive and shapely in the hand that lay on the table by the instrument in the telegraph office. in his youth wash williams had been called the best telegraph operator in the state, and in spite of his degradement to the obscure office at winesburg, he was still proud of his ability. wash williams did not associate with the men of the town in which he lived. "i'll have nothing to do with them," he said, looking with bleary eyes at the men who walked along the station platform past the telegraph office. up along main street he went in the evening to ed griffith's saloon, and after drinking unbelievable quantities of beer staggered off to his room in the new willard house and to his bed for the night. wash williams was a man of courage. a thing had happened to him that made him hate life, and he hated it wholeheartedly, with the abandon of a poet. first of all, he hated women. "bitches," he called them. his feeling toward men was somewhat different. he pitied them. "does not every man let his life be managed for him by some bitch or another?" he asked. in winesburg no attention was paid to wash williams and his hatred of his fellows. once mrs. white, the banker's wife, complained to the telegraph company, saying that the office in winesburg was dirty and smelled abominably, but nothing came of her complaint. here and there a man respected the operator. instinctively the man felt in him a glowing resentment of something he had not the courage to resent. when wash walked through the streets such a one had an instinct to pay him homage, to raise his hat or to bow before him. the superintendent who had supervision over the telegraph operators on the railroad that went through winesburg felt that way. he had put wash into the obscure office at winesburg to avoid discharging him, and he meant to keep him there. when he received the letter of complaint from the banker's wife, he tore it up and laughed unpleasantly. for some reason he thought of his own wife as he tore up the letter. wash williams once had a wife. when he was still a young man he married a woman at dayton, ohio. the woman was tall and slender and had blue eyes and yellow hair. wash was himself a comely youth. he loved the woman with a love as absorbing as the hatred he later felt for all women. in all of winesburg there was but one person who knew the story of the thing that had made ugly the person and the character of wash williams. he once told the story to george willard and the telling of the tale came about in this way: george willard went one evening to walk with belle carpenter, a trimmer of women's hats who worked in a millinery shop kept by mrs. kate mchugh. the young man was not in love with the woman, who, in fact, had a suitor who worked as bartender in ed griffith's saloon, but as they walked about under the trees they occasionally embraced. the night and their own thoughts had aroused something in them. as they were returning to main street they passed the little lawn beside the railroad station and saw wash williams apparently asleep on the grass beneath a tree. on the next evening the operator and george willard walked out together. down the railroad they went and sat on a pile of decaying railroad ties beside the tracks. it was then that the operator told the young reporter his story of hate. perhaps a dozen times george willard and the strange, shapeless man who lived at his father's hotel had been on the point of talking. the young man looked at the hideous, leering face staring about the hotel dining room and was consumed with curiosity. something he saw lurking in the staring eyes told him that the man who had nothing to say to others had nevertheless something to say to him. on the pile of railroad ties on the summer evening, he waited expectantly. when the operator remained silent and seemed to have changed his mind about talking, he tried to make conversation. "were you ever married, mr. williams?" he began. "i suppose you were and your wife is dead, is that it?" wash williams spat forth a succession of vile oaths. "yes, she is dead," he agreed. "she is dead as all women are dead. she is a living-dead thing, walking in the sight of men and making the earth foul by her presence." staring into the boy's eyes, the man became purple with rage. "don't have fool notions in your head," he commanded. "my wife, she is dead; yes, surely. i tell you, all women are dead, my mother, your mother, that tall dark woman who works in the millinery store and with whom i saw you walking about yesterday--all of them, they are all dead. i tell you there is something rotten about them. i was married, sure. my wife was dead before she married me, she was a foul thing come out a woman more foul. she was a thing sent to make life unbearable to me. i was a fool, do you see, as you are now, and so i married this woman. i would like to see men a little begin to understand women. they are sent to prevent men making the world worth while. it is a trick in nature. ugh! they are creeping, crawling, squirming things, they with their soft hands and their blue eyes. the sight of a woman sickens me. why i don't kill every woman i see i don't know." half frightened and yet fascinated by the light burning in the eyes of the hideous old man, george willard listened, afire with curiosity. darkness came on and he leaned forward trying to see the face of the man who talked. when, in the gathering darkness, he could no longer see the purple, bloated face and the burning eyes, a curious fancy came to him. wash williams talked in low even tones that made his words seem the more terrible. in the darkness the young reporter found himself imagining that he sat on the railroad ties beside a comely young man with black hair and black shining eyes. there was something almost beautiful in the voice of wash williams, the hideous, telling his story of hate. the telegraph operator of winesburg, sitting in the darkness on the railroad ties, had become a poet. hatred had raised him to that elevation. "it is because i saw you kissing the lips of that belle carpenter that i tell you my story," he said. "what happened to me may next happen to you. i want to put you on your guard. already you may be having dreams in your head. i want to destroy them." wash williams began telling the story of his married life with the tall blonde girl with the blue eyes whom he had met when he was a young operator at dayton, ohio. here and there his story was touched with moments of beauty intermingled with strings of vile curses. the operator had married the daughter of a dentist who was the youngest of three sisters. on his marriage day, because of his ability, he was promoted to a position as dispatcher at an increased salary and sent to an office at columbus, ohio. there he settled down with his young wife and began buying a house on the installment plan. the young telegraph operator was madly in love. with a kind of religious fervor he had managed to go through the pitfalls of his youth and to remain virginal until after his marriage. he made for george willard a picture of his life in the house at columbus, ohio, with the young wife. "in the garden back of our house we planted vegetables," he said, "you know, peas and corn and such things. we went to columbus in early march and as soon as the days became warm i went to work in the garden. with a spade i turned up the black ground while she ran about laughing and pretending to be afraid of the worms i uncovered. late in april came the planting. in the little paths among the seed beds she stood holding a paper bag in her hand. the bag was filled with seeds. a few at a time she handed me the seeds that i might thrust them into the warm, soft ground." for a moment there was a catch in the voice of the man talking in the darkness. "i loved her," he said. "i don't claim not to be a fool. i love her yet. there in the dusk in the spring evening i crawled along the black ground to her feet and groveled before her. i kissed her shoes and the ankles above her shoes. when the hem of her garment touched my face i trembled. when after two years of that life i found she had managed to acquire three other lovers who came regularly to our house when i was away at work, i didn't want to touch them or her. i just sent her home to her mother and said nothing. there was nothing to say. i had four hundred dollars in the bank and i gave her that. i didn't ask her reasons. i didn't say anything. when she had gone i cried like a silly boy. pretty soon i had a chance to sell the house and i sent that money to her." wash williams and george willard arose from the pile of railroad ties and walked along the tracks toward town. the operator finished his tale quickly, breathlessly. "her mother sent for me," he said. "she wrote me a letter and asked me to come to their house at dayton. when i got there it was evening about this time." wash williams' voice rose to a half scream. "i sat in the parlor of that house two hours. her mother took me in there and left me. their house was stylish. they were what is called respectable people. there were plush chairs and a couch in the room. i was trembling all over. i hated the men i thought had wronged her. i was sick of living alone and wanted her back. the longer i waited the more raw and tender i became. i thought that if she came in and just touched me with her hand i would perhaps faint away. i ached to forgive and forget." wash williams stopped and stood staring at george willard. the boy's body shook as from a chill. again the man's voice became soft and low. "she came into the room naked," he went on. "her mother did that. while i sat there she was taking the girl's clothes off, perhaps coaxing her to do it. first i heard voices at the door that led into a little hallway and then it opened softly. the girl was ashamed and stood perfectly still staring at the floor. the mother didn't come into the room. when she had pushed the girl in through the door she stood in the hallway waiting, hoping we would--well, you see--waiting." george willard and the telegraph operator came into the main street of winesburg. the lights from the store windows lay bright and shining on the sidewalks. people moved about laughing and talking. the young reporter felt ill and weak. in imagination, he also became old and shapeless. "i didn't get the mother killed," said wash williams, staring up and down the street. "i struck her once with a chair and then the neighbors came in and took it away. she screamed so loud you see. i won't ever have a chance to kill her now. she died of a fever a month after that happened." the thinker the house in which seth richmond of winesburg lived with his mother had been at one time the show place of the town, but when young seth lived there its glory had become somewhat dimmed. the huge brick house which banker white had built on buckeye street had overshadowed it. the richmond place was in a little valley far out at the end of main street. farmers coming into town by a dusty road from the south passed by a grove of walnut trees, skirted the fair ground with its high board fence covered with advertisements, and trotted their horses down through the valley past the richmond place into town. as much of the country north and south of winesburg was devoted to fruit and berry raising, seth saw wagon-loads of berry pickers--boys, girls, and women--going to the fields in the morning and returning covered with dust in the evening. the chattering crowd, with their rude jokes cried out from wagon to wagon, sometimes irritated him sharply. he regretted that he also could not laugh boisterously, shout meaningless jokes and make of himself a figure in the endless stream of moving, giggling activity that went up and down the road. the richmond house was built of limestone, and, although it was said in the village to have become run down, had in reality grown more beautiful with every passing year. already time had begun a little to color the stone, lending a golden richness to its surface and in the evening or on dark days touching the shaded places beneath the eaves with wavering patches of browns and blacks. the house had been built by seth's grandfather, a stone quarryman, and it, together with the stone quarries on lake erie eighteen miles to the north, had been left to his son, clarence richmond, seth's father. clarence richmond, a quiet passionate man extraordinarily admired by his neighbors, had been killed in a street fight with the editor of a newspaper in toledo, ohio. the fight concerned the publication of clarence richmond's name coupled with that of a woman school teacher, and as the dead man had begun the row by firing upon the editor, the effort to punish the slayer was unsuccessful. after the quarryman's death it was found that much of the money left to him had been squandered in speculation and in insecure investments made through the influence of friends. left with but a small income, virginia richmond had settled down to a retired life in the village and to the raising of her son. although she had been deeply moved by the death of the husband and father, she did not at all believe the stories concerning him that ran about after his death. to her mind, the sensitive, boyish man whom all had instinctively loved, was but an unfortunate, a being too fine for everyday life. "you'll be hearing all sorts of stories, but you are not to believe what you hear," she said to her son. "he was a good man, full of tenderness for everyone, and should not have tried to be a man of affairs. no matter how much i were to plan and dream of your future, i could not imagine anything better for you than that you turn out as good a man as your father." several years after the death of her husband, virginia richmond had become alarmed at the growing demands upon her income and had set herself to the task of increasing it. she had learned stenography and through the influence of her husband's friends got the position of court stenographer at the county seat. there she went by train each morning during the sessions of the court, and when no court sat, spent her days working among the rosebushes in her garden. she was a tall, straight figure of a woman with a plain face and a great mass of brown hair. in the relationship between seth richmond and his mother, there was a quality that even at eighteen had begun to color all of his traffic with men. an almost unhealthy respect for the youth kept the mother for the most part silent in his presence. when she did speak sharply to him he had only to look steadily into her eyes to see dawning there the puzzled look he had already noticed in the eyes of others when he looked at them. the truth was that the son thought with remarkable clearness and the mother did not. she expected from all people certain conventional reactions to life. a boy was your son, you scolded him and he trembled and looked at the floor. when you had scolded enough he wept and all was forgiven. after the weeping and when he had gone to bed, you crept into his room and kissed him. virginia richmond could not understand why her son did not do these things. after the severest reprimand, he did not tremble and look at the floor but instead looked steadily at her, causing uneasy doubts to invade her mind. as for creeping into his room--after seth had passed his fifteenth year, she would have been half afraid to do anything of the kind. once when he was a boy of sixteen, seth in company with two other boys ran away from home. the three boys climbed into the open door of an empty freight car and rode some forty miles to a town where a fair was being held. one of the boys had a bottle filled with a combination of whiskey and blackberry wine, and the three sat with legs dangling out of the car door drinking from the bottle. seth's two companions sang and waved their hands to idlers about the stations of the towns through which the train passed. they planned raids upon the baskets of farmers who had come with their families to the fair. "we will live like kings and won't have to spend a penny to see the fair and horse races," they declared boastfully. after the disappearance of seth, virginia richmond walked up and down the floor of her home filled with vague alarms. although on the next day she discovered, through an inquiry made by the town marshal, on what adventure the boys had gone, she could not quiet herself. all through the night she lay awake hearing the clock tick and telling herself that seth, like his father, would come to a sudden and violent end. so determined was she that the boy should this time feel the weight of her wrath that, although she would not allow the marshal to interfere with his adventure, she got out a pencil and paper and wrote down a series of sharp, stinging reproofs she intended to pour out upon him. the reproofs she committed to memory, going about the garden and saying them aloud like an actor memorizing his part. and when, at the end of the week, seth returned, a little weary and with coal soot in his ears and about his eyes, she again found herself unable to reprove him. walking into the house he hung his cap on a nail by the kitchen door and stood looking steadily at her. "i wanted to turn back within an hour after we had started," he explained. "i didn't know what to do. i knew you would be bothered, but i knew also that if i didn't go on i would be ashamed of myself. i went through with the thing for my own good. it was uncomfortable, sleeping on wet straw, and two drunken negroes came and slept with us. when i stole a lunch basket out of a farmer's wagon i couldn't help thinking of his children going all day without food. i was sick of the whole affair, but i was determined to stick it out until the other boys were ready to come back." "i'm glad you did stick it out," replied the mother, half resentfully, and kissing him upon the forehead pretended to busy herself with the work about the house. on a summer evening seth richmond went to the new willard house to visit his friend, george willard. it had rained during the afternoon, but as he walked through main street, the sky had partially cleared and a golden glow lit up the west. going around a corner, he turned in at the door of the hotel and began to climb the stairway leading up to his friend's room. in the hotel office the proprietor and two traveling men were engaged in a discussion of politics. on the stairway seth stopped and listened to the voices of the men below. they were excited and talked rapidly. tom willard was berating the traveling men. "i am a democrat but your talk makes me sick," he said. "you don't understand mckinley. mckinley and mark hanna are friends. it is impossible perhaps for your mind to grasp that. if anyone tells you that a friendship can be deeper and bigger and more worth while than dollars and cents, or even more worth while than state politics, you snicker and laugh." the landlord was interrupted by one of the guests, a tall, grey-mustached man who worked for a wholesale grocery house. "do you think that i've lived in cleveland all these years without knowing mark hanna?" he demanded. "your talk is piffle. hanna is after money and nothing else. this mckinley is his tool. he has mckinley bluffed and don't you forget it." the young man on the stairs did not linger to hear the rest of the discussion, but went on up the stairway and into the little dark hall. something in the voices of the men talking in the hotel office started a chain of thoughts in his mind. he was lonely and had begun to think that loneliness was a part of his character, something that would always stay with him. stepping into a side hall he stood by a window that looked into an alleyway. at the back of his shop stood abner groff, the town baker. his tiny bloodshot eyes looked up and down the alleyway. in his shop someone called the baker, who pretended not to hear. the baker had an empty milk bottle in his hand and an angry sullen look in his eyes. in winesburg, seth richmond was called the "deep one." "he's like his father," men said as he went through the streets. "he'll break out some of these days. you wait and see." the talk of the town and the respect with which men and boys instinctively greeted him, as all men greet silent people, had affected seth richmond's outlook on life and on himself. he, like most boys, was deeper than boys are given credit for being, but he was not what the men of the town, and even his mother, thought him to be. no great underlying purpose lay back of his habitual silence, and he had no definite plan for his life. when the boys with whom he associated were noisy and quarrelsome, he stood quietly at one side. with calm eyes he watched the gesticulating lively figures of his companions. he wasn't particularly interested in what was going on, and sometimes wondered if he would ever be particularly interested in anything. now, as he stood in the half-darkness by the window watching the baker, he wished that he himself might become thoroughly stirred by something, even by the fits of sullen anger for which baker groff was noted. "it would be better for me if i could become excited and wrangle about politics like windy old tom willard," he thought, as he left the window and went again along the hallway to the room occupied by his friend, george willard. george willard was older than seth richmond, but in the rather odd friendship between the two, it was he who was forever courting and the younger boy who was being courted. the paper on which george worked had one policy. it strove to mention by name in each issue, as many as possible of the inhabitants of the village. like an excited dog, george willard ran here and there, noting on his pad of paper who had gone on business to the county seat or had returned from a visit to a neighboring village. all day he wrote little facts upon the pad. "a. p. wringlet had received a shipment of straw hats. ed byerbaum and tom marshall were in cleveland friday. uncle tom sinnings is building a new barn on his place on the valley road." the idea that george willard would some day become a writer had given him a place of distinction in winesburg, and to seth richmond he talked continually of the matter, "it's the easiest of all lives to live," he declared, becoming excited and boastful. "here and there you go and there is no one to boss you. though you are in india or in the south seas in a boat, you have but to write and there you are. wait till i get my name up and then see what fun i shall have." in george willard's room, which had a window looking down into an alleyway and one that looked across railroad tracks to biff carter's lunch room facing the railroad station, seth richmond sat in a chair and looked at the floor. george willard, who had been sitting for an hour idly playing with a lead pencil, greeted him effusively. "i've been trying to write a love story," he explained, laughing nervously. lighting a pipe he began walking up and down the room. "i know what i'm going to do. i'm going to fall in love. i've been sitting here and thinking it over and i'm going to do it." as though embarrassed by his declaration, george went to a window and turning his back to his friend leaned out. "i know who i'm going to fall in love with," he said sharply. "it's helen white. she is the only girl in town with any 'get-up' to her." struck with a new idea, young willard turned and walked toward his visitor. "look here," he said. "you know helen white better than i do. i want you to tell her what i said. you just get to talking to her and say that i'm in love with her. see what she says to that. see how she takes it, and then you come and tell me." seth richmond arose and went toward the door. the words of his comrade irritated him unbearably. "well, good-bye," he said briefly. george was amazed. running forward he stood in the darkness trying to look into seth's face. "what's the matter? what are you going to do? you stay here and let's talk," he urged. a wave of resentment directed against his friend, the men of the town who were, he thought, perpetually talking of nothing, and most of all, against his own habit of silence, made seth half desperate. "aw, speak to her yourself," he burst forth and then, going quickly through the door, slammed it sharply in his friend's face. "i'm going to find helen white and talk to her, but not about him," he muttered. seth went down the stairway and out at the front door of the hotel muttering with wrath. crossing a little dusty street and climbing a low iron railing, he went to sit upon the grass in the station yard. george willard he thought a profound fool, and he wished that he had said so more vigorously. although his acquaintanceship with helen white, the banker's daughter, was outwardly but casual, she was often the subject of his thoughts and he felt that she was something private and personal to himself. "the busy fool with his love stories," he muttered, staring back over his shoulder at george willard's room, "why does he never tire of his eternal talking." it was berry harvest time in winesburg and upon the station platform men and boys loaded the boxes of red, fragrant berries into two express cars that stood upon the siding. a june moon was in the sky, although in the west a storm threatened, and no street lamps were lighted. in the dim light the figures of the men standing upon the express truck and pitching the boxes in at the doors of the cars were but dimly discernible. upon the iron railing that protected the station lawn sat other men. pipes were lighted. village jokes went back and forth. away in the distance a train whistled and the men loading the boxes into the cars worked with renewed activity. seth arose from his place on the grass and went silently past the men perched upon the railing and into main street. he had come to a resolution. "i'll get out of here," he told himself. "what good am i here? i'm going to some city and go to work. i'll tell mother about it tomorrow." seth richmond went slowly along main street, past wacker's cigar store and the town hall, and into buckeye street. he was depressed by the thought that he was not a part of the life in his own town, but the depression did not cut deeply as he did not think of himself as at fault. in the heavy shadows of a big tree before doctor welling's house, he stopped and stood watching half-witted turk smollet, who was pushing a wheelbarrow in the road. the old man with his absurdly boyish mind had a dozen long boards on the wheelbarrow, and, as he hurried along the road, balanced the load with extreme nicety. "easy there, turk! steady now, old boy!" the old man shouted to himself, and laughed so that the load of boards rocked dangerously. seth knew turk smollet, the half dangerous old wood chopper whose peculiarities added so much of color to the life of the village. he knew that when turk got into main street he would become the center of a whirlwind of cries and comments, that in truth the old man was going far out of his way in order to pass through main street and exhibit his skill in wheeling the boards. "if george willard were here, he'd have something to say," thought seth. "george belongs to this town. he'd shout at turk and turk would shout at him. they'd both be secretly pleased by what they had said. it's different with me. i don't belong. i'll not make a fuss about it, but i'm going to get out of here." seth stumbled forward through the half-darkness, feeling himself an outcast in his own town. he began to pity himself, but a sense of the absurdity of his thoughts made him smile. in the end he decided that he was simply old beyond his years and not at all a subject for self-pity. "i'm made to go to work. i may be able to make a place for myself by steady working, and i might as well be at it," he decided. seth went to the house of banker white and stood in the darkness by the front door. on the door hung a heavy brass knocker, an innovation introduced into the village by helen white's mother, who had also organized a women's club for the study of poetry. seth raised the knocker and let it fall. its heavy clatter sounded like a report from distant guns. "how awkward and foolish i am," he thought. "if mrs. white comes to the door, i won't know what to say." it was helen white who came to the door and found seth standing at the edge of the porch. blushing with pleasure, she stepped forward, closing the door softly. "i'm going to get out of town. i don't know what i'll do, but i'm going to get out of here and go to work. i think i'll go to columbus," he said. "perhaps i'll get into the state university down there. anyway, i'm going. i'll tell mother tonight." he hesitated and looked doubtfully about. "perhaps you wouldn't mind coming to walk with me?" seth and helen walked through the streets beneath the trees. heavy clouds had drifted across the face of the moon, and before them in the deep twilight went a man with a short ladder upon his shoulder. hurrying forward, the man stopped at the street crossing and, putting the ladder against the wooden lamp-post, lighted the village lights so that their way was half lighted, half darkened, by the lamps and by the deepening shadows cast by the low-branched trees. in the tops of the trees the wind began to play, disturbing the sleeping birds so that they flew about calling plaintively. in the lighted space before one of the lamps, two bats wheeled and circled, pursuing the gathering swarm of night flies. since seth had been a boy in knee trousers there had been a half expressed intimacy between him and the maiden who now for the first time walked beside him. for a time she had been beset with a madness for writing notes which she addressed to seth. he had found them concealed in his books at school and one had been given him by a child met in the street, while several had been delivered through the village post office. the notes had been written in a round, boyish hand and had reflected a mind inflamed by novel reading. seth had not answered them, although he had been moved and flattered by some of the sentences scrawled in pencil upon the stationery of the banker's wife. putting them into the pocket of his coat, he went through the street or stood by the fence in the school yard with something burning at his side. he thought it fine that he should be thus selected as the favorite of the richest and most attractive girl in town. helen and seth stopped by a fence near where a low dark building faced the street. the building had once been a factory for the making of barrel staves but was now vacant. across the street upon the porch of a house a man and woman talked of their childhood, their voices coming dearly across to the half-embarrassed youth and maiden. there was the sound of scraping chairs and the man and woman came down the gravel path to a wooden gate. standing outside the gate, the man leaned over and kissed the woman. "for old times' sake," he said and, turning, walked rapidly away along the sidewalk. "that's belle turner," whispered helen, and put her hand boldly into seth's hand. "i didn't know she had a fellow. i thought she was too old for that." seth laughed uneasily. the hand of the girl was warm and a strange, dizzy feeling crept over him. into his mind came a desire to tell her something he had been determined not to tell. "george willard's in love with you," he said, and in spite of his agitation his voice was low and quiet. "he's writing a story, and he wants to be in love. he wants to know how it feels. he wanted me to tell you and see what you said." again helen and seth walked in silence. they came to the garden surrounding the old richmond place and going through a gap in the hedge sat on a wooden bench beneath a bush. on the street as he walked beside the girl new and daring thoughts had come into seth richmond's mind. he began to regret his decision to get out of town. "it would be something new and altogether delightful to remain and walk often through the streets with helen white," he thought. in imagination he saw himself putting his arm about her waist and feeling her arms clasped tightly about his neck. one of those odd combinations of events and places made him connect the idea of love-making with this girl and a spot he had visited some days before. he had gone on an errand to the house of a farmer who lived on a hillside beyond the fair ground and had returned by a path through a field. at the foot of the hill below the farmer's house seth had stopped beneath a sycamore tree and looked about him. a soft humming noise had greeted his ears. for a moment he had thought the tree must be the home of a swarm of bees. and then, looking down, seth had seen the bees everywhere all about him in the long grass. he stood in a mass of weeds that grew waist-high in the field that ran away from the hillside. the weeds were abloom with tiny purple blossoms and gave forth an overpowering fragrance. upon the weeds the bees were gathered in armies, singing as they worked. seth imagined himself lying on a summer evening, buried deep among the weeds beneath the tree. beside him, in the scene built in his fancy, lay helen white, her hand lying in his hand. a peculiar reluctance kept him from kissing her lips, but he felt he might have done that if he wished. instead, he lay perfectly still, looking at her and listening to the army of bees that sang the sustained masterful song of labor above his head. on the bench in the garden seth stirred uneasily. releasing the hand of the girl, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. a desire to impress the mind of his companion with the importance of the resolution he had made came over him and he nodded his head toward the house. "mother'll make a fuss, i suppose," he whispered. "she hasn't thought at all about what i'm going to do in life. she thinks i'm going to stay on here forever just being a boy." seth's voice became charged with boyish earnestness. "you see, i've got to strike out. i've got to get to work. it's what i'm good for." helen white was impressed. she nodded her head and a feeling of admiration swept over her. "this is as it should be," she thought. "this boy is not a boy at all, but a strong, purposeful man." certain vague desires that had been invading her body were swept away and she sat up very straight on the bench. the thunder continued to rumble and flashes of heat lightning lit up the eastern sky. the garden that had been so mysterious and vast, a place that with seth beside her might have become the background for strange and wonderful adventures, now seemed no more than an ordinary winesburg back yard, quite definite and limited in its outlines. "what will you do up there?" she whispered. seth turned half around on the bench, striving to see her face in the darkness. he thought her infinitely more sensible and straightforward than george willard, and was glad he had come away from his friend. a feeling of impatience with the town that had been in his mind returned, and he tried to tell her of it. "everyone talks and talks," he began. "i'm sick of it. i'll do something, get into some kind of work where talk don't count. maybe i'll just be a mechanic in a shop. i don't know. i guess i don't care much. i just want to work and keep quiet. that's all i've got in my mind." seth arose from the bench and put out his hand. he did not want to bring the meeting to an end but could not think of anything more to say. "it's the last time we'll see each other," he whispered. a wave of sentiment swept over helen. putting her hand upon seth's shoulder, she started to draw his face down toward her own upturned face. the act was one of pure affection and cutting regret that some vague adventure that had been present in the spirit of the night would now never be realized. "i think i'd better be going along," she said, letting her hand fall heavily to her side. a thought came to her. "don't you go with me; i want to be alone," she said. "you go and talk with your mother. you'd better do that now." seth hesitated and, as he stood waiting, the girl turned and ran away through the hedge. a desire to run after her came to him, but he only stood staring, perplexed and puzzled by her action as he had been perplexed and puzzled by all of the life of the town out of which she had come. walking slowly toward the house, he stopped in the shadow of a large tree and looked at his mother sitting by a lighted window busily sewing. the feeling of loneliness that had visited him earlier in the evening returned and colored his thoughts of the adventure through which he had just passed. "huh!" he exclaimed, turning and staring in the direction taken by helen white. "that's how things'll turn out. she'll be like the rest. i suppose she'll begin now to look at me in a funny way." he looked at the ground and pondered this thought. "she'll be embarrassed and feel strange when i'm around," he whispered to himself. "that's how it'll be. that's how everything'll turn out. when it comes to loving someone, it won't never be me. it'll be someone else--some fool--someone who talks a lot--someone like that george willard." tandy until she was seven years old she lived in an old unpainted house on an unused road that led off trunion pike. her father gave her but little attention and her mother was dead. the father spent his time talking and thinking of religion. he proclaimed himself an agnostic and was so absorbed in destroying the ideas of god that had crept into the minds of his neighbors that he never saw god manifesting himself in the little child that, half forgotten, lived here and there on the bounty of her dead mother's relatives. a stranger came to winesburg and saw in the child what the father did not see. he was a tall, redhaired young man who was almost always drunk. sometimes he sat in a chair before the new willard house with tom hard, the father. as tom talked, declaring there could be no god, the stranger smiled and winked at the bystanders. he and tom became friends and were much together. the stranger was the son of a rich merchant of cleveland and had come to winesburg on a mission. he wanted to cure himself of the habit of drink, and thought that by escaping from his city associates and living in a rural community he would have a better chance in the struggle with the appetite that was destroying him. his sojourn in winesburg was not a success. the dullness of the passing hours led to his drinking harder than ever. but he did succeed in doing something. he gave a name rich with meaning to tom hard's daughter. one evening when he was recovering from a long debauch the stranger came reeling along the main street of the town. tom hard sat in a chair before the new willard house with his daughter, then a child of five, on his knees. beside him on the board sidewalk sat young george willard. the stranger dropped into a chair beside them. his body shook and when he tried to talk his voice trembled. it was late evening and darkness lay over the town and over the railroad that ran along the foot of a little incline before the hotel. somewhere in the distance, off to the west, there was a prolonged blast from the whistle of a passenger engine. a dog that had been sleeping in the roadway arose and barked. the stranger began to babble and made a prophecy concerning the child that lay in the arms of the agnostic. "i came here to quit drinking," he said, and tears began to run down his cheeks. he did not look at tom hard, but leaned forward and stared into the darkness as though seeing a vision. "i ran away to the country to be cured, but i am not cured. there is a reason." he turned to look at the child who sat up very straight on her father's knee and returned the look. the stranger touched tom hard on the arm. "drink is not the only thing to which i am addicted," he said. "there is something else. i am a lover and have not found my thing to love. that is a big point if you know enough to realize what i mean. it makes my destruction inevitable, you see. there are few who understand that." the stranger became silent and seemed overcome with sadness, but another blast from the whistle of the passenger engine aroused him. "i have not lost faith. i proclaim that. i have only been brought to the place where i know my faith will not be realized," he declared hoarsely. he looked hard at the child and began to address her, paying no more attention to the father. "there is a woman coming," he said, and his voice was now sharp and earnest. "i have missed her, you see. she did not come in my time. you may be the woman. it would be like fate to let me stand in her presence once, on such an evening as this, when i have destroyed myself with drink and she is as yet only a child." the shoulders of the stranger shook violently, and when he tried to roll a cigarette the paper fell from his trembling fingers. he grew angry and scolded. "they think it's easy to be a woman, to be loved, but i know better," he declared. again he turned to the child. "i understand," he cried. "perhaps of all men i alone understand." his glance again wandered away to the darkened street. "i know about her, although she has never crossed my path," he said softly. "i know about her struggles and her defeats. it is because of her defeats that she is to me the lovely one. out of her defeats has been born a new quality in woman. i have a name for it. i call it tandy. i made up the name when i was a true dreamer and before my body became vile. it is the quality of being strong to be loved. it is something men need from women and that they do not get." the stranger arose and stood before tom hard. his body rocked back and forth and he seemed about to fall, but instead he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk and raised the hands of the little girl to his drunken lips. he kissed them ecstatically. "be tandy, little one," he pleaded. "dare to be strong and courageous. that is the road. venture anything. be brave enough to dare to be loved. be something more than man or woman. be tandy." the stranger arose and staggered off down the street. a day or two later he got aboard a train and returned to his home in cleveland. on the summer evening, after the talk before the hotel, tom hard took the girl child to the house of a relative where she had been invited to spend the night. as he went along in the darkness under the trees he forgot the babbling voice of the stranger and his mind returned to the making of arguments by which he might destroy men's faith in god. he spoke his daughter's name and she began to weep. "i don't want to be called that," she declared. "i want to be called tandy--tandy hard." the child wept so bitterly that tom hard was touched and tried to comfort her. he stopped beneath a tree and, taking her into his arms, began to caress her. "be good, now," he said sharply; but she would not be quieted. with childish abandon she gave herself over to grief, her voice breaking the evening stillness of the street. "i want to be tandy. i want to be tandy. i want to be tandy hard," she cried, shaking her head and sobbing as though her young strength were not enough to bear the vision the words of the drunkard had brought to her. the strength of god the reverend curtis hartman was pastor of the presbyterian church of winesburg, and had been in that position ten years. he was forty years old, and by his nature very silent and reticent. to preach, standing in the pulpit before the people, was always a hardship for him and from wednesday morning until saturday evening he thought of nothing but the two sermons that must be preached on sunday. early on sunday morning he went into a little room called a study in the bell tower of the church and prayed. in his prayers there was one note that always predominated. "give me strength and courage for thy work, o lord!" he pleaded, kneeling on the bare floor and bowing his head in the presence of the task that lay before him. the reverend hartman was a tall man with a brown beard. his wife, a stout, nervous woman, was the daughter of a manufacturer of underwear at cleveland, ohio. the minister himself was rather a favorite in the town. the elders of the church liked him because he was quiet and unpretentious and mrs. white, the banker's wife, thought him scholarly and refined. the presbyterian church held itself somewhat aloof from the other churches of winesburg. it was larger and more imposing and its minister was better paid. he even had a carriage of his own and on summer evenings sometimes drove about town with his wife. through main street and up and down buckeye street he went, bowing gravely to the people, while his wife, afire with secret pride, looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and worried lest the horse become frightened and run away. for a good many years after he came to winesburg things went well with curtis hartman. he was not one to arouse keen enthusiasm among the worshippers in his church but on the other hand he made no enemies. in reality he was much in earnest and sometimes suffered prolonged periods of remorse because he could not go crying the word of god in the highways and byways of the town. he wondered if the flame of the spirit really burned in him and dreamed of a day when a strong sweet new current of power would come like a great wind into his voice and his soul and the people would tremble before the spirit of god made manifest in him. "i am a poor stick and that will never really happen to me," he mused dejectedly, and then a patient smile lit up his features. "oh well, i suppose i'm doing well enough," he added philosophically. the room in the bell tower of the church, where on sunday mornings the minister prayed for an increase in him of the power of god, had but one window. it was long and narrow and swung outward on a hinge like a door. on the window, made of little leaded panes, was a design showing the christ laying his hand upon the head of a child. one sunday morning in the summer as he sat by his desk in the room with a large bible opened before him, and the sheets of his sermon scattered about, the minister was shocked to see, in the upper room of the house next door, a woman lying in her bed and smoking a cigarette while she read a book. curtis hartman went on tiptoe to the window and closed it softly. he was horror stricken at the thought of a woman smoking and trembled also to think that his eyes, just raised from the pages of the book of god, had looked upon the bare shoulders and white throat of a woman. with his brain in a whirl he went down into the pulpit and preached a long sermon without once thinking of his gestures or his voice. the sermon attracted unusual attention because of its power and clearness. "i wonder if she is listening, if my voice is carrying a message into her soul," he thought and began to hope that on future sunday mornings he might be able to say words that would touch and awaken the woman apparently far gone in secret sin. the house next door to the presbyterian church, through the windows of which the minister had seen the sight that had so upset him, was occupied by two women. aunt elizabeth swift, a grey competent-looking widow with money in the winesburg national bank, lived there with her daughter kate swift, a school teacher. the school teacher was thirty years old and had a neat trim-looking figure. she had few friends and bore a reputation of having a sharp tongue. when he began to think about her, curtis hartman remembered that she had been to europe and had lived for two years in new york city. "perhaps after all her smoking means nothing," he thought. he began to remember that when he was a student in college and occasionally read novels, good although somewhat worldly women, had smoked through the pages of a book that had once fallen into his hands. with a rush of new determination he worked on his sermons all through the week and forgot, in his zeal to reach the ears and the soul of this new listener, both his embarrassment in the pulpit and the necessity of prayer in the study on sunday mornings. reverend hartman's experience with women had been somewhat limited. he was the son of a wagon maker from muncie, indiana, and had worked his way through college. the daughter of the underwear manufacturer had boarded in a house where he lived during his school days and he had married her after a formal and prolonged courtship, carried on for the most part by the girl herself. on his marriage day the underwear manufacturer had given his daughter five thousand dollars and he promised to leave her at least twice that amount in his will. the minister had thought himself fortunate in marriage and had never permitted himself to think of other women. he did not want to think of other women. what he wanted was to do the work of god quietly and earnestly. in the soul of the minister a struggle awoke. from wanting to reach the ears of kate swift, and through his sermons to delve into her soul, he began to want also to look again at the figure lying white and quiet in the bed. on a sunday morning when he could not sleep because of his thoughts he arose and went to walk in the streets. when he had gone along main street almost to the old richmond place he stopped and picking up a stone rushed off to the room in the bell tower. with the stone he broke out a corner of the window and then locked the door and sat down at the desk before the open bible to wait. when the shade of the window to kate swift's room was raised he could see, through the hole, directly into her bed, but she was not there. she also had arisen and had gone for a walk and the hand that raised the shade was the hand of aunt elizabeth swift. the minister almost wept with joy at this deliverance from the carnal desire to "peep" and went back to his own house praising god. in an ill moment he forgot, however, to stop the hole in the window. the piece of glass broken out at the corner of the window just nipped off the bare heel of the boy standing motionless and looking with rapt eyes into the face of the christ. curtis hartman forgot his sermon on that sunday morning. he talked to his congregation and in his talk said that it was a mistake for people to think of their minister as a man set aside and intended by nature to lead a blameless life. "out of my own experience i know that we, who are the ministers of god's word, are beset by the same temptations that assail you," he declared. "i have been tempted and have surrendered to temptation. it is only the hand of god, placed beneath my head, that has raised me up. as he has raised me so also will he raise you. do not despair. in your hour of sin raise your eyes to the skies and you will be again and again saved." resolutely the minister put the thoughts of the woman in the bed out of his mind and began to be something like a lover in the presence of his wife. one evening when they drove out together he turned the horse out of buckeye street and in the darkness on gospel hill, above waterworks pond, put his arm about sarah hartman's waist. when he had eaten breakfast in the morning and was ready to retire to his study at the back of his house he went around the table and kissed his wife on the cheek. when thoughts of kate swift came into his head, he smiled and raised his eyes to the skies. "intercede for me, master," he muttered, "keep me in the narrow path intent on thy work." and now began the real struggle in the soul of the brown-bearded minister. by chance he discovered that kate swift was in the habit of lying in her bed in the evenings and reading a book. a lamp stood on a table by the side of the bed and the light streamed down upon her white shoulders and bare throat. on the evening when he made the discovery the minister sat at the desk in the dusty room from nine until after eleven and when her light was put out stumbled out of the church to spend two more hours walking and praying in the streets. he did not want to kiss the shoulders and the throat of kate swift and had not allowed his mind to dwell on such thoughts. he did not know what he wanted. "i am god's child and he must save me from myself," he cried, in the darkness under the trees as he wandered in the streets. by a tree he stood and looked at the sky that was covered with hurrying clouds. he began to talk to god intimately and closely. "please, father, do not forget me. give me power to go tomorrow and repair the hole in the window. lift my eyes again to the skies. stay with me, thy servant, in his hour of need." up and down through the silent streets walked the minister and for days and weeks his soul was troubled. he could not understand the temptation that had come to him nor could he fathom the reason for its coming. in a way he began to blame god, saying to himself that he had tried to keep his feet in the true path and had not run about seeking sin. "through my days as a young man and all through my life here i have gone quietly about my work," he declared. "why now should i be tempted? what have i done that this burden should be laid on me?" three times during the early fall and winter of that year curtis hartman crept out of his house to the room in the bell tower to sit in the darkness looking at the figure of kate swift lying in her bed and later went to walk and pray in the streets. he could not understand himself. for weeks he would go along scarcely thinking of the school teacher and telling himself that he had conquered the carnal desire to look at her body. and then something would happen. as he sat in the study of his own house, hard at work on a sermon, he would become nervous and begin to walk up and down the room. "i will go out into the streets," he told himself and even as he let himself in at the church door he persistently denied to himself the cause of his being there. "i will not repair the hole in the window and i will train myself to come here at night and sit in the presence of this woman without raising my eyes. i will not be defeated in this thing. the lord has devised this temptation as a test of my soul and i will grope my way out of darkness into the light of righteousness." one night in january when it was bitter cold and snow lay deep on the streets of winesburg curtis hartman paid his last visit to the room in the bell tower of the church. it was past nine o'clock when he left his own house and he set out so hurriedly that he forgot to put on his overshoes. in main street no one was abroad but hop higgins the night watchman and in the whole town no one was awake but the watchman and young george willard, who sat in the office of the winesburg eagle trying to write a story. along the street to the church went the minister, plowing through the drifts and thinking that this time he would utterly give way to sin. "i want to look at the woman and to think of kissing her shoulders and i am going to let myself think what i choose," he declared bitterly and tears came into his eyes. he began to think that he would get out of the ministry and try some other way of life. "i shall go to some city and get into business," he declared. "if my nature is such that i cannot resist sin, i shall give myself over to sin. at least i shall not be a hypocrite, preaching the word of god with my mind thinking of the shoulders and neck of a woman who does not belong to me." it was cold in the room of the bell tower of the church on that january night and almost as soon as he came into the room curtis hartman knew that if he stayed he would be ill. his feet were wet from tramping in the snow and there was no fire. in the room in the house next door kate swift had not yet appeared. with grim determination the man sat down to wait. sitting in the chair and gripping the edge of the desk on which lay the bible he stared into the darkness thinking the blackest thoughts of his life. he thought of his wife and for the moment almost hated her. "she has always been ashamed of passion and has cheated me," he thought. "man has a right to expect living passion and beauty in a woman. he has no right to forget that he is an animal and in me there is something that is greek. i will throw off the woman of my bosom and seek other women. i will besiege this school teacher. i will fly in the face of all men and if i am a creature of carnal lusts i will live then for my lusts." the distracted man trembled from head to foot, partly from cold, partly from the struggle in which he was engaged. hours passed and a fever assailed his body. his throat began to hurt and his teeth chattered. his feet on the study floor felt like two cakes of ice. still he would not give up. "i will see this woman and will think the thoughts i have never dared to think," he told himself, gripping the edge of the desk and waiting. curtis hartman came near dying from the effects of that night of waiting in the church, and also he found in the thing that happened what he took to be the way of life for him. on other evenings when he had waited he had not been able to see, through the little hole in the glass, any part of the school teacher's room except that occupied by her bed. in the darkness he had waited until the woman suddenly appeared sitting in the bed in her white nightrobe. when the light was turned up she propped herself up among the pillows and read a book. sometimes she smoked one of the cigarettes. only her bare shoulders and throat were visible. on the january night, after he had come near dying with cold and after his mind had two or three times actually slipped away into an odd land of fantasy so that he had by an exercise of will power to force himself back into consciousness, kate swift appeared. in the room next door a lamp was lighted and the waiting man stared into an empty bed. then upon the bed before his eyes a naked woman threw herself. lying face downward she wept and beat with her fists upon the pillow. with a final outburst of weeping she half arose, and in the presence of the man who had waited to look and not to think thoughts the woman of sin began to pray. in the lamplight her figure, slim and strong, looked like the figure of the boy in the presence of the christ on the leaded window. curtis hartman never remembered how he got out of the church. with a cry he arose, dragging the heavy desk along the floor. the bible fell, making a great clatter in the silence. when the light in the house next door went out he stumbled down the stairway and into the street. along the street he went and ran in at the door of the winesburg eagle. to george willard, who was tramping up and down in the office undergoing a struggle of his own, he began to talk half incoherently. "the ways of god are beyond human understanding," he cried, running in quickly and closing the door. he began to advance upon the young man, his eyes glowing and his voice ringing with fervor. "i have found the light," he cried. "after ten years in this town, god has manifested himself to me in the body of a woman." his voice dropped and he began to whisper. "i did not understand," he said. "what i took to be a trial of my soul was only a preparation for a new and more beautiful fervor of the spirit. god has appeared to me in the person of kate swift, the school teacher, kneeling naked on a bed. do you know kate swift? although she may not be aware of it, she is an instrument of god, bearing the message of truth." reverend curtis hartman turned and ran out of the office. at the door he stopped, and after looking up and down the deserted street, turned again to george willard. "i am delivered. have no fear." he held up a bleeding fist for the young man to see. "i smashed the glass of the window," he cried. "now it will have to be wholly replaced. the strength of god was in me and i broke it with my fist." the teacher snow lay deep in the streets of winesburg. it had begun to snow about ten o'clock in the morning and a wind sprang up and blew the snow in clouds along main street. the frozen mud roads that led into town were fairly smooth and in places ice covered the mud. "there will be good sleighing," said will henderson, standing by the bar in ed griffith's saloon. out of the saloon he went and met sylvester west the druggist stumbling along in the kind of heavy overshoes called arctics. "snow will bring the people into town on saturday," said the druggist. the two men stopped and discussed their affairs. will henderson, who had on a light overcoat and no overshoes, kicked the heel of his left foot with the toe of the right. "snow will be good for the wheat," observed the druggist sagely. young george willard, who had nothing to do, was glad because he did not feel like working that day. the weekly paper had been printed and taken to the post office wednesday evening and the snow began to fall on thursday. at eight o'clock, after the morning train had passed, he put a pair of skates in his pocket and went up to waterworks pond but did not go skating. past the pond and along a path that followed wine creek he went until he came to a grove of beech trees. there he built a fire against the side of a log and sat down at the end of the log to think. when the snow began to fall and the wind to blow he hurried about getting fuel for the fire. the young reporter was thinking of kate swift, who had once been his school teacher. on the evening before he had gone to her house to get a book she wanted him to read and had been alone with her for an hour. for the fourth or fifth time the woman had talked to him with great earnestness and he could not make out what she meant by her talk. he began to believe she must be in love with him and the thought was both pleasing and annoying. up from the log he sprang and began to pile sticks on the fire. looking about to be sure he was alone he talked aloud pretending he was in the presence of the woman, "oh, you're just letting on, you know you are," he declared. "i am going to find out about you. you wait and see." the young man got up and went back along the path toward town leaving the fire blazing in the wood. as he went through the streets the skates clanked in his pocket. in his own room in the new willard house he built a fire in the stove and lay down on top of the bed. he began to have lustful thoughts and pulling down the shade of the window closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. he took a pillow into his arms and embraced it thinking first of the school teacher, who by her words had stirred something within him, and later of helen white, the slim daughter of the town banker, with whom he had been for a long time half in love. by nine o'clock of that evening snow lay deep in the streets and the weather had become bitter cold. it was difficult to walk about. the stores were dark and the people had crawled away to their houses. the evening train from cleveland was very late but nobody was interested in its arrival. by ten o'clock all but four of the eighteen hundred citizens of the town were in bed. hop higgins, the night watchman, was partially awake. he was lame and carried a heavy stick. on dark nights he carried a lantern. between nine and ten o'clock he went his rounds. up and down main street he stumbled through the drifts trying the doors of the stores. then he went into alleyways and tried the back doors. finding all tight he hurried around the corner to the new willard house and beat on the door. through the rest of the night he intended to stay by the stove. "you go to bed. i'll keep the stove going," he said to the boy who slept on a cot in the hotel office. hop higgins sat down by the stove and took off his shoes. when the boy had gone to sleep he began to think of his own affairs. he intended to paint his house in the spring and sat by the stove calculating the cost of paint and labor. that led him into other calculations. the night watchman was sixty years old and wanted to retire. he had been a soldier in the civil war and drew a small pension. he hoped to find some new method of making a living and aspired to become a professional breeder of ferrets. already he had four of the strangely shaped savage little creatures, that are used by sportsmen in the pursuit of rabbits, in the cellar of his house. "now i have one male and three females," he mused. "if i am lucky by spring i shall have twelve or fifteen. in another year i shall be able to begin advertising ferrets for sale in the sporting papers." the nightwatchman settled into his chair and his mind became a blank. he did not sleep. by years of practice he had trained himself to sit for hours through the long nights neither asleep nor awake. in the morning he was almost as refreshed as though he had slept. with hop higgins safely stowed away in the chair behind the stove only three people were awake in winesburg. george willard was in the office of the eagle pretending to be at work on the writing of a story but in reality continuing the mood of the morning by the fire in the wood. in the bell tower of the presbyterian church the reverend curtis hartman was sitting in the darkness preparing himself for a revelation from god, and kate swift, the school teacher, was leaving her house for a walk in the storm. it was past ten o'clock when kate swift set out and the walk was unpremeditated. it was as though the man and the boy, by thinking of her, had driven her forth into the wintry streets. aunt elizabeth swift had gone to the county seat concerning some business in connection with mortgages in which she had money invested and would not be back until the next day. by a huge stove, called a base burner, in the living room of the house sat the daughter reading a book. suddenly she sprang to her feet and, snatching a cloak from a rack by the front door, ran out of the house. at the age of thirty kate swift was not known in winesburg as a pretty woman. her complexion was not good and her face was covered with blotches that indicated ill health. alone in the night in the winter streets she was lovely. her back was straight, her shoulders square, and her features were as the features of a tiny goddess on a pedestal in a garden in the dim light of a summer evening. during the afternoon the school teacher had been to see doctor welling concerning her health. the doctor had scolded her and had declared she was in danger of losing her hearing. it was foolish for kate swift to be abroad in the storm, foolish and perhaps dangerous. the woman in the streets did not remember the words of the doctor and would not have turned back had she remembered. she was very cold but after walking for five minutes no longer minded the cold. first she went to the end of her own street and then across a pair of hay scales set in the ground before a feed barn and into trunion pike. along trunion pike she went to ned winters' barn and turning east followed a street of low frame houses that led over gospel hill and into sucker road that ran down a shallow valley past ike smead's chicken farm to waterworks pond. as she went along, the bold, excited mood that had driven her out of doors passed and then returned again. there was something biting and forbidding in the character of kate swift. everyone felt it. in the schoolroom she was silent, cold, and stern, and yet in an odd way very close to her pupils. once in a long while something seemed to have come over her and she was happy. all of the children in the schoolroom felt the effect of her happiness. for a time they did not work but sat back in their chairs and looked at her. with hands clasped behind her back the school teacher walked up and down in the schoolroom and talked very rapidly. it did not seem to matter what subject came into her mind. once she talked to the children of charles lamb and made up strange, intimate little stories concerning the life of the dead writer. the stories were told with the air of one who had lived in a house with charles lamb and knew all the secrets of his private life. the children were somewhat confused, thinking charles lamb must be someone who had once lived in winesburg. on another occasion the teacher talked to the children of benvenuto cellini. that time they laughed. what a bragging, blustering, brave, lovable fellow she made of the old artist! concerning him also she invented anecdotes. there was one of a german music teacher who had a room above cellini's lodgings in the city of milan that made the boys guffaw. sugars mcnutts, a fat boy with red cheeks, laughed so hard that he became dizzy and fell off his seat and kate swift laughed with him. then suddenly she became again cold and stern. on the winter night when she walked through the deserted snow-covered streets, a crisis had come into the life of the school teacher. although no one in winesburg would have suspected it, her life had been very adventurous. it was still adventurous. day by day as she worked in the schoolroom or walked in the streets, grief, hope, and desire fought within her. behind a cold exterior the most extraordinary events transpired in her mind. the people of the town thought of her as a confirmed old maid and because she spoke sharply and went her own way thought her lacking in all the human feeling that did so much to make and mar their own lives. in reality she was the most eagerly passionate soul among them, and more than once, in the five years since she had come back from her travels to settle in winesburg and become a school teacher, had been compelled to go out of the house and walk half through the night fighting out some battle raging within. once on a night when it rained she had stayed out six hours and when she came home had a quarrel with aunt elizabeth swift. "i am glad you're not a man," said the mother sharply. "more than once i've waited for your father to come home, not knowing what new mess he had got into. i've had my share of uncertainty and you cannot blame me if i do not want to see the worst side of him reproduced in you." * * * kate swift's mind was ablaze with thoughts of george willard. in something he had written as a school boy she thought she had recognized the spark of genius and wanted to blow on the spark. one day in the summer she had gone to the eagle office and finding the boy unoccupied had taken him out main street to the fair ground, where the two sat on a grassy bank and talked. the school teacher tried to bring home to the mind of the boy some conception of the difficulties he would have to face as a writer. "you will have to know life," she declared, and her voice trembled with earnestness. she took hold of george willard's shoulders and turned him about so that she could look into his eyes. a passer-by might have thought them about to embrace. "if you are to become a writer you'll have to stop fooling with words," she explained. "it would be better to give up the notion of writing until you are better prepared. now it's time to be living. i don't want to frighten you, but i would like to make you understand the import of what you think of attempting. you must not become a mere peddler of words. the thing to learn is to know what people are thinking about, not what they say." on the evening before that stormy thursday night when the reverend curtis hartman sat in the bell tower of the church waiting to look at her body, young willard had gone to visit the teacher and to borrow a book. it was then the thing happened that confused and puzzled the boy. he had the book under his arm and was preparing to depart. again kate swift talked with great earnestness. night was coming on and the light in the room grew dim. as he turned to go she spoke his name softly and with an impulsive movement took hold of his hand. because the reporter was rapidly becoming a man something of his man's appeal, combined with the winsomeness of the boy, stirred the heart of the lonely woman. a passionate desire to have him understand the import of life, to learn to interpret it truly and honestly, swept over her. leaning forward, her lips brushed his cheek. at the same moment he for the first time became aware of the marked beauty of her features. they were both embarrassed, and to relieve her feeling she became harsh and domineering. "what's the use? it will be ten years before you begin to understand what i mean when i talk to you," she cried passionately. * * * on the night of the storm and while the minister sat in the church waiting for her, kate swift went to the office of the winesburg eagle, intending to have another talk with the boy. after the long walk in the snow she was cold, lonely, and tired. as she came through main street she saw the light from the printshop window shining on the snow and on an impulse opened the door and went in. for an hour she sat by the stove in the office talking of life. she talked with passionate earnestness. the impulse that had driven her out into the snow poured itself out into talk. she became inspired as she sometimes did in the presence of the children in school. a great eagerness to open the door of life to the boy, who had been her pupil and who she thought might possess a talent for the understanding of life, had possession of her. so strong was her passion that it became something physical. again her hands took hold of his shoulders and she turned him about. in the dim light her eyes blazed. she arose and laughed, not sharply as was customary with her, but in a queer, hesitating way. "i must be going," she said. "in a moment, if i stay, i'll be wanting to kiss you." in the newspaper office a confusion arose. kate swift turned and walked to the door. she was a teacher but she was also a woman. as she looked at george willard, the passionate desire to be loved by a man, that had a thousand times before swept like a storm over her body, took possession of her. in the lamplight george willard looked no longer a boy, but a man ready to play the part of a man. the school teacher let george willard take her into his arms. in the warm little office the air became suddenly heavy and the strength went out of her body. leaning against a low counter by the door she waited. when he came and put a hand on her shoulder she turned and let her body fall heavily against him. for george willard the confusion was immediately increased. for a moment he held the body of the woman tightly against his body and then it stiffened. two sharp little fists began to beat on his face. when the school teacher had run away and left him alone, he walked up and down the office swearing furiously. it was into this confusion that the reverend curtis hartman protruded himself. when he came in george willard thought the town had gone mad. shaking a bleeding fist in the air, the minister proclaimed the woman george had only a moment before held in his arms an instrument of god bearing a message of truth. * * * george blew out the lamp by the window and locking the door of the printshop went home. through the hotel office, past hop higgins lost in his dream of the raising of ferrets, he went and up into his own room. the fire in the stove had gone out and he undressed in the cold. when he got into bed the sheets were like blankets of dry snow. george willard rolled about in the bed on which he had lain in the afternoon hugging the pillow and thinking thoughts of kate swift. the words of the minister, who he thought had gone suddenly insane, rang in his ears. his eyes stared about the room. the resentment, natural to the baffled male, passed and he tried to understand what had happened. he could not make it out. over and over he turned the matter in his mind. hours passed and he began to think it must be time for another day to come. at four o'clock he pulled the covers up about his neck and tried to sleep. when he became drowsy and closed his eyes, he raised a hand and with it groped about in the darkness. "i have missed something. i have missed something kate swift was trying to tell me," he muttered sleepily. then he slept and in all winesburg he was the last soul on that winter night to go to sleep. loneliness he was the son of mrs. al robinson who once owned a farm on a side road leading off trunion pike, east of winesburg and two miles beyond the town limits. the farmhouse was painted brown and the blinds to all of the windows facing the road were kept closed. in the road before the house a flock of chickens, accompanied by two guinea hens, lay in the deep dust. enoch lived in the house with his mother in those days and when he was a young boy went to school at the winesburg high school. old citizens remembered him as a quiet, smiling youth inclined to silence. he walked in the middle of the road when he came into town and sometimes read a book. drivers of teams had to shout and swear to make him realize where he was so that he would turn out of the beaten track and let them pass. when he was twenty-one years old enoch went to new york city and was a city man for fifteen years. he studied french and went to an art school, hoping to develop a faculty he had for drawing. in his own mind he planned to go to paris and to finish his art education among the masters there, but that never turned out. nothing ever turned out for enoch robinson. he could draw well enough and he had many odd delicate thoughts hidden away in his brain that might have expressed themselves through the brush of a painter, but he was always a child and that was a handicap to his worldly development. he never grew up and of course he couldn't understand people and he couldn't make people understand him. the child in him kept bumping against things, against actualities like money and sex and opinions. once he was hit by a street car and thrown against an iron post. that made him lame. it was one of the many things that kept things from turning out for enoch robinson. in new york city, when he first went there to live and before he became confused and disconcerted by the facts of life, enoch went about a good deal with young men. he got into a group of other young artists, both men and women, and in the evenings they sometimes came to visit him in his room. once he got drunk and was taken to a police station where a police magistrate frightened him horribly, and once he tried to have an affair with a woman of the town met on the sidewalk before his lodging house. the woman and enoch walked together three blocks and then the young man grew afraid and ran away. the woman had been drinking and the incident amused her. she leaned against the wall of a building and laughed so heartily that another man stopped and laughed with her. the two went away together, still laughing, and enoch crept off to his room trembling and vexed. the room in which young robinson lived in new york faced washington square and was long and narrow like a hallway. it is important to get that fixed in your mind. the story of enoch is in fact the story of a room almost more than it is the story of a man. and so into the room in the evening came young enoch's friends. there was nothing particularly striking about them except that they were artists of the kind that talk. everyone knows of the talking artists. throughout all of the known history of the world they have gathered in rooms and talked. they talk of art and are passionately, almost feverishly, in earnest about it. they think it matters much more than it does. and so these people gathered and smoked cigarettes and talked and enoch robinson, the boy from the farm near winesburg, was there. he stayed in a corner and for the most part said nothing. how his big blue childlike eyes stared about! on the walls were pictures he had made, crude things, half finished. his friends talked of these. leaning back in their chairs, they talked and talked with their heads rocking from side to side. words were said about line and values and composition, lots of words, such as are always being said. enoch wanted to talk too but he didn't know how. he was too excited to talk coherently. when he tried he sputtered and stammered and his voice sounded strange and squeaky to him. that made him stop talking. he knew what he wanted to say, but he knew also that he could never by any possibility say it. when a picture he had painted was under discussion, he wanted to burst out with something like this: "you don't get the point," he wanted to explain; "the picture you see doesn't consist of the things you see and say words about. there is something else, something you don't see at all, something you aren't intended to see. look at this one over here, by the door here, where the light from the window falls on it. the dark spot by the road that you might not notice at all is, you see, the beginning of everything. there is a clump of elders there such as used to grow beside the road before our house back in winesburg, ohio, and in among the elders there is something hidden. it is a woman, that's what it is. she has been thrown from a horse and the horse has run away out of sight. do you not see how the old man who drives a cart looks anxiously about? that is thad grayback who has a farm up the road. he is taking corn to winesburg to be ground into meal at comstock's mill. he knows there is something in the elders, something hidden away, and yet he doesn't quite know. "it's a woman you see, that's what it is! it's a woman and, oh, she is lovely! she is hurt and is suffering but she makes no sound. don't you see how it is? she lies quite still, white and still, and the beauty comes out from her and spreads over everything. it is in the sky back there and all around everywhere. i didn't try to paint the woman, of course. she is too beautiful to be painted. how dull to talk of composition and such things! why do you not look at the sky and then run away as i used to do when i was a boy back there in winesburg, ohio?" that is the kind of thing young enoch robinson trembled to say to the guests who came into his room when he was a young fellow in new york city, but he always ended by saying nothing. then he began to doubt his own mind. he was afraid the things he felt were not getting expressed in the pictures he painted. in a half indignant mood he stopped inviting people into his room and presently got into the habit of locking the door. he began to think that enough people had visited him, that he did not need people any more. with quick imagination he began to invent his own people to whom he could really talk and to whom he explained the things he had been unable to explain to living people. his room began to be inhabited by the spirits of men and women among whom he went, in his turn saying words. it was as though everyone enoch robinson had ever seen had left with him some essence of himself, something he could mould and change to suit his own fancy, something that understood all about such things as the wounded woman behind the elders in the pictures. the mild, blue-eyed young ohio boy was a complete egotist, as all children are egotists. he did not want friends for the quite simple reason that no child wants friends. he wanted most of all the people of his own mind, people with whom he could really talk, people he could harangue and scold by the hour, servants, you see, to his fancy. among these people he was always self-confident and bold. they might talk, to be sure, and even have opinions of their own, but always he talked last and best. he was like a writer busy among the figures of his brain, a kind of tiny blue-eyed king he was, in a six-dollar room facing washington square in the city of new york. then enoch robinson got married. he began to get lonely and to want to touch actual flesh-and-bone people with his hands. days passed when his room seemed empty. lust visited his body and desire grew in his mind. at night strange fevers, burning within, kept him awake. he married a girl who sat in a chair next to his own in the art school and went to live in an apartment house in brooklyn. two children were born to the woman he married, and enoch got a job in a place where illustrations are made for advertisements. that began another phase of enoch's life. he began to play at a new game. for a while he was very proud of himself in the role of producing citizen of the world. he dismissed the essence of things and played with realities. in the fall he voted at an election and he had a newspaper thrown on his porch each morning. when in the evening he came home from work he got off a streetcar and walked sedately along behind some business man, striving to look very substantial and important. as a payer of taxes he thought he should post himself on how things are run. "i'm getting to be of some moment, a real part of things, of the state and the city and all that," he told himself with an amusing miniature air of dignity. once, coming home from philadelphia, he had a discussion with a man met on a train. enoch talked about the advisability of the government's owning and operating the railroads and the man gave him a cigar. it was enoch's notion that such a move on the part of the government would be a good thing, and he grew quite excited as he talked. later he remembered his own words with pleasure. "i gave him something to think about, that fellow," he muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs to his brooklyn apartment. to be sure, enoch's marriage did not turn out. he himself brought it to an end. he began to feel choked and walled in by the life in the apartment, and to feel toward his wife and even toward his children as he had felt concerning the friends who once came to visit him. he began to tell little lies about business engagements that would give him freedom to walk alone in the street at night and, the chance offering, he secretly re-rented the room facing washington square. then mrs. al robinson died on the farm near winesburg, and he got eight thousand dollars from the bank that acted as trustee of her estate. that took enoch out of the world of men altogether. he gave the money to his wife and told her he could not live in the apartment any more. she cried and was angry and threatened, but he only stared at her and went his own way. in reality the wife did not care much. she thought enoch slightly insane and was a little afraid of him. when it was quite sure that he would never come back, she took the two children and went to a village in connecticut where she had lived as a girl. in the end she married a man who bought and sold real estate and was contented enough. and so enoch robinson stayed in the new york room among the people of his fancy, playing with them, talking to them, happy as a child is happy. they were an odd lot, enoch's people. they were made, i suppose, out of real people he had seen and who had for some obscure reason made an appeal to him. there was a woman with a sword in her hand, an old man with a long white beard who went about followed by a dog, a young girl whose stockings were always coming down and hanging over her shoe tops. there must have been two dozen of the shadow people, invented by the child-mind of enoch robinson, who lived in the room with him. and enoch was happy. into the room he went and locked the door. with an absurd air of importance he talked aloud, giving instructions, making comments on life. he was happy and satisfied to go on making his living in the advertising place until something happened. of course something did happen. that is why he went back to live in winesburg and why we know about him. the thing that happened was a woman. it would be that way. he was too happy. something had to come into his world. something had to drive him out of the new york room to live out his life an obscure, jerky little figure, bobbing up and down on the streets of an ohio town at evening when the sun was going down behind the roof of wesley moyer's livery barn. about the thing that happened. enoch told george willard about it one night. he wanted to talk to someone, and he chose the young newspaper reporter because the two happened to be thrown together at a time when the younger man was in a mood to understand. youthful sadness, young man's sadness, the sadness of a growing boy in a village at the year's end, opened the lips of the old man. the sadness was in the heart of george willard and was without meaning, but it appealed to enoch robinson. it rained on the evening when the two met and talked, a drizzly wet october rain. the fruition of the year had come and the night should have been fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp promise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way. it rained and little puddles of water shone under the street lamps on main street. in the woods in the darkness beyond the fair ground water dripped from the black trees. beneath the trees wet leaves were pasted against tree roots that protruded from the ground. in gardens back of houses in winesburg dry shriveled potato vines lay sprawling on the ground. men who had finished the evening meal and who had planned to go uptown to talk the evening away with other men at the back of some store changed their minds. george willard tramped about in the rain and was glad that it rained. he felt that way. he was like enoch robinson on the evenings when the old man came down out of his room and wandered alone in the streets. he was like that only that george willard had become a tall young man and did not think it manly to weep and carry on. for a month his mother had been very ill and that had something to do with his sadness, but not much. he thought about himself and to the young that always brings sadness. enoch robinson and george willard met beneath a wooden awning that extended out over the sidewalk before voight's wagon shop on maumee street just off the main street of winesburg. they went together from there through the rain-washed streets to the older man's room on the third floor of the heffner block. the young reporter went willingly enough. enoch robinson asked him to go after the two had talked for ten minutes. the boy was a little afraid but had never been more curious in his life. a hundred times he had heard the old man spoken of as a little off his head and he thought himself rather brave and manly to go at all. from the very beginning, in the street in the rain, the old man talked in a queer way, trying to tell the story of the room in washington square and of his life in the room. "you'll understand if you try hard enough," he said conclusively. "i have looked at you when you went past me on the street and i think you can understand. it isn't hard. all you have to do is to believe what i say, just listen and believe, that's all there is to it." it was past eleven o'clock that evening when old enoch, talking to george willard in the room in the heffner block, came to the vital thing, the story of the woman and of what drove him out of the city to live out his life alone and defeated in winesburg. he sat on a cot by the window with his head in his hand and george willard was in a chair by a table. a kerosene lamp sat on the table and the room, although almost bare of furniture, was scrupulously clean. as the man talked george willard began to feel that he would like to get out of the chair and sit on the cot also. he wanted to put his arms about the little old man. in the half darkness the man talked and the boy listened, filled with sadness. "she got to coming in there after there hadn't been anyone in the room for years," said enoch robinson. "she saw me in the hallway of the house and we got acquainted. i don't know just what she did in her own room. i never went there. i think she was a musician and played a violin. every now and then she came and knocked at the door and i opened it. in she came and sat down beside me, just sat and looked about and said nothing. anyway, she said nothing that mattered." the old man arose from the cot and moved about the room. the overcoat he wore was wet from the rain and drops of water kept falling with a soft thump on the floor. when he again sat upon the cot george willard got out of the chair and sat beside him. "i had a feeling about her. she sat there in the room with me and she was too big for the room. i felt that she was driving everything else away. we just talked of little things, but i couldn't sit still. i wanted to touch her with my fingers and to kiss her. her hands were so strong and her face was so good and she looked at me all the time." the trembling voice of the old man became silent and his body shook as from a chill. "i was afraid," he whispered. "i was terribly afraid. i didn't want to let her come in when she knocked at the door but i couldn't sit still. 'no, no,' i said to myself, but i got up and opened the door just the same. she was so grown up, you see. she was a woman. i thought she would be bigger than i was there in that room." enoch robinson stared at george willard, his childlike blue eyes shining in the lamplight. again he shivered. "i wanted her and all the time i didn't want her," he explained. "then i began to tell her about my people, about everything that meant anything to me. i tried to keep quiet, to keep myself to myself, but i couldn't. i felt just as i did about opening the door. sometimes i ached to have her go away and never come back any more." the old man sprang to his feet and his voice shook with excitement. "one night something happened. i became mad to make her understand me and to know what a big thing i was in that room. i wanted her to see how important i was. i told her over and over. when she tried to go away, i ran and locked the door. i followed her about. i talked and talked and then all of a sudden things went to smash. a look came into her eyes and i knew she did understand. maybe she had understood all the time. i was furious. i couldn't stand it. i wanted her to understand but, don't you see, i couldn't let her understand. i felt that then she would know everything, that i would be submerged, drowned out, you see. that's how it is. i don't know why." the old man dropped into a chair by the lamp and the boy listened, filled with awe. "go away, boy," said the man. "don't stay here with me any more. i thought it might be a good thing to tell you but it isn't. i don't want to talk any more. go away." george willard shook his head and a note of command came into his voice. "don't stop now. tell me the rest of it," he commanded sharply. "what happened? tell me the rest of the story." enoch robinson sprang to his feet and ran to the window that looked down into the deserted main street of winesburg. george willard followed. by the window the two stood, the tall awkward boy-man and the little wrinkled man-boy. the childish, eager voice carried forward the tale. "i swore at her," he explained. "i said vile words. i ordered her to go away and not to come back. oh, i said terrible things. at first she pretended not to understand but i kept at it. i screamed and stamped on the floor. i made the house ring with my curses. i didn't want ever to see her again and i knew, after some of the things i said, that i never would see her again." the old man's voice broke and he shook his head. "things went to smash," he said quietly and sadly. "out she went through the door and all the life there had been in the room followed her out. she took all of my people away. they all went out through the door after her. that's the way it was." george willard turned and went out of enoch robinson's room. in the darkness by the window, as he went through the door, he could hear the thin old voice whimpering and complaining. "i'm alone, all alone here," said the voice. "it was warm and friendly in my room but now i'm all alone." an awakening belle carpenter had a dark skin, grey eyes, and thick lips. she was tall and strong. when black thoughts visited her she grew angry and wished she were a man and could fight someone with her fists. she worked in the millinery shop kept by mrs. kate mchugh and during the day sat trimming hats by a window at the rear of the store. she was the daughter of henry carpenter, bookkeeper in the first national bank of winesburg, and lived with him in a gloomy old house far out at the end of buckeye street. the house was surrounded by pine trees and there was no grass beneath the trees. a rusty tin eaves-trough had slipped from its fastenings at the back of the house and when the wind blew it beat against the roof of a small shed, making a dismal drumming noise that sometimes persisted all through the night. when she was a young girl henry carpenter made life almost unbearable for belle, but as she emerged from girlhood into womanhood he lost his power over her. the bookkeeper's life was made up of innumerable little pettinesses. when he went to the bank in the morning he stepped into a closet and put on a black alpaca coat that had become shabby with age. at night when he returned to his home he donned another black alpaca coat. every evening he pressed the clothes worn in the streets. he had invented an arrangement of boards for the purpose. the trousers to his street suit were placed between the boards and the boards were clamped together with heavy screws. in the morning he wiped the boards with a damp cloth and stood them upright behind the dining room door. if they were moved during the day he was speechless with anger and did not recover his equilibrium for a week. the bank cashier was a little bully and was afraid of his daughter. she, he realized, knew the story of his brutal treatment of her mother and hated him for it. one day she went home at noon and carried a handful of soft mud, taken from the road, into the house. with the mud she smeared the face of the boards used for the pressing of trousers and then went back to her work feeling relieved and happy. belle carpenter occasionally walked out in the evening with george willard. secretly she loved another man, but her love affair, about which no one knew, caused her much anxiety. she was in love with ed handby, bartender in ed griffith's saloon, and went about with the young reporter as a kind of relief to her feelings. she did not think that her station in life would permit her to be seen in the company of the bartender and walked about under the trees with george willard and let him kiss her to relieve a longing that was very insistent in her nature. she felt that she could keep the younger man within bounds. about ed handby she was somewhat uncertain. handby, the bartender, was a tall, broad-shouldered man of thirty who lived in a room upstairs above griffith's saloon. his fists were large and his eyes unusually small, but his voice, as though striving to conceal the power back of his fists, was soft and quiet. at twenty-five the bartender had inherited a large farm from an uncle in indiana. when sold, the farm brought in eight thousand dollars, which ed spent in six months. going to sandusky, on lake erie, he began an orgy of dissipation, the story of which afterward filled his home town with awe. here and there he went throwing the money about, driving carriages through the streets, giving wine parties to crowds of men and women, playing cards for high stakes and keeping mistresses whose wardrobes cost him hundreds of dollars. one night at a resort called cedar point, he got into a fight and ran amuck like a wild thing. with his fist he broke a large mirror in the wash room of a hotel and later went about smashing windows and breaking chairs in dance halls for the joy of hearing the glass rattle on the floor and seeing the terror in the eyes of clerks who had come from sandusky to spend the evening at the resort with their sweethearts. the affair between ed handby and belle carpenter on the surface amounted to nothing. he had succeeded in spending but one evening in her company. on that evening he hired a horse and buggy at wesley moyer's livery barn and took her for a drive. the conviction that she was the woman his nature demanded and that he must get her settled upon him and he told her of his desires. the bartender was ready to marry and to begin trying to earn money for the support of his wife, but so simple was his nature that he found it difficult to explain his intentions. his body ached with physical longing and with his body he expressed himself. taking the milliner into his arms and holding her tightly in spite of her struggles, he kissed her until she became helpless. then he brought her back to town and let her out of the buggy. "when i get hold of you again i'll not let you go. you can't play with me," he declared as he turned to drive away. then, jumping out of the buggy, he gripped her shoulders with his strong hands. "i'll keep you for good the next time," he said. "you might as well make up your mind to that. it's you and me for it and i'm going to have you before i get through." one night in january when there was a new moon george willard, who was in ed handby's mind the only obstacle to his getting belle carpenter, went for a walk. early that evening george went into ransom surbeck's pool room with seth richmond and art wilson, son of the town butcher. seth richmond stood with his back against the wall and remained silent, but george willard talked. the pool room was filled with winesburg boys and they talked of women. the young reporter got into that vein. he said that women should look out for themselves, that the fellow who went out with a girl was not responsible for what happened. as he talked he looked about, eager for attention. he held the floor for five minutes and then art wilson began to talk. art was learning the barber's trade in cal prouse's shop and already began to consider himself an authority in such matters as baseball, horse racing, drinking, and going about with women. he began to tell of a night when he with two men from winesburg went into a house of prostitution at the county seat. the butcher's son held a cigar in the side of his mouth and as he talked spat on the floor. "the women in the place couldn't embarrass me although they tried hard enough," he boasted. "one of the girls in the house tried to get fresh, but i fooled her. as soon as she began to talk i went and sat in her lap. everyone in the room laughed when i kissed her. i taught her to let me alone." george willard went out of the pool room and into main street. for days the weather had been bitter cold with a high wind blowing down on the town from lake erie, eighteen miles to the north, but on that night the wind had died away and a new moon made the night unusually lovely. without thinking where he was going or what he wanted to do, george went out of main street and began walking in dimly lighted streets filled with frame houses. out of doors under the black sky filled with stars he forgot his companions of the pool room. because it was dark and he was alone he began to talk aloud. in a spirit of play he reeled along the street imitating a drunken man and then imagined himself a soldier clad in shining boots that reached to the knees and wearing a sword that jingled as he walked. as a soldier he pictured himself as an inspector, passing before a long line of men who stood at attention. he began to examine the accoutrements of the men. before a tree he stopped and began to scold. "your pack is not in order," he said sharply. "how many times will i have to speak of this matter? everything must be in order here. we have a difficult task before us and no difficult task can be done without order." hypnotized by his own words, the young man stumbled along the board sidewalk saying more words. "there is a law for armies and for men too," he muttered, lost in reflection. "the law begins with little things and spreads out until it covers everything. in every little thing there must be order, in the place where men work, in their clothes, in their thoughts. i myself must be orderly. i must learn that law. i must get myself into touch with something orderly and big that swings through the night like a star. in my little way i must begin to learn something, to give and swing and work with life, with the law." george willard stopped by a picket fence near a street lamp and his body began to tremble. he had never before thought such thoughts as had just come into his head and he wondered where they had come from. for the moment it seemed to him that some voice outside of himself had been talking as he walked. he was amazed and delighted with his own mind and when he walked on again spoke of the matter with fervor. "to come out of ransom surbeck's pool room and think things like that," he whispered. "it is better to be alone. if i talked like art wilson the boys would understand me but they wouldn't understand what i've been thinking down here." in winesburg, as in all ohio towns of twenty years ago, there was a section in which lived day laborers. as the time of factories had not yet come, the laborers worked in the fields or were section hands on the railroads. they worked twelve hours a day and received one dollar for the long day of toil. the houses in which they lived were small cheaply constructed wooden affairs with a garden at the back. the more comfortable among them kept cows and perhaps a pig, housed in a little shed at the rear of the garden. with his head filled with resounding thoughts, george willard walked into such a street on the clear january night. the street was dimly lighted and in places there was no sidewalk. in the scene that lay about him there was something that excited his already aroused fancy. for a year he had been devoting all of his odd moments to the reading of books and now some tale he had read concerning life in old world towns of the middle ages came sharply back to his mind so that he stumbled forward with the curious feeling of one revisiting a place that had been a part of some former existence. on an impulse he turned out of the street and went into a little dark alleyway behind the sheds in which lived the cows and pigs. for a half hour he stayed in the alleyway, smelling the strong smell of animals too closely housed and letting his mind play with the strange new thoughts that came to him. the very rankness of the smell of manure in the clear sweet air awoke something heady in his brain. the poor little houses lighted by kerosene lamps, the smoke from the chimneys mounting straight up into the clear air, the grunting of pigs, the women clad in cheap calico dresses and washing dishes in the kitchens, the footsteps of men coming out of the houses and going off to the stores and saloons of main street, the dogs barking and the children crying--all of these things made him seem, as he lurked in the darkness, oddly detached and apart from all life. the excited young man, unable to bear the weight of his own thoughts, began to move cautiously along the alleyway. a dog attacked him and had to be driven away with stones, and a man appeared at the door of one of the houses and swore at the dog. george went into a vacant lot and throwing back his head looked up at the sky. he felt unutterably big and remade by the simple experience through which he had been passing and in a kind of fervor of emotion put up his hands, thrusting them into the darkness above his head and muttering words. the desire to say words overcame him and he said words without meaning, rolling them over on his tongue and saying them because they were brave words, full of meaning. "death," he muttered, "night, the sea, fear, loveliness." george willard came out of the vacant lot and stood again on the sidewalk facing the houses. he felt that all of the people in the little street must be brothers and sisters to him and he wished he had the courage to call them out of their houses and to shake their hands. "if there were only a woman here i would take hold of her hand and we would run until we were both tired out," he thought. "that would make me feel better." with the thought of a woman in his mind he walked out of the street and went toward the house where belle carpenter lived. he thought she would understand his mood and that he could achieve in her presence a position he had long been wanting to achieve. in the past when he had been with her and had kissed her lips he had come away filled with anger at himself. he had felt like one being used for some obscure purpose and had not enjoyed the feeling. now he thought he had suddenly become too big to be used. when george got to belle carpenter's house there had already been a visitor there before him. ed handby had come to the door and calling belle out of the house had tried to talk to her. he had wanted to ask the woman to come away with him and to be his wife, but when she came and stood by the door he lost his self-assurance and became sullen. "you stay away from that kid," he growled, thinking of george willard, and then, not knowing what else to say, turned to go away. "if i catch you together i will break your bones and his too," he added. the bartender had come to woo, not to threaten, and was angry with himself because of his failure. when her lover had departed belle went indoors and ran hurriedly upstairs. from a window at the upper part of the house she saw ed handby cross the street and sit down on a horse block before the house of a neighbor. in the dim light the man sat motionless holding his head in his hands. she was made happy by the sight, and when george willard came to the door she greeted him effusively and hurriedly put on her hat. she thought that, as she walked through the streets with young willard, ed handby would follow and she wanted to make him suffer. for an hour belle carpenter and the young reporter walked about under the trees in the sweet night air. george willard was full of big words. the sense of power that had come to him during the hour in the darkness in the alleyway remained with him and he talked boldly, swaggering along and swinging his arms about. he wanted to make belle carpenter realize that he was aware of his former weakness and that he had changed. "you'll find me different," he declared, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking boldly into her eyes. "i don't know why but it is so. you've got to take me for a man or let me alone. that's how it is." up and down the quiet streets under the new moon went the woman and the boy. when george had finished talking they turned down a side street and went across a bridge into a path that ran up the side of a hill. the hill began at waterworks pond and climbed upward to the winesburg fair grounds. on the hillside grew dense bushes and small trees and among the bushes were little open spaces carpeted with long grass, now stiff and frozen. as he walked behind the woman up the hill george willard's heart began to beat rapidly and his shoulders straightened. suddenly he decided that belle carpenter was about to surrender herself to him. the new force that had manifested itself in him had, he felt, been at work upon her and had led to her conquest. the thought made him half drunk with the sense of masculine power. although he had been annoyed that as they walked about she had not seemed to be listening to his words, the fact that she had accompanied him to this place took all his doubts away. "it is different. everything has become different," he thought and taking hold of her shoulder turned her about and stood looking at her, his eyes shining with pride. belle carpenter did not resist. when he kissed her upon the lips she leaned heavily against him and looked over his shoulder into the darkness. in her whole attitude there was a suggestion of waiting. again, as in the alleyway, george willard's mind ran off into words and, holding the woman tightly he whispered the words into the still night. "lust," he whispered, "lust and night and women." george willard did not understand what happened to him that night on the hillside. later, when he got to his own room, he wanted to weep and then grew half insane with anger and hate. he hated belle carpenter and was sure that all his life he would continue to hate her. on the hillside he had led the woman to one of the little open spaces among the bushes and had dropped to his knees beside her. as in the vacant lot, by the laborers' houses, he had put up his hands in gratitude for the new power in himself and was waiting for the woman to speak when ed handby appeared. the bartender did not want to beat the boy, who he thought had tried to take his woman away. he knew that beating was unnecessary, that he had power within himself to accomplish his purpose without using his fists. gripping george by the shoulder and pulling him to his feet, he held him with one hand while he looked at belle carpenter seated on the grass. then with a quick wide movement of his arm he sent the younger man sprawling away into the bushes and began to bully the woman, who had risen to her feet. "you're no good," he said roughly. "i've half a mind not to bother with you. i'd let you alone if i didn't want you so much." on his hands and knees in the bushes george willard stared at the scene before him and tried hard to think. he prepared to spring at the man who had humiliated him. to be beaten seemed to be infinitely better than to be thus hurled ignominiously aside. three times the young reporter sprang at ed handby and each time the bartender, catching him by the shoulder, hurled him back into the bushes. the older man seemed prepared to keep the exercise going indefinitely but george willard's head struck the root of a tree and he lay still. then ed handby took belle carpenter by the arm and marched her away. george heard the man and woman making their way through the bushes. as he crept down the hillside his heart was sick within him. he hated himself and he hated the fate that had brought about his humiliation. when his mind went back to the hour alone in the alleyway he was puzzled and stopping in the darkness listened, hoping to hear again the voice outside himself that had so short a time before put new courage into his heart. when his way homeward led him again into the street of frame houses he could not bear the sight and began to run, wanting to get quickly out of the neighborhood that now seemed to him utterly squalid and commonplace. "queer" from his seat on a box in the rough board shed that stuck like a burr on the rear of cowley & son's store in winesburg, elmer cowley, the junior member of the firm, could see through a dirty window into the printshop of the winesburg eagle. elmer was putting new shoelaces in his shoes. they did not go in readily and he had to take the shoes off. with the shoes in his hand he sat looking at a large hole in the heel of one of his stockings. then looking quickly up he saw george willard, the only newspaper reporter in winesburg, standing at the back door of the eagle printshop and staring absentmindedly about. "well, well, what next!" exclaimed the young man with the shoes in his hand, jumping to his feet and creeping away from the window. a flush crept into elmer cowley's face and his hands began to tremble. in cowley & son's store a jewish traveling salesman stood by the counter talking to his father. he imagined the reporter could hear what was being said and the thought made him furious. with one of the shoes still held in his hand he stood in a corner of the shed and stamped with a stockinged foot upon the board floor. cowley & son's store did not face the main street of winesburg. the front was on maumee street and beyond it was voight's wagon shop and a shed for the sheltering of farmers' horses. beside the store an alleyway ran behind the main street stores and all day drays and delivery wagons, intent on bringing in and taking out goods, passed up and down. the store itself was indescribable. will henderson once said of it that it sold everything and nothing. in the window facing maumee street stood a chunk of coal as large as an apple barrel, to indicate that orders for coal were taken, and beside the black mass of the coal stood three combs of honey grown brown and dirty in their wooden frames. the honey had stood in the store window for six months. it was for sale as were also the coat hangers, patent suspender buttons, cans of roof paint, bottles of rheumatism cure, and a substitute for coffee that companioned the honey in its patient willingness to serve the public. ebenezer cowley, the man who stood in the store listening to the eager patter of words that fell from the lips of the traveling man, was tall and lean and looked unwashed. on his scrawny neck was a large wen partially covered by a grey beard. he wore a long prince albert coat. the coat had been purchased to serve as a wedding garment. before he became a merchant ebenezer was a farmer and after his marriage he wore the prince albert coat to church on sundays and on saturday afternoons when he came into town to trade. when he sold the farm to become a merchant he wore the coat constantly. it had become brown with age and was covered with grease spots, but in it ebenezer always felt dressed up and ready for the day in town. as a merchant ebenezer was not happily placed in life and he had not been happily placed as a farmer. still he existed. his family, consisting of a daughter named mabel and the son, lived with him in rooms above the store and it did not cost them much to live. his troubles were not financial. his unhappiness as a merchant lay in the fact that when a traveling man with wares to be sold came in at the front door he was afraid. behind the counter he stood shaking his head. he was afraid, first that he would stubbornly refuse to buy and thus lose the opportunity to sell again; second that he would not be stubborn enough and would in a moment of weakness buy what could not be sold. in the store on the morning when elmer cowley saw george willard standing and apparently listening at the back door of the eagle printshop, a situation had arisen that always stirred the son's wrath. the traveling man talked and ebenezer listened, his whole figure expressing uncertainty. "you see how quickly it is done," said the traveling man, who had for sale a small flat metal substitute for collar buttons. with one hand he quickly unfastened a collar from his shirt and then fastened it on again. he assumed a flattering wheedling tone. "i tell you what, men have come to the end of all this fooling with collar buttons and you are the man to make money out of the change that is coming. i am offering you the exclusive agency for this town. take twenty dozen of these fasteners and i'll not visit any other store. i'll leave the field to you." the traveling man leaned over the counter and tapped with his finger on ebenezer's breast. "it's an opportunity and i want you to take it," he urged. "a friend of mine told me about you. 'see that man cowley,' he said. 'he's a live one.'" the traveling man paused and waited. taking a book from his pocket he began writing out the order. still holding the shoe in his hand elmer cowley went through the store, past the two absorbed men, to a glass showcase near the front door. he took a cheap revolver from the case and began to wave it about. "you get out of here!" he shrieked. "we don't want any collar fasteners here." an idea came to him. "mind, i'm not making any threat," he added. "i don't say i'll shoot. maybe i just took this gun out of the case to look at it. but you better get out. yes sir, i'll say that. you better grab up your things and get out." the young storekeeper's voice rose to a scream and going behind the counter he began to advance upon the two men. "we're through being fools here!" he cried. "we ain't going to buy any more stuff until we begin to sell. we ain't going to keep on being queer and have folks staring and listening. you get out of here!" the traveling man left. raking the samples of collar fasteners off the counter into a black leather bag, he ran. he was a small man and very bow-legged and he ran awkwardly. the black bag caught against the door and he stumbled and fell. "crazy, that's what he is--crazy!" he sputtered as he arose from the sidewalk and hurried away. in the store elmer cowley and his father stared at each other. now that the immediate object of his wrath had fled, the younger man was embarrassed. "well, i meant it. i think we've been queer long enough," he declared, going to the showcase and replacing the revolver. sitting on a barrel he pulled on and fastened the shoe he had been holding in his hand. he was waiting for some word of understanding from his father but when ebenezer spoke his words only served to reawaken the wrath in the son and the young man ran out of the store without replying. scratching his grey beard with his long dirty fingers, the merchant looked at his son with the same wavering uncertain stare with which he had confronted the traveling man. "i'll be starched," he said softly. "well, well, i'll be washed and ironed and starched!" elmer cowley went out of winesburg and along a country road that paralleled the railroad track. he did not know where he was going or what he was going to do. in the shelter of a deep cut where the road, after turning sharply to the right, dipped under the tracks he stopped and the passion that had been the cause of his outburst in the store began to again find expression. "i will not be queer--one to be looked at and listened to," he declared aloud. "i'll be like other people. i'll show that george willard. he'll find out. i'll show him!" the distraught young man stood in the middle of the road and glared back at the town. he did not know the reporter george willard and had no special feeling concerning the tall boy who ran about town gathering the town news. the reporter had merely come, by his presence in the office and in the printshop of the winesburg eagle, to stand for something in the young merchant's mind. he thought the boy who passed and repassed cowley & son's store and who stopped to talk to people in the street must be thinking of him and perhaps laughing at him. george willard, he felt, belonged to the town, typified the town, represented in his person the spirit of the town. elmer cowley could not have believed that george willard had also his days of unhappiness, that vague hungers and secret unnamable desires visited also his mind. did he not represent public opinion and had not the public opinion of winesburg condemned the cowleys to queerness? did he not walk whistling and laughing through main street? might not one by striking his person strike also the greater enemy--the thing that smiled and went its own way--the judgment of winesburg? elmer cowley was extraordinarily tall and his arms were long and powerful. his hair, his eyebrows, and the downy beard that had begun to grow upon his chin, were pale almost to whiteness. his teeth protruded from between his lips and his eyes were blue with the colorless blueness of the marbles called "aggies" that the boys of winesburg carried in their pockets. elmer had lived in winesburg for a year and had made no friends. he was, he felt, one condemned to go through life without friends and he hated the thought. sullenly the tall young man tramped along the road with his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. the day was cold with a raw wind, but presently the sun began to shine and the road became soft and muddy. the tops of the ridges of frozen mud that formed the road began to melt and the mud clung to elmer's shoes. his feet became cold. when he had gone several miles he turned off the road, crossed a field and entered a wood. in the wood he gathered sticks to build a fire, by which he sat trying to warm himself, miserable in body and in mind. for two hours he sat on the log by the fire and then, arising and creeping cautiously through a mass of underbrush, he went to a fence and looked across fields to a small farmhouse surrounded by low sheds. a smile came to his lips and he began making motions with his long arms to a man who was husking corn in one of the fields. in his hour of misery the young merchant had returned to the farm where he had lived through boyhood and where there was another human being to whom he felt he could explain himself. the man on the farm was a half-witted old fellow named mook. he had once been employed by ebenezer cowley and had stayed on the farm when it was sold. the old man lived in one of the unpainted sheds back of the farmhouse and puttered about all day in the fields. mook the half-wit lived happily. with childlike faith he believed in the intelligence of the animals that lived in the sheds with him, and when he was lonely held long conversations with the cows, the pigs, and even with the chickens that ran about the barnyard. he it was who had put the expression regarding being "laundered" into the mouth of his former employer. when excited or surprised by anything he smiled vaguely and muttered: "i'll be washed and ironed. well, well, i'll be washed and ironed and starched." when the half-witted old man left his husking of corn and came into the wood to meet elmer cowley, he was neither surprised nor especially interested in the sudden appearance of the young man. his feet also were cold and he sat on the log by the fire, grateful for the warmth and apparently indifferent to what elmer had to say. elmer talked earnestly and with great freedom, walking up and down and waving his arms about. "you don't understand what's the matter with me so of course you don't care," he declared. "with me it's different. look how it has always been with me. father is queer and mother was queer, too. even the clothes mother used to wear were not like other people's clothes, and look at that coat in which father goes about there in town, thinking he's dressed up, too. why don't he get a new one? it wouldn't cost much. i'll tell you why. father doesn't know and when mother was alive she didn't know either. mabel is different. she knows but she won't say anything. i will, though. i'm not going to be stared at any longer. why look here, mook, father doesn't know that his store there in town is just a queer jumble, that he'll never sell the stuff he buys. he knows nothing about it. sometimes he's a little worried that trade doesn't come and then he goes and buys something else. in the evenings he sits by the fire upstairs and says trade will come after a while. he isn't worried. he's queer. he doesn't know enough to be worried." the excited young man became more excited. "he don't know but i know," he shouted, stopping to gaze down into the dumb, unresponsive face of the half-wit. "i know too well. i can't stand it. when we lived out here it was different. i worked and at night i went to bed and slept. i wasn't always seeing people and thinking as i am now. in the evening, there in town, i go to the post office or to the depot to see the train come in, and no one says anything to me. everyone stands around and laughs and they talk but they say nothing to me. then i feel so queer that i can't talk either. i go away. i don't say anything. i can't." the fury of the young man became uncontrollable. "i won't stand it," he yelled, looking up at the bare branches of the trees. "i'm not made to stand it." maddened by the dull face of the man on the log by the fire, elmer turned and glared at him as he had glared back along the road at the town of winesburg. "go on back to work," he screamed. "what good does it do me to talk to you?" a thought came to him and his voice dropped. "i'm a coward too, eh?" he muttered. "do you know why i came clear out here afoot? i had to tell someone and you were the only one i could tell. i hunted out another queer one, you see. i ran away, that's what i did. i couldn't stand up to someone like that george willard. i had to come to you. i ought to tell him and i will." again his voice arose to a shout and his arms flew about. "i will tell him. i won't be queer. i don't care what they think. i won't stand it." elmer cowley ran out of the woods leaving the half-wit sitting on the log before the fire. presently the old man arose and climbing over the fence went back to his work in the corn. "i'll be washed and ironed and starched," he declared. "well, well, i'll be washed and ironed." mook was interested. he went along a lane to a field where two cows stood nibbling at a straw stack. "elmer was here," he said to the cows. "elmer is crazy. you better get behind the stack where he don't see you. he'll hurt someone yet, elmer will." at eight o'clock that evening elmer cowley put his head in at the front door of the office of the winesburg eagle where george willard sat writing. his cap was pulled down over his eyes and a sullen determined look was on his face. "you come on outside with me," he said, stepping in and closing the door. he kept his hand on the knob as though prepared to resist anyone else coming in. "you just come along outside. i want to see you." george willard and elmer cowley walked through the main street of winesburg. the night was cold and george willard had on a new overcoat and looked very spruce and dressed up. he thrust his hands into the overcoat pockets and looked inquiringly at his companion. he had long been wanting to make friends with the young merchant and find out what was in his mind. now he thought he saw a chance and was delighted. "i wonder what he's up to? perhaps he thinks he has a piece of news for the paper. it can't be a fire because i haven't heard the fire bell and there isn't anyone running," he thought. in the main street of winesburg, on the cold november evening, but few citizens appeared and these hurried along bent on getting to the stove at the back of some store. the windows of the stores were frosted and the wind rattled the tin sign that hung over the entrance to the stairway leading to doctor welling's office. before hern's grocery a basket of apples and a rack filled with new brooms stood on the sidewalk. elmer cowley stopped and stood facing george willard. he tried to talk and his arms began to pump up and down. his face worked spasmodically. he seemed about to shout. "oh, you go on back," he cried. "don't stay out here with me. i ain't got anything to tell you. i don't want to see you at all." for three hours the distracted young merchant wandered through the resident streets of winesburg blind with anger, brought on by his failure to declare his determination not to be queer. bitterly the sense of defeat settled upon him and he wanted to weep. after the hours of futile sputtering at nothingness that had occupied the afternoon and his failure in the presence of the young reporter, he thought he could see no hope of a future for himself. and then a new idea dawned for him. in the darkness that surrounded him he began to see a light. going to the now darkened store, where cowley & son had for over a year waited vainly for trade to come, he crept stealthily in and felt about in a barrel that stood by the stove at the rear. in the barrel beneath shavings lay a tin box containing cowley & son's cash. every evening ebenezer cowley put the box in the barrel when he closed the store and went upstairs to bed. "they wouldn't never think of a careless place like that," he told himself, thinking of robbers. elmer took twenty dollars, two ten-dollar bills, from the little roll containing perhaps four hundred dollars, the cash left from the sale of the farm. then replacing the box beneath the shavings he went quietly out at the front door and walked again in the streets. the idea that he thought might put an end to all of his unhappiness was very simple. "i will get out of here, run away from home," he told himself. he knew that a local freight train passed through winesburg at midnight and went on to cleveland, where it arrived at dawn. he would steal a ride on the local and when he got to cleveland would lose himself in the crowds there. he would get work in some shop and become friends with the other workmen and would be indistinguishable. then he could talk and laugh. he would no longer be queer and would make friends. life would begin to have warmth and meaning for him as it had for others. the tall awkward young man, striding through the streets, laughed at himself because he had been angry and had been half afraid of george willard. he decided he would have his talk with the young reporter before he left town, that he would tell him about things, perhaps challenge him, challenge all of winesburg through him. aglow with new confidence elmer went to the office of the new willard house and pounded on the door. a sleep-eyed boy slept on a cot in the office. he received no salary but was fed at the hotel table and bore with pride the title of "night clerk." before the boy elmer was bold, insistent. "you 'wake him up," he commanded. "you tell him to come down by the depot. i got to see him and i'm going away on the local. tell him to dress and come on down. i ain't got much time." the midnight local had finished its work in winesburg and the trainsmen were coupling cars, swinging lanterns and preparing to resume their flight east. george willard, rubbing his eyes and again wearing the new overcoat, ran down to the station platform afire with curiosity. "well, here i am. what do you want? you've got something to tell me, eh?" he said. elmer tried to explain. he wet his lips with his tongue and looked at the train that had begun to groan and get under way. "well, you see," he began, and then lost control of his tongue. "i'll be washed and ironed. i'll be washed and ironed and starched," he muttered half incoherently. elmer cowley danced with fury beside the groaning train in the darkness on the station platform. lights leaped into the air and bobbed up and down before his eyes. taking the two ten-dollar bills from his pocket he thrust them into george willard's hand. "take them," he cried. "i don't want them. give them to father. i stole them." with a snarl of rage he turned and his long arms began to flay the air. like one struggling for release from hands that held him he struck out, hitting george willard blow after blow on the breast, the neck, the mouth. the young reporter rolled over on the platform half unconscious, stunned by the terrific force of the blows. springing aboard the passing train and running over the tops of cars, elmer sprang down to a flat car and lying on his face looked back, trying to see the fallen man in the darkness. pride surged up in him. "i showed him," he cried. "i guess i showed him. i ain't so queer. i guess i showed him i ain't so queer." the untold lie ray pearson and hal winters were farm hands employed on a farm three miles north of winesburg. on saturday afternoons they came into town and wandered about through the streets with other fellows from the country. ray was a quiet, rather nervous man of perhaps fifty with a brown beard and shoulders rounded by too much and too hard labor. in his nature he was as unlike hal winters as two men can be unlike. ray was an altogether serious man and had a little sharp-featured wife who had also a sharp voice. the two, with half a dozen thin-legged children, lived in a tumble-down frame house beside a creek at the back end of the wills farm where ray was employed. hal winters, his fellow employee, was a young fellow. he was not of the ned winters family, who were very respectable people in winesburg, but was one of the three sons of the old man called windpeter winters who had a sawmill near unionville, six miles away, and who was looked upon by everyone in winesburg as a confirmed old reprobate. people from the part of northern ohio in which winesburg lies will remember old windpeter by his unusual and tragic death. he got drunk one evening in town and started to drive home to unionville along the railroad tracks. henry brattenburg, the butcher, who lived out that way, stopped him at the edge of the town and told him he was sure to meet the down train but windpeter slashed at him with his whip and drove on. when the train struck and killed him and his two horses a farmer and his wife who were driving home along a nearby road saw the accident. they said that old windpeter stood up on the seat of his wagon, raving and swearing at the onrushing locomotive, and that he fairly screamed with delight when the team, maddened by his incessant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead to certain death. boys like young george willard and seth richmond will remember the incident quite vividly because, although everyone in our town said that the old man would go straight to hell and that the community was better off without him, they had a secret conviction that he knew what he was doing and admired his foolish courage. most boys have seasons of wishing they could die gloriously instead of just being grocery clerks and going on with their humdrum lives. but this is not the story of windpeter winters nor yet of his son hal who worked on the wills farm with ray pearson. it is ray's story. it will, however, be necessary to talk a little of young hal so that you will get into the spirit of it. hal was a bad one. everyone said that. there were three of the winters boys in that family, john, hal, and edward, all broad-shouldered big fellows like old windpeter himself and all fighters and woman-chasers and generally all-around bad ones. hal was the worst of the lot and always up to some devilment. he once stole a load of boards from his father's mill and sold them in winesburg. with the money he bought himself a suit of cheap, flashy clothes. then he got drunk and when his father came raving into town to find him, they met and fought with their fists on main street and were arrested and put into jail together. hal went to work on the wills farm because there was a country school teacher out that way who had taken his fancy. he was only twenty-two then but had already been in two or three of what were spoken of in winesburg as "women scrapes." everyone who heard of his infatuation for the school teacher was sure it would turn out badly. "he'll only get her into trouble, you'll see," was the word that went around. and so these two men, ray and hal, were at work in a field on a day in the late october. they were husking corn and occasionally something was said and they laughed. then came silence. ray, who was the more sensitive and always minded things more, had chapped hands and they hurt. he put them into his coat pockets and looked away across the fields. he was in a sad, distracted mood and was affected by the beauty of the country. if you knew the winesburg country in the fall and how the low hills are all splashed with yellows and reds you would understand his feeling. he began to think of the time, long ago when he was a young fellow living with his father, then a baker in winesburg, and how on such days he had wandered away into the woods to gather nuts, hunt rabbits, or just to loaf about and smoke his pipe. his marriage had come about through one of his days of wandering. he had induced a girl who waited on trade in his father's shop to go with him and something had happened. he was thinking of that afternoon and how it had affected his whole life when a spirit of protest awoke in him. he had forgotten about hal and muttered words. "tricked by gad, that's what i was, tricked by life and made a fool of," he said in a low voice. as though understanding his thoughts, hal winters spoke up. "well, has it been worth while? what about it, eh? what about marriage and all that?" he asked and then laughed. hal tried to keep on laughing but he too was in an earnest mood. he began to talk earnestly. "has a fellow got to do it?" he asked. "has he got to be harnessed up and driven through life like a horse?" hal didn't wait for an answer but sprang to his feet and began to walk back and forth between the corn shocks. he was getting more and more excited. bending down suddenly he picked up an ear of the yellow corn and threw it at the fence. "i've got nell gunther in trouble," he said. "i'm telling you, but you keep your mouth shut." ray pearson arose and stood staring. he was almost a foot shorter than hal, and when the younger man came and put his two hands on the older man's shoulders they made a picture. there they stood in the big empty field with the quiet corn shocks standing in rows behind them and the red and yellow hills in the distance, and from being just two indifferent workmen they had become all alive to each other. hal sensed it and because that was his way he laughed. "well, old daddy," he said awkwardly, "come on, advise me. i've got nell in trouble. perhaps you've been in the same fix yourself. i know what everyone would say is the right thing to do, but what do you say? shall i marry and settle down? shall i put myself into the harness to be worn out like an old horse? you know me, ray. there can't anyone break me but i can break myself. shall i do it or shall i tell nell to go to the devil? come on, you tell me. whatever you say, ray, i'll do." ray couldn't answer. he shook hal's hands loose and turning walked straight away toward the barn. he was a sensitive man and there were tears in his eyes. he knew there was only one thing to say to hal winters, son of old windpeter winters, only one thing that all his own training and all the beliefs of the people he knew would approve, but for his life he couldn't say what he knew he should say. at half-past four that afternoon ray was puttering about the barnyard when his wife came up the lane along the creek and called him. after the talk with hal he hadn't returned to the cornfield but worked about the barn. he had already done the evening chores and had seen hal, dressed and ready for a roistering night in town, come out of the farmhouse and go into the road. along the path to his own house he trudged behind his wife, looking at the ground and thinking. he couldn't make out what was wrong. every time he raised his eyes and saw the beauty of the country in the failing light he wanted to do something he had never done before, shout or scream or hit his wife with his fists or something equally unexpected and terrifying. along the path he went scratching his head and trying to make it out. he looked hard at his wife's back but she seemed all right. she only wanted him to go into town for groceries and as soon as she had told him what she wanted began to scold. "you're always puttering," she said. "now i want you to hustle. there isn't anything in the house for supper and you've got to get to town and back in a hurry." ray went into his own house and took an overcoat from a hook back of the door. it was torn about the pockets and the collar was shiny. his wife went into the bedroom and presently came out with a soiled cloth in one hand and three silver dollars in the other. somewhere in the house a child wept bitterly and a dog that had been sleeping by the stove arose and yawned. again the wife scolded. "the children will cry and cry. why are you always puttering?" she asked. ray went out of the house and climbed the fence into a field. it was just growing dark and the scene that lay before him was lovely. all the low hills were washed with color and even the little clusters of bushes in the corners of the fences were alive with beauty. the whole world seemed to ray pearson to have become alive with something just as he and hal had suddenly become alive when they stood in the corn field staring into each other's eyes. the beauty of the country about winesburg was too much for ray on that fall evening. that is all there was to it. he could not stand it. of a sudden he forgot all about being a quiet old farm hand and throwing off the torn overcoat began to run across the field. as he ran he shouted a protest against his life, against all life, against everything that makes life ugly. "there was no promise made," he cried into the empty spaces that lay about him. "i didn't promise my minnie anything and hal hasn't made any promise to nell. i know he hasn't. she went into the woods with him because she wanted to go. what he wanted she wanted. why should i pay? why should hal pay? why should anyone pay? i don't want hal to become old and worn out. i'll tell him. i won't let it go on. i'll catch hal before he gets to town and i'll tell him." ray ran clumsily and once he stumbled and fell down. "i must catch hal and tell him," he kept thinking, and although his breath came in gasps he kept running harder and harder. as he ran he thought of things that hadn't come into his mind for years--how at the time he married he had planned to go west to his uncle in portland, oregon--how he hadn't wanted to be a farm hand, but had thought when he got out west he would go to sea and be a sailor or get a job on a ranch and ride a horse into western towns, shouting and laughing and waking the people in the houses with his wild cries. then as he ran he remembered his children and in fancy felt their hands clutching at him. all of his thoughts of himself were involved with the thoughts of hal and he thought the children were clutching at the younger man also. "they are the accidents of life, hal," he cried. "they are not mine or yours. i had nothing to do with them." darkness began to spread over the fields as ray pearson ran on and on. his breath came in little sobs. when he came to the fence at the edge of the road and confronted hal winters, all dressed up and smoking a pipe as he walked jauntily along, he could not have told what he thought or what he wanted. ray pearson lost his nerve and this is really the end of the story of what happened to him. it was almost dark when he got to the fence and he put his hands on the top bar and stood staring. hal winters jumped a ditch and coming up close to ray put his hands into his pockets and laughed. he seemed to have lost his own sense of what had happened in the corn field and when he put up a strong hand and took hold of the lapel of ray's coat he shook the old man as he might have shaken a dog that had misbehaved. "you came to tell me, eh?" he said. "well, never mind telling me anything. i'm not a coward and i've already made up my mind." he laughed again and jumped back across the ditch. "nell ain't no fool," he said. "she didn't ask me to marry her. i want to marry her. i want to settle down and have kids." ray pearson also laughed. he felt like laughing at himself and all the world. as the form of hal winters disappeared in the dusk that lay over the road that led to winesburg, he turned and walked slowly back across the fields to where he had left his torn overcoat. as he went some memory of pleasant evenings spent with the thin-legged children in the tumble-down house by the creek must have come into his mind, for he muttered words. "it's just as well. whatever i told him would have been a lie," he said softly, and then his form also disappeared into the darkness of the fields. drink tom foster came to winesburg from cincinnati when he was still young and could get many new impressions. his grandmother had been raised on a farm near the town and as a young girl had gone to school there when winesburg was a village of twelve or fifteen houses clustered about a general store on the trunion pike. what a life the old woman had led since she went away from the frontier settlement and what a strong, capable little old thing she was! she had been in kansas, in canada, and in new york city, traveling about with her husband, a mechanic, before he died. later she went to stay with her daughter, who had also married a mechanic and lived in covington, kentucky, across the river from cincinnati. then began the hard years for tom foster's grandmother. first her son-in-law was killed by a policeman during a strike and then tom's mother became an invalid and died also. the grandmother had saved a little money, but it was swept away by the illness of the daughter and by the cost of the two funerals. she became a half worn-out old woman worker and lived with the grandson above a junk shop on a side street in cincinnati. for five years she scrubbed the floors in an office building and then got a place as dish washer in a restaurant. her hands were all twisted out of shape. when she took hold of a mop or a broom handle the hands looked like the dried stems of an old creeping vine clinging to a tree. the old woman came back to winesburg as soon as she got the chance. one evening as she was coming home from work she found a pocket-book containing thirty-seven dollars, and that opened the way. the trip was a great adventure for the boy. it was past seven o'clock at night when the grandmother came home with the pocket-book held tightly in her old hands and she was so excited she could scarcely speak. she insisted on leaving cincinnati that night, saying that if they stayed until morning the owner of the money would be sure to find them out and make trouble. tom, who was then sixteen years old, had to go trudging off to the station with the old woman, bearing all of their earthly belongings done up in a worn-out blanket and slung across his back. by his side walked the grandmother urging him forward. her toothless old mouth twitched nervously, and when tom grew weary and wanted to put the pack down at a street crossing, she snatched it up and if he had not prevented would have slung it across her own back. when they got into the train and it had run out of the city she was as delighted as a girl and talked as the boy had never heard her talk before. all through the night as the train rattled along, the grandmother told tom tales of winesburg and of how he would enjoy his life working in the fields and shooting wild things in the woods there. she could not believe that the tiny village of fifty years before had grown into a thriving town in her absence, and in the morning when the train came to winesburg did not want to get off. "it isn't what i thought. it may be hard for you here," she said, and then the train went on its way and the two stood confused, not knowing where to turn, in the presence of albert longworth, the winesburg baggage master. but tom foster did get along all right. he was one to get along anywhere. mrs. white, the banker's wife, employed his grandmother to work in the kitchen and he got a place as stable boy in the banker's new brick barn. in winesburg servants were hard to get. the woman who wanted help in her housework employed a "hired girl" who insisted on sitting at the table with the family. mrs. white was sick of hired girls and snatched at the chance to get hold of the old city woman. she furnished a room for the boy tom upstairs in the barn. "he can mow the lawn and run errands when the horses do not need attention," she explained to her husband. tom foster was rather small for his age and had a large head covered with stiff black hair that stood straight up. the hair emphasized the bigness of his head. his voice was the softest thing imaginable, and he was himself so gentle and quiet that he slipped into the life of the town without attracting the least bit of attention. one could not help wondering where tom foster got his gentleness. in cincinnati he had lived in a neighborhood where gangs of tough boys prowled through the streets, and all through his early formative years he ran about with tough boys. for a while he was a messenger for a telegraph company and delivered messages in a neighborhood sprinkled with houses of prostitution. the women in the houses knew and loved tom foster and the tough boys in the gangs loved him also. he never asserted himself. that was one thing that helped him escape. in an odd way he stood in the shadow of the wall of life, was meant to stand in the shadow. he saw the men and women in the houses of lust, sensed their casual and horrible love affairs, saw boys fighting and listened to their tales of thieving and drunkenness, unmoved and strangely unaffected. once tom did steal. that was while he still lived in the city. the grandmother was ill at the time and he himself was out of work. there was nothing to eat in the house, and so he went into a harness shop on a side street and stole a dollar and seventy-five cents out of the cash drawer. the harness shop was run by an old man with a long mustache. he saw the boy lurking about and thought nothing of it. when he went out into the street to talk to a teamster tom opened the cash drawer and taking the money walked away. later he was caught and his grandmother settled the matter by offering to come twice a week for a month and scrub the shop. the boy was ashamed, but he was rather glad, too. "it is all right to be ashamed and makes me understand new things," he said to the grandmother, who didn't know what the boy was talking about but loved him so much that it didn't matter whether she understood or not. for a year tom foster lived in the banker's stable and then lost his place there. he didn't take very good care of the horses and he was a constant source of irritation to the banker's wife. she told him to mow the lawn and he forgot. then she sent him to the store or to the post office and he did not come back but joined a group of men and boys and spent the whole afternoon with them, standing about, listening and occasionally, when addressed, saying a few words. as in the city in the houses of prostitution and with the rowdy boys running through the streets at night, so in winesburg among its citizens he had always the power to be a part of and yet distinctly apart from the life about him. after tom lost his place at banker white's he did not live with his grandmother, although often in the evening she came to visit him. he rented a room at the rear of a little frame building belonging to old rufus whiting. the building was on duane street, just off main street, and had been used for years as a law office by the old man, who had become too feeble and forgetful for the practice of his profession but did not realize his inefficiency. he liked tom and let him have the room for a dollar a month. in the late afternoon when the lawyer had gone home the boy had the place to himself and spent hours lying on the floor by the stove and thinking of things. in the evening the grandmother came and sat in the lawyer's chair to smoke a pipe while tom remained silent, as he always did in the presence of everyone. often the old woman talked with great vigor. sometimes she was angry about some happening at the banker's house and scolded away for hours. out of her own earnings she bought a mop and regularly scrubbed the lawyer's office. then when the place was spotlessly clean and smelled clean she lighted her clay pipe and she and tom had a smoke together. "when you get ready to die then i will die also," she said to the boy lying on the floor beside her chair. tom foster enjoyed life in winesburg. he did odd jobs, such as cutting wood for kitchen stoves and mowing the grass before houses. in late may and early june he picked strawberries in the fields. he had time to loaf and he enjoyed loafing. banker white had given him a cast-off coat which was too large for him, but his grandmother cut it down, and he had also an overcoat, got at the same place, that was lined with fur. the fur was worn away in spots, but the coat was warm and in the winter tom slept in it. he thought his method of getting along good enough and was happy and satisfied with the way life in winesburg had turned out for him. the most absurd little things made tom foster happy. that, i suppose, was why people loved him. in hern's grocery they would be roasting coffee on friday afternoon, preparatory to the saturday rush of trade, and the rich odor invaded lower main street. tom foster appeared and sat on a box at the rear of the store. for an hour he did not move but sat perfectly still, filling his being with the spicy odor that made him half drunk with happiness. "i like it," he said gently. "it makes me think of things far away, places and things like that." one night tom foster got drunk. that came about in a curious way. he never had been drunk before, and indeed in all his life had never taken a drink of anything intoxicating, but he felt he needed to be drunk that one time and so went and did it. in cincinnati, when he lived there, tom had found out many things, things about ugliness and crime and lust. indeed, he knew more of these things than anyone else in winesburg. the matter of sex in particular had presented itself to him in a quite horrible way and had made a deep impression on his mind. he thought, after what he had seen of the women standing before the squalid houses on cold nights and the look he had seen in the eyes of the men who stopped to talk to them, that he would put sex altogether out of his own life. one of the women of the neighborhood tempted him once and he went into a room with her. he never forgot the smell of the room nor the greedy look that came into the eyes of the woman. it sickened him and in a very terrible way left a scar on his soul. he had always before thought of women as quite innocent things, much like his grandmother, but after that one experience in the room he dismissed women from his mind. so gentle was his nature that he could not hate anything and not being able to understand he decided to forget. and tom did forget until he came to winesburg. after he had lived there for two years something began to stir in him. on all sides he saw youth making love and he was himself a youth. before he knew what had happened he was in love also. he fell in love with helen white, daughter of the man for whom he had worked, and found himself thinking of her at night. that was a problem for tom and he settled it in his own way. he let himself think of helen white whenever her figure came into his mind and only concerned himself with the manner of his thoughts. he had a fight, a quiet determined little fight of his own, to keep his desires in the channel where he thought they belonged, but on the whole he was victorious. and then came the spring night when he got drunk. tom was wild on that night. he was like an innocent young buck of the forest that has eaten of some maddening weed. the thing began, ran its course, and was ended in one night, and you may be sure that no one in winesburg was any the worse for tom's outbreak. in the first place, the night was one to make a sensitive nature drunk. the trees along the residence streets of the town were all newly clothed in soft green leaves, in the gardens behind the houses men were puttering about in vegetable gardens, and in the air there was a hush, a waiting kind of silence very stirring to the blood. tom left his room on duane street just as the young night began to make itself felt. first he walked through the streets, going softly and quietly along, thinking thoughts that he tried to put into words. he said that helen white was a flame dancing in the air and that he was a little tree without leaves standing out sharply against the sky. then he said that she was a wind, a strong terrible wind, coming out of the darkness of a stormy sea and that he was a boat left on the shore of the sea by a fisherman. that idea pleased the boy and he sauntered along playing with it. he went into main street and sat on the curbing before wacker's tobacco store. for an hour he lingered about listening to the talk of men, but it did not interest him much and he slipped away. then he decided to get drunk and went into willy's saloon and bought a bottle of whiskey. putting the bottle into his pocket, he walked out of town, wanting to be alone to think more thoughts and to drink the whiskey. tom got drunk sitting on a bank of new grass beside the road about a mile north of town. before him was a white road and at his back an apple orchard in full bloom. he took a drink out of the bottle and then lay down on the grass. he thought of mornings in winesburg and of how the stones in the graveled driveway by banker white's house were wet with dew and glistened in the morning light. he thought of the nights in the barn when it rained and he lay awake hearing the drumming of the raindrops and smelling the warm smell of horses and of hay. then he thought of a storm that had gone roaring through winesburg several days before and, his mind going back, he relived the night he had spent on the train with his grandmother when the two were coming from cincinnati. sharply he remembered how strange it had seemed to sit quietly in the coach and to feel the power of the engine hurling the train along through the night. tom got drunk in a very short time. he kept taking drinks from the bottle as the thoughts visited him and when his head began to reel got up and walked along the road going away from winesburg. there was a bridge on the road that ran out of winesburg north to lake erie and the drunken boy made his way along the road to the bridge. there he sat down. he tried to drink again, but when he had taken the cork out of the bottle he became ill and put it quickly back. his head was rocking back and forth and so he sat on the stone approach to the bridge and sighed. his head seemed to be flying about like a pinwheel and then projecting itself off into space and his arms and legs flopped helplessly about. at eleven o'clock tom got back into town. george willard found him wandering about and took him into the eagle printshop. then he became afraid that the drunken boy would make a mess on the floor and helped him into the alleyway. the reporter was confused by tom foster. the drunken boy talked of helen white and said he had been with her on the shore of a sea and had made love to her. george had seen helen white walking in the street with her father during the evening and decided that tom was out of his head. a sentiment concerning helen white that lurked in his own heart flamed up and he became angry. "now you quit that," he said. "i won't let helen white's name be dragged into this. i won't let that happen." he began shaking tom's shoulder, trying to make him understand. "you quit it," he said again. for three hours the two young men, thus strangely thrown together, stayed in the printshop. when he had a little recovered george took tom for a walk. they went into the country and sat on a log near the edge of a wood. something in the still night drew them together and when the drunken boy's head began to clear they talked. "it was good to be drunk," tom foster said. "it taught me something. i won't have to do it again. i will think more dearly after this. you see how it is." george willard did not see, but his anger concerning helen white passed and he felt drawn toward the pale, shaken boy as he had never before been drawn toward anyone. with motherly solicitude, he insisted that tom get to his feet and walk about. again they went back to the printshop and sat in silence in the darkness. the reporter could not get the purpose of tom foster's action straightened out in his mind. when tom spoke again of helen white he again grew angry and began to scold. "you quit that," he said sharply. "you haven't been with her. what makes you say you have? what makes you keep saying such things? now you quit it, do you hear?" tom was hurt. he couldn't quarrel with george willard because he was incapable of quarreling, so he got up to go away. when george willard was insistent he put out his hand, laying it on the older boy's arm, and tried to explain. "well," he said softly, "i don't know how it was. i was happy. you see how that was. helen white made me happy and the night did too. i wanted to suffer, to be hurt somehow. i thought that was what i should do. i wanted to suffer, you see, because everyone suffers and does wrong. i thought of a lot of things to do, but they wouldn't work. they all hurt someone else." tom foster's voice arose, and for once in his life he became almost excited. "it was like making love, that's what i mean," he explained. "don't you see how it is? it hurt me to do what i did and made everything strange. that's why i did it. i'm glad, too. it taught me something, that's it, that's what i wanted. don't you understand? i wanted to learn things, you see. that's why i did it." death the stairway leading up to doctor reefy's office, in the heffner block above the paris dry goods store, was but dimly lighted. at the head of the stairway hung a lamp with a dirty chimney that was fastened by a bracket to the wall. the lamp had a tin reflector, brown with rust and covered with dust. the people who went up the stairway followed with their feet the feet of many who had gone before. the soft boards of the stairs had yielded under the pressure of feet and deep hollows marked the way. at the top of the stairway a turn to the right brought you to the doctor's door. to the left was a dark hallway filled with rubbish. old chairs, carpenter's horses, step ladders and empty boxes lay in the darkness waiting for shins to be barked. the pile of rubbish belonged to the paris dry goods company. when a counter or a row of shelves in the store became useless, clerks carried it up the stairway and threw it on the pile. doctor reefy's office was as large as a barn. a stove with a round paunch sat in the middle of the room. around its base was piled sawdust, held in place by heavy planks nailed to the floor. by the door stood a huge table that had once been a part of the furniture of herrick's clothing store and that had been used for displaying custom-made clothes. it was covered with books, bottles, and surgical instruments. near the edge of the table lay three or four apples left by john spaniard, a tree nurseryman who was doctor reefy's friend, and who had slipped the apples out of his pocket as he came in at the door. at middle age doctor reefy was tall and awkward. the grey beard he later wore had not yet appeared, but on the upper lip grew a brown mustache. he was not a graceful man, as when he grew older, and was much occupied with the problem of disposing of his hands and feet. on summer afternoons, when she had been married many years and when her son george was a boy of twelve or fourteen, elizabeth willard sometimes went up the worn steps to doctor reefy's office. already the woman's naturally tall figure had begun to droop and to drag itself listlessly about. ostensibly she went to see the doctor because of her health, but on the half dozen occasions when she had been to see him the outcome of the visits did not primarily concern her health. she and the doctor talked of that but they talked most of her life, of their two lives and of the ideas that had come to them as they lived their lives in winesburg. in the big empty office the man and the woman sat looking at each other and they were a good deal alike. their bodies were different, as were also the color of their eyes, the length of their noses, and the circumstances of their existence, but something inside them meant the same thing, wanted the same release, would have left the same impression on the memory of an onlooker. later, and when he grew older and married a young wife, the doctor often talked to her of the hours spent with the sick woman and expressed a good many things he had been unable to express to elizabeth. he was almost a poet in his old age and his notion of what happened took a poetic turn. "i had come to the time in my life when prayer became necessary and so i invented gods and prayed to them," he said. "i did not say my prayers in words nor did i kneel down but sat perfectly still in my chair. in the late afternoon when it was hot and quiet on main street or in the winter when the days were gloomy, the gods came into the office and i thought no one knew about them. then i found that this woman elizabeth knew, that she worshipped also the same gods. i have a notion that she came to the office because she thought the gods would be there but she was happy to find herself not alone just the same. it was an experience that cannot be explained, although i suppose it is always happening to men and women in all sorts of places." * * * on the summer afternoons when elizabeth and the doctor sat in the office and talked of their two lives they talked of other lives also. sometimes the doctor made philosophic epigrams. then he chuckled with amusement. now and then after a period of silence, a word was said or a hint given that strangely illuminated the life of the speaker, a wish became a desire, or a dream, half dead, flared suddenly into life. for the most part the words came from the woman and she said them without looking at the man. each time she came to see the doctor the hotel keeper's wife talked a little more freely and after an hour or two in his presence went down the stairway into main street feeling renewed and strengthened against the dullness of her days. with something approaching a girlhood swing to her body she walked along, but when she had got back to her chair by the window of her room and when darkness had come on and a girl from the hotel dining room brought her dinner on a tray, she let it grow cold. her thoughts ran away to her girlhood with its passionate longing for adventure and she remembered the arms of men that had held her when adventure was a possible thing for her. particularly she remembered one who had for a time been her lover and who in the moment of his passion had cried out to her more than a hundred times, saying the same words madly over and over: "you dear! you dear! you lovely dear!" the words, she thought, expressed something she would have liked to have achieved in life. in her room in the shabby old hotel the sick wife of the hotel keeper began to weep and, putting her hands to her face, rocked back and forth. the words of her one friend, doctor reefy, rang in her ears. "love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black night," he had said. "you must not try to make love definite. it is the divine accident of life. if you try to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made tender by kisses." elizabeth willard could not remember her mother who had died when she was but five years old. her girlhood had been lived in the most haphazard manner imaginable. her father was a man who had wanted to be let alone and the affairs of the hotel would not let him alone. he also had lived and died a sick man. every day he arose with a cheerful face, but by ten o'clock in the morning all the joy had gone out of his heart. when a guest complained of the fare in the hotel dining room or one of the girls who made up the beds got married and went away, he stamped on the floor and swore. at night when he went to bed he thought of his daughter growing up among the stream of people that drifted in and out of the hotel and was overcome with sadness. as the girl grew older and began to walk out in the evening with men he wanted to talk to her, but when he tried was not successful. he always forgot what he wanted to say and spent the time complaining of his own affairs. in her girlhood and young womanhood elizabeth had tried to be a real adventurer in life. at eighteen life had so gripped her that she was no longer a virgin but, although she had a half dozen lovers before she married tom willard, she had never entered upon an adventure prompted by desire alone. like all the women in the world, she wanted a real lover. always there was something she sought blindly, passionately, some hidden wonder in life. the tall beautiful girl with the swinging stride who had walked under the trees with men was forever putting out her hand into the darkness and trying to get hold of some other hand. in all the babble of words that fell from the lips of the men with whom she adventured she was trying to find what would be for her the true word. elizabeth had married tom willard, a clerk in her father's hotel, because he was at hand and wanted to marry at the time when the determination to marry came to her. for a while, like most young girls, she thought marriage would change the face of life. if there was in her mind a doubt of the outcome of the marriage with tom she brushed it aside. her father was ill and near death at the time and she was perplexed because of the meaningless outcome of an affair in which she had just been involved. other girls of her age in winesburg were marrying men she had always known, grocery clerks or young farmers. in the evening they walked in main street with their husbands and when she passed they smiled happily. she began to think that the fact of marriage might be full of some hidden significance. young wives with whom she talked spoke softly and shyly. "it changes things to have a man of your own," they said. on the evening before her marriage the perplexed girl had a talk with her father. later she wondered if the hours alone with the sick man had not led to her decision to marry. the father talked of his life and advised the daughter to avoid being led into another such muddle. he abused tom willard, and that led elizabeth to come to the clerk's defense. the sick man became excited and tried to get out of bed. when she would not let him walk about he began to complain. "i've never been let alone," he said. "although i've worked hard i've not made the hotel pay. even now i owe money at the bank. you'll find that out when i'm gone." the voice of the sick man became tense with earnestness. being unable to arise, he put out his hand and pulled the girl's head down beside his own. "there's a way out," he whispered. "don't marry tom willard or anyone else here in winesburg. there is eight hundred dollars in a tin box in my trunk. take it and go away." again the sick man's voice became querulous. "you've got to promise," he declared. "if you won't promise not to marry, give me your word that you'll never tell tom about the money. it is mine and if i give it to you i've the right to make that demand. hide it away. it is to make up to you for my failure as a father. some time it may prove to be a door, a great open door to you. come now, i tell you i'm about to die, give me your promise." * * * in doctor reefy's office, elizabeth, a tired gaunt old woman at forty-one, sat in a chair near the stove and looked at the floor. by a small desk near the window sat the doctor. his hands played with a lead pencil that lay on the desk. elizabeth talked of her life as a married woman. she became impersonal and forgot her husband, only using him as a lay figure to give point to her tale. "and then i was married and it did not turn out at all," she said bitterly. "as soon as i had gone into it i began to be afraid. perhaps i knew too much before and then perhaps i found out too much during my first night with him. i don't remember. "what a fool i was. when father gave me the money and tried to talk me out of the thought of marriage, i would not listen. i thought of what the girls who were married had said of it and i wanted marriage also. it wasn't tom i wanted, it was marriage. when father went to sleep i leaned out of the window and thought of the life i had led. i didn't want to be a bad woman. the town was full of stories about me. i even began to be afraid tom would change his mind." the woman's voice began to quiver with excitement. to doctor reefy, who without realizing what was happening had begun to love her, there came an odd illusion. he thought that as she talked the woman's body was changing, that she was becoming younger, straighter, stronger. when he could not shake off the illusion his mind gave it a professional twist. "it is good for both her body and her mind, this talking," he muttered. the woman began telling of an incident that had happened one afternoon a few months after her marriage. her voice became steadier. "in the late afternoon i went for a drive alone," she said. "i had a buggy and a little grey pony i kept in moyer's livery. tom was painting and repapering rooms in the hotel. he wanted money and i was trying to make up my mind to tell him about the eight hundred dollars father had given to me. i couldn't decide to do it. i didn't like him well enough. there was always paint on his hands and face during those days and he smelled of paint. he was trying to fix up the old hotel, and make it new and smart." the excited woman sat up very straight in her chair and made a quick girlish movement with her hand as she told of the drive alone on the spring afternoon. "it was cloudy and a storm threatened," she said. "black clouds made the green of the trees and the grass stand out so that the colors hurt my eyes. i went out trunion pike a mile or more and then turned into a side road. the little horse went quickly along up hill and down. i was impatient. thoughts came and i wanted to get away from my thoughts. i began to beat the horse. the black clouds settled down and it began to rain. i wanted to go at a terrible speed, to drive on and on forever. i wanted to get out of town, out of my clothes, out of my marriage, out of my body, out of everything. i almost killed the horse, making him run, and when he could not run any more i got out of the buggy and ran afoot into the darkness until i fell and hurt my side. i wanted to run away from everything but i wanted to run towards something too. don't you see, dear, how it was?" elizabeth sprang out of the chair and began to walk about in the office. she walked as doctor reefy thought he had never seen anyone walk before. to her whole body there was a swing, a rhythm that intoxicated him. when she came and knelt on the floor beside his chair he took her into his arms and began to kiss her passionately. "i cried all the way home," she said, as she tried to continue the story of her wild ride, but he did not listen. "you dear! you lovely dear! oh you lovely dear!" he muttered and thought he held in his arms not the tired-out woman of forty-one but a lovely and innocent girl who had been able by some miracle to project herself out of the husk of the body of the tired-out woman. doctor reefy did not see the woman he had held in his arms again until after her death. on the summer afternoon in the office when he was on the point of becoming her lover a half grotesque little incident brought his love-making quickly to an end. as the man and woman held each other tightly heavy feet came tramping up the office stairs. the two sprang to their feet and stood listening and trembling. the noise on the stairs was made by a clerk from the paris dry goods company. with a loud bang he threw an empty box on the pile of rubbish in the hallway and then went heavily down the stairs. elizabeth followed him almost immediately. the thing that had come to life in her as she talked to her one friend died suddenly. she was hysterical, as was also doctor reefy, and did not want to continue the talk. along the street she went with the blood still singing in her body, but when she turned out of main street and saw ahead the lights of the new willard house, she began to tremble and her knees shook so that for a moment she thought she would fall in the street. the sick woman spent the last few months of her life hungering for death. along the road of death she went, seeking, hungering. she personified the figure of death and made him now a strong black-haired youth running over hills, now a stern quiet man marked and scarred by the business of living. in the darkness of her room she put out her hand, thrusting it from under the covers of her bed, and she thought that death like a living thing put out his hand to her. "be patient, lover," she whispered. "keep yourself young and beautiful and be patient." on the evening when disease laid its heavy hand upon her and defeated her plans for telling her son george of the eight hundred dollars hidden away, she got out of bed and crept half across the room pleading with death for another hour of life. "wait, dear! the boy! the boy! the boy!" she pleaded as she tried with all of her strength to fight off the arms of the lover she had wanted so earnestly. * * * elizabeth died one day in march in the year when her son george became eighteen, and the young man had but little sense of the meaning of her death. only time could give him that. for a month he had seen her lying white and still and speechless in her bed, and then one afternoon the doctor stopped him in the hallway and said a few words. the young man went into his own room and closed the door. he had a queer empty feeling in the region of his stomach. for a moment he sat staring at, the floor and then jumping up went for a walk. along the station platform he went, and around through residence streets past the high-school building, thinking almost entirely of his own affairs. the notion of death could not get hold of him and he was in fact a little annoyed that his mother had died on that day. he had just received a note from helen white, the daughter of the town banker, in answer to one from him. "tonight i could have gone to see her and now it will have to be put off," he thought half angrily. elizabeth died on a friday afternoon at three o'clock. it had been cold and rainy in the morning but in the afternoon the sun came out. before she died she lay paralyzed for six days unable to speak or move and with only her mind and her eyes alive. for three of the six days she struggled, thinking of her boy, trying to say some few words in regard to his future, and in her eyes there was an appeal so touching that all who saw it kept the memory of the dying woman in their minds for years. even tom willard, who had always half resented his wife, forgot his resentment and the tears ran out of his eyes and lodged in his mustache. the mustache had begun to turn grey and tom colored it with dye. there was oil in the preparation he used for the purpose and the tears, catching in the mustache and being brushed away by his hand, formed a fine mist-like vapor. in his grief tom willard's face looked like the face of a little dog that has been out a long time in bitter weather. george came home along main street at dark on the day of his mother's death and, after going to his own room to brush his hair and clothes, went along the hallway and into the room where the body lay. there was a candle on the dressing table by the door and doctor reefy sat in a chair by the bed. the doctor arose and started to go out. he put out his hand as though to greet the younger man and then awkwardly drew it back again. the air of the room was heavy with the presence of the two self-conscious human beings, and the man hurried away. the dead woman's son sat down in a chair and looked at the floor. he again thought of his own affairs and definitely decided he would make a change in his life, that he would leave winesburg. "i will go to some city. perhaps i can get a job on some newspaper," he thought, and then his mind turned to the girl with whom he was to have spent this evening and again he was half angry at the turn of events that had prevented his going to her. in the dimly lighted room with the dead woman the young man began to have thoughts. his mind played with thoughts of life as his mother's mind had played with the thought of death. he closed his eyes and imagined that the red young lips of helen white touched his own lips. his body trembled and his hands shook. and then something happened. the boy sprang to his feet and stood stiffly. he looked at the figure of the dead woman under the sheets and shame for his thoughts swept over him so that he began to weep. a new notion came into his mind and he turned and looked guiltily about as though afraid he would be observed. george willard became possessed of a madness to lift the sheet from the body of his mother and look at her face. the thought that had come into his mind gripped him terribly. he became convinced that not his mother but someone else lay in the bed before him. the conviction was so real that it was almost unbearable. the body under the sheets was long and in death looked young and graceful. to the boy, held by some strange fancy, it was unspeakably lovely. the feeling that the body before him was alive, that in another moment a lovely woman would spring out of the bed and confront him, became so overpowering that he could not bear the suspense. again and again he put out his hand. once he touched and half lifted the white sheet that covered her, but his courage failed and he, like doctor reefy, turned and went out of the room. in the hallway outside the door he stopped and trembled so that he had to put a hand against the wall to support himself. "that's not my mother. that's not my mother in there," he whispered to himself and again his body shook with fright and uncertainty. when aunt elizabeth swift, who had come to watch over the body, came out of an adjoining room he put his hand into hers and began to sob, shaking his head from side to side, half blind with grief. "my mother is dead," he said, and then forgetting the woman he turned and stared at the door through which he had just come. "the dear, the dear, oh the lovely dear," the boy, urged by some impulse outside himself, muttered aloud. as for the eight hundred dollars the dead woman had kept hidden so long and that was to give george willard his start in the city, it lay in the tin box behind the plaster by the foot of his mother's bed. elizabeth had put it there a week after her marriage, breaking the plaster away with a stick. then she got one of the workmen her husband was at that time employing about the hotel to mend the wall. "i jammed the corner of the bed against it," she had explained to her husband, unable at the moment to give up her dream of release, the release that after all came to her but twice in her life, in the moments when her lovers death and doctor reefy held her in their arms. sophistication it was early evening of a day in the late fall and the winesburg county fair had brought crowds of country people into town. the day had been clear and the night came on warm and pleasant. on the trunion pike, where the road after it left town stretched away between berry fields now covered with dry brown leaves, the dust from passing wagons arose in clouds. children, curled into little balls, slept on the straw scattered on wagon beds. their hair was full of dust and their fingers black and sticky. the dust rolled away over the fields and the departing sun set it ablaze with colors. in the main street of winesburg crowds filled the stores and the sidewalks. night came on, horses whinnied, the clerks in the stores ran madly about, children became lost and cried lustily, an american town worked terribly at the task of amusing itself. pushing his way through the crowds in main street, young george willard concealed himself in the stairway leading to doctor reefy's office and looked at the people. with feverish eyes he watched the faces drifting past under the store lights. thoughts kept coming into his head and he did not want to think. he stamped impatiently on the wooden steps and looked sharply about. "well, is she going to stay with him all day? have i done all this waiting for nothing?" he muttered. george willard, the ohio village boy, was fast growing into manhood and new thoughts had been coming into his mind. all that day, amid the jam of people at the fair, he had gone about feeling lonely. he was about to leave winesburg to go away to some city where he hoped to get work on a city newspaper and he felt grown up. the mood that had taken possession of him was a thing known to men and unknown to boys. he felt old and a little tired. memories awoke in him. to his mind his new sense of maturity set him apart, made of him a half-tragic figure. he wanted someone to understand the feeling that had taken possession of him after his mother's death. there is a time in the life of every boy when he for the first time takes the backward view of life. perhaps that is the moment when he crosses the line into manhood. the boy is walking through the street of his town. he is thinking of the future and of the figure he will cut in the world. ambitions and regrets awake within him. suddenly something happens; he stops under a tree and waits as for a voice calling his name. ghosts of old things creep into his consciousness; the voices outside of himself whisper a message concerning the limitations of life. from being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. if he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. the sadness of sophistication has come to the boy. with a little gasp he sees himself as merely a leaf blown by the wind through the streets of his village. he knows that in spite of all the stout talk of his fellows he must live and die in uncertainty, a thing blown by the winds, a thing destined like corn to wilt in the sun. he shivers and looks eagerly about. the eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. already he hears death calling. with all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another. if he prefers that the other be a woman, that is because he believes that a woman will be gentle, that she will understand. he wants, most of all, understanding. when the moment of sophistication came to george willard his mind turned to helen white, the winesburg banker's daughter. always he had been conscious of the girl growing into womanhood as he grew into manhood. once on a summer night when he was eighteen, he had walked with her on a country road and in her presence had given way to an impulse to boast, to make himself appear big and significant in her eyes. now he wanted to see her for another purpose. he wanted to tell her of the new impulses that had come to him. he had tried to make her think of him as a man when he knew nothing of manhood and now he wanted to be with her and to try to make her feel the change he believed had taken place in his nature. as for helen white, she also had come to a period of change. what george felt, she in her young woman's way felt also. she was no longer a girl and hungered to reach into the grace and beauty of womanhood. she had come home from cleveland, where she was attending college, to spend a day at the fair. she also had begun to have memories. during the day she sat in the grand-stand with a young man, one of the instructors from the college, who was a guest of her mother's. the young man was of a pedantic turn of mind and she felt at once he would not do for her purpose. at the fair she was glad to be seen in his company as he was well dressed and a stranger. she knew that the fact of his presence would create an impression. during the day she was happy, but when night came on she began to grow restless. she wanted to drive the instructor away, to get out of his presence. while they sat together in the grand-stand and while the eyes of former schoolmates were upon them, she paid so much attention to her escort that he grew interested. "a scholar needs money. i should marry a woman with money," he mused. helen white was thinking of george willard even as he wandered gloomily through the crowds thinking of her. she remembered the summer evening when they had walked together and wanted to walk with him again. she thought that the months she had spent in the city, the going to theaters and the seeing of great crowds wandering in lighted thoroughfares, had changed her profoundly. she wanted him to feel and be conscious of the change in her nature. the summer evening together that had left its mark on the memory of both the young man and woman had, when looked at quite sensibly, been rather stupidly spent. they had walked out of town along a country road. then they had stopped by a fence near a field of young corn and george had taken off his coat and let it hang on his arm. "well, i've stayed here in winesburg--yes--i've not yet gone away but i'm growing up," he had said. "i've been reading books and i've been thinking. i'm going to try to amount to something in life. "well," he explained, "that isn't the point. perhaps i'd better quit talking." the confused boy put his hand on the girl's arm. his voice trembled. the two started to walk back along the road toward town. in his desperation george boasted, "i'm going to be a big man, the biggest that ever lived here in winesburg," he declared. "i want you to do something, i don't know what. perhaps it is none of my business. i want you to try to be different from other women. you see the point. it's none of my business i tell you. i want you to be a beautiful woman. you see what i want." the boy's voice failed and in silence the two came back into town and went along the street to helen white's house. at the gate he tried to say something impressive. speeches he had thought out came into his head, but they seemed utterly pointless. "i thought--i used to think--i had it in my mind you would marry seth richmond. now i know you won't," was all he could find to say as she went through the gate and toward the door of her house. on the warm fall evening as he stood in the stairway and looked at the crowd drifting through main street, george thought of the talk beside the field of young corn and was ashamed of the figure he had made of himself. in the street the people surged up and down like cattle confined in a pen. buggies and wagons almost filled the narrow thoroughfare. a band played and small boys raced along the sidewalk, diving between the legs of men. young men with shining red faces walked awkwardly about with girls on their arms. in a room above one of the stores, where a dance was to be held, the fiddlers tuned their instruments. the broken sounds floated down through an open window and out across the murmur of voices and the loud blare of the horns of the band. the medley of sounds got on young willard's nerves. everywhere, on all sides, the sense of crowding, moving life closed in about him. he wanted to run away by himself and think. "if she wants to stay with that fellow she may. why should i care? what difference does it make to me?" he growled and went along main street and through hern's grocery into a side street. george felt so utterly lonely and dejected that he wanted to weep but pride made him walk rapidly along, swinging his arms. he came to wesley moyer's livery barn and stopped in the shadows to listen to a group of men who talked of a race wesley's stallion, tony tip, had won at the fair during the afternoon. a crowd had gathered in front of the barn and before the crowd walked wesley, prancing up and down boasting. he held a whip in his hand and kept tapping the ground. little puffs of dust arose in the lamplight. "hell, quit your talking," wesley exclaimed. "i wasn't afraid, i knew i had 'em beat all the time. i wasn't afraid." ordinarily george willard would have been intensely interested in the boasting of moyer, the horseman. now it made him angry. he turned and hurried away along the street. "old windbag," he sputtered. "why does he want to be bragging? why don't he shut up?" george went into a vacant lot and, as he hurried along, fell over a pile of rubbish. a nail protruding from an empty barrel tore his trousers. he sat down on the ground and swore. with a pin he mended the torn place and then arose and went on. "i'll go to helen white's house, that's what i'll do. i'll walk right in. i'll say that i want to see her. i'll walk right in and sit down, that's what i'll do," he declared, climbing over a fence and beginning to run. * * * on the veranda of banker white's house helen was restless and distraught. the instructor sat between the mother and daughter. his talk wearied the girl. although he had also been raised in an ohio town, the instructor began to put on the airs of the city. he wanted to appear cosmopolitan. "i like the chance you have given me to study the background out of which most of our girls come," he declared. "it was good of you, mrs. white, to have me down for the day." he turned to helen and laughed. "your life is still bound up with the life of this town?" he asked. "there are people here in whom you are interested?" to the girl his voice sounded pompous and heavy. helen arose and went into the house. at the door leading to a garden at the back she stopped and stood listening. her mother began to talk. "there is no one here fit to associate with a girl of helen's breeding," she said. helen ran down a flight of stairs at the back of the house and into the garden. in the darkness she stopped and stood trembling. it seemed to her that the world was full of meaningless people saying words. afire with eagerness she ran through a garden gate and, turning a corner by the banker's barn, went into a little side street. "george! where are you, george?" she cried, filled with nervous excitement. she stopped running, and leaned against a tree to laugh hysterically. along the dark little street came george willard, still saying words. "i'm going to walk right into her house. i'll go right in and sit down," he declared as he came up to her. he stopped and stared stupidly. "come on," he said and took hold of her hand. with hanging heads they walked away along the street under the trees. dry leaves rustled under foot. now that he had found her george wondered what he had better do and say. * * * at the upper end of the fair ground, in winesburg, there is a half decayed old grand-stand. it has never been painted and the boards are all warped out of shape. the fair ground stands on top of a low hill rising out of the valley of wine creek and from the grand-stand one can see at night, over a cornfield, the lights of the town reflected against the sky. george and helen climbed the hill to the fair ground, coming by the path past waterworks pond. the feeling of loneliness and isolation that had come to the young man in the crowded streets of his town was both broken and intensified by the presence of helen. what he felt was reflected in her. in youth there are always two forces fighting in people. the warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers, and the older, the more sophisticated thing had possession of george willard. sensing his mood, helen walked beside him filled with respect. when they got to the grand-stand they climbed up under the roof and sat down on one of the long bench-like seats. there is something memorable in the experience to be had by going into a fair ground that stands at the edge of a middle western town on a night after the annual fair has been held. the sensation is one never to be forgotten. on all sides are ghosts, not of the dead, but of living people. here, during the day just passed, have come the people pouring in from the town and the country around. farmers with their wives and children and all the people from the hundreds of little frame houses have gathered within these board walls. young girls have laughed and men with beards have talked of the affairs of their lives. the place has been filled to overflowing with life. it has itched and squirmed with life and now it is night and the life has all gone away. the silence is almost terrifying. one conceals oneself standing silently beside the trunk of a tree and what there is of a reflective tendency in his nature is intensified. one shudders at the thought of the meaninglessness of life while at the same instant, and if the people of the town are his people, one loves life so intensely that tears come into the eyes. in the darkness under the roof of the grand-stand, george willard sat beside helen white and felt very keenly his own insignificance in the scheme of existence. now that he had come out of town where the presence of the people stirring about, busy with a multitude of affairs, had been so irritating, the irritation was all gone. the presence of helen renewed and refreshed him. it was as though her woman's hand was assisting him to make some minute readjustment of the machinery of his life. he began to think of the people in the town where he had always lived with something like reverence. he had reverence for helen. he wanted to love and to be loved by her, but he did not want at the moment to be confused by her womanhood. in the darkness he took hold of her hand and when she crept close put a hand on her shoulder. a wind began to blow and he shivered. with all his strength he tried to hold and to understand the mood that had come upon him. in that high place in the darkness the two oddly sensitive human atoms held each other tightly and waited. in the mind of each was the same thought. "i have come to this lonely place and here is this other," was the substance of the thing felt. in winesburg the crowded day had run itself out into the long night of the late fall. farm horses jogged away along lonely country roads pulling their portion of weary people. clerks began to bring samples of goods in off the sidewalks and lock the doors of stores. in the opera house a crowd had gathered to see a show and further down main street the fiddlers, their instruments tuned, sweated and worked to keep the feet of youth flying over a dance floor. in the darkness in the grand-stand helen white and george willard remained silent. now and then the spell that held them was broken and they turned and tried in the dim light to see into each other's eyes. they kissed but that impulse did not last. at the upper end of the fair ground a half dozen men worked over horses that had raced during the afternoon. the men had built a fire and were heating kettles of water. only their legs could be seen as they passed back and forth in the light. when the wind blew the little flames of the fire danced crazily about. george and helen arose and walked away into the darkness. they went along a path past a field of corn that had not yet been cut. the wind whispered among the dry corn blades. for a moment during the walk back into town the spell that held them was broken. when they had come to the crest of waterworks hill they stopped by a tree and george again put his hands on the girl's shoulders. she embraced him eagerly and then again they drew quickly back from that impulse. they stopped kissing and stood a little apart. mutual respect grew big in them. they were both embarrassed and to relieve their embarrassment dropped into the animalism of youth. they laughed and began to pull and haul at each other. in some way chastened and purified by the mood they had been in, they became, not man and woman, not boy and girl, but excited little animals. it was so they went down the hill. in the darkness they played like two splendid young things in a young world. once, running swiftly forward, helen tripped george and he fell. he squirmed and shouted. shaking with laughter, he roiled down the hill. helen ran after him. for just a moment she stopped in the darkness. there was no way of knowing what woman's thoughts went through her mind but, when the bottom of the hill was reached and she came up to the boy, she took his arm and walked beside him in dignified silence. for some reason they could not have explained they had both got from their silent evening together the thing needed. man or boy, woman or girl, they had for a moment taken hold of the thing that makes the mature life of men and women in the modern world possible. departure young george willard got out of bed at four in the morning. it was april and the young tree leaves were just coming out of their buds. the trees along the residence streets in winesburg are maple and the seeds are winged. when the wind blows they whirl crazily about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot. george came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a brown leather bag. his trunk was packed for departure. since two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the journey he was about to take and wondering what he would find at the end of his journey. the boy who slept in the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. his mouth was open and he snored lustily. george crept past the cot and went out into the silent deserted main street. the east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of light climbed into the sky where a few stars still shone. beyond the last house on trunion pike in winesburg there is a great stretch of open fields. the fields are owned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at evening along trunion pike in light creaking wagons. in the fields are planted berries and small fruits. in the late afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the fields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over the great flat basin of land. to look across it is like looking out across the sea. in the spring when the land is green the effect is somewhat different. the land becomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human insects toil up and down. all through his boyhood and young manhood george willard had been in the habit of walking on trunion pike. he had been in the midst of the great open place on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only the moon looked down at him; he had been there in the fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when the air vibrated with the song of insects. on the april morning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in the silence. he did walk to where the road dipped down by a little stream two miles from town and then turned and walked silently back again. when he got to main street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the stores. "hey, you george. how does it feel to be going away?" they asked. the westbound train leaves winesburg at seven forty-five in the morning. tom little is conductor. his train runs from cleveland to where it connects with a great trunk line railroad with terminals in chicago and new york. tom has what in railroad circles is called an "easy run." every evening he returns to his family. in the fall and spring he spends his sundays fishing in lake erie. he has a round red face and small blue eyes. he knows the people in the towns along his railroad better than a city man knows the people who live in his apartment building. george came down the little incline from the new willard house at seven o'clock. tom willard carried his bag. the son had become taller than the father. on the station platform everyone shook the young man's hand. more than a dozen people waited about. then they talked of their own affairs. even will henderson, who was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of bed. george was embarrassed. gertrude wilmot, a tall thin woman of fifty who worked in the winesburg post office, came along the station platform. she had never before paid any attention to george. now she stopped and put out her hand. in two words she voiced what everyone felt. "good luck," she said sharply and then turning went on her way. when the train came into the station george felt relieved. he scampered hurriedly aboard. helen white came running along main street hoping to have a parting word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see her. when the train started tom little punched his ticket, grinned and, although he knew george well and knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no comment. tom had seen a thousand george willards go out of their towns to the city. it was a commonplace enough incident with him. in the smoking car there was a man who had just invited tom to go on a fishing trip to sandusky bay. he wanted to accept the invitation and talk over details. george glanced up and down the car to be sure no one was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted his money. his mind was occupied with a desire not to appear green. almost the last words his father had said to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got to the city. "be a sharp one," tom willard had said. "keep your eyes on your money. be awake. that's the ticket. don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn." after george counted his money he looked out of the window and was surprised to see that the train was still in winesburg. the young man, going out of his town to meet the adventure of life, began to think but he did not think of anything very big or dramatic. things like his mother's death, his departure from winesburg, the uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious and larger aspects of his life did not come into his mind. he thought of little things--turk smollet wheeling boards through the main street of his town in the morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once stayed overnight at his father's hotel, butch wheeler the lamp lighter of winesburg hurrying through the streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his hand, helen white standing by a window in the winesburg post office and putting a stamp on an envelope. the young man's mind was carried away by his growing passion for dreams. one looking at him would not have thought him particularly sharp. with the recollection of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes and leaned back in the car seat. he stayed that way for a long time and when he aroused himself and again looked out of the car window the town of winesburg had disappeared and his life there had become but a background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood. transcribed by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk from the macmillan and co. edition. proofed by margaret rose price, dagny and david price. under the greenwood tree or the mellstock quire a rural painting of the dutch school by thomas hardy preface this story of the mellstock quire and its old established west-gallery musicians, with some supplementary descriptions of similar officials in two on a tower, a few crusted characters, and other places, is intended to be a fairly true picture, at first hand, of the personages, ways, and customs which were common among such orchestral bodies in the villages of fifty or sixty years ago. one is inclined to regret the displacement of these ecclesiastical bandsmen by an isolated organist (often at first a barrel-organist) or harmonium player; and despite certain advantages in point of control and accomplishment which were, no doubt, secured by installing the single artist, the change has tended to stultify the professed aims of the clergy, its direct result being to curtail and extinguish the interest of parishioners in church doings. under the old plan, from half a dozen to ten full-grown players, in addition to the numerous more or less grown-up singers, were officially occupied with the sunday routine, and concerned in trying their best to make it an artistic outcome of the combined musical taste of the congregation. with a musical executive limited, as it mostly is limited now, to the parson's wife or daughter and the school- children, or to the school-teacher and the children, an important union of interests has disappeared. the zest of these bygone instrumentalists must have been keen and staying to take them, as it did, on foot every sunday after a toilsome week, through all weathers, to the church, which often lay at a distance from their homes. they usually received so little in payment for their performances that their efforts were really a labour of love. in the parish i had in my mind when writing the present tale, the gratuities received yearly by the musicians at christmas were somewhat as follows: from the manor-house ten shillings and a supper; from the vicar ten shillings; from the farmers five shillings each; from each cottage-household one shilling; amounting altogether to not more than ten shillings a head annually--just enough, as an old executant told me, to pay for their fiddle-strings, repairs, rosin, and music-paper (which they mostly ruled themselves). their music in those days was all in their own manuscript, copied in the evenings after work, and their music-books were home-bound. it was customary to inscribe a few jigs, reels, horn-pipes, and ballads in the same book, by beginning it at the other end, the insertions being continued from front and back till sacred and secular met together in the middle, often with bizarre effect, the words of some of the songs exhibiting that ancient and broad humour which our grandfathers, and possibly grandmothers, took delight in, and is in these days unquotable. the aforesaid fiddle-strings, rosin, and music-paper were supplied by a pedlar, who travelled exclusively in such wares from parish to parish, coming to each village about every six months. tales are told of the consternation once caused among the church fiddlers when, on the occasion of their producing a new christmas anthem, he did not come to time, owing to being snowed up on the downs, and the straits they were in through having to make shift with whipcord and twine for strings. he was generally a musician himself, and sometimes a composer in a small way, bringing his own new tunes, and tempting each choir to adopt them for a consideration. some of these compositions which now lie before me, with their repetitions of lines, half-lines, and half-words, their fugues and their intermediate symphonies, are good singing still, though they would hardly be admitted into such hymn-books as are popular in the churches of fashionable society at the present time. august . under the greenwood tree was first brought out in the summer of in two volumes. the name of the story was originally intended to be, more appropriately, the mellstock quire, and this has been appended as a sub- title since the early editions, it having been thought unadvisable to displace for it the title by which the book first became known. in rereading the narrative after a long interval there occurs the inevitable reflection that the realities out of which it was spun were material for another kind of study of this little group of church musicians than is found in the chapters here penned so lightly, even so farcically and flippantly at times. but circumstances would have rendered any aim at a deeper, more essential, more transcendent handling unadvisable at the date of writing; and the exhibition of the mellstock quire in the following pages must remain the only extant one, except for the few glimpses of that perished band which i have given in verse elsewhere. t. h. april . part the first--winter chapter i: mellstock-lane to dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. at the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall. and winter, which modifies the note of such trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality. on a cold and starry christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing up a lane towards mellstock cross in the darkness of a plantation that whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. all the evidences of his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his voice as he sang in a rural cadence: "with the rose and the lily and the daffodowndilly, the lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." the lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of mellstock parish with upper mellstock and lewgate, and to his eyes, casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like the flapping of wings. within the woody pass, at a level anything lower than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. the copse-wood forming the sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes. after passing the plantation and reaching mellstock cross the white surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side. the song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the shape of "ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to lower mellstock, on the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees. "ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured. "is that thee, young dick dewy?" came from the darkness. "ay, sure, michael mail." "then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house too, as we be, and knowen us so well?" dick dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle, implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship. having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a gentleman in black cardboard. it assumed the form of a low-crowned hat, an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary shoulders. what he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of sky low enough to picture him on. shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of the parish of mellstock. they, too, had lost their rotundity with the daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested some processional design on greek or etruscan pottery. they represented the chief portion of mellstock parish choir. the first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm, and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the surface of the road. he was michael mail, the man who had hallooed to dick. the next was mr. robert penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who, though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. his features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes, denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form. the third was elias spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically. the fourth outline was joseph bowman's, who had now no distinctive appearance beyond that of a human being. finally came a weak lath-like form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if they were empty sleeves. this was thomas leaf. "where be the boys?" said dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched assembly. the eldest of the group, michael mail, cleared his throat from a great depth. "we told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on." "father and grandfather william have expected ye a little sooner. i have just been for a run round by ewelease stile and hollow hill to warm my feet." "to be sure father did! to be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap." "'od rabbit it all! never heard a word of it!" said mr. penny, gleams of delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, dick meanwhile singing parenthetically-- "the lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." "neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore bedtime?" said mail. "true, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied bowman cheerfully. this opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. soon appeared glimmering indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of upper mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church- bells ringing a christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the breeze from the direction of longpuddle and weatherbury parishes on the other side of the hills. a little wicket admitted them to the garden, and they proceeded up the path to dick's house. chapter ii: the tranter's it was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of the ridge and another at each end. the window-shutters were not yet closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with careless climbing into their boughs in later years. the walls of the dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of an old keyhole. light streamed through the cracks and joints of outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. the noise of a beetle and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding within it. the choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house and looked around to survey the condition of things. through the open doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between pantry and cellar, was dick dewy's father reuben, by vocation a "tranter," or irregular carrier. he was a stout florid man about forty years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and turning out his toes very considerably. being now occupied in bending over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the expected old comrades. the main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. this apartment contained mrs. dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children, susan, jim, bessy, and charley, graduating uniformly though at wide stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the series being separated from dick the firstborn by a nearly equal interval. some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to charley just previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. bessy was leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. mrs. dewy sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney, to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at christmas-time. "hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said reuben dewy at length, standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "how the blood do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! i was just going out to gate to hark for ye." he then carefully began to wind a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "this in the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--sansoms, stubbards, five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, michael?" (michael nodded.) "and there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard- rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails they grow, and not knowing the right name. the water-cider from 'em is as good as most people's best cider is." "ay, and of the same make too," said bowman. "'it rained when we wrung it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. but 'tis on'y an excuse. watered cider is too common among us." "yes, yes; too common it is!" said spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at the scene before him. "such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent." "come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said mrs. dewy, seeing that all except dick had paused to wipe them upon the door-mat. "i am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, susan, you run down to grammer kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger candles than these fourteens. tommy leaf, don't ye be afeard! come and sit here in the settle." this was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before he had had time to get used to his height he was higher. "hee--hee--ay!" replied leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in view as the most conspicuous members of his body. "here, mr. penny," resumed mrs. dewy, "you sit in this chair. and how's your daughter, mrs. brownjohn?" "well, i suppose i must say pretty fair." he adjusted his spectacles a quarter of an inch to the right. "but she'll be worse before she's better, 'a b'lieve." "indeed--poor soul! and how many will that make in all, four or five?" "five; they've buried three. yes, five; and she not much more than a maid yet. she do know the multiplication table onmistakable well. however, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it." mrs. dewy resigned mr. penny. "wonder where your grandfather james is?" she inquired of one of the children. "he said he'd drop in to-night." "out in fuel-house with grandfather william," said jimmy. "now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork. "reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made in this house," mrs. dewy cried from the fireplace. "i'd tap a hundred without wasting more than you do in one. such a squizzling and squirting job as 'tis in your hands! there, he always was such a clumsy man indoors." "ay, ay; i know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, ann--i know you would; two hundred, perhaps. but i can't promise. this is a' old cask, and the wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. the husbird of a feller sam lawson--that ever i should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'reub,' says he--'a always used to call me plain reub, poor old heart!--'reub,' he said, says he, 'that there cask, reub, is as good as new; yes, good as new. 'tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens, reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'" "i think i should have used the eyes that providence gave me to use afore i paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner enough not to be cheated. but 'tis like all your family was, so easy to be deceived." "that's as true as gospel of this member," said reuben. mrs. dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement of some more brown paper for the broaching operation. "ah, who can believe sellers!" said old michael mail in a carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of affairs. "no one at all," said joseph bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing with everybody. "ay," said mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as a rule, though he did now; "i knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very friendly feller 'a was too. and so one hot day as i was walking down the front street o' casterbridge, jist below the king's arms, i passed a' open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. i jist nodded to en in a friendly way as i passed, and went my way, and thought no more about it. well, next day, as i was oilen my boots by fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that i had bid for at mr. taylor's sale. the slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because i nodded to en in my friendly way; and i had to pay for 'em too. now, i hold that that was coming it very close, reuben?" "'twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice. "too close, 'twas," said reuben, in the rear of the rest. "and as to sam lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--i'll warrant, that if so be i've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, i've spent fifty, first and last. that's one of my hoops"--touching it with his elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these." "ah, sam was a man," said mr. penny, contemplatively. "sam was!" said bowman. "especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter. "good, but not religious-good," suggested mr. penny. the tranter nodded. having at last made the tap and hole quite ready, "now then, suze, bring a mug," he said. "here's luck to us, my sonnies!" the tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal shower over reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and neck of charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his father. "there 'tis again!" said mrs. dewy. "devil take the hole, the cask, and sam lawson too, that good cider should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "your thumb! lend me your thumb, michael! ram it in here, michael! i must get a bigger tap, my sonnies." "idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired charley of michael, as he continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole. "what wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!" mrs. dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "i lay a wager that he thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts of the world put together." all persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which reuben returned. the operation was then satisfactorily performed; when michael arose and stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the relief aquired. a quart or two of the beverage was then brought to table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board upon which the gaze might precipitate itself. "whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the tranter. "never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'a'd pass his life between the two, that 'a would." he stepped to the door and opened it. "father!" "ay!" rang thinly from round the corner. "here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!" a series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past, now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the dewy family appeared. chapter iii: the assembled quire william dewy--otherwise grandfather william--was now about seventy; yet an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. his was a humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and he had a firm religious faith. but to his neighbours he had no character in particular. if they saw him pass by their windows when they had been bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning him, "ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" if they saw him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "there's that poor weak-minded man dewy again! ah, he's never done much in the world either!" if he passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely thought him old william dewy. "ah, so's--here you be!--ah, michael and joseph and john--and you too, leaf! a merry christmas all! we shall have a rare log-wood fire directly, reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job i had in cleaving 'em." as he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very obstinate in holding their own. "come in, grandfather james." old james (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a visitor. he lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. he now came forward from behind grandfather william, and his stooping figure formed a well- illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. being by trade a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. he also wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. the extremely large side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner, by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals, hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. if a passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "my buttery," he said, with a pinched smile. "better try over number seventy-eight before we start, i suppose?" said william, pointing to a heap of old christmas-carol books on a side table. "wi' all my heart," said the choir generally. "number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. i can mind him ever since i was growing up a hard boy-chap." "but he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said michael. "he is; though i've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en and tear en all to linnit. ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no denying that." "the first line is well enough," said mr. spinks; "but when you come to 'o, thou man,' you make a mess o't." "we'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel. half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; i'll warn it." "'od rabbit it all!" said mr. penny, interrupting with a flash of his spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a large side-pocket. "if so be i hadn't been as scatter-brained and thirtingill as a chiel, i should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a boot as i cam up along. whatever is coming to me i really can't estimate at all!" "the brain has its weaknesses," murmured mr. spinks, waving his head ominously. mr. spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a night-school, and always spoke up to that level. "well, i must call with en the first thing to-morrow. and i'll empt my pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, mrs. dewy." he drew forth a last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. the eyes of three or four followed it. "well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose this last was made for? it was made for geoffrey day's father, over at yalbury wood. ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! well, when 'a died, i used the last for geoffrey, and have ever since, though a little doctoring was wanted to make it do. yes, a very queer natured last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly. "now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a boy. now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. the horseshoe cam full-butt on this point, you see. and so i've just been over to geoffrey's, to know if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair i'm making." during the latter part of this speech, mr. penny's left hand wandered towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim of the vessel. "however, i was going to say," continued penny, putting down the cup, "i ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though i suppose the first thing to-morrow will do." he now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating. "the new schoolmistress's!" "ay, no less, miss fancy day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever i see, and just husband-high." "never geoffrey's daughter fancy?" said bowman, as all glances present converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them. "yes, sure," resumed mr. penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. you knowed his daughter was in training?" "strange, isn't it, for her to be here christmas night, master penny?" "yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve." "i know how she comes here--so i do!" chirruped one of the children. "why?" dick inquired, with subtle interest. "pa'son maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's what she's come for!" "and that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. i don't care to mend boots i don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father always comes to me." there, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. a character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a nature and a bias. dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's permission. "now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of god's creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and- sixpence in casterbridge. to you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses." "i don't doubt there's a likeness, master penny--a mild likeness--a fantastical likeness," said spinks. "but i han't got imagination enough to see it, perhaps." mr. penny adjusted his spectacles. "now, i'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. you used to know johnson the dairyman, william?" "ay, sure; i did." "well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his paddock, in front o' parkmaze pool. i was a-bearing across towards bloom's end, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it just there had gone in flop over his head. men looked at en; women looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. he was covered wi' a sheet; but i catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they carried en along. 'i don't care what name that man went by,' i said, in my way, 'but he's john woodward's brother; i can swear to the family voot.' at that very moment up comes john woodward, weeping and teaving, 'i've lost my brother! i've lost my brother!'" "only to think of that!" said mrs. dewy. "'tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said mr. spinks. "'tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. i know little, 'tis true--i say no more; but show me a man's foot, and i'll tell you that man's heart." "you must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the tranter. "well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned mr. spinks. "a man lives and learns. maybe i've read a leaf or two in my time. i don't wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe i have." "yes, i know," said michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of young folks' brains. learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, master spinks." "i make no boast, though i may have read and thought a little; and i know--it may be from much perusing, but i make no boast--that by the time a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground. i am over forty-five." mr. spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished, nobody's head ever could be. "talk of knowing people by their feet!" said reuben. "rot me, my sonnies, then, if i can tell what a man is from all his members put together, oftentimes." "but still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather william absently, moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather james's nose was exactly in a right line with william's eye and the mouth of a miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "by the way," he continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? if her ear is as fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her." "what about her face?" said young dewy. "well, as to that," mr. spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly gainsay. a very good pink face, as far as that do go. still, only a face, when all is said and done." "come, come, elias spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi' her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel. chapter iv: going the rounds shortly after ten o'clock the singing-boys arrived at the tranter's house, which was invariably the place of meeting, and preparations were made for the start. the older men and musicians wore thick coats, with stiff perpendicular collars, and coloured handkerchiefs wound round and round the neck till the end came to hand, over all which they just showed their ears and noses, like people looking over a wall. the remainder, stalwart ruddy men and boys, were dressed mainly in snow-white smock-frocks, embroidered upon the shoulders and breasts, in ornamental forms of hearts, diamonds, and zigzags. the cider-mug was emptied for the ninth time, the music-books were arranged, and the pieces finally decided upon. the boys in the meantime put the old horn-lanterns in order, cut candles into short lengths to fit the lanterns; and, a thin fleece of snow having fallen since the early part of the evening, those who had no leggings went to the stable and wound wisps of hay round their ankles to keep the insidious flakes from the interior of their boots. mellstock was a parish of considerable acreage, the hamlets composing it lying at a much greater distance from each other than is ordinarily the case. hence several hours were consumed in playing and singing within hearing of every family, even if but a single air were bestowed on each. there was lower mellstock, the main village; half a mile from this were the church and vicarage, and a few other houses, the spot being rather lonely now, though in past centuries it had been the most thickly-populated quarter of the parish. a mile north-east lay the hamlet of upper mellstock, where the tranter lived; and at other points knots of cottages, besides solitary farmsteads and dairies. old william dewy, with the violoncello, played the bass; his grandson dick the treble violin; and reuben and michael mail the tenor and second violins respectively. the singers consisted of four men and seven boys, upon whom devolved the task of carrying and attending to the lanterns, and holding the books open for the players. directly music was the theme, old william ever and instinctively came to the front. "now mind, neighbours," he said, as they all went out one by one at the door, he himself holding it ajar and regarding them with a critical face as they passed, like a shepherd counting out his sheep. "you two counter- boys, keep your ears open to michael's fingering, and don't ye go straying into the treble part along o' dick and his set, as ye did last year; and mind this especially when we be in 'arise, and hail.' billy chimlen, don't you sing quite so raving mad as you fain would; and, all o' ye, whatever ye do, keep from making a great scuffle on the ground when we go in at people's gates; but go quietly, so as to strike up all of a sudden, like spirits." "farmer ledlow's first?" "farmer ledlow's first; the rest as usual." "and, voss," said the tranter terminatively, "you keep house here till about half-past two; then heat the metheglin and cider in the warmer you'll find turned up upon the copper; and bring it wi' the victuals to church-hatch, as th'st know." * * * * * just before the clock struck twelve they lighted the lanterns and started. the moon, in her third quarter, had risen since the snowstorm; but the dense accumulation of snow-cloud weakened her power to a faint twilight, which was rather pervasive of the landscape than traceable to the sky. the breeze had gone down, and the rustle of their feet and tones of their speech echoed with an alert rebound from every post, boundary-stone, and ancient wall they passed, even where the distance of the echo's origin was less than a few yards. beyond their own slight noises nothing was to be heard, save the occasional bark of foxes in the direction of yalbury wood, or the brush of a rabbit among the grass now and then, as it scampered out of their way. most of the outlying homesteads and hamlets had been visited by about two o'clock; they then passed across the outskirts of a wooded park toward the main village, nobody being at home at the manor. pursuing no recognized track, great care was necessary in walking lest their faces should come in contact with the low-hanging boughs of the old lime-trees, which in many spots formed dense over-growths of interlaced branches. "times have changed from the times they used to be," said mail, regarding nobody can tell what interesting old panoramas with an inward eye, and letting his outward glance rest on the ground, because it was as convenient a position as any. "people don't care much about us now! i've been thinking we must be almost the last left in the county of the old string players? barrel-organs, and the things next door to 'em that you blow wi' your foot, have come in terribly of late years." "ay!" said bowman, shaking his head; and old william, on seeing him, did the same thing. "more's the pity," replied another. "time was--long and merry ago now!--when not one of the varmits was to be heard of; but it served some of the quires right. they should have stuck to strings as we did, and kept out clarinets, and done away with serpents. if you'd thrive in musical religion, stick to strings, says i." "strings be safe soul-lifters, as far as that do go," said mr. spinks. "yet there's worse things than serpents," said mr. penny. "old things pass away, 'tis true; but a serpent was a good old note: a deep rich note was the serpent." "clar'nets, however, be bad at all times," said michael mail. "one christmas--years agone now, years--i went the rounds wi' the weatherbury quire. 'twas a hard frosty night, and the keys of all the clar'nets froze--ah, they did freeze!--so that 'twas like drawing a cork every time a key was opened; and the players o' 'em had to go into a hedger-and-ditcher's chimley-corner, and thaw their clar'nets every now and then. an icicle o' spet hung down from the end of every man's clar'net a span long; and as to fingers--well, there, if ye'll believe me, we had no fingers at all, to our knowing." "i can well bring back to my mind," said mr. penny, "what i said to poor joseph ryme (who took the treble part in chalk-newton church for two-and- forty year) when they thought of having clar'nets there. 'joseph,' i said, says i, 'depend upon't, if so be you have them tooting clar'nets you'll spoil the whole set-out. clar'nets were not made for the service of the lard; you can see it by looking at 'em,' i said. and what came o't? why, souls, the parson set up a barrel-organ on his own account within two years o' the time i spoke, and the old quire went to nothing." "as far as look is concerned," said the tranter, "i don't for my part see that a fiddle is much nearer heaven than a clar'net. 'tis further off. there's always a rakish, scampish twist about a fiddle's looks that seems to say the wicked one had a hand in making o'en; while angels be supposed to play clar'nets in heaven, or som'at like 'em, if ye may believe picters." "robert penny, you was in the right," broke in the eldest dewy. "they should ha' stuck to strings. your brass-man is a rafting dog--well and good; your reed-man is a dab at stirring ye--well and good; your drum-man is a rare bowel-shaker--good again. but i don't care who hears me say it, nothing will spak to your heart wi' the sweetness o' the man of strings!" "strings for ever!" said little jimmy. "strings alone would have held their ground against all the new comers in creation." ("true, true!" said bowman.) "but clarinets was death." ("death they was!" said mr. penny.) "and harmonions," william continued in a louder voice, and getting excited by these signs of approval, "harmonions and barrel-organs" ("ah!" and groans from spinks) "be miserable--what shall i call 'em?--miserable--" "sinners," suggested jimmy, who made large strides like the men, and did not lag behind like the other little boys. "miserable dumbledores!" "right, william, and so they be--miserable dumbledores!" said the choir with unanimity. by this time they were crossing to a gate in the direction of the school, which, standing on a slight eminence at the junction of three ways, now rose in unvarying and dark flatness against the sky. the instruments were retuned, and all the band entered the school enclosure, enjoined by old william to keep upon the grass. "number seventy-eight," he softly gave out as they formed round in a semicircle, the boys opening the lanterns to get a clearer light, and directing their rays on the books. then passed forth into the quiet night an ancient and time-worn hymn, embodying a quaint christianity in words orally transmitted from father to son through several generations down to the present characters, who sang them out right earnestly: "remember adam's fall, o thou man: remember adam's fall from heaven to hell. remember adam's fall; how he hath condemn'd all in hell perpetual there for to dwell. remember god's goodnesse, o thou man: remember god's goodnesse, his promise made. remember god's goodnesse; he sent his son sinlesse our ails for to redress; be not afraid! in bethlehem he was born, o thou man: in bethlehem he was born, for mankind's sake. in bethlehem he was born, christmas-day i' the morn: our saviour thought no scorn our faults to take. give thanks to god alway, o thou man: give thanks to god alway with heart-most joy. give thanks to god alway on this our joyful day: let all men sing and say, holy, holy!" having concluded the last note, they listened for a minute or two, but found that no sound issued from the schoolhouse. "four breaths, and then, 'o, what unbounded goodness!' number fifty-nine," said william. this was duly gone through, and no notice whatever seemed to be taken of the performance. "good guide us, surely 'tisn't a' empty house, as befell us in the year thirty-nine and forty-three!" said old dewy. "perhaps she's jist come from some musical city, and sneers at our doings?" the tranter whispered. "'od rabbit her!" said mr. penny, with an annihilating look at a corner of the school chimney, "i don't quite stomach her, if this is it. your plain music well done is as worthy as your other sort done bad, a' b'lieve, souls; so say i." "four breaths, and then the last," said the leader authoritatively. "'rejoice, ye tenants of the earth,' number sixty-four." at the close, waiting yet another minute, he said in a clear loud voice, as he had said in the village at that hour and season for the previous forty years--"a merry christmas to ye!" chapter v: the listeners when the expectant stillness consequent upon the exclamation had nearly died out of them all, an increasing light made itself visible in one of the windows of the upper floor. it came so close to the blind that the exact position of the flame could be perceived from the outside. remaining steady for an instant, the blind went upward from before it, revealing to thirty concentrated eyes a young girl, framed as a picture by the window architrave, and unconsciously illuminating her countenance to a vivid brightness by a candle she held in her left hand, close to her face, her right hand being extended to the side of the window. she was wrapped in a white robe of some kind, whilst down her shoulders fell a twining profusion of marvellously rich hair, in a wild disorder which proclaimed it to be only during the invisible hours of the night that such a condition was discoverable. her bright eyes were looking into the grey world outside with an uncertain expression, oscillating between courage and shyness, which, as she recognized the semicircular group of dark forms gathered before her, transformed itself into pleasant resolution. opening the window, she said lightly and warmly--"thank you, singers, thank you!" together went the window quickly and quietly, and the blind started downward on its return to its place. her fair forehead and eyes vanished; her little mouth; her neck and shoulders; all of her. then the spot of candlelight shone nebulously as before; then it moved away. "how pretty!" exclaimed dick dewy. "if she'd been rale wexwork she couldn't ha' been comelier," said michael mail. "as near a thing to a spiritual vision as ever i wish to see!" said tranter dewy. "o, sich i never, never see!" said leaf fervently. all the rest, after clearing their throats and adjusting their hats, agreed that such a sight was worth singing for. "now to farmer shiner's, and then replenish our insides, father?" said the tranter. "wi' all my heart," said old william, shouldering his bass-viol. farmer shiner's was a queer lump of a house, standing at the corner of a lane that ran into the principal thoroughfare. the upper windows were much wider than they were high, and this feature, together with a broad bay-window where the door might have been expected, gave it by day the aspect of a human countenance turned askance, and wearing a sly and wicked leer. to-night nothing was visible but the outline of the roof upon the sky. the front of this building was reached, and the preliminaries arranged as usual. "four breaths, and number thirty-two, 'behold the morning star,'" said old william. they had reached the end of the second verse, and the fiddlers were doing the up bow-stroke previously to pouring forth the opening chord of the third verse, when, without a light appearing or any signal being given, a roaring voice exclaimed-- "shut up, woll 'ee! don't make your blaring row here! a feller wi' a headache enough to split his skull likes a quiet night!" slam went the window. "hullo, that's a' ugly blow for we!" said the tranter, in a keenly appreciative voice, and turning to his companions. "finish the carrel, all who be friends of harmony!" commanded old william; and they continued to the end. "four breaths, and number nineteen!" said william firmly. "give it him well; the quire can't be insulted in this manner!" a light now flashed into existence, the window opened, and the farmer stood revealed as one in a terrific passion. "drown en!--drown en!" the tranter cried, fiddling frantically. "play fortissimy, and drown his spaking!" "fortissimy!" said michael mail, and the music and singing waxed so loud that it was impossible to know what mr. shiner had said, was saying, or was about to say; but wildly flinging his arms and body about in the forms of capital xs and ys, he appeared to utter enough invectives to consign the whole parish to perdition. "very onseemly--very!" said old william, as they retired. "never such a dreadful scene in the whole round o' my carrel practice--never! and he a churchwarden!" "only a drap o' drink got into his head," said the tranter. "man's well enough when he's in his religious frame. he's in his worldly frame now. must ask en to our bit of a party to-morrow night, i suppose, and so put en in humour again. we bear no mortal man ill-will." they now crossed mellstock bridge, and went along an embowered path beside the froom towards the church and vicarage, meeting voss with the hot mead and bread-and-cheese as they were approaching the churchyard. this determined them to eat and drink before proceeding further, and they entered the church and ascended to the gallery. the lanterns were opened, and the whole body sat round against the walls on benches and whatever else was available, and made a hearty meal. in the pauses of conversation there could be heard through the floor overhead a little world of undertones and creaks from the halting clockwork, which never spread further than the tower they were born in, and raised in the more meditative minds a fancy that here lay the direct pathway of time. having done eating and drinking, they again tuned the instruments, and once more the party emerged into the night air. "where's dick?" said old dewy. every man looked round upon every other man, as if dick might have been transmuted into one or the other; and then they said they didn't know. "well now, that's what i call very nasty of master dicky, that i do," said michael mail. "he've clinked off home-along, depend upon't," another suggested, though not quite believing that he had. "dick!" exclaimed the tranter, and his voice rolled sonorously forth among the yews. he suspended his muscles rigid as stone whilst listening for an answer, and finding he listened in vain, turned to the assemblage. "the treble man too! now if he'd been a tenor or counter chap, we might ha' contrived the rest o't without en, you see. but for a quire to lose the treble, why, my sonnies, you may so well lose your . . . " the tranter paused, unable to mention an image vast enough for the occasion. "your head at once," suggested mr. penny. the tranter moved a pace, as if it were puerile of people to complete sentences when there were more pressing things to be done. "was ever heard such a thing as a young man leaving his work half done and turning tail like this!" "never," replied bowman, in a tone signifying that he was the last man in the world to wish to withhold the formal finish required of him. "i hope no fatal tragedy has overtook the lad!" said his grandfather. "o no," replied tranter dewy placidly. "wonder where he's put that there fiddle of his. why that fiddle cost thirty shillings, and good words besides. somewhere in the damp, without doubt; that instrument will be unglued and spoilt in ten minutes--ten! ay, two." "what in the name o' righteousness can have happened?" said old william, more uneasily. "perhaps he's drownded!" leaving their lanterns and instruments in the belfry they retraced their steps along the waterside track. "a strapping lad like dick d'know better than let anything happen onawares," reuben remarked. "there's sure to be some poor little scram reason for't staring us in the face all the while." he lowered his voice to a mysterious tone: "neighbours, have ye noticed any sign of a scornful woman in his head, or suchlike?" "not a glimmer of such a body. he's as clear as water yet." "and dicky said he should never marry," cried jimmy, "but live at home always along wi' mother and we!" "ay, ay, my sonny; every lad has said that in his time." they had now again reached the precincts of mr. shiner's, but hearing nobody in that direction, one or two went across to the schoolhouse. a light was still burning in the bedroom, and though the blind was down, the window had been slightly opened, as if to admit the distant notes of the carollers to the ears of the occupant of the room. opposite the window, leaning motionless against a beech tree, was the lost man, his arms folded, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the illuminated lattice. "why, dick, is that thee? what b'st doing here?" dick's body instantly flew into a more rational attitude, and his head was seen to turn east and west in the gloom, as if endeavouring to discern some proper answer to that question; and at last he said in rather feeble accents--"nothing, father." "th'st take long enough time about it then, upon my body," said the tranter, as they all turned anew towards the vicarage. "i thought you hadn't done having snap in the gallery," said dick. "why, we've been traypsing and rambling about, looking everywhere, and thinking you'd done fifty deathly things, and here have you been at nothing at all!" "the stupidness lies in that point of it being nothing at all," murmured mr. spinks. the vicarage front was their next field of operation, and mr. maybold, the lately-arrived incumbent, duly received his share of the night's harmonies. it was hoped that by reason of his profession he would have been led to open the window, and an extra carol in quick time was added to draw him forth. but mr. maybold made no stir. "a bad sign!" said old william, shaking his head. however, at that same instant a musical voice was heard exclaiming from inner depths of bedclothes--"thanks, villagers!" "what did he say?" asked bowman, who was rather dull of hearing. bowman's voice, being therefore loud, had been heard by the vicar within. "i said, 'thanks, villagers!'" cried the vicar again. "oh, we didn't hear 'ee the first time!" cried bowman. "now don't for heaven's sake spoil the young man's temper by answering like that!" said the tranter. "you won't do that, my friends!" the vicar shouted. "well to be sure, what ears!" said mr. penny in a whisper. "beats any horse or dog in the parish, and depend upon't, that's a sign he's a proper clever chap." "we shall see that in time," said the tranter. old william, in his gratitude for such thanks from a comparatively new inhabitant, was anxious to play all the tunes over again; but renounced his desire on being reminded by reuben that it would be best to leave well alone. "now putting two and two together," the tranter continued, as they went their way over the hill, and across to the last remaining houses; "that is, in the form of that young female vision we zeed just now, and this young tenor-voiced parson, my belief is she'll wind en round her finger, and twist the pore young feller about like the figure of --that she will so, my sonnies." chapter vi: christmas morning the choir at last reached their beds, and slept like the rest of the parish. dick's slumbers, through the three or four hours remaining for rest, were disturbed and slight; an exhaustive variation upon the incidents that had passed that night in connection with the school-window going on in his brain every moment of the time. in the morning, do what he would--go upstairs, downstairs, out of doors, speak of the wind and weather, or what not--he could not refrain from an unceasing renewal, in imagination, of that interesting enactment. tilted on the edge of one foot he stood beside the fireplace, watching his mother grilling rashers; but there was nothing in grilling, he thought, unless the vision grilled. the limp rasher hung down between the bars of the gridiron like a cat in a child's arms; but there was nothing in similes, unless she uttered them. he looked at the daylight shadows of a yellow hue, dancing with the firelight shadows in blue on the whitewashed chimney corner, but there was nothing in shadows. "perhaps the new young wom--sch--miss fancy day will sing in church with us this morning," he said. the tranter looked a long time before he replied, "i fancy she will; and yet i fancy she won't." dick implied that such a remark was rather to be tolerated than admired; though deliberateness in speech was known to have, as a rule, more to do with the machinery of the tranter's throat than with the matter enunciated. they made preparations for going to church as usual; dick with extreme alacrity, though he would not definitely consider why he was so religious. his wonderful nicety in brushing and cleaning his best light boots had features which elevated it to the rank of an art. every particle and speck of last week's mud was scraped and brushed from toe and heel; new blacking from the packet was carefully mixed and made use of, regardless of expense. a coat was laid on and polished; then another coat for increased blackness; and lastly a third, to give the perfect and mirror-like jet which the hoped-for rencounter demanded. it being christmas-day, the tranter prepared himself with sunday particularity. loud sousing and snorting noises were heard to proceed from a tub in the back quarters of the dwelling, proclaiming that he was there performing his great sunday wash, lasting half-an-hour, to which his washings on working-day mornings were mere flashes in the pan. vanishing into the outhouse with a large brown towel, and the above-named bubblings and snortings being carried on for about twenty minutes, the tranter would appear round the edge of the door, smelling like a summer fog, and looking as if he had just narrowly escaped a watery grave with the loss of much of his clothes, having since been weeping bitterly till his eyes were red; a crystal drop of water hanging ornamentally at the bottom of each ear, one at the tip of his nose, and others in the form of spangles about his hair. after a great deal of crunching upon the sanded stone floor by the feet of father, son, and grandson as they moved to and fro in these preparations, the bass-viol and fiddles were taken from their nook, and the strings examined and screwed a little above concert-pitch, that they might keep their tone when the service began, to obviate the awkward contingency of having to retune them at the back of the gallery during a cough, sneeze, or amen--an inconvenience which had been known to arise in damp wintry weather. the three left the door and paced down mellstock-lane and across the ewe- lease, bearing under their arms the instruments in faded green-baize bags, and old brown music-books in their hands; dick continually finding himself in advance of the other two, and the tranter moving on with toes turned outwards to an enormous angle. at the foot of an incline the church became visible through the north gate, or 'church hatch,' as it was called here. seven agile figures in a clump were observable beyond, which proved to be the choristers waiting; sitting on an altar-tomb to pass the time, and letting their heels dangle against it. the musicians being now in sight, the youthful party scampered off and rattled up the old wooden stairs of the gallery like a regiment of cavalry; the other boys of the parish waiting outside and observing birds, cats, and other creatures till the vicar entered, when they suddenly subsided into sober church-goers, and passed down the aisle with echoing heels. the gallery of mellstock church had a status and sentiment of its own. a stranger there was regarded with a feeling altogether differing from that of the congregation below towards him. banished from the nave as an intruder whom no originality could make interesting, he was received above as a curiosity that no unfitness could render dull. the gallery, too, looked down upon and knew the habits of the nave to its remotest peculiarity, and had an extensive stock of exclusive information about it; whilst the nave knew nothing of the gallery folk, as gallery folk, beyond their loud-sounding minims and chest notes. such topics as that the clerk was always chewing tobacco except at the moment of crying amen; that he had a dust-hole in his pew; that during the sermon certain young daughters of the village had left off caring to read anything so mild as the marriage service for some years, and now regularly studied the one which chronologically follows it; that a pair of lovers touched fingers through a knot-hole between their pews in the manner ordained by their great exemplars, pyramus and thisbe; that mrs. ledlow, the farmer's wife, counted her money and reckoned her week's marketing expenses during the first lesson--all news to those below--were stale subjects here. old william sat in the centre of the front row, his violoncello between his knees and two singers on each hand. behind him, on the left, came the treble singers and dick; and on the right the tranter and the tenors. farther back was old mail with the altos and supernumeraries. but before they had taken their places, and whilst they were standing in a circle at the back of the gallery practising a psalm or two, dick cast his eyes over his grandfather's shoulder, and saw the vision of the past night enter the porch-door as methodically as if she had never been a vision at all. a new atmosphere seemed suddenly to be puffed into the ancient edifice by her movement, which made dick's body and soul tingle with novel sensations. directed by shiner, the churchwarden, she proceeded to the small aisle on the north side of the chancel, a spot now allotted to a throng of sunday-school girls, and distinctly visible from the gallery-front by looking under the curve of the furthermost arch on that side. before this moment the church had seemed comparatively empty--now it was thronged; and as miss fancy rose from her knees and looked around her for a permanent place in which to deposit herself--finally choosing the remotest corner--dick began to breathe more freely the warm new air she had brought with her; to feel rushings of blood, and to have impressions that there was a tie between her and himself visible to all the congregation. ever afterwards the young man could recollect individually each part of the service of that bright christmas morning, and the trifling occurrences which took place as its minutes slowly drew along; the duties of that day dividing themselves by a complete line from the services of other times. the tunes they that morning essayed remained with him for years, apart from all others; also the text; also the appearance of the layer of dust upon the capitals of the piers; that the holly-bough in the chancel archway was hung a little out of the centre--all the ideas, in short, that creep into the mind when reason is only exercising its lowest activity through the eye. by chance or by fate, another young man who attended mellstock church on that christmas morning had towards the end of the service the same instinctive perception of an interesting presence, in the shape of the same bright maiden, though his emotion reached a far less developed stage. and there was this difference, too, that the person in question was surprised at his condition, and sedulously endeavoured to reduce himself to his normal state of mind. he was the young vicar, mr. maybold. the music on christmas mornings was frequently below the standard of church-performances at other times. the boys were sleepy from the heavy exertions of the night; the men were slightly wearied; and now, in addition to these constant reasons, there was a dampness in the atmosphere that still further aggravated the evil. their strings, from the recent long exposure to the night air, rose whole semitones, and snapped with a loud twang at the most silent moment; which necessitated more retiring than ever to the back of the gallery, and made the gallery throats quite husky with the quantity of coughing and hemming required for tuning in. the vicar looked cross. when the singing was in progress there was suddenly discovered to be a strong and shrill reinforcement from some point, ultimately found to be the school-girls' aisle. at every attempt it grew bolder and more distinct. at the third time of singing, these intrusive feminine voices were as mighty as those of the regular singers; in fact, the flood of sound from this quarter assumed such an individuality, that it had a time, a key, almost a tune of its own, surging upwards when the gallery plunged downwards, and the reverse. now this had never happened before within the memory of man. the girls, like the rest of the congregation, had always been humble and respectful followers of the gallery; singing at sixes and sevens if without gallery leaders; never interfering with the ordinances of these practised artists--having no will, union, power, or proclivity except it was given them from the established choir enthroned above them. a good deal of desperation became noticeable in the gallery throats and strings, which continued throughout the musical portion of the service. directly the fiddles were laid down, mr. penny's spectacles put in their sheath, and the text had been given out, an indignant whispering began. "did ye hear that, souls?" mr. penny said, in a groaning breath. "brazen-faced hussies!" said bowman. "true; why, they were every note as loud as we, fiddles and all, if not louder!" "fiddles and all!" echoed bowman bitterly. "shall anything saucier be found than united 'ooman?" mr. spinks murmured. "what i want to know is," said the tranter (as if he knew already, but that civilization required the form of words), "what business people have to tell maidens to sing like that when they don't sit in a gallery, and never have entered one in their lives? that's the question, my sonnies." "'tis the gallery have got to sing, all the world knows," said mr. penny. "why, souls, what's the use o' the ancients spending scores of pounds to build galleries if people down in the lowest depths of the church sing like that at a moment's notice?" "really, i think we useless ones had better march out of church, fiddles and all!" said mr. spinks, with a laugh which, to a stranger, would have sounded mild and real. only the initiated body of men he addressed could understand the horrible bitterness of irony that lurked under the quiet words 'useless ones,' and the ghastliness of the laughter apparently so natural. "never mind! let 'em sing too--'twill make it all the louder--hee, hee!" said leaf. "thomas leaf, thomas leaf! where have you lived all your life?" said grandfather william sternly. the quailing leaf tried to look as if he had lived nowhere at all. "when all's said and done, my sonnies," reuben said, "there'd have been no real harm in their singing if they had let nobody hear 'em, and only jined in now and then." "none at all," said mr. penny. "but though i don't wish to accuse people wrongfully, i'd say before my lord judge that i could hear every note o' that last psalm come from 'em as much as from us--every note as if 'twas their own." "know it! ah, i should think i did know it!" mr. spinks was heard to observe at this moment, without reference to his fellow players--shaking his head at some idea he seemed to see floating before him, and smiling as if he were attending a funeral at the time. "ah, do i or don't i know it!" no one said "know what?" because all were aware from experience that what he knew would declare itself in process of time. "i could fancy last night that we should have some trouble wi' that young man," said the tranter, pending the continuance of spinks's speech, and looking towards the unconscious mr. maybold in the pulpit. "i fancy," said old william, rather severely, "i fancy there's too much whispering going on to be of any spiritual use to gentle or simple." then folding his lips and concentrating his glance on the vicar, he implied that none but the ignorant would speak again; and accordingly there was silence in the gallery, mr. spinks's telling speech remaining for ever unspoken. dick had said nothing, and the tranter little, on this episode of the morning; for mrs. dewy at breakfast expressed it as her intention to invite the youthful leader of the culprits to the small party it was customary with them to have on christmas night--a piece of knowledge which had given a particular brightness to dick's reflections since he had received it. and in the tranter's slightly-cynical nature, party feeling was weaker than in the other members of the choir, though friendliness and faithful partnership still sustained in him a hearty earnestness on their account. chapter vii: the tranter's party during the afternoon unusual activity was seen to prevail about the precincts of tranter dewy's house. the flagstone floor was swept of dust, and a sprinkling of the finest yellow sand from the innermost stratum of the adjoining sand-pit lightly scattered thereupon. then were produced large knives and forks, which had been shrouded in darkness and grease since the last occasion of the kind, and bearing upon their sides, "shear-steel, warranted," in such emphatic letters of assurance, that the warranter's name was not required as further proof, and not given. the key was left in the tap of the cider-barrel, instead of being carried in a pocket. and finally the tranter had to stand up in the room and let his wife wheel him round like a turnstile, to see if anything discreditable was visible in his appearance. "stand still till i've been for the scissors," said mrs. dewy. the tranter stood as still as a sentinel at the challenge. the only repairs necessary were a trimming of one or two whiskers that had extended beyond the general contour of the mass; a like trimming of a slightly-frayed edge visible on his shirt-collar; and a final tug at a grey hair--to all of which operations he submitted in resigned silence, except the last, which produced a mild "come, come, ann," by way of expostulation. "really, reuben, 'tis quite a disgrace to see such a man," said mrs. dewy, with the severity justifiable in a long-tried companion, giving him another turn round, and picking several of smiler's hairs from the shoulder of his coat. reuben's thoughts seemed engaged elsewhere, and he yawned. "and the collar of your coat is a shame to behold--so plastered with dirt, or dust, or grease, or something. why, wherever could you have got it?" "'tis my warm nater in summer-time, i suppose. i always did get in such a heat when i bustle about." "ay, the dewys always were such a coarse-skinned family. there's your brother bob just as bad--as fat as a porpoise--wi' his low, mean, 'how'st do, ann?' whenever he meets me. i'd 'how'st do' him indeed! if the sun only shines out a minute, there be you all streaming in the face--i never see!" "if i be hot week-days, i must be hot sundays." "if any of the girls should turn after their father 'twill be a bad look- out for 'em, poor things! none of my family were sich vulgar sweaters, not one of 'em. but, lord-a-mercy, the dewys! i don't know how ever i cam' into such a family!" "your woman's weakness when i asked ye to jine us. that's how it was i suppose." but the tranter appeared to have heard some such words from his wife before, and hence his answer had not the energy it might have shown if the inquiry had possessed the charm of novelty. "you never did look so well in a pair o' trousers as in them," she continued in the same unimpassioned voice, so that the unfriendly criticism of the dewy family seemed to have been more normal than spontaneous. "such a cheap pair as 'twas too. as big as any man could wish to have, and lined inside, and double-lined in the lower parts, and an extra piece of stiffening at the bottom. and 'tis a nice high cut that comes up right under your armpits, and there's enough turned down inside the seams to make half a pair more, besides a piece of cloth left that will make an honest waistcoat--all by my contriving in buying the stuff at a bargain, and having it made up under my eye. it only shows what may be done by taking a little trouble, and not going straight to the rascally tailors." the discourse was cut short by the sudden appearance of charley on the scene, with a face and hands of hideous blackness, and a nose like a guttering candle. why, on that particularly cleanly afternoon, he should have discovered that the chimney-crook and chain from which the hams were suspended should have possessed more merits and general interest as playthings than any other articles in the house, is a question for nursing mothers to decide. however, the humour seemed to lie in the result being, as has been seen, that any given player with these articles was in the long-run daubed with soot. the last that was seen of charley by daylight after this piece of ingenuity was when in the act of vanishing from his father's presence round the corner of the house--looking back over his shoulder with an expression of great sin on his face, like cain as the outcast in bible pictures. * * * * * the guests had all assembled, and the tranter's party had reached that degree of development which accords with ten o'clock p.m. in rural assemblies. at that hour the sound of a fiddle in process of tuning was heard from the inner pantry. "that's dick," said the tranter. "that lad's crazy for a jig." "dick! now i cannot--really, i cannot have any dancing at all till christmas-day is out," said old william emphatically. "when the clock ha' done striking twelve, dance as much as ye like." "well, i must say there's reason in that, william," said mrs. penny. "if you do have a party on christmas-night, 'tis only fair and honourable to the sky-folk to have it a sit-still party. jigging parties be all very well on the devil's holidays; but a jigging party looks suspicious now. o yes; stop till the clock strikes, young folk--so say i." it happened that some warm mead accidentally got into mr. spinks's head about this time. "dancing," he said, "is a most strengthening, livening, and courting movement, 'specially with a little beverage added! and dancing is good. but why disturb what is ordained, richard and reuben, and the company zhinerally? why, i ask, as far as that do go?" "then nothing till after twelve," said william. though reuben and his wife ruled on social points, religious questions were mostly disposed of by the old man, whose firmness on this head quite counterbalanced a certain weakness in his handling of domestic matters. the hopes of the younger members of the household were therefore relegated to a distance of one hour and three-quarters--a result that took visible shape in them by a remote and listless look about the eyes--the singing of songs being permitted in the interim. at five minutes to twelve the soft tuning was again heard in the back quarters; and when at length the clock had whizzed forth the last stroke, dick appeared ready primed, and the instruments were boldly handled; old william very readily taking the bass-viol from its accustomed nail, and touching the strings as irreligiously as could be desired. the country-dance called the 'triumph, or follow my lover,' was the figure with which they opened. the tranter took for his partner mrs. penny, and mrs. dewy was chosen by mr. penny, who made so much of his limited height by a judicious carriage of the head, straightening of the back, and important flashes of his spectacle-glasses, that he seemed almost as tall as the tranter. mr. shiner, age about thirty-five, farmer and church-warden, a character principally composed of a crimson stare, vigorous breath, and a watch-chain, with a mouth hanging on a dark smile but never smiling, had come quite willingly to the party, and showed a wondrous obliviousness of all his antics on the previous night. but the comely, slender, prettily-dressed prize fancy day fell to dick's lot, in spite of some private machinations of the farmer, for the reason that mr. shiner, as a richer man, had shown too much assurance in asking the favour, whilst dick had been duly courteous. we gain a good view of our heroine as she advances to her place in the ladies' line. she belonged to the taller division of middle height. flexibility was her first characteristic, by which she appeared to enjoy the most easeful rest when she was in gliding motion. her dark eyes--arched by brows of so keen, slender, and soft a curve, that they resembled nothing so much as two slurs in music--showed primarily a bright sparkle each. this was softened by a frequent thoughtfulness, yet not so frequent as to do away, for more than a few minutes at a time, with a certain coquettishness; which in its turn was never so decided as to banish honesty. her lips imitated her brows in their clearly-cut outline and softness of bend; and her nose was well shaped--which is saying a great deal, when it is remembered that there are a hundred pretty mouths and eyes for one pretty nose. add to this, plentiful knots of dark-brown hair, a gauzy dress of white, with blue facings; and the slightest idea may be gained of the young maiden who showed, amidst the rest of the dancing-ladies, like a flower among vegetables. and so the dance proceeded. mr. shiner, according to the interesting rule laid down, deserted his own partner, and made off down the middle with this fair one of dick's--the pair appearing from the top of the room like two persons tripping down a lane to be married. dick trotted behind with what was intended to be a look of composure, but which was, in fact, a rather silly expression of feature--implying, with too much earnestness, that such an elopement could not be tolerated. then they turned and came back, when dick grew more rigid around his mouth, and blushed with ingenuous ardour as he joined hands with the rival and formed the arch over his lady's head; which presumably gave the figure its name; relinquishing her again at setting to partners, when mr. shiner's new chain quivered in every link, and all the loose flesh upon the tranter--who here came into action again--shook like jelly. mrs. penny, being always rather concerned for her personal safety when she danced with the tranter, fixed her face to a chronic smile of timidity the whole time it lasted--a peculiarity which filled her features with wrinkles, and reduced her eyes to little straight lines like hyphens, as she jigged up and down opposite him; repeating in her own person not only his proper movements, but also the minor flourishes which the richness of the tranter's imagination led him to introduce from time to time--an imitation which had about it something of slavish obedience, not unmixed with fear. the ear-rings of the ladies now flung themselves wildly about, turning violent summersaults, banging this way and that, and then swinging quietly against the ears sustaining them. mrs. crumpler--a heavy woman, who, for some reason which nobody ever thought worth inquiry, danced in a clean apron--moved so smoothly through the figure that her feet were never seen; conveying to imaginative minds the idea that she rolled on castors. minute after minute glided by, and the party reached the period when ladies' back-hair begins to look forgotten and dissipated; when a perceptible dampness makes itself apparent upon the faces even of delicate girls--a ghastly dew having for some time rained from the features of their masculine partners; when skirts begin to be torn out of their gathers; when elderly people, who have stood up to please their juniors, begin to feel sundry small tremblings in the region of the knees, and to wish the interminable dance was at jericho; when (at country parties of the thorough sort) waistcoats begin to be unbuttoned, and when the fiddlers' chairs have been wriggled, by the frantic bowing of their occupiers, to a distance of about two feet from where they originally stood. fancy was dancing with mr. shiner. dick knew that fancy, by the law of good manners, was bound to dance as pleasantly with one partner as with another; yet he could not help suggesting to himself that she need not have put quite so much spirit into her steps, nor smiled quite so frequently whilst in the farmer's hands. "i'm afraid you didn't cast off," said dick mildly to mr. shiner, before the latter man's watch-chain had done vibrating from a recent whirl. fancy made a motion of accepting the correction; but her partner took no notice, and proceeded with the next movement, with an affectionate bend towards her. "that shiner's too fond of her," the young man said to himself as he watched them. they came to the top again, fancy smiling warmly towards her partner, and went to their places. "mr. shiner, you didn't cast off," said dick, for want of something else to demolish him with; casting off himself, and being put out at the farmer's irregularity. "perhaps i sha'n't cast off for any man," said mr. shiner. "i think you ought to, sir." dick's partner, a young lady of the name of lizzy--called lizz for short--tried to mollify. "i can't say that i myself have much feeling for casting off," she said. "nor i," said mrs. penny, following up the argument, "especially if a friend and neighbour is set against it. not but that 'tis a terrible tasty thing in good hands and well done; yes, indeed, so say i." "all i meant was," said dick, rather sorry that he had spoken correctingly to a guest, "that 'tis in the dance; and a man has hardly any right to hack and mangle what was ordained by the regular dance-maker, who, i daresay, got his living by making 'em, and thought of nothing else all his life." "i don't like casting off: then very well; i cast off for no dance-maker that ever lived." dick now appeared to be doing mental arithmetic, the act being really an effort to present to himself, in an abstract form, how far an argument with a formidable rival ought to be carried, when that rival was his mother's guest. the dead-lock was put an end to by the stamping arrival up the middle of the tranter, who, despising minutiae on principle, started a theme of his own. "i assure you, neighbours," he said, "the heat of my frame no tongue can tell!" he looked around and endeavoured to give, by a forcible gaze of self-sympathy, some faint idea of the truth. mrs. dewy formed one of the next couple. "yes," she said, in an auxiliary tone, "reuben always was such a hot man." mrs. penny implied the species of sympathy that such a class of affliction required, by trying to smile and to look grieved at the same time. "if he only walk round the garden of a sunday morning, his shirt-collar is as limp as no starch at all," continued mrs. dewy, her countenance lapsing parenthetically into a housewifely expression of concern at the reminiscence. "come, come, you women-folk; 'tis hands across--come, come!" said the tranter; and the conversation ceased for the present. chapter viii: they dance more wildly dick had at length secured fancy for that most delightful of country-dances, opening with six-hands-round. "before we begin," said the tranter, "my proposal is, that 'twould be a right and proper plan for every mortal man in the dance to pull off his jacket, considering the heat." "such low notions as you have, reuben! nothing but strip will go down with you when you are a-dancing. such a hot man as he is!" "well, now, look here, my sonnies," he argued to his wife, whom he often addressed in the plural masculine for economy of epithet merely; "i don't see that. you dance and get hot as fire; therefore you lighten your clothes. isn't that nature and reason for gentle and simple? if i strip by myself and not necessary, 'tis rather pot-housey i own; but if we stout chaps strip one and all, why, 'tis the native manners of the country, which no man can gainsay? hey--what did you say, my sonnies?" "strip we will!" said the three other heavy men who were in the dance; and their coats were accordingly taken off and hung in the passage, whence the four sufferers from heat soon reappeared, marching in close column, with flapping shirt-sleeves, and having, as common to them all, a general glance of being now a match for any man or dancer in england or ireland. dick, fearing to lose ground in fancy's good opinion, retained his coat like the rest of the thinner men; and mr. shiner did the same from superior knowledge. and now a further phase of revelry had disclosed itself. it was the time of night when a guest may write his name in the dust upon the tables and chairs, and a bluish mist pervades the atmosphere, becoming a distinct halo round the candles; when people's nostrils, wrinkles, and crevices in general, seem to be getting gradually plastered up; when the very fiddlers as well as the dancers get red in the face, the dancers having advanced further still towards incandescence, and entered the cadaverous phase; the fiddlers no longer sit down, but kick back their chairs and saw madly at the strings, with legs firmly spread and eyes closed, regardless of the visible world. again and again did dick share his love's hand with another man, and wheel round; then, more delightfully, promenade in a circle with her all to himself, his arm holding her waist more firmly each time, and his elbow getting further and further behind her back, till the distance reached was rather noticeable; and, most blissful, swinging to places shoulder to shoulder, her breath curling round his neck like a summer zephyr that had strayed from its proper date. threading the couples one by one they reached the bottom, when there arose in dick's mind a minor misery lest the tune should end before they could work their way to the top again, and have anew the same exciting run down through. dick's feelings on actually reaching the top in spite of his doubts were supplemented by a mortal fear that the fiddling might even stop at this supreme moment; which prompted him to convey a stealthy whisper to the far-gone musicians, to the effect that they were not to leave off till he and his partner had reached the bottom of the dance once more, which remark was replied to by the nearest of those convulsed and quivering men by a private nod to the anxious young man between two semiquavers of the tune, and a simultaneous "all right, ay, ay," without opening the eyes. fancy was now held so closely that dick and she were practically one person. the room became to dick like a picture in a dream; all that he could remember of it afterwards being the look of the fiddlers going to sleep, as humming-tops sleep, by increasing their motion and hum, together with the figures of grandfather james and old simon crumpler sitting by the chimney-corner, talking and nodding in dumb-show, and beating the air to their emphatic sentences like people near a threshing machine. the dance ended. "piph-h-h-h!" said tranter dewy, blowing out his breath in the very finest stream of vapour that a man's lips could form. "a regular tightener, that one, sonnies!" he wiped his forehead, and went to the cider and ale mugs on the table. "well!" said mrs. penny, flopping into a chair, "my heart haven't been in such a thumping state of uproar since i used to sit up on old midsummer- eves to see who my husband was going to be." "and that's getting on for a good few years ago now, from what i've heard you tell," said the tranter, without lifting his eyes from the cup he was filling. being now engaged in the business of handing round refreshments, he was warranted in keeping his coat off still, though the other heavy men had resumed theirs. "and a thing i never expected would come to pass, if you'll believe me, came to pass then," continued mrs. penny. "ah, the first spirit ever i see on a midsummer-eve was a puzzle to me when he appeared, a hard puzzle, so say i!" "so i should have fancied," said elias spinks. "yes," said mrs. penny, throwing her glance into past times, and talking on in a running tone of complacent abstraction, as if a listener were not a necessity. "yes; never was i in such a taking as on that midsummer- eve! i sat up, quite determined to see if john wildway was going to marry me or no. i put the bread-and-cheese and beer quite ready, as the witch's book ordered, and i opened the door, and i waited till the clock struck twelve, my nerves all alive and so strained that i could feel every one of 'em twitching like bell-wires. yes, sure! and when the clock had struck, lo and behold, i could see through the door a little small man in the lane wi' a shoemaker's apron on." here mr. penny stealthily enlarged himself half an inch. "now, john wildway," mrs. penny continued, "who courted me at that time, was a shoemaker, you see, but he was a very fair-sized man, and i couldn't believe that any such a little small man had anything to do wi' me, as anybody might. but on he came, and crossed the threshold--not john, but actually the same little small man in the shoemaker's apron--" "you needn't be so mighty particular about little and small!" said her husband. "in he walks, and down he sits, and o my goodness me, didn't i flee upstairs, body and soul hardly hanging together! well, to cut a long story short, by-long and by-late, john wildway and i had a miff and parted; and lo and behold, the coming man came! penny asked me if i'd go snacks with him, and afore i knew what i was about a'most, the thing was done." "i've fancied you never knew better in your life; but i mid be mistaken," said mr. penny in a murmur. after mrs. penny had spoken, there being no new occupation for her eyes, she still let them stay idling on the past scenes just related, which were apparently visible to her in the centre of the room. mr. penny's remark received no reply. during this discourse the tranter and his wife might have been observed standing in an unobtrusive corner, in mysterious closeness to each other, a just perceptible current of intelligence passing from each to each, which had apparently no relation whatever to the conversation of their guests, but much to their sustenance. a conclusion of some kind having at length been drawn, the palpable confederacy of man and wife was once more obliterated, the tranter marching off into the pantry, humming a tune that he couldn't quite recollect, and then breaking into the words of a song of which he could remember about one line and a quarter. mrs. dewy spoke a few words about preparations for a bit of supper. that elder portion of the company which loved eating and drinking put on a look to signify that till this moment they had quite forgotten that it was customary to expect suppers on these occasions; going even further than this politeness of feature, and starting irrelevant subjects, the exceeding flatness and forced tone of which rather betrayed their object. the younger members said they were quite hungry, and that supper would be delightful though it was so late. good luck attended dick's love-passes during the meal. he sat next fancy, and had the thrilling pleasure of using permanently a glass which had been taken by fancy in mistake; of letting the outer edge of the sole of his boot touch the lower verge of her skirt; and to add to these delights the cat, which had lain unobserved in her lap for several minutes, crept across into his own, touching him with fur that had touched her hand a moment before. there were, besides, some little pleasures in the shape of helping her to vegetable she didn't want, and when it had nearly alighted on her plate taking it across for his own use, on the plea of waste not, want not. he also, from time to time, sipped sweet sly glances at her profile; noticing the set of her head, the curve of her throat, and other artistic properties of the lively goddess, who the while kept up a rather free, not to say too free, conversation with mr. shiner sitting opposite; which, after some uneasy criticism, and much shifting of argument backwards and forwards in dick's mind, he decided not to consider of alarming significance. "a new music greets our ears now," said miss fancy, alluding, with the sharpness that her position as village sharpener demanded, to the contrast between the rattle of knives and forks and the late notes of the fiddlers. "ay; and i don't know but what 'tis sweeter in tone when you get above forty," said the tranter; "except, in faith, as regards father there. never such a mortal man as he for tunes. they do move his soul; don't 'em, father?" the eldest dewy smiled across from his distant chair an assent to reuben's remark. "spaking of being moved in soul," said mr. penny, "i shall never forget the first time i heard the 'dead march.' 'twas at poor corp'l nineman's funeral at casterbridge. it fairly made my hair creep and fidget about like a vlock of sheep--ah, it did, souls! and when they had done, and the last trump had sounded, and the guns was fired over the dead hero's grave, a' icy-cold drop o' moist sweat hung upon my forehead, and another upon my jawbone. ah, 'tis a very solemn thing!" "well, as to father in the corner there," the tranter said, pointing to old william, who was in the act of filling his mouth; "he'd starve to death for music's sake now, as much as when he was a boy-chap of fifteen." "truly, now," said michael mail, clearing the corner of his throat in the manner of a man who meant to be convincing; "there's a friendly tie of some sort between music and eating." he lifted the cup to his mouth, and drank himself gradually backwards from a perpendicular position to a slanting one, during which time his looks performed a circuit from the wall opposite him to the ceiling overhead. then clearing the other corner of his throat: "once i was a-setting in the little kitchen of the dree mariners at casterbridge, having a bit of dinner, and a brass band struck up in the street. such a beautiful band as that were! i was setting eating fried liver and lights, i well can mind--ah, i was! and to save my life, i couldn't help chawing to the tune. band played six-eight time; six-eight chaws i, willynilly. band plays common; common time went my teeth among the liver and lights as true as a hair. beautiful 'twere! ah, i shall never forget that there band!" "that's as tuneful a thing as ever i heard of," said grandfather james, with the absent gaze which accompanies profound criticism. "i don't like michael's tuneful stories then," said mrs. dewy. "they are quite coarse to a person o' decent taste." old michael's mouth twitched here and there, as if he wanted to smile but didn't know where to begin, which gradually settled to an expression that it was not displeasing for a nice woman like the tranter's wife to correct him. "well, now," said reuben, with decisive earnestness, "that sort o' coarse touch that's so upsetting to ann's feelings is to my mind a recommendation; for it do always prove a story to be true. and for the same reason, i like a story with a bad moral. my sonnies, all true stories have a coarse touch or a bad moral, depend upon't. if the story- tellers could ha' got decency and good morals from true stories, who'd ha' troubled to invent parables?" saying this the tranter arose to fetch a new stock of cider, ale, mead, and home-made wines. mrs. dewy sighed, and appended a remark (ostensibly behind her husband's back, though that the words should reach his ears distinctly was understood by both): "such a man as dewy is! nobody do know the trouble i have to keep that man barely respectable. and did you ever hear too--just now at supper-time--talking about 'taties' with michael in such a work-folk way. well, 'tis what i was never brought up to! with our family 'twas never less than 'taters,' and very often 'pertatoes' outright; mother was so particular and nice with us girls there was no family in the parish that kept them selves up more than we." the hour of parting came. fancy could not remain for the night, because she had engaged a woman to wait up for her. she disappeared temporarily from the flagging party of dancers, and then came downstairs wrapped up and looking altogether a different person from whom she had been hitherto, in fact (to dick's sadness and disappointment), a woman somewhat reserved and of a phlegmatic temperament--nothing left in her of the romping girl that she had seemed but a short quarter-hour before, who had not minded the weight of dick's hand upon her waist, nor shirked the purlieus of the mistletoe. "what a difference!" thought the young man--hoary cynic pro tem. "what a miserable deceiving difference between the manners of a maid's life at dancing times and at others! look at this lovely fancy! through the whole past evening touchable, squeezeable--even kissable! for whole half- hours i held her so chose to me that not a sheet of paper could have been shipped between us; and i could feel her heart only just outside my own, her life beating on so close to mine, that i was aware of every breath in it. a flit is made upstairs--a hat and a cloak put on--and i no more dare to touch her than--" thought failed him, and he returned to realities. but this was an endurable misery in comparison with what followed. mr. shiner and his watch-chain, taking the intrusive advantage that ardent bachelors who are going homeward along the same road as a pretty young woman always do take of that circumstance, came forward to assure fancy--with a total disregard of dick's emotions, and in tones which were certainly not frigid--that he (shiner) was not the man to go to bed before seeing his lady fair safe within her own door--not he, nobody should say he was that;--and that he would not leave her side an inch till the thing was done--drown him if he would. the proposal was assented to by miss day, in dick's foreboding judgment, with one degree--or at any rate, an appreciable fraction of a degree--of warmth beyond that required by a disinterested desire for protection from the dangers of the night. all was over; and dick surveyed the chair she had last occupied, looking now like a setting from which the gem has been torn. there stood her glass, and the romantic teaspoonful of elder wine at the bottom that she couldn't drink by trying ever so hard, in obedience to the mighty arguments of the tranter (his hand coming down upon her shoulder the while, like a nasmyth hammer); but the drinker was there no longer. there were the nine or ten pretty little crumbs she had left on her plate; but the eater was no more seen. there seemed a disagreeable closeness of relationship between himself and the members of his family, now that they were left alone again face to face. his father seemed quite offensive for appearing to be in just as high spirits as when the guests were there; and as for grandfather james (who had not yet left), he was quite fiendish in being rather glad they were gone. "really," said the tranter, in a tone of placid satisfaction, "i've had so little time to attend to myself all the evenen, that i mean to enjoy a quiet meal now! a slice of this here ham--neither too fat nor too lean--so; and then a drop of this vinegar and pickles--there, that's it--and i shall be as fresh as a lark again! and to tell the truth, my sonny, my inside has been as dry as a lime-basket all night." "i like a party very well once in a while," said mrs. dewy, leaving off the adorned tones she had been bound to use throughout the evening, and returning to the natural marriage voice; "but, lord, 'tis such a sight of heavy work next day! what with the dirty plates, and knives and forks, and dust and smother, and bits kicked off your furniture, and i don't know what all, why a body could a'most wish there were no such things as christmases . . . ah-h dear!" she yawned, till the clock in the corner had ticked several beats. she cast her eyes round upon the displaced, dust-laden furniture, and sank down overpowered at the sight. "well, i be getting all right by degrees, thank the lord for't!" said the tranter cheerfully through a mangled mass of ham and bread, without lifting his eyes from his plate, and chopping away with his knife and fork as if he were felling trees. "ann, you may as well go on to bed at once, and not bide there making such sleepy faces; you look as long-favoured as a fiddle, upon my life, ann. there, you must be wearied out, 'tis true. i'll do the doors and draw up the clock; and you go on, or you'll be as white as a sheet to-morrow." "ay; i don't know whether i shan't or no." the matron passed her hand across her eyes to brush away the film of sleep till she got upstairs. dick wondered how it was that when people were married they could be so blind to romance; and was quite certain that if he ever took to wife that dear impossible fancy, he and she would never be so dreadfully practical and undemonstrative of the passion as his father and mother were. the most extraordinary thing was, that all the fathers and mothers he knew were just as undemonstrative as his own. chapter ix: dick calls at the school the early days of the year drew on, and fancy, having spent the holiday weeks at home, returned again to mellstock. every spare minute of the week following her return was used by dick in accidentally passing the schoolhouse in his journeys about the neighbourhood; but not once did she make herself visible. a handkerchief belonging to her had been providentially found by his mother in clearing the rooms the day after that of the dance; and by much contrivance dick got it handed over to him, to leave with her at any time he should be near the school after her return. but he delayed taking the extreme measure of calling with it lest, had she really no sentiment of interest in him, it might be regarded as a slightly absurd errand, the reason guessed; and the sense of the ludicrous, which was rather keen in her, do his dignity considerable injury in her eyes; and what she thought of him, even apart from the question of her loving, was all the world to him now. but the hour came when the patience of love at twenty-one could endure no longer. one saturday he approached the school with a mild air of indifference, and had the satisfaction of seeing the object of his quest at the further end of her garden, trying, by the aid of a spade and gloves, to root a bramble that had intruded itself there. he disguised his feelings from some suspicious-looking cottage-windows opposite by endeavouring to appear like a man in a great hurry of business, who wished to leave the handkerchief and have done with such trifling errands. this endeavour signally failed; for on approaching the gate he found it locked to keep the children, who were playing 'cross-dadder' in the front, from running into her private grounds. she did not see him; and he could only think of one thing to be done, which was to shout her name. "miss day!" the words were uttered with a jerk and a look meant to imply to the cottages opposite that he was now simply one who liked shouting as a pleasant way of passing his time, without any reference to persons in gardens. the name died away, and the unconscious miss day continued digging and pulling as before. he screwed himself up to enduring the cottage-windows yet more stoically, and shouted again. fancy took no notice whatever. he shouted the third time, with desperate vehemence, turning suddenly about and retiring a little distance, as if it were by no means for his own pleasure that he had come. this time she heard him, came down the garden, and entered the school at the back. footsteps echoed across the interior, the door opened, and three-quarters of the blooming young schoolmistress's face and figure stood revealed before him; a slice on her left-hand side being cut off by the edge of the door. having surveyed and recognized him, she came to the gate. at sight of him had the pink of her cheeks increased, lessened, or did it continue to cover its normal area of ground? it was a question meditated several hundreds of times by her visitor in after-hours--the meditation, after wearying involutions, always ending in one way, that it was impossible to say. "your handkerchief: miss day: i called with." he held it out spasmodically and awkwardly. "mother found it: under a chair." "o, thank you very much for bringing it, mr. dewy. i couldn't think where i had dropped it." now dick, not being an experienced lover--indeed, never before having been engaged in the practice of love-making at all, except in a small schoolboy way--could not take advantage of the situation; and out came the blunder, which afterwards cost him so many bitter moments and a sleepless night:- "good morning, miss day." "good morning, mr. dewy." the gate was closed; she was gone; and dick was standing outside, unchanged in his condition from what he had been before he called. of course the angel was not to blame--a young woman living alone in a house could not ask him indoors unless she had known him better--he should have kept her outside before floundering into that fatal farewell. he wished that before he called he had realized more fully than he did the pleasure of being about to call; and turned away. part the second--spring chapter i: passing by the school it followed that, as the spring advanced, dick walked abroad much more frequently than had hitherto been usual with him, and was continually finding that his nearest way to or from home lay by the road which skirted the garden of the school. the first-fruits of his perseverance were that, on turning the angle on the nineteenth journey by that track, he saw miss fancy's figure, clothed in a dark-gray dress, looking from a high open window upon the crown of his hat. the friendly greeting resulting from this rencounter was considered so valuable an elixir that dick passed still oftener; and by the time he had almost trodden a little path under the fence where never a path was before, he was rewarded with an actual meeting face to face on the open road before her gate. this brought another meeting, and another, fancy faintly showing by her bearing that it was a pleasure to her of some kind to see him there; but the sort of pleasure she derived, whether exultation at the hope her exceeding fairness inspired, or the true feeling which was alone dick's concern, he could not anyhow decide, although he meditated on her every little movement for hours after it was made. chapter ii: a meeting of the quire it was the evening of a fine spring day. the descending sun appeared as a nebulous blaze of amber light, its outline being lost in cloudy masses hanging round it, like wild locks of hair. the chief members of mellstock parish choir were standing in a group in front of mr. penny's workshop in the lower village. they were all brightly illuminated, and each was backed up by a shadow as long as a steeple; the lowness of the source of light rendering the brims of their hats of no use at all as a protection to the eyes. mr. penny's was the last house in that part of the parish, and stood in a hollow by the roadside so that cart-wheels and horses' legs were about level with the sill of his shop-window. this was low and wide, and was open from morning till evening, mr. penny himself being invariably seen working inside, like a framed portrait of a shoemaker by some modern moroni. he sat facing the road, with a boot on his knees and the awl in his hand, only looking up for a moment as he stretched out his arms and bent forward at the pull, when his spectacles flashed in the passer's face with a shine of flat whiteness, and then returned again to the boot as usual. rows of lasts, small and large, stout and slender, covered the wall which formed the background, in the extreme shadow of which a kind of dummy was seen sitting, in the shape of an apprentice with a string tied round his hair (probably to keep it out of his eyes). he smiled at remarks that floated in from without, but was never known to answer them in mr. penny's presence. outside the window the upper-leather of a wellington-boot was usually hung, pegged to a board as if to dry. no sign was over his door; in fact--as with old banks and mercantile houses--advertising in any shape was scorned, and it would have been felt as beneath his dignity to paint up, for the benefit of strangers, the name of an establishment whose trade came solely by connection based on personal respect. his visitors now came and stood on the outside of his window, sometimes leaning against the sill, sometimes moving a pace or two backwards and forwards in front of it. they talked with deliberate gesticulations to mr. penny, enthroned in the shadow of the interior. "i do like a man to stick to men who be in the same line o' life--o' sundays, anyway--that i do so." "'tis like all the doings of folk who don't know what a day's work is, that's what i say." "my belief is the man's not to blame; 'tis she--she's the bitter weed!" "no, not altogether. he's a poor gawk-hammer. look at his sermon yesterday." "his sermon was well enough, a very good guessable sermon, only he couldn't put it into words and speak it. that's all was the matter wi' the sermon. he hadn't been able to get it past his pen." "well--ay, the sermon might have been good; for, 'tis true, the sermon of old eccl'iastes himself lay in eccl'iastes's ink-bottle afore he got it out." mr. penny, being in the act of drawing the last stitch tight, could afford time to look up and throw in a word at this point. "he's no spouter--that must be said, 'a b'lieve." "'tis a terrible muddle sometimes with the man, as far as spout do go," said spinks. "well, we'll say nothing about that," the tranter answered; "for i don't believe 'twill make a penneth o' difference to we poor martels here or hereafter whether his sermons be good or bad, my sonnies." mr. penny made another hole with his awl, pushed in the thread, and looked up and spoke again at the extension of arms. "'tis his goings-on, souls, that's what it is." he clenched his features for an herculean addition to the ordinary pull, and continued, "the first thing he done when he came here was to be hot and strong about church business." "true," said spinks; "that was the very first thing he done." mr. penny, having now been offered the ear of the assembly, accepted it, ceased stitching, swallowed an unimportant quantity of air as if it were a pill, and continued: "the next thing he do do is to think about altering the church, until he found 'twould be a matter o' cost and what not, and then not to think no more about it." "true: that was the next thing he done." "and the next thing was to tell the young chaps that they were not on no account to put their hats in the christening font during service." "true." "and then 'twas this, and then 'twas that, and now 'tis--" words were not forcible enough to conclude the sentence, and mr. penny gave a huge pull to signify the concluding word. "now 'tis to turn us out of the quire neck and crop," said the tranter after an interval of half a minute, not by way of explaining the pause and pull, which had been quite understood, but as a means of keeping the subject well before the meeting. mrs. penny came to the door at this point in the discussion. like all good wives, however much she was inclined to play the tory to her husband's whiggism, and vice versa, in times of peace, she coalesced with him heartily enough in time of war. "it must be owned he's not all there," she replied in a general way to the fragments of talk she had heard from indoors. "far below poor mr. grinham" (the late vicar). "ay, there was this to be said for he, that you were quite sure he'd never come mumbudgeting to see ye, just as you were in the middle of your work, and put you out with his fuss and trouble about ye." "never. but as for this new mr. maybold, though he mid be a very well- intending party in that respect, he's unbearable; for as to sifting your cinders, scrubbing your floors, or emptying your slops, why, you can't do it. i assure you i've not been able to empt them for several days, unless i throw 'em up the chimley or out of winder; for as sure as the sun you meet him at the door, coming to ask how you are, and 'tis such a confusing thing to meet a gentleman at the door when ye are in the mess o' washing." "'tis only for want of knowing better, poor gentleman," said the tranter. "his meaning's good enough. ay, your pa'son comes by fate: 'tis heads or tails, like pitch-halfpenny, and no choosing; so we must take en as he is, my sonnies, and thank god he's no worse, i suppose." "i fancy i've seen him look across at miss day in a warmer way than christianity asked for," said mrs. penny musingly; "but i don't quite like to say it." "o no; there's nothing in that," said grandfather william. "if there's nothing, we shall see nothing," mrs. penny replied, in the tone of a woman who might possibly have private opinions still. "ah, mr. grinham was the man!" said bowman. "why, he never troubled us wi' a visit from year's end to year's end. you might go anywhere, do anything: you'd be sure never to see him." "yes, he was a right sensible pa'son," said michael. "he never entered our door but once in his life, and that was to tell my poor wife--ay, poor soul, dead and gone now, as we all shall!--that as she was such a' old aged person, and lived so far from the church, he didn't at all expect her to come any more to the service." "and 'a was a very jinerous gentleman about choosing the psalms and hymns o' sundays. 'confound ye,' says he, 'blare and scrape what ye will, but don't bother me!'" "and he was a very honourable man in not wanting any of us to come and hear him if we were all on-end for a jaunt or spree, or to bring the babies to be christened if they were inclined to squalling. there's good in a man's not putting a parish to unnecessary trouble." "and there's this here man never letting us have a bit o' peace; but keeping on about being good and upright till 'tis carried to such a pitch as i never see the like afore nor since!" "no sooner had he got here than he found the font wouldn't hold water, as it hadn't for years off and on; and when i told him that mr. grinham never minded it, but used to spet upon his vinger and christen 'em just as well, 'a said, 'good heavens! send for a workman immediate. what place have i come to!' which was no compliment to us, come to that." "still, for my part," said old william, "though he's arrayed against us, i like the hearty borussnorus ways of the new pa'son." "you, ready to die for the quire," said bowman reproachfully, "to stick up for the quire's enemy, william!" "nobody will feel the loss of our church-work so much as i," said the old man firmly; "that you d'all know. i've a-been in the quire man and boy ever since i was a chiel of eleven. but for all that 'tisn't in me to call the man a bad man, because i truly and sincerely believe en to be a good young feller." some of the youthful sparkle that used to reside there animated william's eye as he uttered the words, and a certain nobility of aspect was also imparted to him by the setting sun, which gave him a titanic shadow at least thirty feet in length, stretching away to the east in outlines of imposing magnitude, his head finally terminating upon the trunk of a grand old oak-tree. "mayble's a hearty feller enough," the tranter replied, "and will spak to you be you dirty or be you clane. the first time i met en was in a drong, and though 'a didn't know me no more than the dead, 'a passed the time of day. 'd'ye do?' he said, says he, nodding his head. 'a fine day.' then the second time i met en was full-buff in town street, when my breeches were tore into a long strent by getting through a copse of thorns and brimbles for a short cut home-along; and not wanting to disgrace the man by spaking in that state, i fixed my eye on the weathercock to let en pass me as a stranger. but no: 'how d'ye do, reuben?' says he, right hearty, and shook my hand. if i'd been dressed in silver spangles from top to toe, the man couldn't have been civiller." at this moment dick was seen coming up the village-street, and they turned and watched him. chapter iii: a turn in the discussion "i'm afraid dick's a lost man," said the tranter. "what?--no!" said mail, implying by his manner that it was a far commoner thing for his ears to report what was not said than that his judgment should be at fault. "ay," said the tranter, still gazing at dick's unconscious advance. "i don't at all like what i see! there's too many o' them looks out of the winder without noticing anything; too much shining of boots; too much peeping round corners; too much looking at the clock; telling about clever things she did till you be sick of it; and then upon a hint to that effect a horrible silence about her. i've walked the path once in my life and know the country, neighbours; and dick's a lost man!" the tranter turned a quarter round and smiled a smile of miserable satire at the setting new moon, which happened to catch his eye. the others became far too serious at this announcement to allow them to speak; and they still regarded dick in the distance. "'twas his mother's fault," the tranter continued, "in asking the young woman to our party last christmas. when i eyed the blue frock and light heels o' the maid, i had my thoughts directly. 'god bless thee, dicky my sonny,' i said to myself; 'there's a delusion for thee!'" "they seemed to be rather distant in manner last sunday, i thought?" mail tentatively observed, as became one who was not a member of the family. "ay, that's a part of the zickness. distance belongs to it, slyness belongs to it, queerest things on earth belongs to it! there, 'tmay as well come early as late s'far as i know. the sooner begun, the sooner over; for come it will." "the question i ask is," said mr. spinks, connecting into one thread the two subjects of discourse, as became a man learned in rhetoric, and beating with his hand in a way which signified that the manner rather than the matter of his speech was to be observed, "how did mr. maybold know she could play the organ? you know we had it from her own lips, as far as lips go, that she has never, first or last, breathed such a thing to him; much less that she ever would play." in the midst of this puzzle dick joined the party, and the news which had caused such a convulsion among the ancient musicians was unfolded to him. "well," he said, blushing at the allusion to miss day, "i know by some words of hers that she has a particular wish not to play, because she is a friend of ours; and how the alteration comes, i don't know." "now, this is my plan," said the tranter, reviving the spirit of the discussion by the infusion of new ideas, as was his custom--"this is my plan; if you don't like it, no harm's done. we all know one another very well, don't we, neighbours?" that they knew one another very well was received as a statement which, though familiar, should not be omitted in introductory speeches. "then i say this"--and the tranter in his emphasis slapped down his hand on mr. spinks's shoulder with a momentum of several pounds, upon which mr. spinks tried to look not in the least startled--"i say that we all move down-along straight as a line to pa'son mayble's when the clock has gone six to-morrow night. there we one and all stand in the passage, then one or two of us go in and spak to en, man and man; and say, 'pa'son mayble, every tradesman d'like to have his own way in his workshop, and mellstock church is yours. instead of turning us out neck and crop, let us stay on till christmas, and we'll gie way to the young woman, mr. mayble, and make no more ado about it. and we shall always be quite willing to touch our hats when we meet ye, mr. mayble, just as before.' that sounds very well? hey?" "proper well, in faith, reuben dewy." "and we won't sit down in his house; 'twould be looking too familiar when only just reconciled?" "no need at all to sit down. just do our duty man and man, turn round, and march out--he'll think all the more of us for it." "i hardly think leaf had better go wi' us?" said michael, turning to leaf and taking his measure from top to bottom by the eye. "he's so terrible silly that he might ruin the concern." "he don't want to go much; do ye, thomas leaf?" said william. "hee-hee! no; i don't want to. only a teeny bit!" "i be mortal afeard, leaf, that you'll never be able to tell how many cuts d'take to sharpen a spar," said mail. "i never had no head, never! that's how it happened to happen, hee-hee!" they all assented to this, not with any sense of humiliating leaf by disparaging him after an open confession, but because it was an accepted thing that leaf didn't in the least mind having no head, that deficiency of his being an unimpassioned matter of parish history. "but i can sing my treble!" continued thomas leaf, quite delighted at being called a fool in such a friendly way; "i can sing my treble as well as any maid, or married woman either, and better! and if jim had lived, i should have had a clever brother! to-morrow is poor jim's birthday. he'd ha' been twenty-six if he'd lived till to-morrow." "you always seem very sorry for jim," said old william musingly. "ah! i do. such a stay to mother as he'd always ha' been! she'd never have had to work in her old age if he had continued strong, poor jim!" "what was his age when 'a died?" "four hours and twenty minutes, poor jim. 'a was born as might be at night; and 'a didn't last as might be till the morning. no, 'a didn't last. mother called en jim on the day that would ha' been his christening day if he had lived; and she's always thinking about en. you see he died so very young." "well, 'twas rather youthful," said michael. "now to my mind that woman is very romantical on the matter o' children?" said the tranter, his eye sweeping his audience. "ah, well she mid be," said leaf. "she had twelve regular one after another, and they all, except myself, died very young; either before they was born or just afterwards." "pore feller, too. i suppose th'st want to come wi' us?" the tranter murmured. "well, leaf, you shall come wi' us as yours is such a melancholy family," said old william rather sadly. "i never see such a melancholy family as that afore in my life," said reuben. "there's leaf's mother, poor woman! every morning i see her eyes mooning out through the panes of glass like a pot-sick winder-flower; and as leaf sings a very high treble, and we don't know what we should do without en for upper g, we'll let en come as a trate, poor feller." "ay, we'll let en come, 'a b'lieve," said mr. penny, looking up, as the pull happened to be at that moment. "now," continued the tranter, dispersing by a new tone of voice these digressions about leaf; "as to going to see the pa'son, one of us might call and ask en his meaning, and 'twould be just as well done; but it will add a bit of flourish to the cause if the quire waits on him as a body. then the great thing to mind is, not for any of our fellers to be nervous; so before starting we'll one and all come to my house and have a rasher of bacon; then every man-jack het a pint of cider into his inside; then we'll warm up an extra drop wi' some mead and a bit of ginger; every one take a thimbleful--just a glimmer of a drop, mind ye, no more, to finish off his inner man--and march off to pa'son mayble. why, sonnies, a man's not himself till he is fortified wi' a bit and a drop? we shall be able to look any gentleman in the face then without shrink or shame." mail recovered from a deep meditation and downward glance into the earth in time to give a cordial approval to this line of action, and the meeting adjourned. chapter iv: the interview with the vicar at six o'clock the next day, the whole body of men in the choir emerged from the tranter's door, and advanced with a firm step down the lane. this dignity of march gradually became obliterated as they went on, and by the time they reached the hill behind the vicarage a faint resemblance to a flock of sheep might have been discerned in the venerable party. a word from the tranter, however, set them right again; and as they descended the hill, the regular tramp, tramp, tramp of the united feet was clearly audible from the vicarage garden. at the opening of the gate there was another short interval of irregular shuffling, caused by a rather peculiar habit the gate had, when swung open quickly, of striking against the bank and slamming back into the opener's face. "now keep step again, will ye?" said the tranter. "it looks better, and more becomes the high class of arrant which has brought us here." thus they advanced to the door. at reuben's ring the more modest of the group turned aside, adjusted their hats, and looked critically at any shrub that happened to lie in the line of vision; endeavouring thus to give a person who chanced to look out of the windows the impression that their request, whatever it was going to be, was rather a casual thought occurring whilst they were inspecting the vicar's shrubbery and grass-plot than a predetermined thing. the tranter, who, coming frequently to the vicarage with luggage, coals, firewood, etc., had none of the awe for its precincts that filled the breasts of most of the others, fixed his eyes firmly on the knocker during this interval of waiting. the knocker having no characteristic worthy of notice, he relinquished it for a knot in one of the door-panels, and studied the winding lines of the grain. "o, sir, please, here's tranter dewy, and old william dewy, and young richard dewy, o, and all the quire too, sir, except the boys, a-come to see you!" said mr. maybold's maid-servant to mr. maybold, the pupils of her eyes dilating like circles in a pond. "all the choir?" said the astonished vicar (who may be shortly described as a good-looking young man with courageous eyes, timid mouth, and neutral nose), abandoning his writing and looking at his parlour-maid after speaking, like a man who fancied he had seen her face before but couldn't recollect where. "and they looks very firm, and tranter dewy do turn neither to the right hand nor to the left, but stares quite straight and solemn with his mind made up!" "o, all the choir," repeated the vicar to himself, trying by that simple device to trot out his thoughts on what the choir could come for. "yes; every man-jack of 'em, as i be alive!" (the parlour-maid was rather local in manner, having in fact been raised in the same village.) "really, sir, 'tis thoughted by many in town and country that--" "town and country!--heavens, i had no idea that i was public property in this way!" said the vicar, his face acquiring a hue somewhere between that of the rose and the peony. "well, 'it is thought in town and country that--'" "it is thought that you be going to get it hot and strong!--excusen my incivility, sir." the vicar suddenly recalled to his recollection that he had long ago settled it to be decidedly a mistake to encourage his servant jane in giving personal opinions. the servant jane saw by the vicar's face that he recalled this fact to his mind; and removing her forehead from the edge of the door, and rubbing away the indent that edge had made, vanished into the passage as mr. maybold remarked, "show them in, jane." a few minutes later a shuffling and jostling (reduced to as refined a form as was compatible with the nature of shuffles and jostles) was heard in the passage; then an earnest and prolonged wiping of shoes, conveying the notion that volumes of mud had to be removed; but the roads being so clean that not a particle of dirt appeared on the choir's boots (those of all the elder members being newly oiled, and dick's brightly polished), this wiping might have been set down simply as a desire to show that respectable men had no wish to take a mean advantage of clean roads for curtailing proper ceremonies. next there came a powerful whisper from the same quarter:- "now stand stock-still there, my sonnies, one and all! and don't make no noise; and keep your backs close to the wall, that company may pass in and out easy if they want to without squeezing through ye: and we two are enough to go in." . . . the voice was the tranter's. "i wish i could go in too and see the sight!" said a reedy voice--that of leaf. "'tis a pity leaf is so terrible silly, or else he might," said another. "i never in my life seed a quire go into a study to have it out about the playing and singing," pleaded leaf; "and i should like to see it just once!" "very well; we'll let en come in," said the tranter. "you'll be like chips in porridge, { } leaf--neither good nor hurt. all right, my sonny, come along;" and immediately himself, old william, and leaf appeared in the room. "we took the liberty to come and see 'ee, sir," said reuben, letting his hat hang in his left hand, and touching with his right the brim of an imaginary one on his head. "we've come to see 'ee, sir, man and man, and no offence, i hope?" "none at all," said mr. maybold. "this old aged man standing by my side is father; william dewy by name, sir." "yes; i see it is," said the vicar, nodding aside to old william, who smiled. "i thought you mightn't know en without his bass-viol," the tranter apologized. "you see, he always wears his best clothes and his bass-viol a-sundays, and it do make such a difference in a' old man's look." "and who's that young man?" the vicar said. "tell the pa'son yer name," said the tranter, turning to leaf, who stood with his elbows nailed back to a bookcase. "please, thomas leaf, your holiness!" said leaf, trembling. "i hope you'll excuse his looks being so very thin," continued the tranter deprecatingly, turning to the vicar again. "but 'tisn't his fault, poor feller. he's rather silly by nature, and could never get fat; though he's a' excellent treble, and so we keep him on." "i never had no head, sir," said leaf, eagerly grasping at this opportunity for being forgiven his existence. "ah, poor young man!" said mr. maybold. "bless you, he don't mind it a bit, if you don't, sir," said the tranter assuringly. "do ye, leaf?" "not i--not a morsel--hee, hee! i was afeard it mightn't please your holiness, sir, that's all." the tranter, finding leaf get on so very well through his negative qualities, was tempted in a fit of generosity to advance him still higher, by giving him credit for positive ones. "he's very clever for a silly chap, good-now, sir. you never knowed a young feller keep his smock-frocks so clane; very honest too. his ghastly looks is all there is against en, poor feller; but we can't help our looks, you know, sir." "true: we cannot. you live with your mother, i think, leaf?" the tranter looked at leaf to express that the most friendly assistant to his tongue could do no more for him now, and that he must be left to his own resources. "yes, sir: a widder, sir. ah, if brother jim had lived she'd have had a clever son to keep her without work!" "indeed! poor woman. give her this half-crown. i'll call and see your mother." "say, 'thank you, sir,'" the tranter whispered imperatively towards leaf. "thank you, sir!" said leaf. "that's it, then; sit down, leaf," said mr. maybold. "y-yes, sir!" the tranter cleared his throat after this accidental parenthesis about leaf, rectified his bodily position, and began his speech. "mr. mayble," he said, "i hope you'll excuse my common way, but i always like to look things in the face." reuben made a point of fixing this sentence in the vicar's mind by gazing hard at him at the conclusion of it, and then out of the window. mr. maybold and old william looked in the same direction, apparently under the impression that the things' faces alluded to were there visible. "what i have been thinking"--the tranter implied by this use of the past tense that he was hardly so discourteous as to be positively thinking it then--"is that the quire ought to be gie'd a little time, and not done away wi' till christmas, as a fair thing between man and man. and, mr. mayble, i hope you'll excuse my common way?" "i will, i will. till christmas," the vicar murmured, stretching the two words to a great length, as if the distance to christmas might be measured in that way. "well, i want you all to understand that i have no personal fault to find, and that i don't wish to change the church music by forcible means, or in a way which should hurt the feelings of any parishioners. why i have at last spoken definitely on the subject is that a player has been brought under--i may say pressed upon--my notice several times by one of the churchwardens. and as the organ i brought with me is here waiting" (pointing to a cabinet-organ standing in the study), "there is no reason for longer delay." "we made a mistake i suppose then, sir? but we understood the young woman didn't want to play particularly?" the tranter arranged his countenance to signify that he did not want to be inquisitive in the least. "no, nor did she. nor did i definitely wish her to just yet; for your playing is very good. but, as i said, one of the churchwardens has been so anxious for a change, that, as matters stand, i couldn't consistently refuse my consent." now for some reason or other, the vicar at this point seemed to have an idea that he had prevaricated; and as an honest vicar, it was a thing he determined not to do. he corrected himself, blushing as he did so, though why he should blush was not known to reuben. "understand me rightly," he said: "the church-warden proposed it to me, but i had thought myself of getting--miss day to play." "which churchwarden might that be who proposed her, sir?--excusing my common way." the tranter intimated by his tone that, so far from being inquisitive, he did not even wish to ask a single question. "mr. shiner, i believe." "clk, my sonny!--beg your pardon, sir, that's only a form of words of mine, and slipped out accidental--he nourishes enmity against us for some reason or another; perhaps because we played rather hard upon en christmas night. anyhow 'tis certain sure that mr. shiner's real love for music of a particular kind isn't his reason. he've no more ear than that chair. but let that be." "i don't think you should conclude that, because mr. shiner wants a different music, he has any ill-feeling for you. i myself, i must own, prefer organ-music to any other. i consider it most proper, and feel justified in endeavouring to introduce it; but then, although other music is better, i don't say yours is not good." "well then, mr. mayble, since death's to be, we'll die like men any day you name (excusing my common way)." mr. maybold bowed his head. "all we thought was, that for us old ancient singers to be choked off quiet at no time in particular, as now, in the sundays after easter, would seem rather mean in the eyes of other parishes, sir. but if we fell glorious with a bit of a flourish at christmas, we should have a respectable end, and not dwindle away at some nameless paltry second-sunday-after or sunday-next-before something, that's got no name of his own." "yes, yes, that's reasonable; i own it's reasonable." "you see, mr. mayble, we've got--do i keep you inconvenient long, sir?" "no, no." "we've got our feelings--father there especially." the tranter, in his earnestness, had advanced his person to within six inches of the vicar's. "certainly, certainly!" said mr. maybold, retreating a little for convenience of seeing. "you are all enthusiastic on the subject, and i am all the more gratified to find you so. a laodicean lukewarmness is worse than wrongheadedness itself." "exactly, sir. in fact now, mr. mayble," reuben continued, more impressively, and advancing a little closer still to the vicar, "father there is a perfect figure o' wonder, in the way of being fond of music!" the vicar drew back a little further, the tranter suddenly also standing back a foot or two, to throw open the view of his father, and pointing to him at the same time. old william moved uneasily in the large chair, and with a minute smile on the mere edge of his lips, for good-manners, said he was indeed very fond of tunes. "now, you see exactly how it is," reuben continued, appealing to mr. maybold's sense of justice by looking sideways into his eyes. the vicar seemed to see how it was so well that the gratified tranter walked up to him again with even vehement eagerness, so that his waistcoat-buttons almost rubbed against the vicar's as he continued: "as to father, if you or i, or any man or woman of the present generation, at the time music is a-playing, was to shake your fist in father's face, as may be this way, and say, 'don't you be delighted with that music!'"--the tranter went back to where leaf was sitting, and held his fist so close to leaf's face that the latter pressed his head back against the wall: "all right, leaf, my sonny, i won't hurt you; 'tis just to show my meaning to mr. mayble.--as i was saying, if you or i, or any man, was to shake your fist in father's face this way, and say, 'william, your life or your music!' he'd say, 'my life!' now that's father's nature all over; and you see, sir, it must hurt the feelings of a man of that kind for him and his bass- viol to be done away wi' neck and crop." the tranter went back to the vicar's front and again looked earnestly at his face. "true, true, dewy," mr. maybold answered, trying to withdraw his head and shoulders without moving his feet; but finding this impracticable, edging back another inch. these frequent retreats had at last jammed mr. maybold between his easy-chair and the edge of the table. and at the moment of the announcement of the choir, mr. maybold had just re-dipped the pen he was using; at their entry, instead of wiping it, he had laid it on the table with the nib overhanging. at the last retreat his coat-tails came in contact with the pen, and down it rolled, first against the back of the chair, thence turning a summersault into the seat, thence falling to the floor with a rattle. the vicar stooped for his pen, and the tranter, wishing to show that, however great their ecclesiastical differences, his mind was not so small as to let this affect his social feelings, stooped also. "and have you anything else you want to explain to me, dewy?" said mr. maybold from under the table. "nothing, sir. and, mr. mayble, you be not offended? i hope you see our desire is reason?" said the tranter from under the chair. "quite, quite; and i shouldn't think of refusing to listen to such a reasonable request," the vicar replied. seeing that reuben had secured the pen, he resumed his vertical position, and added, "you know, dewy, it is often said how difficult a matter it is to act up to our convictions and please all parties. it may be said with equal truth, that it is difficult for a man of any appreciativeness to have convictions at all. now in my case, i see right in you, and right in shiner. i see that violins are good, and that an organ is good; and when we introduce the organ, it will not be that fiddles were bad, but that an organ was better. that you'll clearly understand, dewy?" "i will; and thank you very much for such feelings, sir. piph-h-h-h! how the blood do get into my head, to be sure, whenever i quat down like that!" said reuben, who having also risen to his feet stuck the pen vertically in the inkstand and almost through the bottom, that it might not roll down again under any circumstances whatever. now the ancient body of minstrels in the passage felt their curiosity surging higher and higher as the minutes passed. dick, not having much affection for this errand, soon grew tired, and went away in the direction of the school. yet their sense of propriety would probably have restrained them from any attempt to discover what was going on in the study had not the vicar's pen fallen to the floor. the conviction that the movement of chairs, etc., necessitated by the search, could only have been caused by the catastrophe of a bloody fight beginning, overpowered all other considerations; and they advanced to the door, which had only just fallen to. thus, when mr. maybold raised his eyes after the stooping he beheld glaring through the door mr. penny in full- length portraiture, mail's face and shoulders above mr. penny's head, spinks's forehead and eyes over mail's crown, and a fractional part of bowman's countenance under spinks's arm--crescent-shaped portions of other heads and faces being visible behind these--the whole dozen and odd eyes bristling with eager inquiry. mr. penny, as is the case with excitable boot-makers and men, seeing the vicar look at him and hearing no word spoken, thought it incumbent upon himself to say something of any kind. nothing suggested itself till he had looked for about half a minute at the vicar. "you'll excuse my naming of it, sir," he said, regarding with much commiseration the mere surface of the vicar's face; "but perhaps you don't know that your chin have bust out a-bleeding where you cut yourself a-shaving this morning, sir." "now, that was the stooping, depend upon't," the tranter suggested, also looking with much interest at the vicar's chin. "blood always will bust out again if you hang down the member that's been bleeding." old william raised his eyes and watched the vicar's bleeding chin likewise; and leaf advanced two or three paces from the bookcase, absorbed in the contemplation of the same phenomenon, with parted lips and delighted eyes. "dear me, dear me!" said mr. maybold hastily, looking very red, and brushing his chin with his hand, then taking out his handkerchief and wiping the place. "that's it, sir; all right again now, 'a b'lieve--a mere nothing," said mr. penny. "a little bit of fur off your hat will stop it in a minute if it should bust out again." "i'll let 'ee have a bit off mine," said reuben, to show his good feeling; "my hat isn't so new as yours, sir, and 'twon't hurt mine a bit." "no, no; thank you, thank you," mr. maybold again nervously replied. "'twas rather a deep cut seemingly?" said reuben, feeling these to be the kindest and best remarks he could make. "o, no; not particularly." "well, sir, your hand will shake sometimes a-shaving, and just when it comes into your head that you may cut yourself, there's the blood." "i have been revolving in my mind that question of the time at which we make the change," said mr. maybold, "and i know you'll meet me half-way. i think christmas-day as much too late for me as the present time is too early for you. i suggest michaelmas or thereabout as a convenient time for both parties; for i think your objection to a sunday which has no name is not one of any real weight." "very good, sir. i suppose mortal men mustn't expect their own way entirely; and i express in all our names that we'll make shift and be satisfied with what you say." the tranter touched the brim of his imaginary hat again, and all the choir did the same. "about michaelmas, then, as far as you are concerned, sir, and then we make room for the next generation." "about michaelmas," said the vicar. chapter v: returning home ward "'a took it very well, then?" said mail, as they all walked up the hill. "he behaved like a man, 'a did so," said the tranter. "and i'm glad we've let en know our minds. and though, beyond that, we ha'n't got much by going, 'twas worth while. he won't forget it. yes, he took it very well. supposing this tree here was pa'son mayble, and i standing here, and thik gr't stone is father sitting in the easy-chair. 'dewy,' says he, 'i don't wish to change the church music in a forcible way.'" "that was very nice o' the man, even though words be wind." "proper nice--out and out nice. the fact is," said reuben confidentially, "'tis how you take a man. everybody must be managed. queens must be managed: kings must be managed; for men want managing almost as much as women, and that's saying a good deal." "'tis truly!" murmured the husbands. "pa'son mayble and i were as good friends all through it as if we'd been sworn brothers. ay, the man's well enough; 'tis what's put in his head that spoils him, and that's why we've got to go." "there's really no believing half you hear about people nowadays." "bless ye, my sonnies! 'tisn't the pa'son's move at all. that gentleman over there" (the tranter nodded in the direction of shiner's farm) "is at the root of the mischty." "what! shiner?" "ay; and i see what the pa'son don't see. why, shiner is for putting forward that young woman that only last night i was saying was our dick's sweet-heart, but i suppose can't be, and making much of her in the sight of the congregation, and thinking he'll win her by showing her off. well, perhaps 'a woll." "then the music is second to the woman, the other churchwarden is second to shiner, the pa'son is second to the churchwardens, and god a'mighty is nowhere at all." "that's true; and you see," continued reuben, "at the very beginning it put me in a stud as to how to quarrel wi' en. in short, to save my soul, i couldn't quarrel wi' such a civil man without belying my conscience. says he to father there, in a voice as quiet as a lamb's, 'william, you are a' old aged man, as all shall be, so sit down in my easy-chair, and rest yourself.' and down father zot. i could fain ha' laughed at thee, father; for thou'st take it so unconcerned at first, and then looked so frightened when the chair-bottom sunk in." "you see," said old william, hastening to explain, "i was scared to find the bottom gie way--what should i know o' spring bottoms?--and thought i had broke it down: and of course as to breaking down a man's chair, i didn't wish any such thing." "and, neighbours, when a feller, ever so much up for a miff, d'see his own father sitting in his enemy's easy-chair, and a poor chap like leaf made the best of, as if he almost had brains--why, it knocks all the wind out of his sail at once: it did out of mine." "if that young figure of fun--fance day, i mean," said bowman, "hadn't been so mighty forward wi' showing herself off to shiner and dick and the rest, 'tis my belief we should never ha' left the gallery." "'tis my belief that though shiner fired the bullets, the parson made 'em," said mr. penny. "my wife sticks to it that he's in love wi' her." "that's a thing we shall never know. i can't onriddle her, nohow." "thou'st ought to be able to onriddle such a little chiel as she," the tranter observed. "the littler the maid, the bigger the riddle, to my mind. and coming of such a stock, too, she may well be a twister." "yes; geoffrey day is a clever man if ever there was one. never says anything: not he." "never." "you might live wi' that man, my sonnies, a hundred years, and never know there was anything in him." "ay; one o' these up-country london ink-bottle chaps would call geoffrey a fool." "ye never find out what's in that man: never," said spinks. "close? ah, he is close! he can hold his tongue well. that man's dumbness is wonderful to listen to." "there's so much sense in it. every moment of it is brimmen over wi' sound understanding." "'a can hold his tongue very clever--very clever truly," echoed leaf. "'a do look at me as if 'a could see my thoughts running round like the works of a clock." "well, all will agree that the man can halt well in his talk, be it a long time or be it a short time. and though we can't expect his daughter to inherit his closeness, she may have a few dribblets from his sense." "and his pocket, perhaps." "yes; the nine hundred pound that everybody says he's worth; but i call it four hundred and fifty; for i never believe more than half i hear." "well, he've made a pound or two, and i suppose the maid will have it, since there's nobody else. but 'tis rather sharp upon her, if she's been born to fortune, to bring her up as if not born for it, and letting her work so hard." "'tis all upon his principle. a long-headed feller!" "ah," murmured spinks, "'twould be sharper upon her if she were born for fortune, and not to it! i suffer from that affliction." chapter vi: yalbury wood and the keeper's house a mood of blitheness rarely experienced even by young men was dick's on the following monday morning. it was the week after the easter holidays, and he was journeying along with smart the mare and the light spring-cart, watching the damp slopes of the hill-sides as they streamed in the warmth of the sun, which at this unsettled season shone on the grass with the freshness of an occasional inspector rather than as an accustomed proprietor. his errand was to fetch fancy, and some additional household goods, from her father's house in the neighbouring parish to her dwelling at mellstock. the distant view was darkly shaded with clouds; but the nearer parts of the landscape were whitely illumined by the visible rays of the sun streaming down across the heavy gray shade behind. the tranter had not yet told his son of the state of shiner's heart that had been suggested to him by shiner's movements. he preferred to let such delicate affairs right themselves; experience having taught him that the uncertain phenomenon of love, as it existed in other people, was not a groundwork upon which a single action of his own life could be founded. geoffrey day lived in the depths of yalbury wood, which formed portion of one of the outlying estates of the earl of wessex, to whom day was head game-keeper, timber-steward, and general overlooker for this district. the wood was intersected by the highway from casterbridge to london at a place not far from the house, and some trees had of late years been felled between its windows and the ascent of yalbury hill, to give the solitary cottager a glimpse of the passers-by. it was a satisfaction to walk into the keeper's house, even as a stranger, on a fine spring morning like the present. a curl of wood-smoke came from the chimney, and drooped over the roof like a blue feather in a lady's hat; and the sun shone obliquely upon the patch of grass in front, which reflected its brightness through the open doorway and up the staircase opposite, lighting up each riser with a shiny green radiance, and leaving the top of each step in shade. the window-sill of the front room was between four and five feet from the floor, dropping inwardly to a broad low bench, over which, as well as over the whole surface of the wall beneath, there always hung a deep shade, which was considered objectionable on every ground save one, namely, that the perpetual sprinkling of seeds and water by the caged canary above was not noticed as an eyesore by visitors. the window was set with thickly-leaded diamond glazing, formed, especially in the lower panes, of knotty glass of various shades of green. nothing was better known to fancy than the extravagant manner in which these circular knots or eyes distorted everything seen through them from the outside--lifting hats from heads, shoulders from bodies; scattering the spokes of cart- wheels, and bending the straight fir-trunks into semicircles. the ceiling was carried by a beam traversing its midst, from the side of which projected a large nail, used solely and constantly as a peg for geoffrey's hat; the nail was arched by a rainbow-shaped stain, imprinted by the brim of the said hat when it was hung there dripping wet. the most striking point about the room was the furniture. this was a repetition upon inanimate objects of the old principle introduced by noah, consisting for the most part of two articles of every sort. the duplicate system of furnishing owed its existence to the forethought of fancy's mother, exercised from the date of fancy's birthday onwards. the arrangement spoke for itself: nobody who knew the tone of the household could look at the goods without being aware that the second set was a provision for fancy, when she should marry and have a house of her own. the most noticeable instance was a pair of green-faced eight-day clocks, ticking alternately, which were severally two and half minutes and three minutes striking the hour of twelve, one proclaiming, in italian flourishes, thomas wood as the name of its maker, and the other--arched at the top, and altogether of more cynical appearance--that of ezekiel saunders. they were two departed clockmakers of casterbridge, whose desperate rivalry throughout their lives was nowhere more emphatically perpetuated than here at geoffrey's. these chief specimens of the marriage provision were supported on the right by a couple of kitchen dressers, each fitted complete with their cups, dishes, and plates, in their turn followed by two dumb-waiters, two family bibles, two warming- pans, and two intermixed sets of chairs. but the position last reached--the chimney-corner--was, after all, the most attractive side of the parallelogram. it was large enough to admit, in addition to geoffrey himself, geoffrey's wife, her chair, and her work- table, entirely within the line of the mantel, without danger or even inconvenience from the heat of the fire; and was spacious enough overhead to allow of the insertion of wood poles for the hanging of bacon, which were cloaked with long shreds of soot, floating on the draught like the tattered banners on the walls of ancient aisles. these points were common to most chimney corners of the neighbourhood; but one feature there was which made geoffrey's fireside not only an object of interest to casual aristocratic visitors--to whom every cottage fireside was more or less a curiosity--but the admiration of friends who were accustomed to fireplaces of the ordinary hamlet model. this peculiarity was a little window in the chimney-back, almost over the fire, around which the smoke crept caressingly when it left the perpendicular course. the window-board was curiously stamped with black circles, burnt thereon by the heated bottoms of drinking-cups, which had rested there after previously standing on the hot ashes of the hearth for the purpose of warming their contents, the result giving to the ledge the look of an envelope which has passed through innumerable post-offices. fancy was gliding about the room preparing dinner, her head inclining now to the right, now to the left, and singing the tips and ends of tunes that sprang up in her mind like mushrooms. the footsteps of mrs. day could be heard in the room overhead. fancy went finally to the door. "father! dinner." a tall spare figure was seen advancing by the window with periodical steps, and the keeper entered from the garden. he appeared to be a man who was always looking down, as if trying to recollect something he said yesterday. the surface of his face was fissured rather than wrinkled, and over and under his eyes were folds which seemed as a kind of exterior eyelids. his nose had been thrown backwards by a blow in a poaching fray, so that when the sun was low and shining in his face, people could see far into his head. there was in him a quiet grimness, which would in his moments of displeasure have become surliness, had it not been tempered by honesty of soul, and which was often wrongheadedness because not allied with subtlety. although not an extraordinarily taciturn man among friends slightly richer than himself, he never wasted words upon outsiders, and to his trapper enoch his ideas were seldom conveyed by any other means than nods and shakes of the head. their long acquaintance with each other's ways, and the nature of their labours, rendered words between them almost superfluous as vehicles of thought, whilst the coincidence of their horizons, and the astonishing equality of their social views, by startling the keeper from time to time as very damaging to the theory of master and man, strictly forbade any indulgence in words as courtesies. behind the keeper came enoch (who had been assisting in the garden) at the well-considered chronological distance of three minutes--an interval of non-appearance on the trapper's part not arrived at without some reflection. four minutes had been found to express indifference to indoor arrangements, and simultaneousness had implied too great an anxiety about meals. "a little earlier than usual, fancy," the keeper said, as he sat down and looked at the clocks. "that ezekiel saunders o' thine is tearing on afore thomas wood again." "i kept in the middle between them," said fancy, also looking at the two clocks. "better stick to thomas," said her father. "there's a healthy beat in thomas that would lead a man to swear by en offhand. he is as true as the town time. how is it your stap-mother isn't here?" as fancy was about to reply, the rattle of wheels was heard, and "weh- hey, smart!" in mr. richard dewy's voice rolled into the cottage from round the corner of the house. "hullo! there's dewy's cart come for thee, fancy--dick driving--afore time, too. well, ask the lad to have pot-luck with us." dick on entering made a point of implying by his general bearing that he took an interest in fancy simply as in one of the same race and country as himself; and they all sat down. dick could have wished her manner had not been so entirely free from all apparent consciousness of those accidental meetings of theirs: but he let the thought pass. enoch sat diagonally at a table afar off, under the corner cupboard, and drank his cider from a long perpendicular pint cup, having tall fir-trees done in brown on its sides. he threw occasional remarks into the general tide of conversation, and with this advantage to himself, that he participated in the pleasures of a talk (slight as it was) at meal-times, without saddling himself with the responsibility of sustaining it. "why don't your stap-mother come down, fancy?" said geoffrey. "you'll excuse her, mister dick, she's a little queer sometimes." "o yes,--quite," said richard, as if he were in the habit of excusing people every day. "she d'belong to that class of womankind that become second wives: a rum class rather." "indeed," said dick, with sympathy for an indefinite something. "yes; and 'tis trying to a female, especially if you've been a first wife, as she hev." "very trying it must be." "yes: you see her first husband was a young man, who let her go too far; in fact, she used to kick up bob's-a-dying at the least thing in the world. and when i'd married her and found it out, i thought, thinks i, ''tis too late now to begin to cure 'e;' and so i let her bide. but she's queer,--very queer, at times!" "i'm sorry to hear that." "yes: there; wives be such a provoking class o' society, because though they be never right, they be never more than half wrong." fancy seemed uneasy under the infliction of this household moralizing, which might tend to damage the airy-fairy nature that dick, as maiden shrewdness told her, had accredited her with. her dead silence impressed geoffrey with the notion that something in his words did not agree with her educated ideas, and he changed the conversation. "did fred shiner send the cask o' drink, fancy?" "i think he did: o yes, he did." "nice solid feller, fred shiner!" said geoffrey to dick as he helped himself to gravy, bringing the spoon round to his plate by way of the potato-dish, to obviate a stain on the cloth in the event of a spill. now geoffrey's eyes had been fixed upon his plate for the previous four or five minutes, and in removing them he had only carried them to the spoon, which, from its fulness and the distance of its transit, necessitated a steady watching through the whole of the route. just as intently as the keeper's eyes had been fixed on the spoon, fancy's had been fixed on her father's, without premeditation or the slightest phase of furtiveness; but there they were fastened. this was the reason why: dick was sitting next to her on the right side, and on the side of the table opposite to her father. fancy had laid her right hand lightly down upon the table-cloth for an instant, and to her alarm dick, after dropping his fork and brushing his forehead as a reason, flung down his own left hand, overlapping a third of fancy's with it, and keeping it there. so the innocent fancy, instead of pulling her hand from the trap, settled her eyes on her father's, to guard against his discovery of this perilous game of dick's. dick finished his mouthful; fancy finished her crumb, and nothing was done beyond watching geoffrey's eyes. then the hands slid apart; fancy's going over six inches of cloth, dick's over one. geoffrey's eye had risen. "i said fred shiner is a nice solid feller," he repeated, more emphatically. "he is; yes, he is," stammered dick; "but to me he is little more than a stranger." "o, sure. now i know en as well as any man can be known. and you know en very well too, don't ye, fancy?" geoffrey put on a tone expressing that these words signified at present about one hundred times the amount of meaning they conveyed literally. dick looked anxious. "will you pass me some bread?" said fancy in a flurry, the red of her face becoming slightly disordered, and looking as solicitous as a human being could look about a piece of bread. "ay, that i will," replied the unconscious geoffrey. "ay," he continued, returning to the displaced idea, "we are likely to remain friendly wi' mr. shiner if the wheels d'run smooth." "an excellent thing--a very capital thing, as i should say," the youth answered with exceeding relevance, considering that his thoughts, instead of following geoffrey's remark, were nestling at a distance of about two feet on his left the whole time. "a young woman's face will turn the north wind, master richard: my heart if 'twon't." dick looked more anxious and was attentive in earnest at these words. "yes; turn the north wind," added geoffrey after an impressive pause. "and though she's one of my own flesh and blood . . . " "will you fetch down a bit of raw-mil' cheese from pantry-shelf?" fancy interrupted, as if she were famishing. "ay, that i will, chiel; chiel, says i, and mr. shiner only asking last saturday night . . . cheese you said, fancy?" dick controlled his emotion at these mysterious allusions to mr. shiner,--the better enabled to do so by perceiving that fancy's heart went not with her father's--and spoke like a stranger to the affairs of the neighbourhood. "yes, there's a great deal to be said upon the power of maiden faces in settling your courses," he ventured, as the keeper retreated for the cheese. "the conversation is taking a very strange turn: nothing that i have ever done warrants such things being said!" murmured fancy with emphasis, just loud enough to reach dick's ears. "you think to yourself, 'twas to be," cried enoch from his distant corner, by way of filling up the vacancy caused by geoffrey's momentary absence. "and so you marry her, master dewy, and there's an end o't." "pray don't say such things, enoch," came from fancy severely, upon which enoch relapsed into servitude. "if we be doomed to marry, we marry; if we be doomed to remain single, we do," replied dick. geoffrey had by this time sat down again, and he now made his lips thin by severely straining them across his gums, and looked out of the window along the vista to the distant highway up yalbury hill. "that's not the case with some folk," he said at length, as if he read the words on a board at the further end of the vista. fancy looked interested, and dick said, "no?" "there's that wife o' mine. it was her doom to be nobody's wife at all in the wide universe. but she made up her mind that she would, and did it twice over. doom? doom is nothing beside a elderly woman--quite a chiel in her hands!" a movement was now heard along the upstairs passage, and footsteps descending. the door at the foot of the stairs opened, and the second mrs. day appeared in view, looking fixedly at the table as she advanced towards it, with apparent obliviousness of the presence of any other human being than herself. in short, if the table had been the personages, and the persons the table, her glance would have been the most natural imaginable. she showed herself to possess an ordinary woman's face, iron-grey hair, hardly any hips, and a great deal of cleanliness in a broad white apron- string, as it appeared upon the waist of her dark stuff dress. "people will run away with a story now, i suppose," she began saying, "that jane day's tablecloths are as poor and ragged as any union beggar's!" dick now perceived that the tablecloth was a little the worse for wear, and reflecting for a moment, concluded that 'people' in step-mother language probably meant himself. on lifting his eyes he found that mrs. day had vanished again upstairs, and presently returned with an armful of new damask-linen tablecloths, folded square and hard as boards by long compression. these she flounced down into a chair; then took one, shook it out from its folds, and spread it on the table by instalments, transferring the plates and dishes one by one from the old to the new cloth. "and i suppose they'll say, too, that she ha'n't a decent knife and fork in her house!" "i shouldn't say any such ill-natured thing, i am sure--" began dick. but mrs. day had vanished into the next room. fancy appeared distressed. "very strange woman, isn't she?" said geoffrey, quietly going on with his dinner. "but 'tis too late to attempt curing. my heart! 'tis so growed into her that 'twould kill her to take it out. ay, she's very queer: you'd be amazed to see what valuable goods we've got stowed away upstairs." back again came mrs. day with a box of bright steel horn-handled knives, silver-plated forks, carver, and all complete. these were wiped of the preservative oil which coated them, and then a knife and fork were laid down to each individual with a bang, the carving knife and fork thrust into the meat dish, and the old ones they had hitherto used tossed away. geoffrey placidly cut a slice with the new knife and fork, and asked dick if he wanted any more. the table had been spread for the mixed midday meal of dinner and tea, which was common among frugal countryfolk. "the parishioners about here," continued mrs. day, not looking at any living being, but snatching up the brown delf tea-things, "are the laziest, gossipest, poachest, jailest set of any ever i came among. and they'll talk about my teapot and tea-things next, i suppose!" she vanished with the teapot, cups, and saucers, and reappeared with a tea-service in white china, and a packet wrapped in brown paper. this was removed, together with folds of tissue- paper underneath; and a brilliant silver teapot appeared. "i'll help to put the things right," said fancy soothingly, and rising from her seat. "i ought to have laid out better things, i suppose. but" (here she enlarged her looks so as to include dick) "i have been away from home a good deal, and i make shocking blunders in my housekeeping." smiles and suavity were then dispensed all around by this bright little bird. after a little more preparation and modification, mrs. day took her seat at the head of the table, and during the latter or tea division of the meal, presided with much composure. it may cause some surprise to learn that, now her vagary was over, she showed herself to be an excellent person with much common sense, and even a religious seriousness of tone on matters pertaining to her afflictions. chapter vii: dick makes himself useful the effect of geoffrey's incidental allusions to mr. shiner was to restrain a considerable flow of spontaneous chat that would otherwise have burst from young dewy along the drive homeward. and a certain remark he had hazarded to her, in rather too blunt and eager a manner, kept the young lady herself even more silent than dick. on both sides there was an unwillingness to talk on any but the most trivial subjects, and their sentences rarely took a larger form than could be expressed in two or three words. owing to fancy being later in the day than she had promised, the charwoman had given up expecting her; whereupon dick could do no less than stay and see her comfortably tided over the disagreeable time of entering and establishing herself in an empty house after an absence of a week. the additional furniture and utensils that had been brought (a canary and cage among the rest) were taken out of the vehicle, and the horse was unharnessed and put in the plot opposite, where there was some tender grass. dick lighted the fire already laid; and activity began to loosen their tongues a little. "there!" said fancy, "we forgot to bring the fire-irons!" she had originally found in her sitting-room, to bear out the expression 'nearly furnished' which the school-manager had used in his letter to her, a table, three chairs, a fender, and a piece of carpet. this 'nearly' had been supplemented hitherto by a kind friend, who had lent her fire-irons and crockery until she should fetch some from home. dick attended to the young lady's fire, using his whip-handle for a poker till it was spoilt, and then flourishing a hurdle stick for the remainder of the time. "the kettle boils; now you shall have a cup of tea," said fancy, diving into the hamper she had brought. "thank you," said dick, whose drive had made him ready for some, especially in her company. "well, here's only one cup-and-saucer, as i breathe! whatever could mother be thinking about? do you mind making shift, mr. dewy?" "not at all, miss day," said that civil person. "--and only having a cup by itself? or a saucer by itself?" "don't mind in the least." "which do you mean by that?" "i mean the cup, if you like the saucer." "and the saucer, if i like the cup?" "exactly, miss day." "thank you, mr. dewy, for i like the cup decidedly. stop a minute; there are no spoons now!" she dived into the hamper again, and at the end of two or three minutes looked up and said, "i suppose you don't mind if i can't find a spoon?" "not at all," said the agreeable richard. "the fact is, the spoons have slipped down somewhere; right under the other things. o yes, here's one, and only one. you would rather have one than not, i suppose, mr. dewy?" "rather not. i never did care much about spoons." "then i'll have it. i do care about them. you must stir up your tea with a knife. would you mind lifting the kettle off, that it may not boil dry?" dick leapt to the fireplace, and earnestly removed the kettle. "there! you did it so wildly that you have made your hand black. we always use kettle-holders; didn't you learn housewifery as far as that, mr. dewy? well, never mind the soot on your hand. come here. i am going to rinse mine, too." they went to a basin she had placed in the back room. "this is the only basin i have," she said. "turn up your sleeves, and by that time my hands will be washed, and you can come." her hands were in the water now. "o, how vexing!" she exclaimed. "there's not a drop of water left for you, unless you draw it, and the well is i don't know how many furlongs deep; all that was in the pitcher i used for the kettle and this basin. do you mind dipping the tips of your fingers in the same?" "not at all. and to save time i won't wait till you have done, if you have no objection?" thereupon he plunged in his hands, and they paddled together. it being the first time in his life that he had touched female fingers under water, dick duly registered the sensation as rather a nice one. "really, i hardly know which are my own hands and which are yours, they have got so mixed up together," she said, withdrawing her own very suddenly. "it doesn't matter at all," said dick, "at least as far as i am concerned." "there! no towel! whoever thinks of a towel till the hands are wet?" "nobody." "'nobody.' how very dull it is when people are so friendly! come here, mr. dewy. now do you think you could lift the lid of that box with your elbow, and then, with something or other, take out a towel you will find under the clean clothes? be sure don't touch any of them with your wet hands, for the things at the top are all starched and ironed." dick managed, by the aid of a knife and fork, to extract a towel from under a muslin dress without wetting the latter; and for a moment he ventured to assume a tone of criticism. "i fear for that dress," he said, as they wiped their hands together. "what?" said miss day, looking into the box at the dress alluded to. "o, i know what you mean--that the vicar will never let me wear muslin?" "yes." "well, i know it is condemned by all orders in the church as flaunting, and unfit for common wear for girls who've their living to get; but we'll see." "in the interest of the church, i hope you don't speak seriously." "yes, i do; but we'll see." there was a comely determination on her lip, very pleasant to a beholder who was neither bishop, priest, nor deacon. "i think i can manage any vicar's views about me if he's under forty." dick rather wished she had never thought of managing vicars. "i certainly shall be glad to get some of your delicious tea," he said in rather a free way, yet modestly, as became one in a position between that of visitor and inmate, and looking wistfully at his lonely saucer. "so shall i. now is there anything else we want, mr dewy?" "i really think there's nothing else, miss day." she prepared to sit down, looking musingly out of the window at smart's enjoyment of the rich grass. "nobody seems to care about me," she murmured, with large lost eyes fixed upon the sky beyond smart. "perhaps mr. shiner does," said dick, in the tone of a slightly injured man. "yes, i forgot--he does, i know." dick precipitately regretted that he had suggested shiner, since it had produced such a miserable result as this. "i'll warrant you'll care for somebody very much indeed another day, won't you, mr. dewy?" she continued, looking very feelingly into the mathematical centre of his eyes. "ah, i'll warrant i shall," said dick, feelingly too, and looking back into her dark pupils, whereupon they were turned aside. "i meant," she went on, preventing him from speaking just as he was going to narrate a forcible story about his feelings; "i meant that nobody comes to see if i have returned--not even the vicar." "if you want to see him, i'll call at the vicarage directly we have had some tea." "no, no! don't let him come down here, whatever you do, whilst i am in such a state of disarrangement. parsons look so miserable and awkward when one's house is in a muddle; walking about, and making impossible suggestions in quaint academic phrases till your flesh creeps and you wish them dead. do you take sugar?" mr. maybold was at this instant seen coming up the path. "there! that's he coming! how i wish you were not here!--that is, how awkward--dear, dear!" she exclaimed, with a quick ascent of blood to her face, and irritated with dick rather than the vicar, as it seemed. "pray don't be alarmed on my account, miss day--good-afternoon!" said dick in a huff, putting on his hat, and leaving the room hastily by the back-door. the horse was caught and put in, and on mounting the shafts to start he saw through the window the vicar, standing upon some books piled in a chair, and driving a nail into the wall; fancy, with a demure glance, holding the canary-cage up to him, as if she had never in her life thought of anything but vicars and canaries. chapter viii: dick meets his father for several minutes dick drove along homeward, with the inner eye of reflection so anxiously set on his passages at arms with fancy, that the road and scenery were as a thin mist over the real pictures of his mind. was she a coquette? the balance between the evidence that she did love him and that she did not was so nicely struck, that his opinion had no stability. she had let him put his hand upon hers; she had allowed her gaze to drop plumb into the depths of his--his into hers--three or four times; her manner had been very free with regard to the basin and towel; she had appeared vexed at the mention of shiner. on the other hand, she had driven him about the house like a quiet dog or cat, said shiner cared for her, and seemed anxious that mr. maybold should do the same. thinking thus as he neared the handpost at mellstock cross, sitting on the front board of the spring cart--his legs on the outside, and his whole frame jigging up and down like a candle-flame to the time of smart's trotting--who should he see coming down the hill but his father in the light wagon, quivering up and down on a smaller scale of shakes, those merely caused by the stones in the road. they were soon crossing each other's front. "weh-hey!" said the tranter to smiler. "weh-hey!" said dick to smart, in an echo of the same voice. "th'st hauled her back, i suppose?" reuben inquired peaceably. "yes," said dick, with such a clinching period at the end that it seemed he was never going to add another word. smiler, thinking this the close of the conversation, prepared to move on. "weh-hey!" said the tranter. "i tell thee what it is, dick. that there maid is taking up thy thoughts more than's good for thee, my sonny. thou'rt never happy now unless th'rt making thyself miserable about her in one way or another." "i don't know about that, father," said dick rather stupidly. "but i do--wey, smiler!--'od rot the women, 'tis nothing else wi' 'em nowadays but getting young men and leading 'em astray." "pooh, father! you just repeat what all the common world says; that's all you do." "the world's a very sensible feller on things in jineral, dick; very sensible indeed." dick looked into the distance at a vast expanse of mortgaged estate. "i wish i was as rich as a squire when he's as poor as a crow," he murmured; "i'd soon ask fancy something." "i wish so too, wi' all my heart, sonny; that i do. well, mind what beest about, that's all." smart moved on a step or two. "supposing now, father,--we-hey, smart!--i did think a little about her, and i had a chance, which i ha'n't; don't you think she's a very good sort of--of--one?" "ay, good; she's good enough. when you've made up your mind to marry, take the first respectable body that comes to hand--she's as good as any other; they be all alike in the groundwork; 'tis only in the flourishes there's a difference. she's good enough; but i can't see what the nation a young feller like you--wi' a comfortable house and home, and father and mother to take care o' thee, and who sent 'ee to a school so good that 'twas hardly fair to the other children--should want to go hollering after a young woman for, when she's quietly making a husband in her pocket, and not troubled by chick nor chiel, to make a poverty-stric' wife and family of her, and neither hat, cap, wig, nor waistcoat to set 'em up with: be drowned if i can see it, and that's the long and the short o't, my sonny." dick looked at smart's ears, then up the hill; but no reason was suggested by any object that met his gaze. "for about the same reason that you did, father, i suppose." "dang it, my sonny, thou'st got me there!" and the tranter gave vent to a grim admiration, with the mien of a man who was too magnanimous not to appreciate artistically a slight rap on the knuckles, even if they were his own. "whether or no," said dick, "i asked her a thing going along the road." "come to that, is it? turk! won't thy mother be in a taking! well, she's ready, i don't doubt?" "i didn't ask her anything about having me; and if you'll let me speak, i'll tell 'ee what i want to know. i just said, did she care about me?" "piph-ph-ph!" "and then she said nothing for a quarter of a mile, and then she said she didn't know. now, what i want to know is, what was the meaning of that speech?" the latter words were spoken resolutely, as if he didn't care for the ridicule of all the fathers in creation. "the meaning of that speech is," the tranter replied deliberately, "that the meaning is meant to be rather hid at present. well, dick, as an honest father to thee, i don't pretend to deny what you d'know well enough; that is, that her father being rather better in the pocket than we, i should welcome her ready enough if it must be somebody." "but what d'ye think she really did mean?" said the unsatisfied dick. "i'm afeard i am not o' much account in guessing, especially as i was not there when she said it, and seeing that your mother was the only 'ooman i ever cam' into such close quarters as that with." "and what did mother say to you when you asked her?" said dick musingly. "i don't see that that will help 'ee." "the principle is the same." "well--ay: what did she say? let's see. i was oiling my working-day boots without taking 'em off, and wi' my head hanging down, when she just brushed on by the garden hatch like a flittering leaf. 'ann,' i said, says i, and then,--but, dick i'm afeard 'twill be no help to thee; for we were such a rum couple, your mother and i, leastways one half was, that is myself--and your mother's charms was more in the manner than the material." "never mind! 'ann,' said you." "'ann,' said i, as i was saying . . . 'ann,' i said to her when i was oiling my working-day boots wi' my head hanging down, 'woot hae me?' . . . what came next i can't quite call up at this distance o' time. perhaps your mother would know,--she's got a better memory for her little triumphs than i. however, the long and the short o' the story is that we were married somehow, as i found afterwards. 'twas on white tuesday,--mellstock club walked the same day, every man two and two, and a fine day 'twas,--hot as fire,--how the sun did strike down upon my back going to church! i well can mind what a bath o' sweating i was in, body and soul! but fance will ha' thee, dick--she won't walk with another chap--no such good luck." "i don't know about that," said dick, whipping at smart's flank in a fanciful way, which, as smart knew, meant nothing in connection with going on. "there's pa'son maybold, too--that's all against me." "what about he? she's never been stuffing into thy innocent heart that he's in hove with her? lord, the vanity o' maidens!" "no, no. but he called, and she looked at him in such a way, and at me in such a way--quite different the ways were,--and as i was coming off, there was he hanging up her birdcage." "well, why shouldn't the man hang up her bird-cage? turk seize it all, what's that got to do wi' it? dick, that thou beest a white-lyvered chap i don't say, but if thou beestn't as mad as a cappel-faced bull, let me smile no more." "o, ay." "and what's think now, dick?" "i don't know." "here's another pretty kettle o' fish for thee. who d'ye think's the bitter weed in our being turned out? did our party tell 'ee?" "no. why, pa'son maybold, i suppose." "shiner,--because he's in love with thy young woman, and d'want to see her young figure sitting up at that queer instrument, and her young fingers rum-strumming upon the keys." a sharp ado of sweet and bitter was going on in dick during this communication from his father. "shiner's a fool!--no, that's not it; i don't believe any such thing, father. why, shiner would never take a bold step like that, unless she'd been a little made up to, and had taken it kindly. pooh!" "who's to say she didn't?" "i do." "the more fool you." "why, father of me?" "has she ever done more to thee?" "no." "then she has done as much to he--rot 'em! now, dick, this is how a maid is. she'll swear she's dying for thee, and she is dying for thee, and she will die for thee; but she'll fling a look over t'other shoulder at another young feller, though never leaving off dying for thee just the same." "she's not dying for me, and so she didn't fling a look at him." "but she may be dying for him, for she looked at thee." "i don't know what to make of it at all," said dick gloomily. "all i can make of it is," the tranter said, raising his whip, arranging his different joints and muscles, and motioning to the horse to move on, "that if you can't read a maid's mind by her motions, nature d'seem to say thou'st ought to be a bachelor. clk, clk! smiler!" and the tranter moved on. dick held smart's rein firmly, and the whole concern of horse, cart, and man remained rooted in the lane. how long this condition would have lasted is unknown, had not dick's thoughts, after adding up numerous items of misery, gradually wandered round to the fact that as something must be done, it could not be done by staying there all night. reaching home he went up to his bedroom, shut the door as if he were going to be seen no more in this life, and taking a sheet of paper and uncorking the ink-bottle, he began a letter. the dignity of the writer's mind was so powerfully apparent in every line of this effusion that it obscured the logical sequence of facts and intentions to an appreciable degree; and it was not at all clear to a reader whether he there and then left off loving miss fancy day; whether he had never loved her seriously, and never meant to; whether he had been dying up to the present moment, and now intended to get well again; or whether he had hitherto been in good health, and intended to die for her forthwith. he put this letter in an envelope, sealed it up, directed it in a stern handwriting of straight dashes--easy flourishes being rigorously excluded. he walked with it in his pocket down the lane in strides not an inch less than three feet long. reaching her gate he put on a resolute expression--then put it off again, turned back homeward, tore up his letter, and sat down. that letter was altogether in a wrong tone--that he must own. a heartless man-of-the-world tone was what the juncture required. that he rather wanted her, and rather did not want her--the latter for choice; but that as a member of society he didn't mind making a query in jaunty terms, which could only be answered in the same way: did she mean anything by her bearing towards him, or did she not? this letter was considered so satisfactory in every way that, being put into the hands of a little boy, and the order given that he was to run with it to the school, he was told in addition not to look behind him if dick called after him to bring it back, but to run along with it just the same. having taken this precaution against vacillation, dick watched his messenger down the road, and turned into the house whistling an air in such ghastly jerks and starts, that whistling seemed to be the act the very furthest removed from that which was instinctive in such a youth. the letter was left as ordered: the next morning came and passed--and no answer. the next. the next. friday night came. dick resolved that if no answer or sign were given by her the next day, on sunday he would meet her face to face, and have it all out by word of mouth. "dick," said his father, coming in from the garden at that moment--in each hand a hive of bees tied in a cloth to prevent their egress--"i think you'd better take these two swarms of bees to mrs. maybold's to- morrow, instead o' me, and i'll go wi' smiler and the wagon." it was a relief; for mrs. maybold, the vicar's mother, who had just taken into her head a fancy for keeping bees (pleasantly disguised under the pretence of its being an economical wish to produce her own honey), lived near the watering-place of budmouth-regis, ten miles off, and the business of transporting the hives thither would occupy the whole day, and to some extent annihilate the vacant time between this evening and the coming sunday. the best spring-cart was washed throughout, the axles oiled, and the bees placed therein for the journey. part the third--summer chapter i: driving out of budmouth an easy bend of neck and graceful set of head; full and wavy bundles of dark-brown hair; light fall of little feet; pretty devices on the skirt of the dress; clear deep eyes; in short, a bunch of sweets: it was fancy! dick's heart went round to her with a rush. the scene was the corner of mary street in budmouth-regis, near the king's statue, at which point the white angle of the last house in the row cut perpendicularly an embayed and nearly motionless expanse of salt water projected from the outer ocean--to-day lit in bright tones of green and opal. dick and smart had just emerged from the street, and there on the right, against the brilliant sheet of liquid colour, stood fancy day; and she turned and recognized him. dick suspended his thoughts of the letter and wonder at how she came there by driving close to the chains of the esplanade--incontinently displacing two chairmen, who had just come to life for the summer in new clean shirts and revivified clothes, and being almost displaced in turn by a rigid boy rattling along with a baker's cart, and looking neither to the right nor the left. he asked if she were going to mellstock that night. "yes, i'm waiting for the carrier," she replied, seeming, too, to suspend thoughts of the letter. "now i can drive you home nicely, and you save half an hour. will ye come with me?" as fancy's power to will anything seemed to have departed in some mysterious manner at that moment, dick settled the matter by getting out and assisting her into the vehicle without another word. the temporary flush upon her cheek changed to a lesser hue, which was permanent, and at length their eyes met; there was present between them a certain feeling of embarrassment, which arises at such moments when all the instinctive acts dictated by the position have been performed. dick, being engaged with the reins, thought less of this awkwardness than did fancy, who had nothing to do but to feel his presence, and to be more and more conscious of the fact, that by accepting a seat beside him in this way she succumbed to the tone of his note. smart jogged along, and dick jogged, and the helpless fancy necessarily jogged, too; and she felt that she was in a measure captured and made a prisoner. "i am so much obliged to you for your company, miss day," he observed, as they drove past the two semicircular bays of the old royal hotel, where his majesty king george the third had many a time attended the balls of the burgesses. to miss day, crediting him with the same consciousness of mastery--a consciousness of which he was perfectly innocent--this remark sounded like a magnanimous intention to soothe her, the captive. "i didn't come for the pleasure of obliging you with my company," she said. the answer had an unexpected manner of incivility in it that must have been rather surprising to young dewy. at the same time it may be observed, that when a young woman returns a rude answer to a young man's civil remark, her heart is in a state which argues rather hopefully for his case than otherwise. there was silence between them till they had left the sea-front and passed about twenty of the trees that ornamented the road leading up out of the town towards casterbridge and mellstock. "though i didn't come for that purpose either, i would have done it," said dick at the twenty-first tree. "now, mr. dewy, no flirtation, because it's wrong, and i don't wish it." dick seated himself afresh just as he had been sitting before, arranged his looks very emphatically, and cleared his throat. "really, anybody would think you had met me on business and were just going to commence," said the lady intractably. "yes, they would." "why, you never have, to be sure!" this was a shaky beginning. he chopped round, and said cheerily, as a man who had resolved never to spoil his jollity by loving one of womankind-- "well, how are you getting on, miss day, at the present time? gaily, i don't doubt for a moment." "i am not gay, dick; you know that." "gaily doesn't mean decked in gay dresses." "i didn't suppose gaily was gaily dressed. mighty me, what a scholar you've grown!" "lots of things have happened to you this spring, i see." "what have you seen?" "o, nothing; i've heard, i mean!" "what have you heard?" "the name of a pretty man, with brass studs and a copper ring and a tin watch-chain, a little mixed up with your own. that's all." "that's a very unkind picture of mr. shiner, for that's who you mean! the studs are gold, as you know, and it's a real silver chain; the ring i can't conscientiously defend, and he only wore it once." "he might have worn it a hundred times without showing it half so much." "well, he's nothing to me," she serenely observed. "not any more than i am?" "now, mr. dewy," said fancy severely, "certainly he isn't any more to me than you are!" "not so much?" she looked aside to consider the precise compass of that question. "that i can't exactly answer," she replied with soft archness. as they were going rather slowly, another spring-cart, containing a farmer, farmer's wife, and farmer's man, jogged past them; and the farmer's wife and farmer's man eyed the couple very curiously. the farmer never looked up from the horse's tail. "why can't you exactly answer?" said dick, quickening smart a little, and jogging on just behind the farmer and farmer's wife and man. as no answer came, and as their eyes had nothing else to do, they both contemplated the picture presented in front, and noticed how the farmer's wife sat flattened between the two men, who bulged over each end of the seat to give her room, till they almost sat upon their respective wheels; and they looked too at the farmer's wife's silk mantle, inflating itself between her shoulders like a balloon and sinking flat again, at each jog of the horse. the farmer's wife, feeling their eyes sticking into her back, looked over her shoulder. dick dropped ten yards further behind. "fancy, why can't you answer?" he repeated. "because how much you are to me depends upon how much i am to you," said she in low tones. "everything," said dick, putting his hand towards hers, and casting emphatic eyes upon the upper curve of her cheek. "now, richard dewy, no touching me! i didn't say in what way your thinking of me affected the question--perhaps inversely, don't you see? no touching, sir! look; goodness me, don't, dick!" the cause of her sudden start was the unpleasant appearance over dick's right shoulder of an empty timber-wagon and four journeymen-carpenters reclining in lazy postures inside it, their eyes directed upwards at various oblique angles into the surrounding world, the chief object of their existence being apparently to criticize to the very backbone and marrow every animate object that came within the compass of their vision. this difficulty of dick's was overcome by trotting on till the wagon and carpenters were beginning to look rather misty by reason of a film of dust that accompanied their wagon-wheels, and rose around their heads like a fog. "say you love me, fancy." "no, dick, certainly not; 'tisn't time to do that yet." "why, fancy?" "'miss day' is better at present--don't mind my saying so; and i ought not to have called you dick." "nonsense! when you know that i would do anything on earth for your love. why, you make any one think that loving is a thing that can be done and undone, and put on and put off at a mere whim." "no, no, i don't," she said gently; "but there are things which tell me i ought not to give way to much thinking about you, even if--" "but you want to, don't you? yes, say you do; it is best to be truthful. whatever they may say about a woman's right to conceal where her love lies, and pretend it doesn't exist, and things like that, it is not best; i do know it, fancy. and an honest woman in that, as well as in all her daily concerns, shines most brightly, and is thought most of in the long- run." "well then, perhaps, dick, i do love you a little," she whispered tenderly; "but i wish you wouldn't say any more now." "i won't say any more now, then, if you don't like it, dear. but you do love me a little, don't you?" "now you ought not to want me to keep saying things twice; i can't say any more now, and you must be content with what you have." "i may at any rate call you fancy? there's no harm in that." "yes, you may." "and you'll not call me mr. dewy any more?" "very well." chapter ii: further along the road dick's spirits having risen in the course of these admissions of his sweetheart, he now touched smart with the whip; and on smart's neck, not far behind his ears. smart, who had been lost in thought for some time, never dreaming that dick could reach so far with a whip which, on this particular journey, had never been extended further than his flank, tossed his head, and scampered along with exceeding briskness, which was very pleasant to the young couple behind him till, turning a bend in the road, they came instantly upon the farmer, farmer's man, and farmer's wife with the flapping mantle, all jogging on just the same as ever. "bother those people! here we are upon them again." "well, of course. they have as much right to the road as we." "yes, but it is provoking to be overlooked so. i like a road all to myself. look what a lumbering affair theirs is!" the wheels of the farmer's cart, just at that moment, jogged into a depression running across the road, giving the cart a twist, whereupon all three nodded to the left, and on coming out of it all three nodded to the right, and went on jerking their backs in and out as usual. "we'll pass them when the road gets wider." when an opportunity seemed to offer itself for carrying this intention into effect, they heard light flying wheels behind, and on their quartering there whizzed along past them a brand-new gig, so brightly polished that the spokes of the wheels sent forth a continual quivering light at one point in their circle, and all the panels glared like mirrors in dick and fancy's eyes. the driver, and owner as it appeared, was really a handsome man; his companion was shiner. both turned round as they passed dick and fancy, and stared with bold admiration in her face till they were obliged to attend to the operation of passing the farmer. dick glanced for an instant at fancy while she was undergoing their scrutiny; then returned to his driving with rather a sad countenance. "why are you so silent?" she said, after a while, with real concern. "nothing." "yes, it is, dick. i couldn't help those people passing." "i know that." "you look offended with me. what have i done?" "i can't tell without offending you." "better out." "well," said dick, who seemed longing to tell, even at the risk of offending her, "i was thinking how different you in love are from me in love. whilst those men were staring, you dismissed me from your thoughts altogether, and--" "you can't offend me further now; tell all!" "and showed upon your face a pleased sense of being attractive to 'em." "don't be silly, dick! you know very well i didn't." dick shook his head sceptically, and smiled. "dick, i always believe flattery if possible--and it was possible then. now there's an open confession of weakness. but i showed no consciousness of it." dick, perceiving by her look that she would adhere to her statement, charitably forbore saying anything that could make her prevaricate. the sight of shiner, too, had recalled another branch of the subject to his mind; that which had been his greatest trouble till her company and words had obscured its probability. "by the way, fancy, do you know why our quire is to be dismissed?" "no: except that it is mr. maybold's wish for me to play the organ." "do you know how it came to be his wish?" "that i don't." "mr. shiner, being churchwarden, has persuaded the vicar; who, however, was willing enough before. shiner, i know, is crazy to see you playing every sunday; i suppose he'll turn over your music, for the organ will be close to his pew. but--i know you have never encouraged him?" "never once!" said fancy emphatically, and with eyes full of earnest truth. "i don't like him indeed, and i never heard of his doing this before! i have always felt that i should like to play in a church, but i never wished to turn you and your choir out; and i never even said that i could play till i was asked. you don't think for a moment that i did, surely, do you?" "i know you didn't, dear." "or that i care the least morsel of a bit for him?" "i know you don't." the distance between budmouth and mellstock was ten or eleven miles, and there being a good inn, 'the ship,' four miles out of budmouth, with a mast and cross-trees in front, dick's custom in driving thither was to divide the journey into three stages by resting at this inn going and coming, and not troubling the budmouth stables at all, whenever his visit to the town was a mere call and deposit, as to-day. fancy was ushered into a little tea-room, and dick went to the stables to see to the feeding of smart. in face of the significant twitches of feature that were visible in the ostler and labouring men idling around, dick endeavoured to look unconscious of the fact that there was any sentiment between him and fancy beyond a tranter's desire to carry a passenger home. he presently entered the inn and opened the door of fancy's room. "dick, do you know, it has struck me that it is rather awkward, my being here alone with you like this. i don't think you had better come in with me." "that's rather unpleasant, dear." "yes, it is, and i wanted you to have some tea as well as myself too, because you must be tired." "well, let me have some with you, then. i was denied once before, if you recollect, fancy." "yes, yes, never mind! and it seems unfriendly of me now, but i don't know what to do." "it shall be as you say, then." dick began to retreat with a dissatisfied wrinkling of face, and a farewell glance at the cosy tea- tray. "but you don't see how it is, dick, when you speak like that," she said, with more earnestness than she had ever shown before. "you do know, that even if i care very much for you, i must remember that i have a difficult position to maintain. the vicar would not like me, as his schoolmistress, to indulge in a tete-a-tete anywhere with anybody." "but i am not any body!" exclaimed dick. "no, no, i mean with a young man;" and she added softly, "unless i were really engaged to be married to him." "is that all? then, dearest, dearest, why we'll be engaged at once, to be sure we will, and down i sit! there it is, as easy as a glove!" "ah! but suppose i won't! and, goodness me, what have i done!" she faltered, getting very red. "positively, it seems as if i meant you to say that!" "let's do it! i mean get engaged," said dick. "now, fancy, will you be my wife?" "do you know, dick, it was rather unkind of you to say what you did coming along the road," she remarked, as if she had not heard the latter part of his speech; though an acute observer might have noticed about her breast, as the word 'wife' fell from dick's lips, a soft silent escape of breaths, with very short rests between each. "what did i say?" "about my trying to look attractive to those men in the gig." "you couldn't help looking so, whether you tried or no. and, fancy, you do care for me?" "yes." "very much?" "yes." "and you'll be my own wife?" her heart quickened, adding to and withdrawing from her cheek varying tones of red to match each varying thought. dick looked expectantly at the ripe tint of her delicate mouth, waiting for what was coming forth. "yes--if father will let me." dick drew himself close to her, compressing his lips and pouting them out, as if he were about to whistle the softest melody known. "o no!" said fancy solemnly. the modest dick drew back a little. "dick, dick, kiss me and let me go instantly!--here's somebody coming!" she whisperingly exclaimed. * * * half an hour afterwards dick emerged from the inn, and if fancy's lips had been real cherries probably dick's would have appeared deeply stained. the landlord was standing in the yard. "heu-heu! hay-hay, master dewy! ho-ho!" he laughed, letting the laugh slip out gently and by degrees that it might make little noise in its exit, and smiting dick under the fifth rib at the same time. "this will never do, upon my life, master dewy! calling for tay for a feymel passenger, and then going in and sitting down and having some too, and biding such a fine long time!" "but surely you know?" said dick, with great apparent surprise. "yes, yes! ha-ha!" smiting the landlord under the ribs in return. "why, what? yes, yes; ha-ha!" "you know, of course!" "yes, of course! but--that is--i don't." "why about--between that young lady and me?" nodding to the window of the room that fancy occupied. "no; not i!" said the innkeeper, bringing his eyes into circles. "and you don't!" "not a word, i'll take my oath!" "but you laughed when i laughed." "ay, that was me sympathy; so did you when i laughed!" "really, you don't know? goodness--not knowing that!" "i'll take my oath i don't!" "o yes," said dick, with frigid rhetoric of pitying astonishment, "we're engaged to be married, you see, and i naturally look after her." "of course, of course! i didn't know that, and i hope ye'll excuse any little freedom of mine, mr. dewy. but it is a very odd thing; i was talking to your father very intimate about family matters only last friday in the world, and who should come in but keeper day, and we all then fell a-talking o' family matters; but neither one o' them said a mortal word about it; knowen me too so many years, and i at your father's own wedding. 'tisn't what i should have expected from an old neighbour!" "well, to say the truth, we hadn't told father of the engagement at that time; in fact, 'twasn't settled." "ah! the business was done sunday. yes, yes, sunday's the courting day. heu-heu!" "no, 'twasn't done sunday in particular." "after school-hours this week? well, a very good time, a very proper good time." "o no, 'twasn't done then." "coming along the road to-day then, i suppose?" "not at all; i wouldn't think of getting engaged in a dog-cart." "dammy--might as well have said at once, the when be blowed! anyhow, 'tis a fine day, and i hope next time you'll come as one." fancy was duly brought out and assisted into the vehicle, and the newly affianced youth and maiden passed up the steep hill to the ridgeway, and vanished in the direction of mellstock. chapter iii: a confession it was a morning of the latter summer-time; a morning of lingering dews, when the grass is never dry in the shade. fuchsias and dahlias were laden till eleven o'clock with small drops and dashes of water, changing the colour of their sparkle at every movement of the air; and elsewhere hanging on twigs like small silver fruit. the threads of garden spiders appeared thick and polished. in the dry and sunny places, dozens of long- legged crane-flies whizzed off the grass at every step the passer took. fancy day and her friend susan dewy the tranter's daughter, were in such a spot as this, pulling down a bough laden with early apples. three months had elapsed since dick and fancy had journeyed together from budmouth, and the course of their love had run on vigorously during the whole time. there had been just enough difficulty attending its development, and just enough finesse required in keeping it private, to lend the passion an ever-increasing freshness on fancy's part, whilst, whether from these accessories or not, dick's heart had been at all times as fond as could be desired. but there was a cloud on fancy's horizon now. "she is so well off--better than any of us," susan dewy was saying. "her father farms five hundred acres, and she might marry a doctor or curate or anything of that kind if she contrived a little." "i don't think dick ought to have gone to that gipsy-party at all when he knew i couldn't go," replied fancy uneasily. "he didn't know that you would not be there till it was too late to refuse the invitation," said susan. "and what was she like? tell me." "well, she was rather pretty, i must own." "tell straight on about her, can't you! come, do, susan. how many times did you say he danced with her?" "once." "twice, i think you said?" "indeed i'm sure i didn't." "well, and he wanted to again, i expect." "no; i don't think he did. she wanted to dance with him again bad enough, i know. everybody does with dick, because he's so handsome and such a clever courter." "o, i wish!--how did you say she wore her hair?" "in long curls,--and her hair is light, and it curls without being put in paper: that's how it is she's so attractive." "she's trying to get him away! yes, yes, she is! and through keeping this miserable school i mustn't wear my hair in curls! but i will; i don't care if i leave the school and go home, i will wear my curls! look, susan, do! is her hair as soft and long as this?" fancy pulled from its coil under her hat a twine of her own hair, and stretched it down her shoulder to show its length, looking at susan to catch her opinion from her eyes. "it is about the same length as that, i think," said miss dewy. fancy paused hopelessly. "i wish mine was lighter, like hers!" she continued mournfully. "but hers isn't so soft, is it? tell me, now." "i don't know." fancy abstractedly extended her vision to survey a yellow butterfly and a red-and-black butterfly that were flitting along in company, and then became aware that dick was advancing up the garden. "susan, here's dick coming; i suppose that's because we've been talking about him." "well, then, i shall go indoors now--you won't want me;" and susan turned practically and walked off. enter the single-minded dick, whose only fault at the gipsying, or picnic, had been that of loving fancy too exclusively, and depriving himself of the innocent pleasure the gathering might have afforded him, by sighing regretfully at her absence,--who had danced with the rival in sheer despair of ever being able to get through that stale, flat, and unprofitable afternoon in any other way; but this she would not believe. fancy had settled her plan of emotion. to reproach dick? o no, no. "i am in great trouble," said she, taking what was intended to be a hopelessly melancholy survey of a few small apples lying under the tree; yet a critical ear might have noticed in her voice a tentative tone as to the effect of the words upon dick when she uttered them. "what are you in trouble about? tell me of it," said dick earnestly. "darling, i will share it with 'ee and help 'ee." "no, no: you can't! nobody can!" "why not? you don't deserve it, whatever it is. tell me, dear." "o, it isn't what you think! it is dreadful: my own sin!" "sin, fancy! as if you could sin! i know it can't be." "'tis, 'tis!" said the young lady, in a pretty little frenzy of sorrow. "i have done wrong, and i don't like to tell it! nobody will forgive me, nobody! and you above all will not! . . . i have allowed myself to--to--fl--" "what,--not flirt!" he said, controlling his emotion as it were by a sudden pressure inward from his surface. "and you said only the day before yesterday that you hadn't flirted in your life!" "yes, i did; and that was a wicked story! i have let another love me, and--" "good g--! well, i'll forgive you,--yes, if you couldn't help it,--yes, i will!" said the now dismal dick. "did you encourage him?" "o,--i don't know,--yes--no. o, i think so!" "who was it?" a pause. "tell me!" "mr. shiner." after a silence that was only disturbed by the fall of an apple, a long- checked sigh from dick, and a sob from fancy, he said with real austerity-- "tell it all;--every word!" "he looked at me, and i looked at him, and he said, 'will you let me show you how to catch bullfinches down here by the stream?' and i--wanted to know very much--i did so long to have a bullfinch! i couldn't help that and i said, 'yes!' and then he said, 'come here.' and i went with him down to the lovely river, and then he said to me, 'look and see how i do it, and then you'll know: i put this birdlime round this twig, and then i go here,' he said, 'and hide away under a bush; and presently clever mister bird comes and perches upon the twig, and flaps his wings, and you've got him before you can say jack'--something; o, o, o, i forget what!" "jack sprat," mournfully suggested dick through the cloud of his misery. "no, not jack sprat," she sobbed. "then 'twas jack robinson!" he said, with the emphasis of a man who had resolved to discover every iota of the truth, or die. "yes, that was it! and then i put my hand upon the rail of the bridge to get across, and--that's all." "well, that isn't much, either," said dick critically, and more cheerfully. "not that i see what business shiner has to take upon himself to teach you anything. but it seems--it do seem there must have been more than that to set you up in such a dreadful taking?" he looked into fancy's eyes. misery of miseries!--guilt was written there still. "now, fancy, you've not told me all!" said dick, rather sternly for a quiet young man. "o, don't speak so cruelly! i am afraid to tell now! if you hadn't been harsh, i was going on to tell all; now i can't!" "come, dear fancy, tell: come. i'll forgive; i must,--by heaven and earth, i must, whether i will or no; i love you so!" "well, when i put my hand on the bridge, he touched it--" "a scamp!" said dick, grinding an imaginary human frame to powder. "and then he looked at me, and at last he said, 'are you in love with dick dewy?' and i said, 'perhaps i am!' and then he said, 'i wish you weren't then, for i want to marry you, with all my soul.'" "there's a villain now! want to marry you!" and dick quivered with the bitterness of satirical laughter. then suddenly remembering that he might be reckoning without his host: "unless, to be sure, you are willing to have him,--perhaps you are," he said, with the wretched indifference of a castaway. "no, indeed i am not!" she said, her sobs just beginning to take a favourable turn towards cure. "well, then," said dick, coming a little to his senses, "you've been stretching it very much in giving such a dreadful beginning to such a mere nothing. and i know what you've done it for,--just because of that gipsy-party!" he turned away from her and took five paces decisively, as if he were tired of an ungrateful country, including herself. "you did it to make me jealous, and i won't stand it!" he flung the words to her over his shoulder and then stalked on, apparently very anxious to walk to the remotest of the colonies that very minute. "o, o, o, dick--dick!" she cried, trotting after him like a pet lamb, and really seriously alarmed at last, "you'll kill me! my impulses are bad--miserably wicked,--and i can't help it; forgive me, dick! and i love you always; and those times when you look silly and don't seem quite good enough for me,--just the same, i do, dick! and there is something more serious, though not concerning that walk with him." "well, what is it?" said dick, altering his mind about walking to the colonies; in fact, passing to the other extreme, and standing so rooted to the road that he was apparently not even going home. "why this," she said, drying the beginning of a new flood of tears she had been going to shed, "this is the serious part. father has told mr. shiner that he would like him for a son-in-law, if he could get me;--that he has his right hearty consent to come courting me!" chapter iv: an arrangement "that is serious," said dick, more intellectually than he had spoken for a long time. the truth was that geoffrey knew nothing about his daughter's continued walks and meetings with dick. when a hint that there were symptoms of an attachment between them had first reached geoffrey's ears, he stated so emphatically that he must think the matter over before any such thing could be allowed that, rather unwisely on dick's part, whatever it might have been on the lady's, the lovers were careful to be seen together no more in public; and geoffrey, forgetting the report, did not think over the matter at all. so mr. shiner resumed his old position in geoffrey's brain by mere flux of time. even shiner began to believe that dick existed for fancy no more,--though that remarkably easy-going man had taken no active steps on his own account as yet. "and father has not only told mr. shiner that," continued fancy, "but he has written me a letter, to say he should wish me to encourage mr. shiner, if 'twas convenient!" "i must start off and see your father at once!" said dick, taking two or three vehement steps to the south, recollecting that mr. day lived to the north, and coming back again. "i think we had better see him together. not tell him what you come for, or anything of the kind, until he likes you, and so win his brain through his heart, which is always the way to manage people. i mean in this way: i am going home on saturday week to help them in the honey-taking. you might come there to me, have something to eat and drink, and let him guess what your coming signifies, without saying it in so many words." "we'll do it, dearest. but i shall ask him for you, flat and plain; not wait for his guessing." and the lover then stepped close to her, and attempted to give her one little kiss on the cheek, his lips alighting, however, on an outlying tract of her back hair by reason of an impulse that had caused her to turn her head with a jerk. "yes, and i'll put on my second-best suit and a clean shirt and collar, and black my boots as if 'twas a sunday. 'twill have a good appearance, you see, and that's a great deal to start with." "you won't wear that old waistcoat, will you, dick?" "bless you, no! why i--" "i didn't mean to be personal, dear dick," she said, fearing she had hurt his feelings. "'tis a very nice waistcoat, but what i meant was, that though it is an excellent waistcoat for a settled-down man, it is not quite one for" (she waited, and a blush expanded over her face, and then she went on again)--"for going courting in." "no, i'll wear my best winter one, with the leather lining, that mother made. it is a beautiful, handsome waistcoat inside, yes, as ever anybody saw. in fact, only the other day, i unbuttoned it to show a chap that very lining, and he said it was the strongest, handsomest lining you could wish to see on the king's waistcoat himself." "i don't quite know what to wear," she said, as if her habitual indifference alone to dress had kept back so important a subject till now. "why, that blue frock you wore last week." "doesn't set well round the neck. i couldn't wear that." "but i shan't care." "no, you won't mind." "well, then it's all right. because you only care how you look to me, do you, dear? i only dress for you, that's certain." "yes, but you see i couldn't appear in it again very well." "any strange gentleman you mid meet in your journey might notice the set of it, i suppose. fancy, men in love don't think so much about how they look to other women." it is difficult to say whether a tone of playful banter or of gentle reproach prevailed in the speech. "well then, dick," she said, with good-humoured frankness, "i'll own it. i shouldn't like a stranger to see me dressed badly, even though i am in love. 'tis our nature, i suppose." "you perfect woman!" "yes; if you lay the stress on 'woman,'" she murmured, looking at a group of hollyhocks in flower, round which a crowd of butterflies had gathered like female idlers round a bonnet-shop. "but about the dress. why not wear the one you wore at our party?" "that sets well, but a girl of the name of bet tallor, who lives near our house, has had one made almost like it (only in pattern, though of miserably cheap stuff), and i couldn't wear it on that account. dear me, i am afraid i can't go now." "o yes, you must; i know you will!" said dick, with dismay. "why not wear what you've got on?" "what! this old one! after all, i think that by wearing my gray one saturday, i can make the blue one do for sunday. yes, i will. a hat or a bonnet, which shall it be? which do i look best in?" "well, i think the bonnet is nicest, more quiet and matronly." "what's the objection to the hat? does it make me look old?" "o no; the hat is well enough; but it makes you look rather too--you won't mind me saying it, dear?" "not at all, for i shall wear the bonnet." "--rather too coquettish and flirty for an engaged young woman." she reflected a minute. "yes; yes. still, after all, the hat would do best; hats are best, you see. yes, i must wear the hat, dear dicky, because i ought to wear a hat, you know." part the fourth--autumn chapter i: going nutting dick, dressed in his 'second-best' suit, burst into fancy's sitting-room with a glow of pleasure on his face. it was two o'clock on friday, the day before her contemplated visit to her father, and for some reason connected with cleaning the school the children had been given this friday afternoon for pastime, in addition to the usual saturday. "fancy! it happens just right that it is a leisure half day with you. smart is lame in his near-foot-afore, and so, as i can't do anything, i've made a holiday afternoon of it, and am come for you to go nutting with me!" she was sitting by the parlour window, with a blue frock lying across her lap and scissors in her hand. "go nutting! yes. but i'm afraid i can't go for an hour or so." "why not? 'tis the only spare afternoon we may both have together for weeks." "this dress of mine, that i am going to wear on sunday at yalbury;--i find it fits so badly that i must alter it a little, after all. i told the dressmaker to make it by a pattern i gave her at the time; instead of that, she did it her own way, and made me look a perfect fright." "how long will you be?" he inquired, looking rather disappointed. "not long. do wait and talk to me; come, do, dear." dick sat down. the talking progressed very favourably, amid the snipping and sewing, till about half-past two, at which time his conversation began to be varied by a slight tapping upon his toe with a walking-stick he had cut from the hedge as he came along. fancy talked and answered him, but sometimes the answers were so negligently given, that it was evident her thoughts lay for the greater part in her lap with the blue dress. the clock struck three. dick arose from his seat, walked round the room with his hands behind him, examined all the furniture, then sounded a few notes on the harmonium, then looked inside all the books he could find, then smoothed fancy's head with his hand. still the snipping and sewing went on. the clock struck four. dick fidgeted about, yawned privately; counted the knots in the table, yawned publicly; counted the flies on the ceiling, yawned horribly; went into the kitchen and scullery, and so thoroughly studied the principle upon which the pump was constructed that he could have delivered a lecture on the subject. stepping back to fancy, and finding still that she had not done, he went into her garden and looked at her cabbages and potatoes, and reminded himself that they seemed to him to wear a decidedly feminine aspect; then pulled up several weeds, and came in again. the clock struck five, and still the snipping and sewing went on. dick attempted to kill a fly, peeled all the rind off his walking-stick, then threw the stick into the scullery because it was spoilt, produced hideous discords from the harmonium, and accidentally overturned a vase of flowers, the water from which ran in a rill across the table and dribbled to the floor, where it formed a lake, the shape of which, after the lapse of a few minutes, he began to modify considerably with his foot, till it was like a map of england and wales. "well, dick, you needn't have made quite such a mess." "well, i needn't, i suppose." he walked up to the blue dress, and looked at it with a rigid gaze. then an idea seemed to cross his brain. "fancy." "yes." "i thought you said you were going to wear your gray gown all day to-morrow on your trip to yalbury, and in the evening too, when i shall be with you, and ask your father for you?" "so i am." "and the blue one only on sunday?" "and the blue one sunday." "well, dear, i sha'n't be at yalbury sunday to see it." "no, but i shall walk to longpuddle church in the afternoon with father, and such lots of people will be looking at me there, you know; and it did set so badly round the neck." "i never noticed it, and 'tis like nobody else would." "they might." "then why not wear the gray one on sunday as well? 'tis as pretty as the blue one." "i might make the gray one do, certainly. but it isn't so good; it didn't cost half so much as this one, and besides, it would be the same i wore saturday." "then wear the striped one, dear." "i might." "or the dark one." "yes, i might; but i want to wear a fresh one they haven't seen." "i see, i see," said dick, in a voice in which the tones of love were decidedly inconvenienced by a considerable emphasis, his thoughts meanwhile running as follows: "i, the man she loves best in the world, as she says, am to understand that my poor half-holiday is to be lost, because she wants to wear on sunday a gown there is not the slightest necessity for wearing, simply, in fact, to appear more striking than usual in the eyes of longpuddle young men; and i not there, either." "then there are three dresses good enough for my eyes, but neither is good enough for the youths of longpuddle," he said. "no, not that exactly, dick. still, you see, i do want--to look pretty to them--there, that's honest! but i sha'n't be much longer." "how much?" "a quarter of an hour." "very well; i'll come in in a quarter of an hour." "why go away?" "i mid as well." he went out, walked down the road, and sat upon a gate. here he meditated and meditated, and the more he meditated the more decidedly did he begin to fume, and the more positive was he that his time had been scandalously trifled with by miss fancy day--that, so far from being the simple girl who had never had a sweetheart before, as she had solemnly assured him time after time, she was, if not a flirt, a woman who had had no end of admirers; a girl most certainly too anxious about her frocks; a girl, whose feelings, though warm, were not deep; a girl who cared a great deal too much how she appeared in the eyes of other men. "what she loves best in the world," he thought, with an incipient spice of his father's grimness, "is her hair and complexion. what she loves next best, her gowns and hats; what she loves next best, myself, perhaps!" suffering great anguish at this disloyalty in himself and harshness to his darling, yet disposed to persevere in it, a horribly cruel thought crossed his mind. he would not call for her, as he had promised, at the end of a quarter of an hour! yes, it would be a punishment she well deserved. although the best part of the afternoon had been wasted he would go nutting as he had intended, and go by himself. he leaped over the gate, and pushed up the lane for nearly two miles, till a winding path called snail-creep sloped up a hill and entered a hazel copse by a hole like a rabbit's burrow. in he plunged, vanished among the bushes, and in a short time there was no sign of his existence upon earth, save an occasional rustling of boughs and snapping of twigs in divers points of grey's wood. never man nutted as dick nutted that afternoon. he worked like a galley slave. half-hour after half-hour passed away, and still he gathered without ceasing. at last, when the sun had set, and bunches of nuts could not be distinguished from the leaves which nourished them, he shouldered his bag, containing quite two pecks of the finest produce of the wood, about as much use to him as two pecks of stones from the road, strolled down the woodland track, crossed the highway and entered the homeward lane, whistling as he went. probably, miss fancy day never before or after stood so low in mr. dewy's opinion as on that afternoon. in fact, it is just possible that a few more blue dresses on the longpuddle young men's account would have clarified dick's brain entirely, and made him once more a free man. but venus had planned other developments, at any rate for the present. cuckoo-lane, the way he pursued, passed over a ridge which rose keenly against the sky about fifty yards in his van. here, upon the bright after-glow about the horizon, was now visible an irregular shape, which at first he conceived to be a bough standing a little beyond the line of its neighbours. then it seemed to move, and, as he advanced still further, there was no doubt that it was a living being sitting in the bank, head bowed on hand. the grassy margin entirely prevented his footsteps from being heard, and it was not till he was close that the figure recognized him. up it sprang, and he was face to face with fancy. "dick, dick! o, is it you, dick!" "yes, fancy," said dick, in a rather repentant tone, and lowering his nuts. she ran up to him, flung her parasol on the grass, put her little head against his breast, and then there began a narrative, disjointed by such a hysterical weeping as was never surpassed for intensity in the whole history of love. "o dick," she sobbed out, "where have you been away from me? o, i have suffered agony, and thought you would never come any more! 'tis cruel, dick; no 'tisn't, it is justice! i've been walking miles and miles up and down grey's wood, trying to find you, till i was wearied and worn out, and i could walk no further, and had come back this far! o dick, directly you were gone, i thought i had offended you and i put down the dress; 'tisn't finished now, and i never will finish, it, and i'll wear an old one sunday! yes, dick, i will, because i don't care what i wear when you are not by my side--ha, you think i do, but i don't!--and i ran after you, and i saw you go up snail-creep and not look back once, and then you plunged in, and i after you; but i was too far behind. o, i did wish the horrid bushes had been cut down, so that i could see your dear shape again! and then i called out to you, and nobody answered, and i was afraid to call very loud, lest anybody else should hear me. then i kept wandering and wandering about, and it was dreadful misery, dick. and then i shut my eyes and fell to picturing you looking at some other woman, very pretty and nice, but with no affection or truth in her at all, and then imagined you saying to yourself, 'ah, she's as good as fancy, for fancy told me a story, and was a flirt, and cared for herself more than me, so now i'll have this one for my sweetheart.' o, you won't, will you, dick, for i do love you so!" it is scarcely necessary to add that dick renounced his freedom there and then, and kissed her ten times over, and promised that no pretty woman of the kind alluded to should ever engross his thoughts; in short, that though he had been vexed with her, all such vexation was past, and that henceforth and for ever it was simply fancy or death for him. and then they set about proceeding homewards, very slowly on account of fancy's weariness, she leaning upon his shoulder, and in addition receiving support from his arm round her waist; though she had sufficiently recovered from her desperate condition to sing to him, 'why are you wandering here, i pray?' during the latter part of their walk. nor is it necessary to describe in detail how the bag of nuts was quite forgotten until three days later, when it was found among the brambles and restored empty to mrs. dewy, her initials being marked thereon in red cotton; and how she puzzled herself till her head ached upon the question of how on earth her meal-bag could have got into cuckoo-lane. chapter ii: honey-taking, and afterwards saturday evening saw dick dewy journeying on foot to yalbury wood, according to the arrangement with fancy. the landscape being concave, at the going down of the sun everything suddenly assumed a uniform robe of shade. the evening advanced from sunset to dusk long before dick's arrival, and his progress during the latter portion of his walk through the trees was indicated by the flutter of terrified birds that had been roosting over the path. and in crossing the glades, masses of hot dry air, that had been formed on the hills during the day, greeted his cheeks alternately with clouds of damp night air from the valleys. he reached the keeper-steward's house, where the grass-plot and the garden in front appeared light and pale against the unbroken darkness of the grove from which he had emerged, and paused at the garden gate. he had scarcely been there a minute when he beheld a sort of procession advancing from the door in his front. it consisted first of enoch the trapper, carrying a spade on his shoulder and a lantern dangling in his hand; then came mrs. day, the light of the lantern revealing that she bore in her arms curious objects about a foot long, in the form of latin crosses (made of lath and brown paper dipped in brimstone--called matches by bee-masters); next came miss day, with a shawl thrown over her head; and behind all, in the gloom, mr. frederic shiner. dick, in his consternation at finding shiner present, was at a loss how to proceed, and retired under a tree to collect his thoughts. "here i be, enoch," said a voice; and the procession advancing farther, the lantern's rays illuminated the figure of geoffrey, awaiting their arrival beside a row of bee-hives, in front of the path. taking the spade from enoch, he proceeded to dig two holes in the earth beside the hives, the others standing round in a circle, except mrs. day, who deposited her matches in the fork of an apple-tree and returned to the house. the party remaining were now lit up in front by the lantern in their midst, their shadows radiating each way upon the garden-plot like the spokes of a wheel. an apparent embarrassment of fancy at the presence of shiner caused a silence in the assembly, during which the preliminaries of execution were arranged, the matches fixed, the stake kindled, the two hives placed over the two holes, and the earth stopped round the edges. geoffrey then stood erect, and rather more, to straighten his backbone after the digging. "they were a peculiar family," said mr. shiner, regarding the hives reflectively. geoffrey nodded. "those holes will be the grave of thousands!" said fancy. "i think 'tis rather a cruel thing to do." her father shook his head. "no," he said, tapping the hives to shake the dead bees from their cells, "if you suffocate 'em this way, they only die once: if you fumigate 'em in the new way, they come to life again, and die o' starvation; so the pangs o' death be twice upon 'em." "i incline to fancy's notion," said mr. shiner, laughing lightly. "the proper way to take honey, so that the bees be neither starved nor murdered, is a puzzling matter," said the keeper steadily. "i should like never to take it from them," said fancy. "but 'tis the money," said enoch musingly. "for without money man is a shadder!" the lantern-light had disturbed many bees that had escaped from hives destroyed some days earlier, and, demoralized by affliction, were now getting a living as marauders about the doors of other hives. several flew round the head and neck of geoffrey; then darted upon him with an irritated bizz. enoch threw down the lantern, and ran off and pushed his head into a currant bush; fancy scudded up the path; and mr. shiner floundered away helter-skelter among the cabbages. geoffrey stood his ground, unmoved and firm as a rock. fancy was the first to return, followed by enoch picking up the lantern. mr. shiner still remained invisible. "have the craters stung ye?" said enoch to geoffrey. "no, not much--on'y a little here and there," he said with leisurely solemnity, shaking one bee out of his shirt sleeve, pulling another from among his hair, and two or three more from his neck. the rest looked on during this proceeding with a complacent sense of being out of it,--much as a european nation in a state of internal commotion is watched by its neighbours. "are those all of them, father?" said fancy, when geoffrey had pulled away five. "almost all,--though i feel one or two more sticking into my shoulder and side. ah! there's another just begun again upon my backbone. you lively young mortals, how did you get inside there? however, they can't sting me many times more, poor things, for they must be getting weak. they mid as well stay in me till bedtime now, i suppose." as he himself was the only person affected by this arrangement, it seemed satisfactory enough; and after a noise of feet kicking against cabbages in a blundering progress among them, the voice of mr. shiner was heard from the darkness in that direction. "is all quite safe again?" no answer being returned to this query, he apparently assumed that he might venture forth, and gradually drew near the lantern again. the hives were now removed from their position over the holes, one being handed to enoch to carry indoors, and one being taken by geoffrey himself. "bring hither the lantern, fancy: the spade can bide." geoffrey and enoch then went towards the house, leaving shiner and fancy standing side by side on the garden-plot. "allow me," said shiner, stooping for the lantern and seizing it at the same time with fancy. "i can carry it," said fancy, religiously repressing all inclination to trifle. she had thoroughly considered that subject after the tearful explanation of the bird-catching adventure to dick, and had decided that it would be dishonest in her, as an engaged young woman, to trifle with men's eyes and hands any more. finding that shiner still retained his hold of the lantern, she relinquished it, and he, having found her retaining it, also let go. the lantern fell, and was extinguished. fancy moved on. "where is the path?" said mr. shiner. "here," said fancy. "your eyes will get used to the dark in a minute or two." "till that time will ye lend me your hand?" fancy gave him the extreme tips of her fingers, and they stepped from the plot into the path. "you don't accept attentions very freely." "it depends upon who offers them." "a fellow like me, for instance." a dead silence. "well, what do you say, missie?" "it then depends upon how they are offered." "not wildly, and yet not careless-like; not purposely, and yet not by chance; not too quick nor yet too slow." "how then?" said fancy. "coolly and practically," he said. "how would that kind of love be taken?" "not anxiously, and yet not indifferently; neither blushing nor pale; nor religiously nor yet quite wickedly." "well, how?" "not at all." * * * * * geoffrey day's storehouse at the back of his dwelling was hung with bunches of dried horehound, mint, and sage; brown-paper bags of thyme and lavender; and long ropes of clean onions. on shelves were spread large red and yellow apples, and choice selections of early potatoes for seed next year;--vulgar crowds of commoner kind lying beneath in heaps. a few empty beehives were clustered around a nail in one corner, under which stood two or three barrels of new cider of the first crop, each bubbling and squirting forth from the yet open bunghole. fancy was now kneeling beside the two inverted hives, one of which rested against her lap, for convenience in operating upon the contents. she thrust her sleeves above her elbows, and inserted her small pink hand edgewise between each white lobe of honeycomb, performing the act so adroitly and gently as not to unseal a single cell. then cracking the piece off at the crown of the hive by a slight backward and forward movement, she lifted each portion as it was loosened into a large blue platter, placed on a bench at her side. "bother these little mortals!" said geoffrey, who was holding the light to her, and giving his back an uneasy twist. "i really think i may as well go indoors and take 'em out, poor things! for they won't let me alone. there's two a stinging wi' all their might now. i'm sure i wonder their strength can last so long." "all right, friend; i'll hold the candle whilst you are gone," said mr. shiner, leisurely taking the light, and allowing geoffrey to depart, which he did with his usual long paces. he could hardly have gone round to the house-door when other footsteps were heard approaching the outbuilding; the tip of a finger appeared in the hole through which the wood latch was lifted, and dick dewy came in, having been all this time walking up and down the wood, vainly waiting for shiner's departure. fancy looked up and welcomed him rather confusedly. shiner grasped the candlestick more firmly, and, lest doing this in silence should not imply to dick with sufficient force that he was quite at home and cool, he sang invincibly-- "'king arthur he had three sons.'" "father here?" said dick. "indoors, i think," said fancy, looking pleasantly at him. dick surveyed the scene, and did not seem inclined to hurry off just at that moment. shiner went on singing-- "'the miller was drown'd in his pond, the weaver was hung in his yarn, and the d--- ran away with the little tail-or, with the broadcloth under his arm.'" "that's a terrible crippled rhyme, if that's your rhyme!" said dick, with a grain of superciliousness in his tone. "it's no use your complaining to me about the rhyme!" said mr. shiner. "you must go to the man that made it." fancy by this time had acquired confidence. "taste a bit, mr. dewy," she said, holding up to him a small circular piece of honeycomb that had been the last in the row of layers, remaining still on her knees and flinging back her head to look in his face; "and then i'll taste a bit too." "and i, if you please," said mr. shiner. nevertheless the farmer looked superior, as if he could even now hardly join the trifling from very importance of station; and after receiving the honeycomb from fancy, he turned it over in his hand till the cells began to be crushed, and the liquid honey ran down from his fingers in a thin string. suddenly a faint cry from fancy caused them to gaze at her. "what's the matter, dear?" said dick. "it is nothing, but o-o! a bee has stung the inside of my lip! he was in one of the cells i was eating!" "we must keep down the swelling, or it may be serious!" said shiner, stepping up and kneeling beside her. "let me see it." "no, no!" "just let me see it," said dick, kneeling on the other side: and after some hesitation she pressed down her lip with one finger to show the place. "o, i hope 'twill soon be better! i don't mind a sting in ordinary places, but it is so bad upon your lip," she added with tears in her eyes, and writhing a little from the pain. shiner held the light above his head and pushed his face close to fancy's, as if the lip had been shown exclusively to himself, upon which dick pushed closer, as if shiner were not there at all. "it is swelling," said dick to her right aspect. "it isn't swelling," said shiner to her left aspect. "is it dangerous on the lip?" cried fancy. "i know it is dangerous on the tongue." "o no, not dangerous!" answered dick. "rather dangerous," had answered shiner simultaneously. "i must try to bear it!" said fancy, turning again to the hives. "hartshorn-and-oil is a good thing to put to it, miss day," said shiner with great concern. "sweet-oil-and-hartshorn i've found to be a good thing to cure stings, miss day," said dick with greater concern. "we have some mixed indoors; would you kindly run and get it for me?" she said. now, whether by inadvertence, or whether by mischievous intention, the individuality of the you was so carelessly denoted that both dick and shiner sprang to their feet like twin acrobats, and marched abreast to the door; both seized the latch and lifted it, and continued marching on, shoulder to shoulder, in the same manner to the dwelling-house. not only so, but entering the room, they marched as before straight up to mrs. day's chair, letting the door in the oak partition slam so forcibly, that the rows of pewter on the dresser rang like a bell. "mrs. day, fancy has stung her lip, and wants you to give me the hartshorn, please," said mr. shiner, very close to mrs. day's face. "o, mrs. day, fancy has asked me to bring out the hartshorn, please, because she has stung her lip!" said dick, a little closer to mrs. day's face. "well, men alive! that's no reason why you should eat me, i suppose!" said mrs. day, drawing back. she searched in the corner-cupboard, produced the bottle, and began to dust the cork, the rim, and every other part very carefully, dick's hand and shiner's hand waiting side by side. "which is head man?" said mrs. day. "now, don't come mumbudgeting so close again. which is head man?" neither spoke; and the bottle was inclined towards shiner. shiner, as a high-class man, would not look in the least triumphant, and turned to go off with it as geoffrey came downstairs after the search in his linen for concealed bees. "o--that you, master dewy?" dick assured the keeper that it was; and the young man then determined upon a bold stroke for the attainment of his end, forgetting that the worst of bold strokes is the disastrous consequences they involve if they fail. "i've come on purpose to speak to you very particular, mr. day," he said, with a crushing emphasis intended for the ears of mr. shiner, who was vanishing round the door-post at that moment. "well, i've been forced to go upstairs and unrind myself, and shake some bees out o' me" said geoffrey, walking slowly towards the open door, and standing on the threshold. "the young rascals got into my shirt and wouldn't be quiet nohow." dick followed him to the door. "i've come to speak a word to you," he repeated, looking out at the pale mist creeping up from the gloom of the valley. "you may perhaps guess what it is about." the keeper lowered his hands into the depths of his pockets, twirled his eyes, balanced himself on his toes, looked as perpendicularly downward as if his glance were a plumb-line, then horizontally, collecting together the cracks that lay about his face till they were all in the neighbourhood of his eyes. "maybe i don't know," he replied. dick said nothing; and the stillness was disturbed only by some small bird that was being killed by an owl in the adjoining wood, whose cry passed into the silence without mingling with it. "i've left my hat up in chammer," said geoffrey; "wait while i step up and get en." "i'll be in the garden," said dick. he went round by a side wicket into the garden, and geoffrey went upstairs. it was the custom in mellstock and its vicinity to discuss matters of pleasure and ordinary business inside the house, and to reserve the garden for very important affairs: a custom which, as is supposed, originated in the desirability of getting away at such times from the other members of the family when there was only one room for living in, though it was now quite as frequently practised by those who suffered from no such limitation to the size of their domiciles. the head-keeper's form appeared in the dusky garden, and dick walked towards him. the elder paused and leant over the rail of a piggery that stood on the left of the path, upon which dick did the same; and they both contemplated a whitish shadowy shape that was moving about and grunting among the straw of the interior. "i've come to ask for fancy," said dick. "i'd as lief you hadn't." "why should that be, mr. day?" "because it makes me say that you've come to ask what ye be'n't likely to have. have ye come for anything else?" "nothing." "then i'll just tell 'ee you've come on a very foolish errand. d'ye know what her mother was?" "no." "a teacher in a landed family's nursery, who was foolish enough to marry the keeper of the same establishment; for i was only a keeper then, though now i've a dozen other irons in the fire as steward here for my lord, what with the timber sales and the yearly fellings, and the gravel and sand sales and one thing and 'tother. however, d'ye think fancy picked up her good manners, the smooth turn of her tongue, her musical notes, and her knowledge of books, in a homely hole like this?" "no." "d'ye know where?" "no." "well, when i went a-wandering after her mother's death, she lived with her aunt, who kept a boarding-school, till her aunt married lawyer green--a man as sharp as a needle--and the school was broke up. did ye know that then she went to the training-school, and that her name stood first among the queen's scholars of her year?" "i've heard so." "and that when she sat for her certificate as government teacher, she had the highest of the first class?" "yes." "well, and do ye know what i live in such a miserly way for when i've got enough to do without it, and why i make her work as a schoolmistress instead of living here?" "no." "that if any gentleman, who sees her to be his equal in polish, should want to marry her, and she want to marry him, he sha'n't be superior to her in pocket. now do ye think after this that you be good enough for her?" "no." "then good-night t'ee, master dewy." "good-night, mr. day." modest dick's reply had faltered upon his tongue, and he turned away wondering at his presumption in asking for a woman whom he had seen from the beginning to be so superior to him. chapter iii: fancy in the rain the next scene is a tempestuous afternoon in the following month, and fancy day is discovered walking from her father's home towards mellstock. a single vast gray cloud covered the country, from which the small rain and mist had just begun to blow down in wavy sheets, alternately thick and thin. the trees of the fields and plantations writhed like miserable men as the air wound its way swiftly among them: the lowest portions of their trunks, that had hardly ever been known to move, were visibly rocked by the fiercer gusts, distressing the mind by its painful unwontedness, as when a strong man is seen to shed tears. low-hanging boughs went up and down; high and erect boughs went to and fro; the blasts being so irregular, and divided into so many cross-currents, that neighbouring branches of the same tree swept the skies in independent motions, crossed each other, or became entangled. across the open spaces flew flocks of green and yellowish leaves, which, after travelling a long distance from their parent trees, reached the ground, and lay there with their under-sides upward. as the rain and wind increased, and fancy's bonnet-ribbons leapt more and more snappishly against her chin, she paused on entering mellstock lane to consider her latitude, and the distance to a place of shelter. the nearest house was elizabeth endorfield's, in higher mellstock, whose cottage and garden stood not far from the junction of that hamlet with the road she followed. fancy hastened onward, and in five minutes entered a gate, which shed upon her toes a flood of water-drops as she opened it. "come in, chiel!" a voice exclaimed, before fancy had knocked: a promptness that would have surprised her had she not known that mrs. endorfield was an exceedingly and exceptionally sharp woman in the use of her eyes and ears. fancy went in and sat down. elizabeth was paring potatoes for her husband's supper. scrape, scrape, scrape; then a toss, and splash went a potato into a bucket of water. now, as fancy listlessly noted these proceedings of the dame, she began to reconsider an old subject that lay uppermost in her heart. since the interview between her father and dick, the days had been melancholy days for her. geoffrey's firm opposition to the notion of dick as a son-in- law was more than she had expected. she had frequently seen her lover since that time, it is true, and had loved him more for the opposition than she would have otherwise dreamt of doing--which was a happiness of a certain kind. yet, though love is thus an end in itself, it must be believed to be the means to another end if it is to assume the rosy hues of an unalloyed pleasure. and such a belief fancy and dick were emphatically denied just now. elizabeth endorfield had a repute among women which was in its nature something between distinction and notoriety. it was founded on the following items of character. she was shrewd and penetrating; her house stood in a lonely place; she never went to church; she wore a red cloak; she always retained her bonnet indoors and she had a pointed chin. thus far her attributes were distinctly satanic; and those who looked no further called her, in plain terms, a witch. but she was not gaunt, nor ugly in the upper part of her face, nor particularly strange in manner; so that, when her more intimate acquaintances spoke of her the term was softened, and she became simply a deep body, who was as long-headed as she was high. it may be stated that elizabeth belonged to a class of suspects who were gradually losing their mysterious characteristics under the administration of the young vicar; though, during the long reign of mr. grinham, the parish of mellstock had proved extremely favourable to the growth of witches. while fancy was revolving all this in her mind, and putting it to herself whether it was worth while to tell her troubles to elizabeth, and ask her advice in getting out of them, the witch spoke. "you be down--proper down," she said suddenly, dropping another potato into the bucket. fancy took no notice. "about your young man." fancy reddened. elizabeth seemed to be watching her thoughts. really, one would almost think she must have the powers people ascribed to her. "father not in the humour for't, hey?" another potato was finished and flung in. "ah, i know about it. little birds tell me things that people don't dream of my knowing." fancy was desperate about dick, and here was a chance--o, such a wicked chance--of getting help; and what was goodness beside love! "i wish you'd tell me how to put him in the humour for it?" she said. "that i could soon do," said the witch quietly. "really? o, do; anyhow--i don't care--so that it is done! how could i do it, mrs. endorfield?" "nothing so mighty wonderful in it." "well, but how?" "by witchery, of course!" said elizabeth. "no!" said fancy. "'tis, i assure ye. didn't you ever hear i was a witch?" "well," hesitated fancy, "i have heard you called so." "and you believed it?" "i can't say that i did exactly believe it, for 'tis very horrible and wicked; but, o, how i do wish it was possible for you to be one!" "so i am. and i'll tell you how to bewitch your father to let you marry dick dewy." "will it hurt him, poor thing?" "hurt who?" "father." "no; the charm is worked by common sense, and the spell can only be broke by your acting stupidly." fancy looked rather perplexed, and elizabeth went on: "this fear of lizz--whatever 'tis-- by great and small; she makes pretence to common sense, and that's all. "you must do it like this." the witch laid down her knife and potato, and then poured into fancy's ear a long and detailed list of directions, glancing up from the corner of her eye into fancy's face with an expression of sinister humour. fancy's face brightened, clouded, rose and sank, as the narrative proceeded. "there," said elizabeth at length, stooping for the knife and another potato, "do that, and you'll have him by-long and by-late, my dear." "and do it i will!" said fancy. she then turned her attention to the external world once more. the rain continued as usual, but the wind had abated considerably during the discourse. judging that it was now possible to keep an umbrella erect, she pulled her hood again over her bonnet, bade the witch good-bye, and went her way. chapter iv: the spell mrs. endorfield's advice was duly followed. "i be proper sorry that your daughter isn't so well as she might be," said a mellstock man to geoffrey one morning. "but is there anything in it?" said geoffrey uneasily, as he shifted his hat to the right. "i can't understand the report. she didn't complain to me a bit when i saw her." "no appetite at all, they say." geoffrey crossed to mellstock and called at the school that afternoon. fancy welcomed him as usual, and asked him to stay and take tea with her. "i be'n't much for tea, this time o' day," he said, but stayed. during the meal he watched her narrowly. and to his great consternation discovered the following unprecedented change in the healthy girl--that she cut herself only a diaphanous slice of bread-and-butter, and, laying it on her plate, passed the meal-time in breaking it into pieces, but eating no more than about one-tenth of the slice. geoffrey hoped she would say something about dick, and finish up by weeping, as she had done after the decision against him a few days subsequent to the interview in the garden. but nothing was said, and in due time geoffrey departed again for yalbury wood. "'tis to be hoped poor miss fancy will be able to keep on her school," said geoffrey's man enoch to geoffrey the following week, as they were shovelling up ant-hills in the wood. geoffrey stuck in the shovel, swept seven or eight ants from his sleeve, and killed another that was prowling round his ear, then looked perpendicularly into the earth as usual, waiting for enoch to say more. "well, why shouldn't she?" said the keeper at last. "the baker told me yesterday," continued enoch, shaking out another emmet that had run merrily up his thigh, "that the bread he've left at that there school-house this last month would starve any mouse in the three creations; that 'twould so! and afterwards i had a pint o' small down at morrs's, and there i heard more." "what might that ha' been?" "that she used to have a pound o' the best rolled butter a week, regular as clockwork, from dairyman viney's for herself, as well as just so much salted for the helping girl, and the 'ooman she calls in; but now the same quantity d'last her three weeks, and then 'tis thoughted she throws it away sour." "finish doing the emmets, and carry the bag home-along." the keeper resumed his gun, tucked it under his arm, and went on without whistling to the dogs, who however followed, with a bearing meant to imply that they did not expect any such attentions when their master was reflecting. on saturday morning a note came from fancy. he was not to trouble about sending her the couple of rabbits, as was intended, because she feared she should not want them. later in the day geoffrey went to casterbridge and called upon the butcher who served fancy with fresh meat, which was put down to her father's account. "i've called to pay up our little bill, neighbour haylock, and you can gie me the chiel's account at the same time." mr. haylock turned round three quarters of a circle in the midst of a heap of joints, altered the expression of his face from meat to money, went into a little office consisting only of a door and a window, looked very vigorously into a book which possessed length but no breadth; and then, seizing a piece of paper and scribbling thereupon, handed the bill. probably it was the first time in the history of commercial transactions that the quality of shortness in a butcher's bill was a cause of tribulation to the debtor. "why, this isn't all she've had in a whole month!" said geoffrey. "every mossel," said the butcher--"(now, dan, take that leg and shoulder to mrs. white's, and this eleven pound here to mr. martin's)--you've been treating her to smaller joints lately, to my thinking, mr. day?" "only two or three little scram rabbits this last week, as i am alive--i wish i had!" "well, my wife said to me--(dan! not too much, not too much on that tray at a time; better go twice)--my wife said to me as she posted up the books: she says, 'miss day must have been affronted this summer during that hot muggy weather that spolit so much for us; for depend upon't,' she says, 'she've been trying john grimmett unknown to us: see her account else.' 'tis little, of course, at the best of times, being only for one, but now 'tis next kin to nothing." "i'll inquire," said geoffrey despondingly. he returned by way of mellstock, and called upon fancy, in fulfilment of a promise. it being saturday, the children were enjoying a holiday, and on entering the residence fancy was nowhere to be seen. nan, the charwoman, was sweeping the kitchen. "where's my da'ter?" said the keeper. "well, you see she was tired with the week's teaching, and this morning she said, 'nan, i sha'n't get up till the evening.' you see, mr. day, if people don't eat, they can't work; and as she've gie'd up eating, she must gie up working." "have ye carried up any dinner to her?" "no; she don't want any. there, we all know that such things don't come without good reason--not that i wish to say anything about a broken heart, or anything of the kind." geoffrey's own heart felt inconveniently large just then. he went to the staircase and ascended to his daughter's door. "fancy!" "come in, father." to see a person in bed from any cause whatever, on a fine afternoon, is depressing enough; and here was his only child fancy, not only in bed, but looking very pale. geoffrey was visibly disturbed. "fancy, i didn't expect to see thee here, chiel," he said. "what's the matter?" "i'm not well, father." "how's that?" "because i think of things." "what things can you have to think o' so mortal much?" "you know, father." "you think i've been cruel to thee in saying that that penniless dick o' thine sha'n't marry thee, i suppose?" no answer. "well, you know, fancy, i do it for the best, and he isn't good enough for thee. you know that well enough." here he again looked at her as she lay. "well, fancy, i can't let my only chiel die; and if you can't live without en, you must ha' en, i suppose." "o, i don't want him like that; all against your will, and everything so disobedient!" sighed the invalid. "no, no, 'tisn't against my will. my wish is, now i d'see how 'tis hurten thee to live without en, that he shall marry thee as soon as we've considered a little. that's my wish flat and plain, fancy. there, never cry, my little maid! you ought to ha' cried afore; no need o' crying now 'tis all over. well, howsoever, try to step over and see me and mother- law to-morrow, and ha' a bit of dinner wi' us." "and--dick too?" "ay, dick too, 'far's i know." "and when do you think you'll have considered, father, and he may marry me?" she coaxed. "well, there, say next midsummer; that's not a day too long to wait." on leaving the school geoffrey went to the tranter's. old william opened the door. "is your grandson dick in 'ithin, william?" "no, not just now, mr. day. though he've been at home a good deal lately." "o, how's that?" "what wi' one thing, and what wi' t'other, he's all in a mope, as might be said. don't seem the feller he used to. ay, 'a will sit studding and thinking as if 'a were going to turn chapel-member, and then do nothing but traypse and wamble about. used to be such a chatty boy, too, dick did; and now 'a don't speak at all. but won't ye step inside? reuben will be home soon, 'a b'lieve." "no, thank you, i can't stay now. will ye just ask dick if he'll do me the kindness to step over to yalbury to-morrow with my da'ter fancy, if she's well enough? i don't like her to come by herself, now she's not so terrible topping in health." "so i've heard. ay, sure, i'll tell him without fail." chapter v: after gaining her point the visit to geoffrey passed off as delightfully as a visit might have been expected to pass off when it was the first day of smooth experience in a hitherto obstructed love-course. and then came a series of several happy days, of the same undisturbed serenity. dick could court her when he chose; stay away when he chose,--which was never; walk with her by winding streams and waterfalls and autumn scenery till dews and twilight sent them home. and thus they drew near the day of the harvest thanksgiving, which was also the time chosen for opening the organ in mellstock church. it chanced that dick on that very day was called away from mellstock. a young acquaintance had died of consumption at charmley, a neighbouring village, on the previous monday, and dick, in fulfilment of a long-standing promise, was to assist in carrying him to the grave. when on tuesday, dick went towards the school to acquaint fancy with the fact, it is difficult to say whether his own disappointment at being denied the sight of her triumphant debut as organist, was greater than his vexation that his pet should on this great occasion be deprived of the pleasure of his presence. however, the intelligence was communicated. she bore it as she best could, not without many expressions of regret, and convictions that her performance would be nothing to her now. just before eleven o'clock on sunday he set out upon his sad errand. the funeral was to be immediately after the morning service, and as there were four good miles to walk, driving being inconvenient, it became necessary to start comparatively early. half an hour later would certainly have answered his purpose quite as well, yet at the last moment nothing would content his ardent mind but that he must go a mile out of his way in the direction of the school, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his love as she started for church. striking, therefore, into the lane towards the school, instead of across the ewelease direct to charmley, he arrived opposite her door as his goddess emerged. if ever a woman looked a divinity, fancy day appeared one that morning as she floated down those school steps, in the form of a nebulous collection of colours inclining to blue. with an audacity unparalleled in the whole history of village-school-mistresses at this date--partly owing, no doubt, to papa's respectable accumulation of cash, which rendered her profession not altogether one of necessity--she had actually donned a hat and feather, and lowered her hitherto plainly looped-up hair, which now fell about her shoulders in a profusion of curls. poor dick was astonished: he had never seen her look so distractingly beautiful before, save on christmas-eve, when her hair was in the same luxuriant condition of freedom. but his first burst of delighted surprise was followed by less comfortable feelings, as soon as his brain recovered its power to think. fancy had blushed;--was it with confusion? she had also involuntarily pressed back her curls. she had not expected him. "fancy, you didn't know me for a moment in my funeral clothes, did you?" "good-morning, dick--no, really, i didn't know you for an instant in such a sad suit." he looked again at the gay tresses and hat. "you've never dressed so charming before, dearest." "i like to hear you praise me in that way, dick," she said, smiling archly. "it is meat and drink to a woman. do i look nice really?" "fie! you know it. did you remember,--i mean didn't you remember about my going away to-day?" "well, yes, i did, dick; but, you know, i wanted to look well;--forgive me." "yes, darling; yes, of course,--there's nothing to forgive. no, i was only thinking that when we talked on tuesday and wednesday and thursday and friday about my absence to-day, and i was so sorry for it, you said, fancy, so were you sorry, and almost cried, and said it would be no pleasure to you to be the attraction of the church to-day, since i could not be there." "my dear one, neither will it be so much pleasure to me . . . but i do take a little delight in my life, i suppose," she pouted. "apart from mine?" she looked at him with perplexed eyes. "i know you are vexed with me, dick, and it is because the first sunday i have curls and a hat and feather since i have been here happens to be the very day you are away and won't be with me. yes, say it is, for that is it! and you think that all this week i ought to have remembered you wouldn't be here to- day, and not have cared to be better dressed than usual. yes, you do, dick, and it is rather unkind!" "no, no," said dick earnestly and simply, "i didn't think so badly of you as that. i only thought that--if you had been going away, i shouldn't have tried new attractions for the eyes of other people. but then of course you and i are different, naturally." "well, perhaps we are." "whatever will the vicar say, fancy?" "i don't fear what he says in the least!" she answered proudly. "but he won't say anything of the sort you think. no, no." "he can hardly have conscience to, indeed." "now come, you say, dick, that you quite forgive me, for i must go," she said with sudden gaiety, and skipped backwards into the porch. "come here, sir;--say you forgive me, and then you shall kiss me;--you never have yet when i have worn curls, you know. yes, just where you want to so much,--yes, you may!" dick followed her into the inner corner, where he was probably not slow in availing himself of the privilege offered. "now that's a treat for you, isn't it?" she continued. "good-bye, or i shall be late. come and see me to-morrow: you'll be tired to-night." thus they parted, and fancy proceeded to the church. the organ stood on one side of the chancel, close to and under the immediate eye of the vicar when he was in the pulpit, and also in full view of the congregation. here she sat down, for the first time in such a conspicuous position, her seat having previously been in a remote spot in the aisle. "good heavens--disgraceful! curls and a hat and feather!" said the daughters of the small gentry, who had either only curly hair without a hat and feather, or a hat and feather without curly hair. "a bonnet for church always," said sober matrons. that mr. maybold was conscious of her presence close beside him during the sermon; that he was not at all angry at her development of costume; that he admired her, she perceived. but she did not see that he loved her during that sermon-time as he had never loved a woman before; that her proximity was a strange delight to him; and that he gloried in her musical success that morning in a spirit quite beyond a mere cleric's glory at the inauguration of a new order of things. the old choir, with humbled hearts, no longer took their seats in the gallery as heretofore (which was now given up to the school-children who were not singers, and a pupil-teacher), but were scattered about with their wives in different parts of the church. having nothing to do with conducting the service for almost the first time in their lives, they all felt awkward, out of place, abashed, and inconvenienced by their hands. the tranter had proposed that they should stay away to-day and go nutting, but grandfather william would not hear of such a thing for a moment. "no," he replied reproachfully, and quoted a verse: "though this has come upon us, let not our hearts be turned back, or our steps go out of the way." so they stood and watched the curls of hair trailing down the back of the successful rival, and the waving of her feather, as she swayed her head. after a few timid notes and uncertain touches her playing became markedly correct, and towards the end full and free. but, whether from prejudice or unbiassed judgment, the venerable body of musicians could not help thinking that the simpler notes they had been wont to bring forth were more in keeping with the simplicity of their old church than the crowded chords and interludes it was her pleasure to produce. chapter vi: into temptation the day was done, and fancy was again in the school-house. about five o'clock it began to rain, and in rather a dull frame of mind she wandered into the schoolroom, for want of something better to do. she was thinking--of her lover dick dewy? not precisely. of how weary she was of living alone: how unbearable it would be to return to yalbury under the rule of her strange-tempered step-mother; that it was far better to be married to anybody than do that; that eight or nine long months had yet to be lived through ere the wedding could take place. at the side of the room were high windows of ham-hill stone, upon either sill of which she could sit by first mounting a desk and using it as a footstool. as the evening advanced here she perched herself, as was her custom on such wet and gloomy occasions, put on a light shawl and bonnet, opened the window, and looked out at the rain. the window overlooked a field called the grove, and it was the position from which she used to survey the crown of dick's passing hat in the early days of their acquaintance and meetings. not a living soul was now visible anywhere; the rain kept all people indoors who were not forced abroad by necessity, and necessity was less importunate on sundays than during the week. sitting here and thinking again--of her lover, or of the sensation she had created at church that day?--well, it is unknown--thinking and thinking she saw a dark masculine figure arising into distinctness at the further end of the grove--a man without an umbrella. nearer and nearer he came, and she perceived that he was in deep mourning, and then that it was dick. yes, in the fondness and foolishness of his young heart, after walking four miles, in a drizzling rain without overcoat or umbrella, and in face of a remark from his love that he was not to come because he would be tired, he had made it his business to wander this mile out of his way again, from sheer wish of spending ten minutes in her presence. "o dick, how wet you are!" she said, as he drew up under the window. "why, your coat shines as if it had been varnished, and your hat--my goodness, there's a streaming hat!" "o, i don't mind, darling!" said dick cheerfully. "wet never hurts me, though i am rather sorry for my best clothes. however, it couldn't be helped; we lent all the umbrellas to the women. i don't know when i shall get mine back!" "and look, there's a nasty patch of something just on your shoulder." "ah, that's japanning; it rubbed off the clamps of poor jack's coffin when we lowered him from our shoulders upon the bier! i don't care about that, for 'twas the last deed i could do for him; and 'tis hard if you can't afford a coat for an old friend." fancy put her hand to her mouth for half a minute. underneath the palm of that little hand there existed for that half-minute a little yawn. "dick, i don't like you to stand there in the wet. and you mustn't sit down. go home and change your things. don't stay another minute." "one kiss after coming so far," he pleaded. "if i can reach, then." he looked rather disappointed at not being invited round to the door. she twisted from her seated position and bent herself downwards, but not even by standing on the plinth was it possible for dick to get his lips into contact with hers as she held them. by great exertion she might have reached a little lower; but then she would have exposed her head to the rain. "never mind, dick; kiss my hand," she said, flinging it down to him. "now, good-bye." "good-bye." he walked slowly away, turning and turning again to look at her till he was out of sight. during the retreat she said to herself, almost involuntarily, and still conscious of that morning's triumph--"i like dick, and i love him; but how plain and sorry a man looks in the rain, with no umbrella, and wet through!" as he vanished, she made as if to descend from her seat; but glancing in the other direction she saw another form coming along the same track. it was also that of a man. he, too, was in black from top to toe; but he carried an umbrella. he drew nearer, and the direction of the rain caused him so to slant his umbrella that from her height above the ground his head was invisible, as she was also to him. he passed in due time directly beneath her, and in looking down upon the exterior of his umbrella her feminine eyes perceived it to be of superior silk--less common at that date than since--and of elegant make. he reached the entrance to the building, and fancy suddenly lost sight of him. instead of pursuing the roadway as dick had done he had turned sharply round into her own porch. she jumped to the floor, hastily flung off her shawl and bonnet, smoothed and patted her hair till the curls hung in passable condition, and listened. no knock. nearly a minute passed, and still there was no knock. then there arose a soft series of raps, no louder than the tapping of a distant woodpecker, and barely distinct enough to reach her ears. she composed herself and flung open the door. in the porch stood mr. maybold. there was a warm flush upon his face, and a bright flash in his eyes, which made him look handsomer than she had ever seen him before. "good-evening, miss day." "good-evening, mr. maybold," she said, in a strange state of mind. she had noticed, beyond the ardent hue of his face, that his voice had a singular tremor in it, and that his hand shook like an aspen leaf when he laid his umbrella in the corner of the porch. without another word being spoken by either, he came into the schoolroom, shut the door, and moved close to her. once inside, the expression of his face was no more discernible, by reason of the increasing dusk of evening. "i want to speak to you," he then said; "seriously--on a perhaps unexpected subject, but one which is all the world to me--i don't know what it may be to you, miss day." no reply. "fancy, i have come to ask you if you will be my wife?" as a person who has been idly amusing himself with rolling a snowball might start at finding he had set in motion an avalanche, so did fancy start at these words from the vicar. and in the dead silence which followed them, the breathings of the man and of the woman could be distinctly and separately heard; and there was this difference between them--his respirations gradually grew quieter and less rapid after the enunciation, hers, from having been low and regular, increased in quickness and force, till she almost panted. "i cannot, i cannot, mr. maybold--i cannot! don't ask me!" she said. "don't answer in a hurry!" he entreated. "and do listen to me. this is no sudden feeling on my part. i have loved you for more than six months! perhaps my late interest in teaching the children here has not been so single-minded as it seemed. you will understand my motive--like me better, perhaps, for honestly telling you that i have struggled against my emotion continually, because i have thought that it was not well for me to love you! but i resolved to struggle no longer; i have examined the feeling; and the love i bear you is as genuine as that i could bear any woman! i see your great charm; i respect your natural talents, and the refinement they have brought into your nature--they are quite enough, and more than enough for me! they are equal to anything ever required of the mistress of a quiet parsonage-house--the place in which i shall pass my days, wherever it may be situated. o fancy, i have watched you, criticized you even severely, brought my feelings to the light of judgment, and still have found them rational, and such as any man might have expected to be inspired with by a woman like you! so there is nothing hurried, secret, or untoward in my desire to do this. fancy, will you marry me?" no answer was returned. "don't refuse; don't," he implored. "it would be foolish of you--i mean cruel! of course we would not live here, fancy. i have had for a long time the offer of an exchange of livings with a friend in yorkshire, but i have hitherto refused on account of my mother. there we would go. your musical powers shall be still further developed; you shall have whatever pianoforte you like; you shall have anything, fancy, anything to make you happy--pony-carriage, flowers, birds, pleasant society; yes, you have enough in you for any society, after a few months of travel with me! will you, fancy, marry me?" another pause ensued, varied only by the surging of the rain against the window-panes, and then fancy spoke, in a faint and broken voice. "yes, i will," she said. "god bless you, my own!" he advanced quickly, and put his arm out to embrace her. she drew back hastily. "no no, not now!" she said in an agitated whisper. "there are things;--but the temptation is, o, too strong, and i can't resist it; i can't tell you now, but i must tell you! don't, please, don't come near me now! i want to think, i can scarcely get myself used to the idea of what i have promised yet." the next minute she turned to a desk, buried her face in her hands, and burst into a hysterical fit of weeping. "o, leave me to myself!" she sobbed; "leave me! o, leave me!" "don't be distressed; don't, dearest!" it was with visible difficulty that he restrained himself from approaching her. "you shall tell me at your leisure what it is that grieves you so; i am happy--beyond all measure happy!--at having your simple promise." "and do go and leave me now!" "but i must not, in justice to you, leave for a minute, until you are yourself again." "there then," she said, controlling her emotion, and standing up; "i am not disturbed now." he reluctantly moved towards the door. "good-bye!" he murmured tenderly. "i'll come to-morrow about this time." chapter vii: second thoughts the next morning the vicar rose early. the first thing he did was to write a long and careful letter to his friend in yorkshire. then, eating a little breakfast, he crossed the meadows in the direction of casterbridge, bearing his letter in his pocket, that he might post it at the town office, and obviate the loss of one day in its transmission that would have resulted had he left it for the foot-post through the village. it was a foggy morning, and the trees shed in noisy water-drops the moisture they had collected from the thick air, an acorn occasionally falling from its cup to the ground, in company with the drippings. in the meads, sheets of spiders'-web, almost opaque with wet, hung in folds over the fences, and the falling leaves appeared in every variety of brown, green, and yellow hue. a low and merry whistling was heard on the highway he was approaching, then the light footsteps of a man going in the same direction as himself. on reaching the junction of his path with the road, the vicar beheld dick dewy's open and cheerful face. dick lifted his hat, and the vicar came out into the highway that dick was pursuing. "good-morning, dewy. how well you are looking!" said mr. maybold. "yes, sir, i am well--quite well! i am going to casterbridge now, to get smart's collar; we left it there saturday to be repaired." "i am going to casterbridge, so we'll walk together," the vicar said. dick gave a hop with one foot to put himself in step with mr. maybold, who proceeded: "i fancy i didn't see you at church yesterday, dewy. or were you behind the pier?" "no; i went to charmley. poor john dunford chose me to be one of his bearers a long time before he died, and yesterday was the funeral. of course i couldn't refuse, though i should have liked particularly to have been at home as 'twas the day of the new music." "yes, you should have been. the musical portion of the service was successful--very successful indeed; and what is more to the purpose, no ill-feeling whatever was evinced by any of the members of the old choir. they joined in the singing with the greatest good-will." "'twas natural enough that i should want to be there, i suppose," said dick, smiling a private smile; "considering who the organ-player was." at this the vicar reddened a little, and said, "yes, yes," though not at all comprehending dick's true meaning, who, as he received no further reply, continued hesitatingly, and with another smile denoting his pride as a lover-- "i suppose you know what i mean, sir? you've heard about me and--miss day?" the red in maybold's countenance went away: he turned and looked dick in the face. "no," he said constrainedly, "i've heard nothing whatever about you and miss day." "why, she's my sweetheart, and we are going to be married next midsummer. we are keeping it rather close just at present, because 'tis a good many months to wait; but it is her father's wish that we don't marry before, and of course we must submit. but the time 'ill soon slip along." "yes, the time will soon slip along--time glides away every day--yes." maybold said these words, but he had no idea of what they were. he was conscious of a cold and sickly thrill throughout him; and all he reasoned was this that the young creature whose graces had intoxicated him into making the most imprudent resolution of his life, was less an angel than a woman. "you see, sir," continued the ingenuous dick, "'twill be better in one sense. i shall by that time be the regular manager of a branch o' father's business, which has very much increased lately, and business, which we think of starting elsewhere. it has very much increased lately, and we expect next year to keep a' extra couple of horses. we've already our eye on one--brown as a berry, neck like a rainbow, fifteen hands, and not a gray hair in her--offered us at twenty-five want a crown. and to kip pace with the times i have had some cards prented and i beg leave to hand you one, sir." "certainly," said the vicar, mechanically taking the card that dick offered him. "i turn in here by grey's bridge," said dick. "i suppose you go straight on and up town?" "yes." "good-morning, sir." "good-morning, dewy." maybold stood still upon the bridge, holding the card as it had been put into his hand, and dick's footsteps died away towards durnover mill. the vicar's first voluntary action was to read the card:-- dewy and son, tranters and hauliers, mellstock. nb.--furniture, coals, potatoes, live and dead stock, removed to any distance on the shortest notice. mr. maybold leant over the parapet of the bridge and looked into the river. he saw--without heeding--how the water came rapidly from beneath the arches, glided down a little steep, then spread itself over a pool in which dace, trout, and minnows sported at ease among the long green locks of weed that lay heaving and sinking with their roots towards the current. at the end of ten minutes spent leaning thus, he drew from his pocket the letter to his friend, tore it deliberately into such minute fragments that scarcely two syllables remained in juxtaposition, and sent the whole handful of shreds fluttering into the water. here he watched them eddy, dart, and turn, as they were carried downwards towards the ocean and gradually disappeared from his view. finally he moved off, and pursued his way at a rapid pace back again to mellstock vicarage. nerving himself by a long and intense effort, he sat down in his study and wrote as follows: "dear miss day,--the meaning of your words, 'the temptation is too strong,' of your sadness and your tears, has been brought home to me by an accident. i know to-day what i did not know yesterday--that you are not a free woman. "why did you not tell me--why didn't you? did you suppose i knew? no. had i known, my conduct in coming to you as i did would have been reprehensible. "but i don't chide you! perhaps no blame attaches to you--i can't tell. fancy, though my opinion of you is assailed and disturbed in a way which cannot be expressed, i love you still, and my word to you holds good yet. but will you, in justice to an honest man who relies upon your word to him, consider whether, under the circumstances, you can honourably forsake him?--yours ever sincerely, "arthur maybold." he rang the bell. "tell charles to take these copybooks and this note to the school at once." the maid took the parcel and the letter, and in a few minutes a boy was seen to leave the vicarage gate, with the one under his arm, and the other in his hand. the vicar sat with his hand to his brow, watching the lad as he descended church lane and entered the waterside path which intervened between that spot and the school. here he was met by another boy, and after a free salutation and pugilistic frisk had passed between the two, the second boy came on his way to the vicarage, and the other vanished out of sight. the boy came to the door, and a note for mr. maybold was brought in. he knew the writing. opening the envelope with an unsteady hand, he read the subjoined words: "dear mr. maybold,--i have been thinking seriously and sadly through the whole of the night of the question you put to me last evening and of my answer. that answer, as an honest woman, i had no right to give. "it is my nature--perhaps all women's--to love refinement of mind and manners; but even more than this, to be ever fascinated with the idea of surroundings more elegant and pleasing than those which have been customary. and you praised me, and praise is life to me. it was alone my sensations at these things which prompted my reply. ambition and vanity they would be called; perhaps they are so. "after this explanation i hope you will generously allow me to withdraw the answer i too hastily gave. "and one more request. to keep the meeting of last night, and all that passed between us there, for ever a secret. were it to become known, it would utterly blight the happiness of a trusting and generous man, whom i love still, and shall love always.--yours sincerely, "fancy day. the last written communication that ever passed from the vicar to fancy, was a note containing these words only: "tell him everything; it is best. he will forgive you." part the fifth: conclusion chapter i: 'the knot there's no untying' the last day of the story is dated just subsequent to that point in the development of the seasons when country people go to bed among nearly naked trees, are lulled to sleep by a fall of rain, and awake next morning among green ones; when the landscape appears embarrassed with the sudden weight and brilliancy of its leaves; when the night-jar comes and strikes up for the summer his tune of one note; when the apple-trees have bloomed, and the roads and orchard-grass become spotted with fallen petals; when the faces of the delicate flowers are darkened, and their heads weighed down, by the throng of honey-bees, which increase their humming till humming is too mild a term for the all-pervading sound; and when cuckoos, blackbirds, and sparrows, that have hitherto been merry and respectful neighbours, become noisy and persistent intimates. the exterior of geoffrey day's house in yalbury wood appeared exactly as was usual at that season, but a frantic barking of the dogs at the back told of unwonted movements somewhere within. inside the door the eyes beheld a gathering, which was a rarity indeed for the dwelling of the solitary wood-steward and keeper. about the room were sitting and standing, in various gnarled attitudes, our old acquaintance, grandfathers james and william, the tranter, mr. penny, two or three children, including jimmy and charley, besides three or four country ladies and gentlemen from a greater distance who do not require any distinction by name. geoffrey was seen and heard stamping about the outhouse and among the bushes of the garden, attending to details of daily routine before the proper time arrived for their performance, in order that they might be off his hands for the day. he appeared with his shirt-sleeves rolled up; his best new nether garments, in which he had arrayed himself that morning, being temporarily disguised under a weekday apron whilst these proceedings were in operation. he occasionally glanced at the hives in passing, to see if his wife's bees were swarming, ultimately rolling down his shirt-sleeves and going indoors, talking to tranter dewy whilst buttoning the wristbands, to save time; next going upstairs for his best waistcoat, and coming down again to make another remark whilst buttoning that, during the time looking fixedly in the tranter's face as if he were a looking-glass. the furniture had undergone attenuation to an alarming extent, every duplicate piece having been removed, including the clock by thomas wood; ezekiel saunders being at last left sole referee in matters of time. fancy was stationary upstairs, receiving her layers of clothes and adornments, and answering by short fragments of laughter which had more fidgetiness than mirth in them, remarks that were made from time to time by mrs. dewy and mrs. penny, who were assisting her at the toilet, mrs. day having pleaded a queerness in her head as a reason for shutting herself up in an inner bedroom for the whole morning. mrs. penny appeared with nine corkscrew curls on each side of her temples, and a back comb stuck upon her crown like a castle on a steep. the conversation just now going on was concerning the banns, the last publication of which had been on the sunday previous. "and how did they sound?" fancy subtly inquired. "very beautiful indeed," said mrs. penny. "i never heard any sound better." "but how?" "o, so natural and elegant, didn't they, reuben!" she cried, through the chinks of the unceiled floor, to the tranter downstairs. "what's that?" said the tranter, looking up inquiringly at the floor above him for an answer. "didn't dick and fancy sound well when they were called home in church last sunday?" came downwards again in mrs. penny's voice. "ay, that they did, my sonnies!--especially the first time. there was a terrible whispering piece of work in the congregation, wasn't there, neighbour penny?" said the tranter, taking up the thread of conversation on his own account and, in order to be heard in the room above, speaking very loud to mr. penny, who sat at the distance of three feet from him, or rather less. "i never can mind seeing such a whispering as there was," said mr. penny, also loudly, to the room above. "and such sorrowful envy on the maidens' faces; really, i never did see such envy as there was!" fancy's lineaments varied in innumerable little flushes, and her heart palpitated innumerable little tremors of pleasure. "but perhaps," she said, with assumed indifference, "it was only because no religion was going on just then?" "o, no; nothing to do with that. 'twas because of your high standing in the parish. it was just as if they had one and all caught dick kissing and coling ye to death, wasn't it, mrs. dewy?" "ay; that 'twas." "how people will talk about one's doings!" fancy exclaimed. "well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can't blame other people for singing 'em." "mercy me! how shall i go through it?" said the young lady again, but merely to those in the bedroom, with a breathing of a kind between a sigh and a pant, round shining eyes, and warm face. "o, you'll get through it well enough, child," said mrs. dewy placidly. "the edge of the performance is took off at the calling home; and when once you get up to the chancel end o' the church, you feel as saucy as you please. i'm sure i felt as brave as a sodger all through the deed--though of course i dropped my face and looked modest, as was becoming to a maid. mind you do that, fancy." "and i walked into the church as quiet as a lamb, i'm sure," subjoined mrs. penny. "there, you see penny is such a little small man. but certainly, i was flurried in the inside o' me. well, thinks i, 'tis to be, and here goes! and do you do the same: say, ''tis to be, and here goes!'" "is there such wonderful virtue in ''tis to be, and here goes!'" inquired fancy. "wonderful! 'twill carry a body through it all from wedding to churching, if you only let it out with spirit enough." "very well, then," said fancy, blushing. "'tis to be, and here goes!" "that's a girl for a husband!" said mrs. dewy. "i do hope he'll come in time!" continued the bride-elect, inventing a new cause of affright, now that the other was demolished. "'twould be a thousand pities if he didn't come, now you be so brave," said mrs. penny. grandfather james, having overheard some of these remarks, said downstairs with mischievous loudness-- "i've known some would-be weddings when the men didn't come." "they've happened not to come, before now, certainly," said mr. penny, cleaning one of the glasses of his spectacles. "o, do hear what they are saying downstairs," whispered fancy. "hush, hush!" she listened. "they have, haven't they, geoffrey?" continued grandfather james, as geoffrey entered. "have what?" said geoffrey. "the men have been known not to come." "that they have," said the keeper. "ay; i've knowed times when the wedding had to be put off through his not appearing, being tired of the woman. and another case i knowed was when the man was catched in a man-trap crossing oaker's wood, and the three months had run out before he got well, and the banns had to be published over again." "how horrible!" said fancy. "they only say it on purpose to tease 'ee, my dear," said mrs. dewy. "'tis quite sad to think what wretched shifts poor maids have been put to," came again from downstairs. "ye should hear clerk wilkins, my brother-law, tell his experiences in marrying couples these last thirty year: sometimes one thing, sometimes another--'tis quite heart-rending--enough to make your hair stand on end." "those things don't happen very often, i know," said fancy, with smouldering uneasiness. "well, really 'tis time dick was here," said the tranter. "don't keep on at me so, grandfather james and mr. dewy, and all you down there!" fancy broke out, unable to endure any longer. "i am sure i shall die, or do something, if you do!" "never you hearken to these old chaps, miss day!" cried nat callcome, the best man, who had just entered, and threw his voice upward through the chinks of the floor as the others had done. "'tis all right; dick's coming on like a wild feller; he'll be here in a minute. the hive o' bees his mother gie'd en for his new garden swarmed jist as he was starting, and he said, 'i can't afford to lose a stock o' bees; no, that i can't, though i fain would; and fancy wouldn't wish it on any account.' so he jist stopped to ting to 'em and shake 'em." "a genuine wise man," said geoffrey. "to be sure, what a day's work we had yesterday!" mr. callcome continued, lowering his voice as if it were not necessary any longer to include those in the room above among his audience, and selecting a remote corner of his best clean handkerchief for wiping his face. "to be sure!" "things so heavy, i suppose," said geoffrey, as if reading through the chimney-window from the far end of the vista. "ay," said nat, looking round the room at points from which furniture had been removed. "and so awkward to carry, too. 'twas ath'art and across dick's garden; in and out dick's door; up and down dick's stairs; round and round dick's chammers till legs were worn to stumps: and dick is so particular, too. and the stores of victuals and drink that lad has laid in: why, 'tis enough for noah's ark! i'm sure i never wish to see a choicer half-dozen of hams than he's got there in his chimley; and the cider i tasted was a very pretty drop, indeed;--none could desire a prettier cider." "they be for the love and the stalled ox both. ah, the greedy martels!" said grandfather james. "well, may-be they be. surely," says i, "that couple between 'em have heaped up so much furniture and victuals, that anybody would think they were going to take hold the big end of married life first, and begin wi' a grown-up family. ah, what a bath of heat we two chaps were in, to be sure, a-getting that furniture in order!" "i do so wish the room below was ceiled," said fancy, as the dressing went on; "we can hear all they say and do down there." "hark! who's that?" exclaimed a small pupil-teacher, who also assisted this morning, to her great delight. she ran half-way down the stairs, and peeped round the banister. "o, you should, you should, you should!" she exclaimed, scrambling up to the room again. "what?" said fancy. "see the bridesmaids! they've just a come! 'tis wonderful, really! 'tis wonderful how muslin can be brought to it. there, they don't look a bit like themselves, but like some very rich sisters o' theirs that nobody knew they had!" "make 'em come up to me, make 'em come up!" cried fancy ecstatically; and the four damsels appointed, namely, miss susan dewy, miss bessie dewy, miss vashti sniff, and miss mercy onmey, surged upstairs, and floated along the passage. "i wish dick would come!" was again the burden of fancy. the same instant a small twig and flower from the creeper outside the door flew in at the open window, and a masculine voice said, "ready, fancy dearest?" "there he is, he is!" cried fancy, tittering spasmodically, and breathing as it were for the first time that morning. the bridesmaids crowded to the window and turned their heads in the direction pointed out, at which motion eight earrings all swung as one:--not looking at dick because they particularly wanted to see him, but with an important sense of their duty as obedient ministers of the will of that apotheosised being--the bride. "he looks very taking!" said miss vashti sniff, a young lady who blushed cream-colour and wore yellow bonnet ribbons. dick was advancing to the door in a painfully new coat of shining cloth, primrose-coloured waistcoat, hat of the same painful style of newness, and with an extra quantity of whiskers shaved off his face, and hair cut to an unwonted shortness in honour of the occasion. "now, i'll run down," said fancy, looking at herself over her shoulder in the glass, and flitting off. "o dick!" she exclaimed, "i am so glad you are come! i knew you would, of course, but i thought, oh if you shouldn't!" "not come, fancy! het or wet, blow or snow, here come i to-day! why, what's possessing your little soul? you never used to mind such things a bit." "ah, mr. dick, i hadn't hoisted my colours and committed myself then!" said fancy. "'tis a pity i can't marry the whole five of ye!" said dick, surveying them all round. "heh-heh-heh!" laughed the four bridesmaids, and fancy privately touched dick and smoothed him down behind his shoulder, as if to assure herself that he was there in flesh and blood as her own property. "well, whoever would have thought such a thing?" said dick, taking off his hat, sinking into a chair, and turning to the elder members of the company. the latter arranged their eyes and lips to signify that in their opinion nobody could have thought such a thing, whatever it was. "that my bees should ha' swarmed just then, of all times and seasons!" continued dick, throwing a comprehensive glance like a net over the whole auditory. "and 'tis a fine swarm, too: i haven't seen such a fine swarm for these ten years." "a' excellent sign," said mrs. penny, from the depths of experience. "a' excellent sign." "i am glad everything seems so right," said fancy with a breath of relief. "and so am i," said the four bridesmaids with much sympathy. "well, bees can't be put off," observed the inharmonious grandfather james. "marrying a woman is a thing you can do at any moment; but a swarm o' bees won't come for the asking." dick fanned himself with his hat. "i can't think," he said thoughtfully, "whatever 'twas i did to offend mr. maybold, a man i like so much too. he rather took to me when he came first, and used to say he should like to see me married, and that he'd marry me, whether the young woman i chose lived in his parish or no. i just hinted to him of it when i put in the banns, but he didn't seem to take kindly to the notion now, and so i said no more. i wonder how it was." "i wonder!" said fancy, looking into vacancy with those beautiful eyes of hers--too refined and beautiful for a tranter's wife; but, perhaps, not too good. "altered his mind, as folks will, i suppose," said the tranter. "well, my sonnies, there'll be a good strong party looking at us to-day as we go along." "and the body of the church," said geoffrey, "will be lined with females, and a row of young fellers' heads, as far down as the eyes, will be noticed just above the sills of the chancel-winders." "ay, you've been through it twice," said reuben, "and well mid know." "i can put up with it for once," said dick, "or twice either, or a dozen times." "o dick!" said fancy reproachfully. "why, dear, that's nothing,--only just a bit of a flourish. you be as nervous as a cat to-day." "and then, of course, when 'tis all over," continued the tranter, "we shall march two and two round the parish." "yes, sure," said mr. penny: "two and two: every man hitched up to his woman, 'a b'lieve." "i never can make a show of myself in that way!" said fancy, looking at dick to ascertain if he could. "i'm agreed to anything you and the company like, my dear!" said mr. richard dewy heartily. "why, we did when we were married, didn't we, ann?" said the tranter; "and so do everybody, my sonnies." "and so did we," said fancy's father. "and so did penny and i," said mrs. penny: "i wore my best bath clogs, i remember, and penny was cross because it made me look so tall." "and so did father and mother," said miss mercy onmey. "and i mean to, come next christmas!" said nat the groomsman vigorously, and looking towards the person of miss vashti sniff. "respectable people don't nowadays," said fancy. "still, since poor mother did, i will." "ay," resumed the tranter, "'twas on a white tuesday when i committed it. mellstock club walked the same day, and we new-married folk went a-gaying round the parish behind 'em. everybody used to wear something white at whitsuntide in them days. my sonnies, i've got the very white trousers that i wore, at home in box now. ha'n't i, ann?" "you had till i cut 'em up for jimmy," said mrs. dewy. "and we ought, by rights, after doing this parish, to go round higher and lower mellstock, and call at viney's, and so work our way hither again across he'th," said mr. penny, recovering scent of the matter in hand. "dairyman viney is a very respectable man, and so is farmer kex, and we ought to show ourselves to them." "true," said the tranter, "we ought to go round mellstock to do the thing well. we shall form a very striking object walking along in rotation, good-now, neighbours?" "that we shall: a proper pretty sight for the nation," said mrs. penny. "hullo!" said the tranter, suddenly catching sight of a singular human figure standing in the doorway, and wearing a long smock-frock of pillow- case cut and of snowy whiteness. "why, leaf! whatever dost thou do here?" "i've come to know if so be i can come to the wedding--hee-hee!" said leaf in a voice of timidity. "now, leaf," said the tranter reproachfully, "you know we don't want 'ee here to-day: we've got no room for ye, leaf." "thomas leaf, thomas leaf, fie upon ye for prying!" said old william. "i know i've got no head, but i thought, if i washed and put on a clane shirt and smock-frock, i might just call," said leaf, turning away disappointed and trembling. "poor feller!" said the tranter, turning to geoffrey. "suppose we must let en come? his looks are rather against en, and he is terrible silly; but 'a have never been in jail, and 'a won't do no harm." leaf looked with gratitude at the tranter for these praises, and then anxiously at geoffrey, to see what effect they would have in helping his cause. "ay, let en come," said geoffrey decisively. "leaf, th'rt welcome, 'st know;" and leaf accordingly remained. they were now all ready for leaving the house, and began to form a procession in the following order: fancy and her father, dick and susan dewy, nat callcome and vashti sniff, ted waywood and mercy onmey, and jimmy and bessie dewy. these formed the executive, and all appeared in strict wedding attire. then came the tranter and mrs. dewy, and last of all mr. and mrs. penny;--the tranter conspicuous by his enormous gloves, size eleven and three-quarters, which appeared at a distance like boxing gloves bleached, and sat rather awkwardly upon his brown hands; this hall- mark of respectability having been set upon himself to-day (by fancy's special request) for the first time in his life. "the proper way is for the bridesmaids to walk together," suggested fancy. "what? 'twas always young man and young woman, arm in crook, in my time!" said geoffrey, astounded. "and in mine!" said the tranter. "and in ours!" said mr. and mrs. penny. "never heard o' such a thing as woman and woman!" said old william; who, with grandfather james and mrs. day, was to stay at home. "whichever way you and the company like, my dear!" said dick, who, being on the point of securing his right to fancy, seemed willing to renounce all other rights in the world with the greatest pleasure. the decision was left to fancy. "well, i think i'd rather have it the way mother had it," she said, and the couples moved along under the trees, every man to his maid. "ah!" said grandfather james to grandfather william as they retired, "i wonder which she thinks most about, dick or her wedding raiment!" "well, 'tis their nature," said grandfather william. "remember the words of the prophet jeremiah: 'can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire?'" now among dark perpendicular firs, like the shafted columns of a cathedral; now through a hazel copse, matted with primroses and wild hyacinths; now under broad beeches in bright young leaves they threaded their way into the high road over yalbury hill, which dipped at that point directly into the village of geoffrey day's parish; and in the space of a quarter of an hour fancy found herself to be mrs. richard dewy, though, much to her surprise, feeling no other than fancy day still. on the circuitous return walk through the lanes and fields, amid much chattering and laughter, especially when they came to stiles, dick discerned a brown spot far up a turnip field. "why, 'tis enoch!" he said to fancy. "i thought i missed him at the house this morning. how is it he's left you?" "he drank too much cider, and it got into his head, and they put him in weatherbury stocks for it. father was obliged to get somebody else for a day or two, and enoch hasn't had anything to do with the woods since." "we might ask him to call down to-night. stocks are nothing for once, considering 'tis our wedding day." the bridal party was ordered to halt. "eno-o-o-o-ch!" cried dick at the top of his voice. "y-a-a-a-a-a-as!" said enoch from the distance. "d'ye know who i be-e-e-e-e-e?" "no-o-o-o-o-o-o!" "dick dew-w-w-w-wy!" "o-h-h-h-h-h!" "just a-ma-a-a-a-a-arried!" "o-h-h-h-h-h!" "this is my wife, fa-a-a-a-a-ancy!" (holding her up to enoch's view as if she had been a nosegay.) "o-h-h-h-h-h!" "will ye come across to the party to-ni-i-i-i-i-i-ight!" "ca-a-a-a-a-an't!" "why n-o-o-o-o-ot?" "don't work for the family no-o-o-o-ow!" "not nice of master enoch," said dick, as they resumed their walk. "you mustn't blame en," said geoffrey; "the man's not hisself now; he's in his morning frame of mind. when he's had a gallon o' cider or ale, or a pint or two of mead, the man's well enough, and his manners be as good as anybody's in the kingdom." chapter ii: under the greenwood tree the point in yalbury wood which abutted on the end of geoffrey day's premises was closed with an ancient tree, horizontally of enormous extent, though having no great pretensions to height. many hundreds of birds had been born amidst the boughs of this single tree; tribes of rabbits and hares had nibbled at its bark from year to year; quaint tufts of fungi had sprung from the cavities of its forks; and countless families of moles and earthworms had crept about its roots. beneath and beyond its shade spread a carefully-tended grass-plot, its purpose being to supply a healthy exercise-ground for young chickens and pheasants; the hens, their mothers, being enclosed in coops placed upon the same green flooring. all these encumbrances were now removed, and as the afternoon advanced, the guests gathered on the spot, where music, dancing, and the singing of songs went forward with great spirit throughout the evening. the propriety of every one was intense by reason of the influence of fancy, who, as an additional precaution in this direction, had strictly charged her father and the tranter to carefully avoid saying 'thee' and 'thou' in their conversation, on the plea that those ancient words sounded so very humiliating to persons of newer taste; also that they were never to be seen drawing the back of the hand across the mouth after drinking--a local english custom of extraordinary antiquity, but stated by fancy to be decidedly dying out among the better classes of society. in addition to the local musicians present, a man who had a thorough knowledge of the tambourine was invited from the village of tantrum clangley,--a place long celebrated for the skill of its inhabitants as performers on instruments of percussion. these important members of the assembly were relegated to a height of two or three feet from the ground, upon a temporary erection of planks supported by barrels. whilst the dancing progressed the older persons sat in a group under the trunk of the tree,--the space being allotted to them somewhat grudgingly by the young ones, who were greedy of pirouetting room,--and fortified by a table against the heels of the dancers. here the gaffers and gammers, whose dancing days were over, told stories of great impressiveness, and at intervals surveyed the advancing and retiring couples from the same retreat, as people on shore might be supposed to survey a naval engagement in the bay beyond; returning again to their tales when the pause was over. those of the whirling throng, who, during the rests between each figure, turned their eyes in the direction of these seated ones, were only able to discover, on account of the music and bustle, that a very striking circumstance was in course of narration--denoted by an emphatic sweep of the hand, snapping of the fingers, close of the lips, and fixed look into the centre of the listener's eye for the space of a quarter of a minute, which raised in that listener such a reciprocating working of face as to sometimes make the distant dancers half wish to know what such an interesting tale could refer to. fancy caused her looks to wear as much matronly expression as was obtainable out of six hours' experience as a wife, in order that the contrast between her own state of life and that of the unmarried young women present might be duly impressed upon the company: occasionally stealing glances of admiration at her left hand, but this quite privately; for her ostensible bearing concerning the matter was intended to show that, though she undoubtedly occupied the most wondrous position in the eyes of the world that had ever been attained, she was almost unconscious of the circumstance, and that the somewhat prominent position in which that wonderfully-emblazoned left hand was continually found to be placed, when handing cups and saucers, knives, forks, and glasses, was quite the result of accident. as to wishing to excite envy in the bosoms of her maiden companions, by the exhibition of the shining ring, every one was to know it was quite foreign to the dignity of such an experienced married woman. dick's imagination in the meantime was far less capable of drawing so much wontedness from his new condition. he had been for two or three hours trying to feel himself merely a newly- married man, but had been able to get no further in the attempt than to realize that he was dick dewy, the tranter's son, at a party given by lord wessex's head man-in-charge, on the outlying yalbury estate, dancing and chatting with fancy day. five country dances, including 'haste to the wedding,' two reels, and three fragments of horn-pipes, brought them to the time for supper, which, on account of the dampness of the grass from the immaturity of the summer season, was spread indoors. at the conclusion of the meal dick went out to put the horse in; and fancy, with the elder half of the four bridesmaids, retired upstairs to dress for the journey to dick's new cottage near mellstock. "how long will you be putting on your bonnet, fancy?" dick inquired at the foot of the staircase. being now a man of business and married, he was strong on the importance of time, and doubled the emphasis of his words in conversing, and added vigour to his nods. "only a minute." "how long is that?" "well, dear, five." "ah, sonnies!" said the tranter, as dick retired, "'tis a talent of the female race that low numbers should stand for high, more especially in matters of waiting, matters of age, and matters of money." "true, true, upon my body," said geoffrey. "ye spak with feeling, geoffrey, seemingly." "anybody that d'know my experience might guess that." "what's she doing now, geoffrey?" "claning out all the upstairs drawers and cupboards, and dusting the second-best chainey--a thing that's only done once a year. 'if there's work to be done i must do it,' says she, 'wedding or no.'" "'tis my belief she's a very good woman at bottom." "she's terrible deep, then." mrs. penny turned round. "well, 'tis humps and hollers with the best of us; but still and for all that, dick and fancy stand as fair a chance of having a bit of sunsheen as any married pair in the land." "ay, there's no gainsaying it." mrs. dewy came up, talking to one person and looking at another. "happy, yes," she said. "'tis always so when a couple is so exactly in tune with one another as dick and she." "when they be'n't too poor to have time to sing," said grandfather james. "i tell ye, neighbours, when the pinch comes," said the tranter: "when the oldest daughter's boots be only a size less than her mother's, and the rest o' the flock close behind her. a sharp time for a man that, my sonnies; a very sharp time! chanticleer's comb is a-cut then, 'a believe." "that's about the form o't," said mr. penny. "that'll put the stuns upon a man, when you must measure mother and daughter's lasts to tell 'em apart." "you've no cause to complain, reuben, of such a close-coming flock," said mrs. dewy; "for ours was a straggling lot enough, god knows!" "i d'know it, i d'know it," said the tranter. "you be a well-enough woman, ann." mrs. dewy put her mouth in the form of a smile, and put it back again without smiling. "and if they come together, they go together," said mrs. penny, whose family had been the reverse of the tranter's; "and a little money will make either fate tolerable. and money can be made by our young couple, i know." "yes, that it can!" said the impulsive voice of leaf, who had hitherto humbly admired the proceedings from a corner. "it can be done--all that's wanted is a few pounds to begin with. that's all! i know a story about it!" "let's hear thy story, leaf," said the tranter. "i never knew you were clever enough to tell a story. silence, all of ye! mr. leaf will tell a story." "tell your story, thomas leaf," said grandfather william in the tone of a schoolmaster. "once," said the delighted leaf, in an uncertain voice, "there was a man who lived in a house! well, this man went thinking and thinking night and day. at last, he said to himself, as i might, 'if i had only ten pound, i'd make a fortune.' at last by hook or by crook, behold he got the ten pounds!" "only think of that!" said nat callcome satirically. "silence!" said the tranter. "well, now comes the interesting part of the story! in a little time he made that ten pounds twenty. then a little time after that he doubled it, and made it forty. well, he went on, and a good while after that he made it eighty, and on to a hundred. well, by-and-by he made it two hundred! well, you'd never believe it, but--he went on and made it four hundred! he went on, and what did he do? why, he made it eight hundred! yes, he did," continued leaf, in the highest pitch of excitement, bringing down his fist upon his knee with such force that he quivered with the pain; "yes, and he went on and made it a thousand!" "hear, hear!" said the tranter. "better than the history of england, my sonnies!" "thank you for your story, thomas leaf," said grandfather william; and then leaf gradually sank into nothingness again. amid a medley of laughter, old shoes, and elder-wine, dick and his bride took their departure, side by side in the excellent new spring-cart which the young tranter now possessed. the moon was just over the full, rendering any light from lamps or their own beauties quite unnecessary to the pair. they drove slowly along yalbury bottom, where the road passed between two copses. dick was talking to his companion. "fancy," he said, "why we are so happy is because there is such full confidence between us. ever since that time you confessed to that little flirtation with shiner by the river (which was really no flirtation at all), i have thought how artless and good you must be to tell me o' such a trifling thing, and to be so frightened about it as you were. it has won me to tell you my every deed and word since then. we'll have no secrets from each other, darling, will we ever?--no secret at all." "none from to-day," said fancy. "hark! what's that?" from a neighbouring thicket was suddenly heard to issue in a loud, musical, and liquid voice-- "tippiwit! swe-e-et! ki-ki-ki! come hither, come hither, come hither!" "o, 'tis the nightingale," murmured she, and thought of a secret she would never tell. footnotes: { } this, a local expression, must be a corruption of something less questionable. our village by mary russell mitford macmillan and co. edition. contents introduction country pictures walks in the country the first primrose violeting the copse the wood the dell the cowslip-ball the old house at aberleigh the hard summer the shaw nutting the visit hannah bint the fall of the leaf introduction by anne thackeray ritchie i. there is a great deal of admirable literature concerning miss mitford, so much of it indeed, that the writer of this little notice feels as if she almost owed an apology to those who remember, for having ventured to write, on hearsay only, and without having ever known or ever seen the author of 'our village.' and yet, so vivid is the homely friendly presence, so clear the sound of that voice 'like a chime of bells,' with its hospitable cheery greeting, that she can scarcely realise that this acquaintance exists only in the world of the might-have-beens. for people who are beginning to remember, rather than looking forward any more, there certainly exists no more delightful reading than the memoirs and stories of heroes and heroines, many of whom we ourselves may have seen, and to whom we may have spoken. as we read on we are led into some happy bygone region,--such as that one described by mr. du maurier in 'peter ibbetson,'--a region in which we ourselves, together with all our friends and acquaintances, grow young again;--very young, very brisk, very hopeful. the people we love are there, along with the people we remember. music begins to play, we are dancing, laughing, scampering over the country once more; our parents too are young and laughing cheerily. every now and then perhaps some old friend, also vigorous and hopeful, bursts into the book, and begins to talk or to write a letter; early sights and sounds return to us, we have now, and we have then, in a pleasant harmony. to those of a certain literary generation who read miss mitford's memoirs, how many such familiar presences and names must appear and reappear. not least among them that of her biographer, mr. harness himself, who was so valued by his friends. mrs. kemble, mrs. sartoris, charles allston collins, always talked of him with a great respect and tenderness. i used to think they had a special voice with which to speak his name. he was never among our intimate friends, but how familiar to my recollection are the two figures, that of mr. harness and miss harness, his sister and housekeeper, coming together along the busy kensington roadway. the brother and sister were like characters out of some book, with their kind faces, their simple spiritual ways; in touch with so much that was interesting and romantic, and in heart with so much that suffered. i remember him with grey hair and a smile. he was not tall; he walked rather lame; miss harness too was little, looking up at all the rest of the world with a kind round face and sparkling eyes fringed with thick lashes. mary mitford was indeed happy in her friends, as happy as she was unfortunate in her nearer relations. with much that is sad, there is a great deal of beauty and enjoyment in miss mitford's life. for her the absence of material happiness was made up for by the presence of warm-hearted sensibility, of enthusiasm, by her devotion to her parents. her long endurance and filial piety are very remarkable, her loving heart carried her safely to the end, and she found comfort in her unreasoning life's devotion. she had none of the restlessness which is so apt to spoil much that might be harmonious; all the charm of a certain unity and simplicity of motive is hers, 'the single eye,' of which charles kingsley wrote so sweetly. she loved her home, her trees, her surrounding lanes and commons. she loved her friends. her books and flowers are real and important events in her life, soothing and distracting her from the contemplation of its constant anxieties. 'i may truly say,' she once writes to miss barrett, 'that ever since i was a very young girl, i have never (although for some years living apparently in affluence) been without pecuniary care,--the care that pressed upon my thoughts the last thing at night, and woke in the morning with a dreary sense of pain and pressure, of something which weighed me to the earth.' mary russell mitford was born on the th of december . she was the only child of her parents, who were well connected; her mother was an heiress. her father belonged to the mitfords of the north. she describes herself as 'a puny child, with an affluence of curls which made her look as if she were twin sister to her own great doll.' she could read at three years old; she learnt the percy ballads by heart almost before she could read. long after, she used to describe how she first studied her beloved ballads in the breakfast-room lined with books, warmly spread with its turkey carpet, with its bright fire, easy chairs, and the windows opening to a garden full of flowers,--stocks, honeysuckles, and pinks. it is touching to note how, all through her difficult life, her path was (literally) lined with flowers, and how the love of them comforted and cheered her from the first to the very last. in her saddest hours, the passing fragrance and beauty of her favourite geraniums cheered and revived her. even when her mother died she found comfort in the plants they had tended together, and at the very last breaks into delighted descriptions of them. she was sent to school in the year to no. hans place, to a mrs. st. quintin's. it seems to have been an excellent establishment. mary learnt the harp and astronomy; her taste for literature was encouraged. the young ladies, attired as shepherdesses, were also taught to skip through many mazy movements, but she never distinguished herself as a shepherdess. she had greater success in her literary efforts, and her composition 'on balloons' was much applauded. she returned to her home in . 'plain in figure and in face, she was never common-looking,' says mr. harness. he gives a pretty description of her as 'no ordinary child, her sweet smiles, her animated conversation, her keen enjoyment of life, and her gentle voice won the love and admiration of her friends, whether young or old.' mr. harness has chiefly told miss mitford's story in her own words by quotations from her letters, and, as one reads, one can almost follow her moods as they succeed each other, and these moods are her real history. the assiduity of childhood, the bright enthusiasm and gaiety of her early days, the growing anxiety of her later life, the maturer judgments, the occasional despairing terrors which came to try her bright nature, but along with it all, that innocent and enduring hopefulness which never really deserted her. her elastic spirit she owed to her father, that incorrigible old skimpole. 'i am generally happy everywhere,' she writes in her youth--and then later on: 'it is a great pleasure to me to love and to admire, this is a faculty which has survived many frosts and storms.' it is true that she adds a query somewhere else, 'did you ever remark how superior old gaiety is to new?' she asks. her handsome father, her plain and long-enduring mother, are both unconsciously described in her correspondence. 'the doctor's manners were easy, natural, cordial, and apparently extremely frank,' says mr. harness, 'but he nevertheless met the world on its own terms, and was prepared to allow himself any insincerity which seemed expedient. he was not only recklessly extravagant, but addicted to high play. his wife's large fortune, his daughter's, his own patrimony, all passed through his hands in an incredibly short space of time, but his wife and daughter were never heard to complain of his conduct, nor appeared to admire him less.' the story of miss mitford's , pounds is unique among the adventures of authoresses. dr. mitford, having spent all his wife's fortune, and having brought his family from a comfortable home, with flowers and a turkey carpet, to a small lodging near blackfriars bridge, determined to present his daughter with an expensive lottery ticket on the occasion of her tenth birthday. she had a fancy for no. , of which the added numbers came to . this number actually came out the first prize of , pounds, which money started the family once more in comparative affluence. dr. mitford immediately built a new square house, which he calls bertram house, on the site of a pretty old farmhouse which he causes to be pulled down. he also orders a dessert-service painted with the mitford arms; mrs. mitford is supplied with a carriage, and she subscribes to a circulating library. a list still exists of the books taken out by her for her daughter's use; some fifty-five volumes a month, chiefly trash: 'vicenza,' 'a sailor's friendship and soldier's love,' 'clarentina,' 'robert and adela,' 'the count de valmont,' 'the three spaniards,' 'de clifford' (in four volumes) and so on. the next two or three years were brilliant enough; for the family must have lived at the rate of three or four thousand a year. their hospitality was profuse, they had servants, carriages, they bought pictures and furniture, they entertained. cobbett was among their intimate friends. the doctor naturally enough invested in a good many more lottery tickets, but without any further return. the ladies seem to take it as a matter of course that he should speculate and gamble at cards, and indeed do anything and everything he fancied, but they beg him at least to keep to respectable clubs. he is constantly away. his daughter tries to tempt him home with the bloom of her hyacinths. 'how they long to see him again!' she says, 'how greatly have they been disappointed, when, every day, the journey to reading has been fruitless. the driver of the reading coach is quite accustomed to being waylaid by their carriage.' then she tells him about the primroses, but neither hyacinths nor primroses bring the doctor away from his cards. finally, the rhododendrons and the azaleas are in bloom, but these also fail to attract him. miss mitford herself as she grows up is sent to london more than once, to the st. quintin's and elsewhere. she goes to the play and to westminster hall, she sees her hero, charles james fox, and has the happiness of watching him helped on to his horse. mr. romilly delights her, but her greatest favourite of all is mr. whitbread. 'you know i am always an enthusiast,' she writes, 'but at present it is impossible to describe the admiration i feel for this exalted character.' she speaks of his voice 'which she could listen to with transport even if he spoke in an unknown language!' she writes a sonnet to him, 'an impromptu, on hearing mr. whitbread declare in westminster hall that he fondly trusted his name would descend to posterity.' 'the hope of fame thy noble bosom fires, nor vain the hope thy ardent mind inspires; in british breasts whilst purity remains, whilst liberty her blessed abode retains, still shall the muse of history proclaim to future ages thy immortal name!' there are many references to the celebrities of the time in her letters home,--every one agrees as to the extreme folly of sheridan's entertainments, mrs. opie is spoken of as a rising authoress, etc. etc. etc. miss austen used to go to hans place, and miss mitford used to stay at no. , but not at the same time. mrs. mitford had known miss austen as a child. she may perhaps be forgiven for some prejudice and maternal jealousy, in her later impressions, but mary mitford admired jane austen always with warmest enthusiasm. she writes to her mother at length from london, describing everything, all the people and books and experiences that she comes across,--the elegant suppers at brompton, the grecian lamps, mr. barker's beauty, mr. plummer's plainness, and the destruction of her purple gown. mrs. mitford writes back in return describing reading festivities, 'an agreeable dinner at doctor valpy's, where mrs. women and miss peacock are present and mr. j. simpson, m.p.; the dinner very good, two full courses and one remove, the soup giving place to one quarter of lamb.' mrs. mitford sends a menu of every dinner she goes to. in dr. mitford takes his daughter, who was then about nineteen, to the north to visit his relations; they are entertained by the grandparents of the trevelyans and the swinburnes, the ogles and the mitfords of the present day. they fish in sir john swinburne's lake, they visit at alnwick castle. miss mitford kept her front hair in papers till she reached alnwick, nor was her dress discomposed though she had travelled thirty miles. they sat down, sixty-five to dinner, which was 'of course' (she somewhat magnificently says) entirely served on plate. poor mary's pleasure is very much dashed by the sudden disappearance of her father,--dr. mitford was in the habit of doing anything he felt inclined to do at once and on the spot, quite irrespectively of the convenience of others,--and although a party had been arranged on purpose to meet him in the north, and his daughter was counting on his escort to return home, (people posted in those days, they did not take their tickets direct from newcastle to london), dr. mitford one morning leaves word that he has gone off to attend the reading election, where his presence was not in the least required. for the first and apparently for the only time in her life his daughter protests. 'mr. ogle is extremely offended; nothing but your immediate return can ever excuse you to him! i implore you to return, i call upon mamma's sense of propriety to send you here directly. little did i suspect that my father, my beloved father, would desert me at this distance from home! every one is surprised.' dr. mitford was finally persuaded to travel back to northumberland to fetch his daughter. the constant companionship of dr. mitford must have given a curious colour to his good and upright daughter's views of life. adoring her father as she did, she must have soon accustomed herself to take his fine speeches for fine actions, to accept his self-complacency in the place of a conscience. she was a woman of warm impressions, with a strong sense of right. but it was not within her daily experience, poor soul, that people who did not make grand professions were ready to do their duty all the same; nor did she always depend upon the uprightness, the courage, the self-denial of those who made no protestations. at that time loud talking was still the fashion, and loud living was considered romantic. they both exist among us, but they are less admired, and there is a different language spoken now to that of dr. mitford and his school. * this must account for some of miss mitford's judgments of what she calls a 'cynical' generation, to which she did little justice. *people nowadays are more ready to laugh than to admire when they hear the lions bray; for mewing and bleating, the taste, i fear, is on the increase. ii. there is one penalty people pay for being authors, which is that from cultivating vivid impressions and mental pictures they are apt to take fancies too seriously and to mistake them for reality. in story-telling this is well enough, and it interferes with nobody; but in real history, and in one's own history most of all, this faculty is apt to raise up bogies and nightmares along one's path; and while one is fighting imaginary demons, the good things and true are passed by unnoticed, the best realities of life are sometimes overlooked.... but after all, mary russell mitford, who spent most of her time gathering figs off thistles and making the best of her difficult circumstances, suffered less than many people do from the influence of imaginary things. she was twenty-three years old when her first book of poems was published; so we read in her letters, in which she entreats her father not to curtail any of the verses addressed to him; there is no reason, she says, except his extreme modesty why the verses should be suppressed,--she speaks not only with the fondness of a daughter but with the sensibility of a poet. our young authoress is modest, although in print; she compares herself to crabbe (as jane austen might have done), and feels 'what she supposes a farthing candle would experience when the sun rises in all its glory.' then comes the publisher's bill for pounds; she is quite shocked at the bill, which is really exorbitant! in her next letter miss mitford reminds her father that the taxes are still unpaid, and a correspondence follows with somebody asking for a choice of the doctor's pictures in payment for the taxes. the doctor is in london all the time, dining out and generally amusing himself. everybody is speculating whether sir francis burdett will go to the tower.* 'oh, my darling, how i envy you at the fountain-head of intelligence in these interesting times! how i envy lady burdett for the fine opportunity she has to show the heroism of our sex!' writes the daughter, who is only encountering angry tax-gatherers at home.... somehow or other the bills are paid for the time, and the family arrangements go on as before. *here, in our little suburban garden at wimbledon, are the remains of an old hedgerow which used to grow in the kitchen garden of the grange where sir francis burdett then lived. the tradition is that he was walking in the lane in his own kitchen garden when he was taken up and carried off to honourable captivity.--a.t.r. besides writing to the members of her own home, miss mitford started another correspondent very early in life; this was sir william elford, to whom she describes her outings and adventures, her visits to tavistock house, where her kind friends the perrys receive her. mr. perry was the editor of the morning chronicle; he and his beautiful wife were the friends of all the most interesting people of the day. here again the present writer's own experiences can interpret the printed page, for her own first sight of london people and of london society came to her in a little house in chesham place, where her father's old friends, mrs. frederick elliot and miss perry, the daughters of miss mitford's friends, lived with a very notable and interesting set of people, making a social centre, by that kindly unconscious art which cannot be defined; that quick apprehension, that benevolent fastidiousness (i have to use rather far-fetched words) which are so essential to good hosts and hostesses. a different standard is looked for now, by the rising generations knocking at the doors, behind which the dignified past is lying as stark as king duncan himself! among other entertainments miss mitford went to the fetes which celebrated the battle of vittoria; she had also the happiness of getting a good sight of mme. de stael, who was a great friend of the perrys. 'she is almost as much followed in the gardens as the princess,' she says, pouring out her wonders, her pleasures, her raptures. she begins to read burns with youthful delight, dilates upon his exhaustless imagination, his versatility, and then she suggests a very just criticism. 'does it not appear' she says, 'that versatility is the true and rare characteristic of that rare thing called genius--versatility and playfulness;' then she goes on to speak of two highly-reputed novels just come out and ascribed to lady morley, 'pride and prejudice' and 'sense and sensibility.' she is still writing from bertram house, but her pleasant gossip continually alternates with more urgent and less agreeable letters addressed to her father. lawyers' clerks are again calling with notices and warnings, tax-gatherers are troubling. dr. mitford has, as usual, left no address, so that she can only write to the 'star office,' and trust to chance. 'mamma joins in tenderest love,' so the letters invariably conclude. notwithstanding the adoration bestowed by the ladies of the family and their endearing adjectives, mr. harness is very outspoken on the subject of the handsome doctor! he disliked his manners, his morals, his self-sufficiency, his loud talk. 'the old brute never informed his friends of anything; all they knew of him or his affairs, or whatever false or true he intended them to believe, came out carelessly in his loose, disjointed talk.' in miss mitford is living on still with her parents at bertram house, but a change has come over their home; the servants are gone, the gravel turned to moss, the turf into pasture, the shrubberies to thickets, the house a sort of new 'ruin half inhabited, and a chancery suit is hanging over their heads.' meantime some news comes to cheer her from america. two editions of her poems have been printed and sold. 'narrative poems on the female character' proved a real success. 'all who have hearts to feel and understandings to discriminate, must wish you health and leisure to complete your plan,' so write publishers in those golden days, with complimentary copies of the work.... great things are happening all this time; battles are being fought and won, napoleon is on his way to st. helena; london is in a frenzy of rejoicings, entertainings, illuminations. to mary mitford the appearance of 'waverley' seems as great an event as the return of the bourbons; she is certain that 'waverley' is written by sir walter scott, but 'guy mannering,' she thinks, is by another hand: her mind is full of a genuine romantic devotion to books and belles lettres, and she is also rejoicing, even more, in the spring-time of . dr. mitford may be impecunious and their affairs may be threadbare, but the lovely seasons come out ever in fresh beauty and abundance. the coppices are carpeted with primroses, with pansies and wild strawberry blossom,--the woods are spangled with the delicate flowers of the woodsorrel and wood anemone, the meadows enamelled with cowslips.... certainly few human beings were ever created more fit for this present world, and more capable of admiring and enjoying its beauties, than miss mitford, who only desired to be beautiful herself, she somewhere says, to be perfectly contented. iii. most people's lives are divided into first, second and third volumes; and as we read miss mitford's history it forms no exception to the rule. the early enthusiastic volume is there, with its hopes and wild judgments, its quaint old-fashioned dress and phraseology; then comes the second volume, full of actual work and serious responsibility, with those childish parents to provide for, whose lives, though so protracted, never seem to reach beyond their nurseries. miss mitford's third volume is retrospective; her growing infirmities are courageously endured, there is the certainty of success well earned and well deserved; we realise her legitimate hold upon the outer world of readers and writers, besides the reputation which she won upon the stage by her tragedies. the literary ladies of the early part of the century in some ways had a very good time of it. a copy of verses, a small volume of travels, a few tea-parties, a harp in one corner of the room, and a hat and feathers worn rather on one side, seemed to be all that was wanted to establish a claim to fashion and inspiration. they had footstools to rest their satin shoes upon, they had admirers and panegyrists to their heart's content, and above all they possessed that peculiar complacency in which (with a few notable exceptions) our age is singularly deficient. we are earnest, we are audacious, we are original, but we are not complacent. they were dolls perhaps, and lived in dolls' houses; we are ghosts without houses at all; we come and go wrapped in sheets of newspaper, holding flickering lights in our hands, paraffin lamps, by the light of which we are seeking our proper sphere. poor vexed spirits! we do not belong to the old world any more! the new world is not yet ready for us. even mr. gladstone will not let us into the house of commons; the geographical society rejects us, so does the royal academy; and yet who could say that any of their standards rise too high! some one or two are happily safe, carried by the angels of the press to little altars and pinnacles all their own; but the majority of hard-working, intelligent women, 'contented with little, yet ready for more,' may they not in moments of depression be allowed to picture to themselves what their chances might have been had they only been born half a century earlier? miss mitford, notwithstanding all her troubles (she has been known to say she had rather be a washerwoman than a literary lady), had opportunities such as few women can now obtain. one is lost in admiration at the solidity of one's grandparents' taste, when one attempts to read the tragedies they delighted in, and yet 'rienzi' sold four thousand copies and was acted forty-five times; and at one time miss mitford had two tragedies rehearsed upon the boards together; one at covent garden and one at drury lane, with charles kemble and macready disputing for her work. has not one also read similar descriptions of the triumphs of hannah more, or of johanna baillie; cheered by enthusiastic audiences, while men shed tears.* *mem. hannah more, v.i. p. . 'julian' was the first of miss mitford's acted plays. it was brought out at covent garden in , when she was thirty-six years old; macready played the principal part. 'if the play do reach the ninth night,' miss mitford writes to macready, 'it will be a very complete refutation of mr. kemble's axiom that no single performer can fill the theatre; for except our pretty alfonso (miss foote) there is only julian, one and only one. let him imagine how deeply we feel his exertions and his kindness.*...' *in macready's diary we find an entry which is not over gracious. '"julian" acted march the th. had but moderate success. the c. g. company was no longer equal to the support of plays containing moral characters. the authoress in her dedication to me was profuse in her acknowledgments and compliments, but the performance made little impression, and was soon forgotten.' 'julian' was stopped on the eighth night, to her great disappointment, but she is already engaged on another--on several more---tragedies; she wants the money badly; for the editor of her magazine has absconded, owing her pounds. some trying and bewildering quarrel then ensues between charles kemble and macready, which puts off her tragedies, and sadly affects poor miss mitford's nerves and profits. she has one solace. her father, partly instigated, she says, by the effect which the terrible feeling of responsibility and want of power has had upon her health and spirits, at last resolves to try if he can himself obtain any employment that may lighten the burthen of the home. it is a good thing that dr. mitford has braced himself to this heroic determination. 'the addition of two or even one hundred a year to our little income, joined to what i am, in a manner, sure of gaining by mere industry, would take a load from my heart of which i can scarcely give you an idea... even "julian" was written under a pressure of anxiety which left me not a moment's rest....' so she fondly dwells upon the delightful prospects. then comes the next letter to sir william elford, and we read that her dear father, 'relying with a blessed sanguineness on my poor endeavours, has not, i believe, even inquired for a situation, and i do not press the matter, though i anxiously wish it; being willing to give one more trial to the theatre.' on one of the many occasions when miss mitford writes to her trustee imploring him to sell out the small remaining fragment of her fortune, she says, 'my dear father has, years ago, been improvident, is still irritable and difficult to live with, but he is a person of a thousand virtues... there are very few half so good in this mixed world; it is my fault that this money is needed, entirely my fault, and if it be withheld, my dear father will be overthrown, mind and body, and i shall never know another happy hour.' no wonder mr. harness, who was behind the scenes, remonstrated against the filial infatuation which sacrificed health, sleep, peace of mind, to gratify every passing whim of the doctor's. at a time when she was sitting up at night and slaving, hour after hour, to earn the necessary means of living, dr. mitford must needs have a cow, a stable, and dairy implements procured for his amusement, and when he died he left , pounds of debts for the scrupulous woman to pay off. she is determined to pay, if she sells her clothes to do so. meanwhile, the doctor is still alive, and miss mitford is straining every nerve to keep him so. she is engaged (in strict confidence) on a grand historical subject, charles and cromwell, the finest episode in english history, she says. here, too, fresh obstacles arise. this time it is the theatrical censor who interferes. it would be dangerous for the country to touch upon such topics; mr. george colman dwells upon this theme, although he gives the lady full credit for no evil intentions; but for the present all her work is again thrown away. while miss mitford is struggling on as best she can against this confusion of worries and difficulty (she eventually received pounds for 'julian' from a surrey theatre), a new firm 'whittaker' undertakes to republish the 'village sketches' which had been written for the absconding editor. the book is to be published under the title of 'our village.' iv. 'are your characters and descriptions true?' somebody once asked our authoress. 'yes, yes, yes, as true, as true as is well possible,' she answers. 'you, as a great landscape painter, know that in painting a favourite scene you do a little embellish and can't help it; you avail yourself of happy accidents of atmosphere; if anything be ugly you strike it out, or if anything be wanting, you put it in. but still the picture is a likeness.' so wrote miss mitford, but with all due respect for her and for sir william elford, the great landscape painter, i cannot help thinking that what is admirable in her book, are not her actual descriptions and pictures of intelligent villagers and greyhounds, but the more imaginative things; the sense of space and nature and progress which she knows how to convey; the sweet and emotional chord she strikes with so true a touch. take at hazard her description of the sunset. how simple and yet how finely felt it is. her genuine delight reaches us and carries us along; it is not any embellishing of effects, or exaggeration of facts, but the reality of a true and very present feeling... 'the narrow line of clouds which a few minutes ago lay like long vapouring streaks along the horizon, now lighted with a golden splendour, that the eye can scarcely endure; those still softer clouds which floated above, wreathing and curling into a thousand fantastic forms as thin and changeful as summer smoke, defined and deepened into grandeur, and hedged with ineffable, insufferable light. another minute and the brilliant orb totally disappears and the sky above grows, every moment, more varied and more beautiful, as the dazzling golden lines are mixed with glowing red and gorgeous purple, dappled with small dark specks, and mingled with such a blue as the egg of the hedge-sparrow.... to look up at that glorious sky, and then to see that magnificent picture reflected in the clear and lovely loddon water, is a pleasure never to be described, and never to be forgotten. my heart swells, and my eyes fill as i write of it, and think of the immeasurable majesty of nature and the unspeakable goodness of god, who has spread an enjoyment so pure, so peaceful, and so intense before the meanest and lowliest of his creatures.' but it is needless now to go on praising 'our village,' or to recount what a success was in store for the little book. certain books hold their own by individual right and might; they are part of everybody's life as a matter of course. they are not always read, but they tacitly take their place among us. the editions succeeded editions here and in america; artists came down to illustrate the scenes. miss mitford, who was so delighted with the drawings by mr. baxter, should have lived to see the charming glimpses of rural life we owe to mr. thomson. 'i don't mind 'em,' says lizzy to the cows, as they stand with spirited bovine grace behind the stable door. 'don't mind them indeed!' i think the author would assuredly have enjoyed the picture of the baker, the wheelwright and the shoemaker, each following his special alderney along the road to the village, or of the farmer driving his old wife in the gig.... one design, that of the lady in her pattens, comes home to the writer of these notes, who has perhaps the distinction of being the only authoress now alive who has ever walked out in pattens. at the age of seven years she was provided with a pair by a great-great-aunt, a kind old lady living at fareham, in hampshire, where they were still in use. how interesting the little circles looked stamped upon the muddy road, and how nearly down upon one's nose one was at every other step! but even with all her success, miss mitford was not out of her troubles. she writes to mr. harness saying: 'you cannot imagine how perplexed i am. there are points in my domestic situation too long and too painful to write about; the terrible improvidence of one dear parent, the failure of memory and decay of faculty in that other who is still dearer, cast on me a weight of care and fear that i can hardly bear up against.' her difficulties were unending. the new publisher now stopped payment, so that even 'our village' brought in no return for the moment; charles kemble was unable to make any offer for 'foscari.' she went up to town in the greatest hurry to try and collect some of the money owing to her from her various publishers, but, as mr. harness says, received little from her debtors beyond invitations and compliments. she meditates a novel, she plans an opera, 'cupid and psyche.' at last, better times began to dawn, and she receives pounds down for a new novel and ten guineas from blackwood as a retaining fee. then comes a letter from charles kemble giving her new hope, for her tragedy, which was soon afterwards produced at covent garden. the tragedies are in tragic english, of course that language of the boards, but not without a simplicity and music of their own. in the introduction to them, in some volumes published by hurst and blacket in , miss mitford describes 'the scene of indescribable chaos preceding the performance, the vague sense of obscurity and confusion; tragedians, hatted and coated, skipping about, chatting and joking; the only very grave person being liston himself. ballet-girls walking through their quadrilles to the sound of a solitary fiddle, striking up as if of its own accord, from amid the tall stools and music-desks of the orchestra, and piercing, one hardly knew how, through the din that was going on incessantly. oh, that din! voices from every part; above, below, around, and in every key. heavy weights rolling here and falling there. bells ringing, one could not tell why, and the ubiquitous call-boy everywhere.' she describes her astonishment when the play succeeds. 'not that i had nerve enough to attend the first representation of my tragedies. i sat still and trembling in some quiet apartment near, and thither some friend flew to set my heart at ease. generally the messenger of good tidings was poor haydon, whose quick and ardent spirit lent him wings on such an occasion.' we have the letter to her mother about 'foscari,' from which i have quoted; and on the occasion of the production of 'rienzi' at drury lane (two years later in october ), the letter to sir william elford when the poor old mother was no longer here to rejoice in her daughter's success. miss mitford gratefully records the sympathy of her friends, the warm-hearted muses of the day. mrs. trollope, miss landon, miss edgeworth, miss porden, mrs. hofland, mrs. opie, who all appear with their congratulations. miss mitford says that haydon, above all, sympathised with her love for a large canvas. the classics, spain, italy, mediaeval rome, these are her favourite scenes and periods. dukes and tribunes were her heroes; daggers, dungeons, and executioners her means of effects. she moralises very sensibly upon dramatic success. 'it is not,' she says, 'so delicious, so glorious, so complete a gratification as, in our secret longings, we all expect. it does not fill the heart,--it is an intoxication followed by a dismal reaction.' she tells a friend that never in all her life was she so depressed and out of spirits as after 'rienzi,' her first really successful venture. but there is also a passing allusion to her father's state of mind, to his mingled irritation and sulkiness, which partly explains things. could it be that the doctor added petty jealousy and envy to his other inconvenient qualities? his intolerance for any author or actor, in short, for any one not belonging to a county family, his violent annoyance at any acquaintances such as those which she now necessarily made, would naturally account for some want of spirits on the daughter's part; overwrought, over-taxed, for ever on the strain, her work was exhausting indeed. the small pension she afterwards obtained from the civil list must have been an unspeakable boon to the poor harassed woman. tragedy seems to have resulted in a substantial pony and a basket carriage for miss mitford, and in various invitations (from the talfourds, among the rest) during which she is lionised right and left. it must have been on this occasion that serjeant talfourd complained so bitterly of a review of 'ion' which appeared about that time. his guest, to soothe him, unwarily said, 'she should not have minded such a review of her tragedy.' 'your "rienzi," indeed! i should think not,' says the serjeant. '"ion" is very different.' the talfourd household, as it is described by mr. lestrange, is a droll mixture of poetry and prose, of hospitality, of untidiness, of petulance, of most genuine kindness and most genuine human nature. there are also many mentions of miss mitford in the 'life of macready' by sir f. pollock. the great tragedian seems not to have liked her with any cordiality; but he gives a pleasant account of a certain supper-party in honour of 'ion' at which she is present, and during which she asks macready if he will not now bring out her tragedy. the tragedian does not answer, but wordsworth, sitting by, says, 'ay, keep him to it.' v. besides the 'life of miss mitford' by messrs. harness and lestrange, there is also a book of the 'friendships of mary russell mitford,' consisting of the letters she received rather than of those which she wrote. it certainly occurs to one, as one looks through the printed correspondence of celebrated people, how different are written from printed letters. your friend's voice sounds, your friend's eyes look out, of the written page, even its blots and erasures remind you of your human being. but the magnetism is gone out of these printer's lines with their even margins; in which everybody's handwriting is exactly alike; in which everybody uses the same type, the same expressions; in which the eye roams from page to page untouched, unconvinced. i can imagine the pleasure each one of these letters may have given to miss mitford to receive in turn. they come from well-known ladies, accustomed to be considered. mrs. trollope, mrs. hofland, mrs. howitt, mrs. s. c. hall, miss strickland, mrs. opie; there, too, are miss barrett and mrs. jamieson and miss sedgwick who writes from america; they are all interesting people, but it must be confessed that the correspondence is not very enlivening. miss barrett's is an exception, that is almost as good as handwriting to read. but there is no doubt that compliments to other authoresses are much less amusing, than those one writes or receives oneself; apologies also for not writing sooner, can pall upon one in print, however soothing they may be to the justly offended recipient, or to the conscience-stricken correspondent. 'i must have seemed a thankless wretch, my dear miss mitford,' etc. etc. 'you, my dear friend, know too well what it is to have to finish a book, to blame my not attempting,' etc. etc. 'this is the thirty-ninth letter i have written since yesterday morning,' says harriet martineau. 'oh, i can scarcely hold the pen! i will not allow my shame for not having written, to prevent me from writing now.' all these people seem to have been just as busy as people are now, as amusing, as tiresome. they had the additional difficulty of having to procure franks, and of having to cover four pages instead of a post-card. our letters may be dull, but at all events they are not nearly so long. we come sooner to the point and avoid elegant circumlocutions. but one is struck, among other things, by the keener literary zest of those days, and by the immense numbers of mss. and tragedies in circulation, all of which their authors confidingly send from one to another. there are also whole flights of travelling poems flapping their wings and uttering their cries as they go. an enthusiastic american critic who comes over to england emphasises the situation. mr. willis's 'superlative admiration' seems to give point to everything, and to all the enthusiasm. miss austen's collins himself could not have been more appreciative, not even if miss de burgh had tried her hand at a ms.... could he--mr. willis--choose, he would have tragedy once a year from miss mitford's pen. 'what an intoxicating life it is,' he cries; 'i met jane porter and miss aikin and tom moore and a troop more beaux esprits at dinner yesterday! i never shall be content elsewhere.' miss mitford's own letters speak in a much more natural voice. 'i never could understand what people could find to like in my letters,' miss mitford writes, 'unless it be that they have a root to them.' the root was in her own kind heart. miss mitford may have been wanting a little in discrimination, but she was never wanting in sympathy. she seems to have loved people for kindness's sake indiscriminately as if they were creations of her own brain: but to friendliness or to trouble of any sort she responds with fullest measure. who shall complain if some rosy veil coloured the aspects of life for her? 'among the many blessings i enjoy,--my dear father, my admirable mother, my tried and excellent friends,--there is nothing for which i ought to thank god so earnestly as for the constitutional buoyancy of spirits, the aptness to hope, the will to be happy which i inherit from my father,' she writes. was ever filial piety so irritating as hers? it is difficult to bear, with any patience, her praises of dr. mitford. his illusions were no less a part of his nature than his daughter's, the one a self-centred absolutely selfish existence, the other generous, humble, beautiful. she is hardly ever really angry except when some reports get about concerning her marriage. there was an announcement that she was engaged to one of her own clan, and the news spread among her friends. the romantic mrs. hofland had conjured up the suggestion, to miss mitford's extreme annoyance. it is said mrs. hofland also married off miss edgeworth in the same manner. mary mitford found her true romance in friendship, not in love. one day mr. kenyon came to see her while she was staying in london, and offered to show her the zoological gardens, and on the way he proposed calling in gloucester place to take up a young lady, a connection of his own, miss barrett by name. it was thus that miss mitford first made the acquaintance of mrs. browning, whose friendship was one of the happiest events of her whole life. a happy romance indeed, with that added reality which must have given it endurance. and indeed to make a new friend is like learning a new language. i myself have a friend who says that we have each one of us a chosen audience of our own to whom we turn instinctively, and before whom we rehearse that which is in our minds; whose opinion influences us, whose approval is our secret aim. all this mrs. browning seems to have been to miss mitford. 'i sit and think of you and of the poems that you will write, and of that strange rainbow crown called fame, until the vision is before me.... my pride and my hopes seem altogether merged in you. at my time of life and with so few to love, and with a tendency to body forth images of gladness, you cannot think what joy it is to anticipate....' so wrote the elder woman to the younger with romantic devotion. what miss mitford once said of herself was true, hers was the instinct of the bee sucking honey from the hedge flower. whatever sweetness and happiness there was to find she turned to with unerring directness. it is to miss barrett that she sometimes complains. 'it will help you to understand how impossible it is for me to earn money as i ought to do, when i tell you that this very day i received your dear letter and sixteen others; then my father brought into my room the newspaper to hear the ten or twelve columns of news from india; then i dined and breakfasted in one; then i got up, and by that time there were three parties of people in the garden; eight others arrived soon after.... i was forced to leave, being engaged to call on lady madeline palmer. she took me some six miles on foot in mr. palmer's beautiful plantations, in search of that exquisite wild-flower the bog-bean, do you know it? most beautiful of flowers, either wild--or, as k. puts it,--"tame." after long search we found the plant not yet in bloom.' dr. mitford weeps over his daughters exhaustion, telling everybody that she is killing herself by her walks and drives. he would like her never to go beyond the garden and beyond reach of the columns of his newspaper. she declares that it is only by getting out and afield that she can bear the strain and the constant alternation of enforced work and anxiety. nature was, indeed, a second nature to her. charles kingsley himself could scarcely write better of the east wind.... 'we have had nine weeks of drought and east wind, scarcely a flower to be seen, no verdure in the meadows, no leaves in the hedgerows; if a poor violet or primrose did make its appearance it was scentless. i have not once heard my aversion the cuckoo... and in this place, so evidently the rendezvous of swallows, that it takes its name from them, not a swallow has yet appeared. the only time that i have heard the nightingale, i drove, the one mild day we have had, to a wood where i used to find the woodsorrel in beds; only two blossoms of that could be found, but a whole chorus of nightingales saluted me the moment i drove into the wood.' there is something of madame de sevigne in her vivid realisation of natural things. she nursed her father through a long and trying illness, and when he died found herself alone in the world with impaired health and very little besides her pension from the civil list to live upon. dr. mitford left pounds worth of debts, which this honourable woman then and there set to work to try and pay. so much courage and devotion touched the hearts of her many friends and readers, and this sum was actually subscribed by them. queens, archbishops, dukes, and marquises subscribe to the testimonial, so do the literary ladies, mesdames bailey, edgeworth, trollope; mrs. opie is determined to collect twenty pounds at least, although she justly says she wishes it were for anything but to pay the doctor's debts. in it is delightful to read of a little ease at last in this harassed life; of a school-feast with buns and flags organised by the kind lady, the children riding in waggons decked with laurel, miss mitford leading the way, followed by eight or ten neighbouring carriages, and the whole party waiting in swallowfield lane to see the queen and prince albert returning from their visit to the duke of wellington. 'our duke went to no great expense,' says miss mitford. (dr. mitford would have certainly disapproved had he been still alive.) one strip of carpet the duke did buy, the rest of the furniture he hired in reading for the week. the ringers, after being hard at work for four hours, sent a can to the house to ask for some beer, and the can was sent back empty. it was towards the end of her life that miss mitford left three mile cross and came to swallowfield to stay altogether. 'the poor cottage was tumbling around us, and if we had stayed much longer we should have been buried in the ruins,' she says; 'there i had toiled and striven and tasted as bitterly of bitter anxiety, of fear and hope, as often falls to the lot of women.' then comes a charming description of the three miles of straight and dusty road. 'i walked from one cottage to the other on an autumn evening when the vagrant birds, whose habit of assembling there for their annual departure, gives, i suppose, its name of swallowfield to the village, were circling over my head, and i repeated to myself the pathetic lines of hayley as he saw those same birds gathering upon his roof during his last illness:-- '"ye gentle birds, that perch aloof, and smooth your pinions on my roof... '"prepare for your departure hence ere winter's angry threats commence; like you my soul would smooth her plume for longer flights beyond the tomb. '"may god by whom is seen and heard departing men and wandering bird, in mercy mark us for his own and guide us to the land unknown!"' thoughts soothing and tender came with those touching lines, and gayer images followed.... it is from swallowfield that she writes: 'i have fell this blessing of being able to respond to new friendships very strongly lately, for i have lost many old and valued connections during this trying spring. i thank god far more earnestly for such blessings than for my daily bread, for friendship is the bread of the heart.' it was late in life to make such warm new ties as those which followed her removal from three mile cross; but some of the most cordial friendships of her life date from this time. mr. james payn and mr. fields she loved with some real motherly feeling, and lady russell who lived at the hall became her tender and devoted friend. vi. we went down to reading the other day, as so many of miss mitford's friends have done before, to look at 'our village' with our own eyes, and at the cottage in which she lived for so long. a phaeton with a fast-stepping horse met us at the station and whirled us through the busy town and along the straight dusty road beyond it. as we drove along in the soft clouded sunshine i looked over the hedges on either side, and i could see fields and hedgerows and red roofs clustering here and there, while the low background of blue hills spread towards the horizon. it was an unpretentious homely prospect intercepted each minute by the detestable advertisement hoardings recommending this or that rival pill. 'tongues in trees' indeed, in a very different sense from the exiled duke's experience! then we come within sight of the running brook, uncontaminated as yet; the river flowing cool and swift, without quack medicines stamped upon its waters: we reach whitley presently, with its pretty gabled hostel (mrs. mitford used to drive to whitley and back for her airing), the dust rises on the fresh keen wind, the scent of the ripe corn is in the air, the cows stoop under the elm trees, looking exactly as they do in mr. thomson's pretty pictures, dappled and brown, with delicate legs and horns. we pass very few people, a baby lugged along in its cart, and accompanied by its brothers and sisters; a fox-terrier comes barking at our wheels; at last the phaeton stops abruptly between two or three roadside houses, and the coachman, pointing with his whip, says, 'that is "the mitford," ma'am.--that's where miss mitford used to live!' was that all? i saw two or three commonplace houses skirting the dusty road, i saw a comfortable public-house with an elm tree, and beside it another grey unpretentious little house, with a slate roof and square walls, and an inscription, 'the mitford,' painted over the doorway.... i had been expecting i knew not what; a spire, a pump, a green, a winding street: my preconceived village in the air had immediately to be swept into space, and in its stead, behold the inn with its sign-post, and these half-dozen brick tenements, more or less cut to one square pattern! so this was all! this was 'our village' of which the author had written so charmingly! these were the sights the kind eyes had dwelt upon, seeing in them all, the soul of hidden things, rather than dull bricks and slates. except for one memory, three mile cross would seem to be one of the dullest and most uninteresting of country places.... but we have miss mitford's own description. 'the cross is not a borough, thank heaven, either rotten or independent. the inhabitants are quiet, peaceable people who would not think of visiting us, even if we had a knocker to knock at. our residence is a cottage' (she is writing to her correspondent, sir william elford), 'no, not a cottage, it does not deserve the name--a messuage or tenement such as a little farmer who had made pounds might retire to when he left off business to live on his means. it consists of a series of closets, the largest of which may be about eight feet square, which they call parlours and kitchens and pantries, some of them minus a corner, which has been unnaturally filched for a chimney, others deficient in half a side, which has been truncated by a shelving roof. behind is a garden about the size of a good drawing-room, with an arbour, which is a complete sentry-box of privet. on one side a public-house, on the other a village shop, and right opposite a cobbler's stall. notwithstanding all this "the cabin," as boabdil says, "is convenient." it is within reach of my dear old walks, the banks where i find my violets, the meadows full of cowslips, and the woods where the woodsorrel blows.... papa has already had the satisfaction of setting the neighbourhood to rights and committing a disorderly person who was the pest of "the cross" to bridewell.... mamma has furbished up an old dairy; i have lost my only key and stuffed the garden with flowers....' so writes the contented young woman. how much more delightful is all this than any commonplace stagey effect of lattice and gable; and with what pleasant unconscious art the writer of this letter describes what is not there and brings in her banks of violets to perfume the dull rooms. the postscript to this letter is miss mitford all over. 'pray excuse my blots and interlineations. they have been caused by my attention being distracted by a nightingale in full song who is pouring a world of music through my window.' 'do you not like to meet with good company in your friends' hearts?' miss mitford says somewhere,--to no one better than to herself does this apply. her heart was full of gracious things, and the best of company was ever hers, 'la fleur de la hotte,' as madame de sevigne says. we walked into the small square hall where dr. mitford's bed was established after his illness, whilst visitors and all the rest of the household came and went through the kitchen door. in the parlour, once kept for his private use, now sat a party of homely friends from reading, resting and drinking tea: we too were served with smoking cups, and poured our libation to her who once presided in the quiet place; and then the landlady took us round and about, showed us the kitchen with its comfortable corners and low window-frames--'i suppose this is scarcely changed at all?' said one of us. 'oh yes, ma'am,' says the housekeeper--'we uses a kitchener, miss mitford always kept an open range.' the garden, with its sentry-box of privet, exists no longer; an iron mission-room stands in its place, with the harmonium, the rows of straw chairs, the table and the candlesticks de circonstance. miss mitford's picture hangs on the wall, a hand-coloured copy of one of her portraits. the kindly homely features smile from the oils, in good humour and attentive intelligence. the sentiment of to-day is assuredly to be found in the spirit of things rather than in their outward signs.... any one of us can feel the romance of a wayside shrine put up to the memory of some mediaeval well-dressed saint with a nimbus at the back of her head, and a trailing cloak and veil.... here, after all, is the same sentiment, only translated into nineteenth-century language; uses corrogated iron sheds, and cups of tea, and oakum matting. 'mr. palmer, he bought the place,' says the landlady, 'he made it into a temperance hotel, and built the temperance hall in the garden.'.... no romantic marble shrine, but a square meeting-house of good intent, a tribute not less sincere because it is square, than if it were drawn into gothic arch and curve. it speaks, not of a holy and mythical saint, but of a good and warm-hearted woman; of a life-long penance borne with charity and cheerfulness; of sweet fancies and blessings which have given innocent pleasure to many generations! vii. there is a note, written in a close and pretty writing, something between sir walter scott's and mrs. browning's, which the present writer has possessed for years, fastened in a book among other early treasures:-- thank you, dearest miss priscilla, for your great kindness. i return the ninth volume of [illegible], with the four succeeding ones, all that i have; probably all that are yet published. you shall have the rest when i get them. tell dear mr. george (i must not call him vert-vert) that i have recollected the name of the author of the clever novel 'le rouge et le noir' (that is the right title of the book, which has nothing to do with the name); the author's name is stendhal, or so he calls himself. i think that he was either a musician or a musical critic, and that he is dead.... my visitor has not yet arrived ( o'clock, p.m.), frightened no doubt by the abruptness of the two notes which i wrote in reply to hers yesterday morning; and indeed nobody could fancy the hurry in which one is forced to write by this walking post.... tell my visitors of yesterday with my kind love that they did me all the good in the world, as indeed everybody of your house does. --ever, dear miss priscilla, very affectionately yours, m. r. mitford. in the present writer's own early days, when the now owner of swallowfield was a very young, younger son, she used to hear him and his sister, mrs. brackenbury (the miss priscilla of the note), speaking with affectionate remembrance of the old friend lately gone, who had dwelt at their very gates; through which friendly gates one is glad, indeed, to realise what delightful companionship and loving help came to cheer the end of that long and toilsome life; and when messrs. macmillan suggested this preface the writer looked for her old autograph-book, and at its suggestion wrote (wondering whether any links existed still) to ask for information concerning miss mitford, and so it happened that she found herself also kindly entertained at swallowfield, and invited to visit the scenes of which the author of 'our village' had written with so much delight. i think i should like to reverse the old proverb about letting those who run read, my own particular fancy being for reading first and running afterwards. there are few greater pleasures than to meet with an individuality, to listen to it speaking from a printed page, recounting, suggesting, growing upon you every hour, gaining in life and presence, and then, while still under its influence, to find oneself suddenly transported into the very scene of that life, to stand among its familiar impressions and experiences, realising another distinct existence by some odd metempsychosis, and what may--or rather, what must have been. it is existing a book rather than reading it when this happens to one. the house in swallowfield park is an old english country home, a fastness still piled up against time; whose stately walls and halls within, and beautiful century-old trees in the park without, record great times and striking figures. the manor was a part of the dowry of henry the viii.'s luckless queens. the modern house was built by clarendon, and the old church among the elms dates from , with carved signs and symbols and brasses of knights and burgesses, and names of strange sound and bygone fashion. lady russell, who had sent the phaeton with the fast-stepping horse to meet us, was walking in the park as we drove up, and instead of taking us back to the house, she first led the way across the grass and by the stream to the old church, standing in its trim sweet garden, where death itself seems smiling and fearless; where kind mary mitford's warm heart rests quiet, and 'her busy hand,' as she says herself, 'is lying in peace there, where the sun glances through the great elm trees in the beautiful churchyard of swallowfield.' the last baronet, sir charles, who fought in the crimea, and who succeeded his father, sir henry, moved the dividing rail so that his old friend should be well within the shadow of these elm trees. lady russell showed us the tranquil green place, and told us its story, and how the old church had once been doomed to destruction when kingsley came over by chance, and pleaded that it should be spared; and how, when rubbish and outward signs of decay had been cleared away, the restorers were rewarded for their piety, by coming upon noble beams of oak, untouched by time, upon some fine old buried monuments and brasses and inscriptions, among which the people still say their prayers in the shrine where their fathers knelt, and of which the tradition is not yet swept away. the present lady of the manor, who loves old traditions, has done her part to preserve the records for her children. so miss mitford walked from three mile cross to swallowfield to end her days, with these kind friends to cheer and to comfort her. sir henry russell was alive when she first established herself, but he was already suffering from some sudden seizure, which she, with her usual impetuosity, describes in her letters as a chronic state of things. after his death, his widow, the lady russell of those days, was her kindest friend and comforter. the little swallowfield cottage at the meeting of the three roads, to which mary mitford came when she left three mile cross, has thrown out a room or two, as cottages do, but otherwise i think it can be little changed. it was here miss mitford was visited by so many interesting people, here she used to sit writing at her big table under the 'tassels of her acacia tree.' when the present lady of the manor brought us to the gate, the acacia flowers were over, but a balmy breath of summer was everywhere; a beautiful rose was hanging upon the wall beneath the window (it must have taken many years to grow to such a height), and beyond the palings of the garden spread the fields, ripening in the late july, and turning to gold. the farmer and his son were at work with their scythes; the birds were still flying, the sweet scents were in the air. from a lady who had known her, 'my own miss anne' of the letters, we heard something more that day of the author of 'our village'; of her charming intellect, her gift of talk, her impulsiveness, her essential sociability, and rapid grace of mind. she had the faults of her qualities; she jumped too easily to conclusions; she was too much under the influence of those with whom she lived. she was born to be a victim,--even after her old tyrant father's death, she was more or less over-ridden by her servants. neighbours looked somewhat doubtfully on k. and ben, but they were good to her, on the whole, and tended her carefully. miss russell said that when she and her brother took refuge in the cottage, one morning from a storm, while they dried themselves by the fire, they saw the careful meal carried up to the old lady, the kidneys, the custard, for her dejeuner a la fourchette. when miss mitford died, she left everything she had to her beloved k. and to ben, except that she said she wished that one book from her well-stocked library should be given to each of her friends. the old doctor, with all his faults, had loved books, and bought handsome and valuable first editions of good authors. k. and ben also seem to have loved books and first editions. to the russells, who had nursed miss mitford, comforted her, by whose gates she dwelt, in whose arms she died, ben brought, as a token of remembrance, an old shilling volume of one of g. p. r. james's novels, which was all he could bear to part with. a prettier incident was told me by miss russell, who once went to visit miss mitford's grave. she found a young man standing there whom she did not know. 'don't you know me?' said he; 'i am henry, ma'am. i have just come back from australia.' he was one of the children of the couple who had lived in the cottage, and his first visit on his return from abroad had been to the tomb of his old protectress. i also heard a friend who knew miss mitford in her latest days, describe going to see her within a very few months of her death; she was still bright and responding as ever, though very ill. the young visitor had herself been laid up and absent from the invalid's bedside for some time. they talked over many things,--an authoress among the rest, concerning whose power of writing a book miss mitford seems to have been very doubtful. after her visitor was gone, the sick woman wrote one of her delicate pretty little notes and despatched it with its tiny seal (there it is still unbroken, with its m. r. m. just as she stamped it), and this is the little letter:-- thank you, dearest miss... for once again showing me your fair face by the side of the dear, dear friend [lady russell] for whose goodness i have neither thanks nor words. to the end of my life i shall go on sinning and repenting. heartily sorry have i been ever since you went away to have spoken so unkindly to mrs.... heaven forgive me for it, and send her a happier conclusion to her life than the beginning might warrant. if you have an idle lover, my dear, present over to him my sermon, for those were words of worth. god bless you all! ever, most faithfully and affectionately yours, m. r. mitford. sunday evening. viii. when one turns from miss mitford's works to the notices in the biographical dictionary (in which miss mitford and mithridates occupy the same page), one finds how firmly her reputation is established. 'dame auteur,' says my faithful mentor, the biographic generale, 'consideree comme le peintre le plus fidele de la vie rurale en angleterre.' 'author of a remarkable tragedy, "julian," in which macready played a principal part, followed by "foscari," "rienzi," and others,' says the english biographical dictionary. 'i am charmed with my new cottage,' she writes soon after her last installation; 'the neighbours are most kind.' kingsley was one of the first to call upon her. 'he took me quite by surprise in his extraordinary fascination,' says the old lady. mr. fields, the american publisher, also went to see miss mitford at swallowfield, and immediately became a very great ally of hers. it was to him that she gave her own portrait, by lucas. mr. fields has left an interesting account of her in his 'yesterdays with authors'--'her dogs and her geraniums,' he says, 'were her great glories! she used to write me long letters about fanchon, a dog whose personal acquaintance i had made some time before, while on a visit to her cottage. every virtue under heaven she attributed to that canine individual; and i was obliged to allow in my return letters that since our planet began to spin, nothing comparable to fanchon had ever run on four legs. i had also known flush, the ancestor of fanchon, intimately, and had been accustomed to hear wonderful things of that dog, but fanchon had graces and genius unique. miss mitford would have joined with hamerton, when he says, 'i humbly thank divine providence for having invented dogs, and i regard that man with wondering pity who can lead a dogless life.' another of miss mitford's great friends was john ruskin,* and one can well imagine how much they must have had in common. of miss mitford's writings ruskin says, 'they have the playfulness and purity of the "vicar of wakefield" without the naughtiness of its occasional wit, or the dust of the world's great road on the other side of the hedge.... ' *it is mr. harness who says, writing of ruskin and miss mitford, 'his kindness cheered her closing days. he sent her every book that would interest, every delicacy that would strengthen her.' neither the dust nor the ethics of the world of men quite belonged to miss mitford's genius. it is always a sort of relief to turn from her criticism of people, her praise of louis napoleon, her facts about mr. dickens, whom she describes as a dull companion, or about my father, whom she looked upon as an utter heartless worldling, to the natural spontaneous sweet flow of nature in which she lived and moved instinctively. mr. james payn gives, perhaps, the most charming of all the descriptions of the author of 'our village.' he has many letters from her to quote from. 'the paper is all odds and ends,' he says, 'and not a scrap of it but is covered and crossed. the very flaps of the envelopes and the outsides of them have their message.' mr. payn went to see her at swallowfield, and describes the small apartment lined with books from floor to ceiling and fragrant with flowers. 'its tenant rose from her arm-chair with difficulty, but with a sunny smile and a charming manner bade me welcome. my father had been an old friend of hers, and she spoke of my home and belongings as only a woman can speak of such things, then we plunged into medea res, into men and books. she seemed to me to have known everybody worth knowing from the duke of wellington to the last new verse-maker. and she talked like an angel, but her views upon poetry as a calling in life, shocked me not a little. she said she preferred a mariage de convenance to a love match, because it generally turned out better. "this surprises you," she said, smiling, "but then i suppose i am the least romantic person that ever wrote plays." she was much more proud of her plays, even then well-nigh forgotten, than of the works by which she was well known, and which at that time brought people from the ends of the earth to see her.... 'nothing ever destroyed her faith in those she loved. if i had not known all about him from my own folk i should have thought her father had been a patriot and a martyr. she spoke of him as if there had never been such a father--which in a sense was true.' mr. payn quotes miss mitford's charming description of k., 'for whom she had the highest admiration.' 'k. is a great curiosity, by far the cleverest woman in these parts, not in a literary way [this was not to disappoint me], but in everything that is useful. she could make a court dress for a duchess or cook a dinner for a lord mayor, but her principal talent is shown in managing everybody whom she comes near. especially her husband and myself; she keeps the money of both and never allows either of us to spend sixpence without her knowledge.... you should see the manner in which she makes ben reckon with her, and her contempt for all women who do not manage their husbands.' another delightful quotation is from one of charles kingsley's letters to mr. payn. it brings the past before us from another point of view. 'i can never forget the little figure rolled up in two chairs in the little swallowfield room, packed round with books up to the ceiling--the little figure with clothes on of no recognised or recognisable pattern; and somewhere, out of the upper end of the heap, gleaming under a great deep globular brow, two such eyes as i never perhaps saw in any other englishwoman--though i believe she must have had french blood in her veins to breed such eyes and such a tongue, the beautiful speech which came out of that ugly (it was that) face, and the glitter and depth too of the eyes, like live coals--perfectly honest the while....' one would like to go on quoting and copying, but here my preface must cease, for it is but a preface after all, one of those many prefaces written out of the past and when everything is over. country pictures. of all situations for a constant residence, that which appears to me most delightful is a little village far in the country; a small neighbourhood, not of fine mansions finely peopled, but of cottages and cottage-like houses, 'messuages or tenements,' as a friend of mine calls such ignoble and nondescript dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to us as the flowers in our garden; a little world of our own, close-packed and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep in a fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship; where we know every one, are known to every one, interested in every one, and authorised to hope that every one feels an interest in us. how pleasant it is to slide into these true-hearted feelings from the kindly and unconscious influence of habit, and to learn to know and to love the people about us, with all their peculiarities, just as we learn to know and to love the nooks and turns of the shady lanes and sunny commons that we pass every day. even in books i like a confined locality, and so do the critics when they talk of the unities. nothing is so tiresome as to be whirled half over europe at the chariot-wheels of a hero, to go to sleep at vienna, and awaken at madrid; it produces a real fatigue, a weariness of spirit. on the other hand, nothing is so delightful as to sit down in a country village in one of miss austen's delicious novels, quite sure before we leave it to become intimate with every spot and every person it contains; or to ramble with mr. white* over his own parish of selborne, and form a friendship with the fields and coppices, as well as with the birds, mice, and squirrels, who inhabit them; or to sail with robinson crusoe to his island, and live there with him and his goats and his man friday;--how much we dread any new comers, any fresh importation of savage or sailor! we never sympathise for a moment in our hero's want of company, and are quite grieved when he gets away;--or to be shipwrecked with ferdinand on that other lovelier island--the island of prospero, and miranda, and caliban, and ariel, and nobody else, none of dryden's exotic inventions:--that is best of all. and a small neighbourhood is as good in sober waking reality as in poetry or prose; a village neighbourhood, such as this berkshire hamlet in which i write, a long, straggling, winding street at the bottom of a fine eminence, with a road through it, always abounding in carts, horsemen, and carriages, and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from b---- to s----, which passed through about ten days ago, and will i suppose return some time or other. there are coaches of all varieties nowadays; perhaps this may be intended for a monthly diligence, or a fortnight fly. will you walk with me through our village, courteous reader? the journey is not long. we will begin at the lower end, and proceed up the hill. *white's 'natural history and antiquities of selborne;' one of the most fascinating books ever written. i wonder that no naturalist has adopted the same plan. the tidy, square, red cottage on the right hand, with the long well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired publican from a neighbouring town; a substantial person with a comely wife; one who piques himself on independence and idleness, talks politics, reads newspapers, hates the minister, and cries out for reform. he introduced into our peaceful vicinage the rebellious innovation of an illumination on the queen's acquittal. remonstrance and persuasion were in vain; he talked of liberty and broken windows--so we all lighted up. oh! how he shone that night with candles, and laurel, and white bows, and gold paper, and a transparency (originally designed for a pocket-handkerchief) with a flaming portrait of her majesty, hatted and feathered, in red ochre. he had no rival in the village, that we all acknowledged; the very bonfire was less splendid; the little boys reserved their best crackers to be expended in his honour, and he gave them full sixpence more than any one else. he would like an illumination once a month; for it must not be concealed that, in spite of gardening, of newspaper reading, of jaunting about in his little cart, and frequenting both church and meeting, our worthy neighbour begins to feel the weariness of idleness. he hangs over his gate, and tries to entice passengers to stop and chat; he volunteers little jobs all round, smokes cherry trees to cure the blight, and traces and blows up all the wasps'-nests in the parish. i have seen a great many wasps in our garden to-day, and shall enchant him with the intelligence. he even assists his wife in her sweepings and dustings. poor man! he is a very respectable person, and would be a very happy one, if he would add a little employment to his dignity. it would be the salt of life to him. next to his house, though parted from it by another long garden with a yew arbour at the end, is the pretty dwelling of the shoemaker, a pale, sickly-looking, black-haired man, the very model of sober industry. there he sits in his little shop from early morning till late at night. an earthquake would hardly stir him: the illumination did not. he stuck immovably to his last, from the first lighting up, through the long blaze and the slow decay, till his large solitary candle was the only light in the place. one cannot conceive anything more perfect than the contempt which the man of transparencies and the man of shoes must have felt for each other on that evening. there was at least as much vanity in the sturdy industry as in the strenuous idleness, for our shoemaker is a man of substance; he employs three journeymen, two lame, and one a dwarf, so that his shop looks like an hospital; he has purchased the lease of his commodious dwelling, some even say that he has bought it out and out; and he has only one pretty daughter, a light, delicate, fair-haired girl of fourteen, the champion, protectress, and playfellow of every brat under three years old, whom she jumps, dances, dandles, and feeds all day long. a very attractive person is that child-loving girl. i have never seen any one in her station who possessed so thoroughly that undefinable charm, the lady-look. see her on a sunday in her simplicity and her white frock, and she might pass for an earl's daughter. she likes flowers too, and has a profusion of white stocks under her window, as pure and delicate as herself. the first house on the opposite side of the way is the blacksmith's; a gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to shine; dark and smoky within and without, like a forge. the blacksmith is a high officer in our little state, nothing less than a constable; but, alas! alas! when tumults arise, and the constable is called for, he will commonly be found in the thickest of the fray. lucky would it be for his wife and her eight children if there were no public-house in the land: an inveterate inclination to enter those bewitching doors is mr. constable's only fault. next to this official dwelling is a spruce brick tenement, red, high, and narrow, boasting, one above another, three sash-windows, the only sash-windows in the village, with a clematis on one side and a rose on the other, tall and narrow like itself. that slender mansion has a fine, genteel look. the little parlour seems made for hogarth's old maid and her stunted footboy; for tea and card parties,--it would just hold one table; for the rustle of faded silks, and the splendour of old china; for the delight of four by honours, and a little snug, quiet scandal between the deals; for affected gentility and real starvation. this should have been its destiny; but fate has been unpropitious: it belongs to a plump, merry, bustling dame, with four fat, rosy, noisy children, the very essence of vulgarity and plenty. then comes the village shop, like other village shops, multifarious as a bazaar; a repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribands, and bacon; for everything, in short, except the one particular thing which you happen to want at the moment, and will be sure not to find. the people are civil and thriving, and frugal withal; they have let the upper part of their house to two young women (one of them is a pretty blue-eyed girl) who teach little children their a b c, and make caps and gowns for their mammas,--parcel schoolmistress, parcel mantua-maker. i believe they find adorning the body a more profitable vocation than adorning the mind. divided from the shop by a narrow yard, and opposite the shoemaker's, is a habitation of whose inmates i shall say nothing. a cottage--no--a miniature house, with many additions, little odds and ends of places, pantries, and what not; all angles, and of a charming in-and-outness; a little bricked court before one half, and a little flower-yard before the other; the walls, old and weather-stained, covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great apricot-tree; the casements full of geraniums (ah! there is our superb white cat peeping out from among them); the closets (our landlord has the assurance to call them rooms) full of contrivances and corner-cupboards; and the little garden behind full of common flowers, tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peonies, stocks, and carnations, with an arbour of privet, not unlike a sentry-box, where one lives in a delicious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay flower-beds. that house was built on purpose to show in what an exceeding small compass comfort may be packed. well, i will loiter there no longer. the next tenement is a place of importance, the rose inn: a white-washed building, retired from the road behind its fine swinging sign, with a little bow-window room coming out on one side, and forming, with our stable on the other, a sort of open square, which is the constant resort of carts, waggons, and return chaises. there are two carts there now, and mine host is serving them with beer in his eternal red waistcoat. he is a thriving man and a portly, as his waistcoat attests, which has been twice let out within this twelvemonth. our landlord has a stirring wife, a hopeful son, and a daughter, the belle of the village; not so pretty as the fair nymph of the shoe-shop, and far less elegant, but ten times as fine; all curl-papers in the morning, like a porcupine, all curls in the afternoon, like a poodle, with more flounces than curl-papers, and more lovers than curls. miss phoebe is fitter for town than country; and to do her justice, she has a consciousness of that fitness, and turns her steps townward as often as she can. she is gone to b---- to-day with her last and principal lover, a recruiting sergeant--a man as tall as sergeant kite, and as impudent. some day or other he will carry off miss phoebe. in a line with the bow-window room is a low garden-wall, belonging to a house under repair:--the white house opposite the collar-maker's shop, with four lime-trees before it, and a waggon-load of bricks at the door. that house is the plaything of a wealthy, well-meaning, whimsical person who lives about a mile off. he has a passion for brick and mortar, and, being too wise to meddle with his own residence, diverts himself with altering and re-altering, improving and re-improving, doing and undoing here. it is a perfect penelope's web. carpenters and bricklayers have been at work for these eighteen months, and yet i sometimes stand and wonder whether anything has really been done. one exploit in last june was, however, by no means equivocal. our good neighbour fancied that the limes shaded the rooms, and made them dark (there was not a creature in the house but the workmen), so he had all the leaves stripped from every tree. there they stood, poor miserable skeletons, as bare as christmas under the glowing midsummer sun. nature revenged herself, in her own sweet and gracious manner; fresh leaves sprang out, and at nearly christmas the foliage was as brilliant as when the outrage was committed. next door lives a carpenter, 'famed ten miles round, and worthy all his fame,'--few cabinet-makers surpass him, with his excellent wife, and their little daughter lizzy, the plaything and queen of the village, a child three years old according to the register, but six in size and strength and intellect, in power and in self-will. she manages everybody in the place, her schoolmistress included; turns the wheeler's children out of their own little cart, and makes them draw her; seduces cakes and lollypops from the very shop window; makes the lazy carry her, the silent talk to her, the grave romp with her; does anything she pleases; is absolutely irresistible. her chief attraction lies in her exceeding power of loving, and her firm reliance on the love and indulgence of others. how impossible it would be to disappoint the dear little girl when she runs to meet you, slides her pretty hand into yours, looks up gladly in your face, and says 'come!' you must go: you cannot help it. another part of her charm is her singular beauty. together with a good deal of the character of napoleon, she has something of his square, sturdy, upright form, with the finest limbs in the world, a complexion purely english, a round laughing face, sunburnt and rosy, large merry blue eyes, curling brown hair, and a wonderful play of countenance. she has the imperial attitudes too, and loves to stand with her hands behind her, or folded over her bosom; and sometimes, when she has a little touch of shyness, she clasps them together on the top of her head, pressing down her shining curls, and looking so exquisitely pretty! yes, lizzy is queen of the village! she has but one rival in her dominions, a certain white greyhound called mayflower, much her friend, who resembles her in beauty and strength, in playfulness, and almost in sagacity, and reigns over the animal world as she over the human. they are both coming with me, lizzy and lizzy's 'pretty may.' we are now at the end of the street; a cross-lane, a rope-walk shaded with limes and oaks, and a cool clear pond overhung with elms, lead us to the bottom of the hill. there is still one house round the corner, ending in a picturesque wheeler's shop. the dwelling-house is more ambitious. look at the fine flowered window-blinds, the green door with the brass knocker, and the somewhat prim but very civil person, who is sending off a labouring man with sirs and curtsies enough for a prince of the blood. those are the curate's lodgings--apartments his landlady would call them; he lives with his own family four miles off, but once or twice a week he comes to his neat little parlour to write sermons, to marry, or to bury, as the case may require. never were better or kinder people than his host and hostess; and there is a reflection of clerical importance about them since their connection with the church, which is quite edifying--a decorum, a gravity, a solemn politeness. oh, to see the worthy wheeler carry the gown after his lodger on a sunday, nicely pinned up in his wife's best handkerchief!--or to hear him rebuke a squalling child or a squabbling woman! the curate is nothing to him. he is fit to be perpetual churchwarden. we must now cross the lane into the shady rope-walk. that pretty white cottage opposite, which stands straggling at the end of the village in a garden full of flowers, belongs to our mason, the shortest of men, and his handsome, tall wife: he, a dwarf, with the voice of a giant; one starts when he begins to talk as if he were shouting through a speaking trumpet; she, the sister, daughter, and grand-daughter, of a long line of gardeners, and no contemptible one herself. it is very magnanimous in me not to hate her; for she beats me in my own way, in chrysanthemums, and dahlias, and the like gauds. her plants are sure to live; mine have a sad trick of dying, perhaps because i love them, 'not wisely, but too well,' and kill them with over-kindness. half-way up the hill is another detached cottage, the residence of an officer, and his beautiful family. that eldest boy, who is hanging over the gate, and looking with such intense childish admiration at my lizzy, might be a model for a cupid. how pleasantly the road winds up the hill, with its broad green borders and hedgerows so thickly timbered! how finely the evening sun falls on that sandy excavated bank, and touches the farmhouse on the top of the eminence! and how clearly defined and relieved is the figure of the man who is just coming down! it is poor john evans, the gardener--an excellent gardener till about ten years ago, when he lost his wife, and became insane. he was sent to st. luke's, and dismissed as cured; but his power was gone and his strength; he could no longer manage a garden, nor submit to the restraint, nor encounter the fatigue of regular employment: so he retreated to the workhouse, the pensioner and factotum of the village, amongst whom he divides his services. his mind often wanders, intent on some fantastic and impracticable plan, and lost to present objects; but he is perfectly harmless, and full of a childlike simplicity, a smiling contentedness, a most touching gratitude. every one is kind to john evans, for there is that about him which must be loved; and his unprotectedness, his utter defencelessness, have an irresistible claim on every better feeling. i know nobody who inspires so deep and tender a pity; he improves all around him. he is useful, too, to the extent of his little power; will do anything, but loves gardening best, and still piques himself on his old arts of pruning fruit-trees, and raising cucumbers. he is the happiest of men just now, for he has the management of a melon bed--a melon bed!--fie! what a grand pompous name was that for three melon plants under a hand-light! john evans is sure that they will succeed. we shall see: as the chancellor said, 'i doubt.' we are now on the very brow of the eminence, close to the hill-house and its beautiful garden. on the outer edge of the paling, hanging over the bank that skirts the road, is an old thorn--such a thorn! the long sprays covered with snowy blossoms, so graceful, so elegant, so lightsome, and yet so rich! there only wants a pool under the thorn to give a still lovelier reflection, quivering and trembling, like a tuft of feathers, whiter and greener than the life, and more prettily mixed with the bright blue sky. there should indeed be a pool; but on the dark grass-plat, under the high bank, which is crowned by that magnificent plume, there is something that does almost as well,--lizzy and mayflower in the midst of a game at romps, 'making a sunshine in the shady place;' lizzy rolling, laughing, clapping her hands, and glowing like a rose; mayflower playing about her like summer lightning, dazzling the eyes with her sudden turns, her leaps, her bounds, her attacks, and her escapes. she darts round the lovely little girl, with the same momentary touch that the swallow skims over the water, and has exactly the same power of flight, the same matchless ease and strength and grace. what a pretty picture they would make; what a pretty foreground they do make to the real landscape! the road winding down the hill with a slight bend, like that in the high street at oxford; a waggon slowly ascending, and a horseman passing it at a full trot--(ah! lizzy, mayflower will certainly desert you to have a gambol with that blood-horse!) half-way down, just at the turn, the red cottage of the lieutenant, covered with vines, the very image of comfort and content; farther down, on the opposite side, the small white dwelling of the little mason; then the limes and the rope-walk; then the village street, peeping through the trees, whose clustering tops hide all but the chimneys, and various roofs of the houses, and here and there some angle of a wall; farther on, the elegant town of b----, with its fine old church-towers and spires; the whole view shut in by a range of chalky hills and over every part of the picture, trees so profusely scattered, that it appears like a woodland scene, with glades and villages intermixed. the trees are of all kinds and all hues, chiefly the finely-shaped elm, of so bright and deep a green, the tips of whose high outer branches drop down with such a crisp and garland-like richness, and the oak, whose stately form is just now so splendidly adorned by the sunny colouring of the young leaves. turning again up the hill, we find ourselves on that peculiar charm of english scenery, a green common, divided by the road; the right side fringed by hedgerows and trees, with cottages and farmhouses irregularly placed, and terminated by a double avenue of noble oaks; the left, prettier still, dappled by bright pools of water, and islands of cottages and cottage-gardens, and sinking gradually down to cornfields and meadows, and an old farmhouse, with pointed roofs and clustered chimneys, looking out from its blooming orchard, and backed by woody hills. the common is itself the prettiest part of the prospect; half covered with low furze, whose golden blossoms reflect so intensely the last beams of the setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two sets of cricketers; one of young men, surrounded by spectators, some standing, some sitting, some stretched on the grass, all taking a delighted interest in the game; the other, a merry group of little boys, at a humble distance, for whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough, shouting, leaping, and enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. but cricketers and country boys are too important persons in our village to be talked of merely as figures in the landscape. they deserve an individual introduction--an essay to themselves--and they shall have it. no fear of forgetting the good-humoured faces that meet us in our walks every day. walks in the country. frost. january rd.--at noon to-day i and my white greyhound, mayflower, set out for a walk into a very beautiful world,--a sort of silent fairyland,--a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. there had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its covers with one sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate coating of rime. the atmosphere was deliciously calm; soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air, but a stillness that might almost be felt, the sky, rather gray than blue, throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village, and the rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun shining dimly as through a veil, giving a pale fair light, like the moon, only brighter. there was a silence, too, that might become the moon, as we stood at our little gate looking up the quiet street; a sabbath-like pause of work and play, rare on a work-day; nothing was audible but the pleasant hum of frost, that low monotonous sound, which is perhaps the nearest approach that life and nature can make to absolute silence. the very waggons as they come down the hill along the beaten track of crisp yellowish frost-dust, glide along like shadows; even may's bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and of speed, fall like snow upon snow. but we shall have noise enough presently: may has stopped at lizzy's door; and lizzy, as she sat on the window-sill with her bright rosy face laughing through the casement, has seen her and disappeared. she is coming. no! the key is turning in the door, and sounds of evil omen issue through the keyhole--sturdy 'let me outs,' and 'i will goes,' mixed with shrill cries on may and on me from lizzy, piercing through a low continuous harangue, of which the prominent parts are apologies, chilblains, sliding, broken bones, lollypops, rods, and gingerbread, from lizzy's careful mother. 'don't scratch the door, may! don't roar so, my lizzy! we'll call for you as we come back.' 'i'll go now! let me out! i will go!' are the last words of miss lizzy. mem. not to spoil that child--if i can help it. but i do think her mother might have let the poor little soul walk with us to-day. nothing worse for children than coddling. nothing better for chilblains than exercise. besides, i don't believe she has any--and as to breaking her bones in sliding, i don't suppose there's a slide on the common. these murmuring cogitations have brought us up the hill, and half-way across the light and airy common, with its bright expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages, whose turf fires send such wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse such aromatic fragrance around. and now comes the delightful sound of childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment almost from beneath our feet. ah, lizzy, your mother was right! they are shouting from that deep irregular pool, all glass now, where, on two long, smooth, liny slides, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping along in tottering triumph. half a dozen steps bring us to the bank right above them. may can hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends, for most of the varlets are of her acquaintance, especially the rogue who leads the slide,--he with the brimless hat, whose bronzed complexion and white flaxen hair, reversing the usual lights and shadows of the human countenance, give so strange and foreign a look to his flat and comic features. this hobgoblin, jack rapley by name, is may's great crony; and she stands on the brink of the steep, irregular descent, her black eyes fixed full upon him, as if she intended him the favour of jumping on his head. she does: she is down, and upon him; but jack rapley is not easily to be knocked off his feet. he saw her coming, and in the moment of her leap sprung dexterously off the slide on the rough ice, steadying himself by the shoulder of the next in the file, which unlucky follower, thus unexpectedly checked in his career, fell plump backwards, knocking down the rest of the line like a nest of card-houses. there is no harm done; but there they lie, roaring, kicking, sprawling, in every attitude of comic distress, whilst jack rapley and mayflower, sole authors of this calamity, stand apart from the throng, fondling, and coquetting, and complimenting each other, and very visibly laughing, may in her black eyes, jack in his wide, close-shut mouth, and his whole monkey-face, at their comrades' mischances. i think, miss may, you may as well come up again, and leave master rapley to fight your battles. he'll get out of the scrape. he is a rustic wit--a sort of robin goodfellow--the sauciest, idlest, cleverest, best-natured boy in the parish; always foremost in mischief, and always ready to do a good turn. the sages of our village predict sad things of jack rapley, so that i am sometimes a little ashamed to confess, before wise people, that i have a lurking predilection for him (in common with other naughty ones), and that i like to hear him talk to may almost as well as she does. 'come, may!' and up she springs, as light as a bird. the road is gay now; carts and post-chaises, and girls in red cloaks, and, afar off, looking almost like a toy, the coach. it meets us fast and soon. how much happier the walkers look than the riders--especially the frost-bitten gentleman, and the shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that commodious machine! hooded, veiled, and bonneted, as she is, one sees from her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered. another pond, and another noise of children. more sliding? oh no! this is a sport of higher pretension. our good neighbour, the lieutenant, skating, and his own pretty little boys, and two or three other four-year-old elves, standing on the brink in an ecstasy of joy and wonder! oh what happy spectators! and what a happy performer! they admiring, he admired, with an ardour and sincerity never excited by all the quadrilles and the spread-eagles of the seine and the serpentine. he really skates well though, and i am glad i came this way; for, with all the father's feelings sitting gaily at his heart, it must still gratify the pride of skill to have one spectator at that solitary pond who has seen skating before. now we have reached the trees,--the beautiful trees! never so beautiful as to-day. imagine the effect of a straight and regular double avenue of oaks, nearly a mile long, arching overhead, and closing into perspective like the roof and columns of a cathedral, every tree and branch incrusted with the bright and delicate congelation of hoar-frost, white and pure as snow, delicate and defined as carved ivory. how beautiful it is, how uniform, how various, how filling, how satiating to the eye and to the mind--above all, how melancholy! there is a thrilling awfulness, an intense feeling of simple power in that naked and colourless beauty, which falls on the earth like the thoughts of death--death pure, and glorious, and smiling,--but still death. sculpture has always the same effect on my imagination, and painting never. colour is life.--we are now at the end of this magnificent avenue, and at the top of a steep eminence commanding a wide view over four counties--a landscape of snow. a deep lane leads abruptly down the hill; a mere narrow cart-track, sinking between high banks clothed with fern and furze and low broom, crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, and famous for their summer smell of thyme. how lovely these banks are now--the tall weeds and the gorse fixed and stiffened in the hoar-frost, which fringes round the bright prickly holly, the pendent foliage of the bramble, and the deep orange leaves of the pollard oaks! oh, this is rime in its loveliest form! and there is still a berry here and there on the holly, 'blushing in its natural coral' through the delicate tracery, still a stray hip or haw for the birds, who abound here always. the poor birds, how tame they are, how sadly tame! there is the beautiful and rare crested wren, 'that shadow of a bird,' as white of selborne calls it, perched in the middle of the hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty thing, for the warmth it will not find. and there, farther on, just under the bank, by the slender runlet, which still trickles between its transparent fantastic margin of thin ice, as if it were a thing of life,--there, with a swift, scudding motion, flits, in short low flights, the gorgeous kingfisher, its magnificent plumage of scarlet and blue flashing in the sun, like the glories of some tropical bird. he is come for water to this little spring by the hillside,--water which even his long bill and slender head can hardly reach, so nearly do the fantastic forms of those garland-like icy margins meet over the tiny stream beneath. it is rarely that one sees the shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant to see him in the grace and beauty of his natural liberty, the only way to look at a bird. we used, before we lived in a street, to fix a little board outside the parlour window, and cover it with bread crumbs in the hard weather. it was quite delightful to see the pretty things come and feed, to conquer their shyness, and do away their mistrust. first came the more social tribes, 'the robin red-breast and the wren,' cautiously, suspiciously, picking up a crumb on the wing, with the little keen bright eye fixed on the window; then they would stop for two pecks; then stay till they were satisfied. the shyer birds, tamed by their example, came next; and at last one saucy fellow of a blackbird--a sad glutton, he would clear the board in two minutes,--used to tap his yellow bill against the window for more. how we loved the fearless confidence of that fine, frank-hearted creature! and surely he loved us. i wonder the practice is not more general. 'may! may! naughty may!' she has frightened away the kingfisher; and now, in her coaxing penitence, she is covering me with snow. 'come, pretty may! it is time to go home.' thaw. january th.--we have had rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again four days of absolute confinement. now it is a thaw and a flood; but our light gravelly soil, and country boots, and country hardihood, will carry us through. what a dripping, comfortless day it is! just like the last days of november: no sun, no sky, gray or blue; one low, overhanging, dark, dismal cloud, like london smoke; mayflower is out coursing too, and lizzy gone to school. never mind. up the hill again! walk we must. oh what a watery world to look back upon! thames, kennet, loddon--all overflowed; our famous town, inland once, turned into a sort of venice; c. park converted into an island; and the long range of meadows from b. to w. one huge unnatural lake, with trees growing out of it. oh what a watery world!--i will look at it no longer. i will walk on. the road is alive again. noise is reborn. waggons creak, horses splash, carts rattle, and pattens paddle through the dirt with more than their usual clink. the common has its old fine tints of green and brown, and its old variety of inhabitants, horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and donkeys. the ponds are unfrozen, except where some melancholy piece of melting ice floats sullenly on the water; and cackling geese and gabbling ducks have replaced the lieutenant and jack rapley. the avenue is chill and dark, the hedges are dripping, the lanes knee-deep, and all nature is in a state of 'dissolution and thaw.' the first primrose. march th.--fine march weather: boisterous, blustering, much wind and squalls of rain; and yet the sky, where the clouds are swept away, deliciously blue, with snatches of sunshine, bright, and clear, and healthful, and the roads, in spite of the slight glittering showers, crisply dry. altogether the day is tempting, very tempting. it will not do for the dear common, that windmill of a walk; but the close sheltered lanes at the bottom of the hill, which keep out just enough of the stormy air, and let in all the sun, will be delightful. past our old house, and round by the winding lanes, and the workhouse, and across the lea, and so into the turnpike-road again,--that is our route for to-day. forth we set, mayflower and i, rejoicing in the sunshine, and still more in the wind, which gives such an intense feeling of existence, and, co-operating with brisk motion, sets our blood and our spirits in a glow. for mere physical pleasure, there is nothing perhaps equal to the enjoyment of being drawn, in a light carriage, against such a wind as this, by a blood-horse at his height of speed. walking comes next to it; but walking is not quite so luxurious or so spiritual, not quite so much what one fancies of flying, or being carried above the clouds in a balloon. nevertheless, a walk is a good thing; especially under this southern hedgerow, where nature is just beginning to live again; the periwinkles, with their starry blue flowers, and their shining myrtle-like leaves, garlanding the bushes; woodbines and elder-trees pushing out their small swelling buds; and grasses and mosses springing forth in every variety of brown and green. here we are at the corner where four lanes meet, or rather where a passable road of stones and gravel crosses an impassable one of beautiful but treacherous turf, and where the small white farmhouse, scarcely larger than a cottage, and the well-stocked rick-yard behind, tell of comfort and order, but leave all unguessed the great riches of the master. how he became so rich is almost a puzzle; for, though the farm be his own, it is not large; and though prudent and frugal on ordinary occasions, farmer barnard is no miser. his horses, dogs, and pigs are the best kept in the parish,--may herself, although her beauty be injured by her fatness, half envies the plight of his bitch fly: his wife's gowns and shawls cost as much again as any shawls or gowns in the village; his dinner parties (to be sure they are not frequent) display twice the ordinary quantity of good things--two couples of ducks, two dishes of green peas, two turkey poults, two gammons of bacon, two plum-puddings; moreover, he keeps a single-horse chaise, and has built and endowed a methodist chapel. yet is he the richest man in these parts. everything prospers with him. money drifts about him like snow. he looks like a rich man. there is a sturdy squareness of face and figure; a good-humoured obstinacy; a civil importance. he never boasts of his wealth, or gives himself undue airs; but nobody can meet him at market or vestry without finding out immediately that he is the richest man there. they have no child to all this money; but there is an adopted nephew, a fine spirited lad, who may, perhaps, some day or other, play the part of a fountain to the reservoir. now turn up the wide road till we come to the open common, with its park-like trees, its beautiful stream, wandering and twisting along, and its rural bridge. here we turn again, past that other white farmhouse, half hidden by the magnificent elms which stand before it. ah! riches dwell not there, but there is found the next best thing--an industrious and light-hearted poverty. twenty years ago rachel hilton was the prettiest and merriest lass in the country. her father, an old gamekeeper, had retired to a village alehouse, where his good beer, his social humour, and his black-eyed daughter, brought much custom. she had lovers by the score; but joseph white, the dashing and lively son of an opulent farmer, carried off the fair rachel. they married and settled here, and here they live still, as merrily as ever, with fourteen children of all ages and sizes, from nineteen years to nineteen months, working harder than any people in the parish, and enjoying themselves more. i would match them for labour and laughter against any family in england. she is a blithe, jolly dame, whose beauty has amplified into comeliness; he is tall, and thin, and bony, with sinews like whipcord, a strong lively voice, a sharp weather-beaten face, and eyes and lips that smile and brighten when he speaks into a most contagious hilarity. they are very poor, and i often wish them richer; but i don't know--perhaps it might put them out. quite close to farmer white's is a little ruinous cottage, white-washed once, and now in a sad state of betweenity, where dangling stockings and shirts, swelled by the wind, drying in a neglected garden, give signal of a washerwoman. there dwells, at present in single blessedness, betty adams, the wife of our sometimes gardener. i never saw any one who so much reminded me in person of that lady whom everybody knows, mistress meg merrilies;--as tall, as grizzled, as stately, as dark, as gipsy-looking, bonneted and gowned like her prototype, and almost as oracular. here the resemblance ceases. mrs. adams is a perfectly honest, industrious, painstaking person, who earns a good deal of money by washing and charing, and spends it in other luxuries than tidiness,--in green tea, and gin, and snuff. her husband lives in a great family, ten miles off. he is a capital gardener--or rather he would be so, if he were not too ambitious. he undertakes all things, and finishes none. but a smooth tongue, a knowing look, and a great capacity of labour, carry him through. let him but like his ale and his master and he will do work enough for four. give him his own way, and his full quantum, and nothing comes amiss to him. ah, may is bounding forward! her silly heart leaps at the sight of the old place--and so in good truth does mine. what a pretty place it was--or rather, how pretty i thought it! i suppose i should have thought any place so where i had spent eighteen happy years. but it was really pretty. a large, heavy, white house, in the simplest style, surrounded by fine oaks and elms, and tall massy plantations shaded down into a beautiful lawn by wild overgrown shrubs, bowery acacias, ragged sweet-briers, promontories of dogwood, and portugal laurel, and bays, over-hung by laburnum and bird-cherry; a long piece of water letting light into the picture, and looking just like a natural stream, the banks as rude and wild as the shrubbery, interspersed with broom, and furze, and bramble, and pollard oaks covered with ivy and honeysuckle; the whole enclosed by an old mossy park paling, and terminating in a series of rich meadows, richly planted. this is an exact description of the home which, three years ago, it nearly broke my heart to leave. what a tearing up by the root it was! i have pitied cabbage-plants and celery, and all transplantable things, ever since; though, in common with them, and with other vegetables, the first agony of the transportation being over, i have taken such firm and tenacious hold of my new soil, that i would not for the world be pulled up again, even to be restored to the old beloved ground;--not even if its beauty were undiminished, which is by no means the case; for in those three years it has thrice changed masters, and every successive possessor has brought the curse of improvement upon the place; so that between filling up the water to cure dampness, cutting down trees to let in prospects, planting to keep them out, shutting up windows to darken the inside of the house (by which means one end looks precisely as an eight of spades would do that should have the misfortune to lose one of his corner pips), and building colonnades to lighten the out, added to a general clearance of pollards, and brambles, and ivy, and honeysuckles, and park palings, and irregular shrubs, the poor place is so transmogrified, that if it had its old looking-glass, the water, back again, it would not know its own face. and yet i love to haunt round about it: so does may. her particular attraction is a certain broken bank full of rabbit burrows, into which she insinuates her long pliant head and neck, and tears her pretty feet by vain scratchings: mine is a warm sunny hedgerow, in the same remote field, famous for early flowers. never was a spot more variously flowery: primroses yellow, lilac white, violets of either hue, cowslips, oxslips, arums, orchises, wild hyacinths, ground ivy, pansies, strawberries, heart's-ease, formed a small part of the flora of that wild hedgerow. how profusely they covered the sunny open slope under the weeping birch, 'the lady of the woods'--and how often have i started to see the early innocent brown snake, who loved the spot as well as i did, winding along the young blossoms, or rustling amongst the fallen leaves! there are primrose leaves already, and short green buds, but no flowers; not even in that furze cradle so full of roots, where they used to blow as in a basket. no, my may, no rabbits! no primroses! we may as well get over the gate into the woody winding lane, which will bring us home again. here we are making the best of our way between the old elms that arch so solemnly over head, dark and sheltered even now. they say that a spirit haunts this deep pool--a white lady without a head. i cannot say that i have seen her, often as i have paced this lane at deep midnight, to hear the nightingales, and look at the glow-worms;--but there, better and rarer than a thousand ghosts, dearer even than nightingales or glow-worms, there is a primrose, the first of the year; a tuft of primroses, springing in yonder sheltered nook, from the mossy roots of an old willow, and living again in the clear bright pool. oh, how beautiful they are--three fully blown, and two bursting buds! how glad i am i came this way! they are not to be reached. even jack rapley's love of the difficult and the unattainable would fail him here: may herself could not stand on that steep bank. so much the better. who would wish to disturb them? there they live in their innocent and fragrant beauty, sheltered from the storms, and rejoicing in the sunshine, and looking as if they could feel their happiness. who would disturb them? oh, how glad i am i came this way home! violeting. march th.--it is a dull gray morning, with a dewy feeling in the air; fresh, but not windy; cool, but not cold;--the very day for a person newly arrived from the heat, the glare, the noise, and the fever of london, to plunge into the remotest labyrinths of the country, and regain the repose of mind, the calmness of heart, which has been lost in that great babel. i must go violeting--it is a necessity--and i must go alone: the sound of a voice, even my lizzy's, the touch of mayflower's head, even the bounding of her elastic foot, would disturb the serenity of feeling which i am trying to recover. i shall go quite alone, with my little basket, twisted like a bee-hive, which i love so well, because she gave it to me, and kept sacred to violets and to those whom i love; and i shall get out of the high-road the moment i can. i would not meet any one just now, even of those whom i best like to meet. ha!--is not that group--a gentleman on a blood-horse, a lady keeping pace with him so gracefully and easily--see how prettily her veil waves in the wind created by her own rapid motion!--and that gay, gallant boy, on the gallant white arabian, curveting at their side, but ready to spring before them every instant--is not that chivalrous-looking party mr. and mrs. m. and dear r? no! the servant is in a different livery. it is some of the ducal family, and one of their young etonians. i may go on. i shall meet no one now; for i have fairly left the road, and am crossing the lea by one of those wandering paths, amidst the gorse, and the heath, and the low broom, which the sheep and lambs have made--a path turfy, elastic, thymy, and sweet, even at this season. we have the good fortune to live in an unenclosed parish, and may thank the wise obstinacy of two or three sturdy farmers, and the lucky unpopularity of a ranting madcap lord of the manor, for preserving the delicious green patches, the islets of wilderness amidst cultivation, which form, perhaps, the peculiar beauty of english scenery. the common that i am passing now--the lea, as it is called--is one of the loveliest of these favoured spots. it is a little sheltered scene, retiring, as it were, from the village; sunk amidst higher lands, hills would be almost too grand a word; edged on one side by one gay high-road, and intersected by another; and surrounded by a most picturesque confusion of meadows, cottages, farms, and orchards; with a great pond in one corner, unusually bright and clear, giving a delightful cheerfulness and daylight to the picture. the swallows haunt that pond; so do the children. there is a merry group round it now; i have seldom seen it without one. children love water, clear, bright, sparkling water; it excites and feeds their curiosity; it is motion and life. the path that i am treading leads to a less lively spot, to that large heavy building on one side of the common, whose solid wings, jutting out far beyond the main body, occupy three sides of a square, and give a cold, shadowy look to the court. on one side is a gloomy garden, with an old man digging in it, laid out in straight dark beds of vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, onions, beans; all earthy and mouldy as a newly-dug grave. not a flower or flowering shrub! not a rose-tree or currant-bush! nothing but for sober, melancholy use. oh, different from the long irregular slips of the cottage-gardens, with their gay bunches of polyanthuses and crocuses, their wallflowers sending sweet odours through the narrow casement, and their gooseberry-trees bursting into a brilliancy of leaf, whose vivid greenness has the effect of a blossom on the eye! oh, how different! on the other side of this gloomy abode is a meadow of that deep, intense emerald hue, which denotes the presence of stagnant water, surrounded by willows at regular distances, and like the garden, separated from the common by a wide, moat-like ditch. that is the parish workhouse. all about it is solid, substantial, useful;--but so dreary! so cold! so dark! there are children in the court, and yet all is silent. i always hurry past that place as if it were a prison. restraint, sickness, age, extreme poverty, misery, which i have no power to remove or alleviate,--these are the ideas, the feelings, which the sight of those walls excites; yet, perhaps, if not certainly, they contain less of that extreme desolation than the morbid fancy is apt to paint. there will be found order, cleanliness, food, clothing, warmth, refuge for the homeless, medicine and attendance for the sick, rest and sufficiency for old age, and sympathy, the true and active sympathy which the poor show to the poor, for the unhappy. there may be worse places than a parish workhouse--and yet i hurry past it. the feeling, the prejudice, will not be controlled. the end of the dreary garden edges off into a close-sheltered lane, wandering and winding, like a rivulet, in gentle 'sinuosities' (to use a word once applied by mr. wilberforce to the thames at henley), amidst green meadows, all alive with cattle, sheep, and beautiful lambs, in the very spring and pride of their tottering prettiness; or fields of arable land, more lively still with troops of stooping bean-setters, women and children, in all varieties of costume and colour; and ploughs and harrows, with their whistling boys and steady carters, going through, with a slow and plodding industry, the main business of this busy season. what work beansetting is! what a reverse of the position assigned to man to distinguish him from the beasts of the field! only think of stooping for six, eight, ten hours a day, drilling holes in the earth with a little stick, and then dropping in the beans one by one. they are paid according to the quantity they plant; and some of the poor women used to be accused of clumping them--that is to say, of dropping more than one bean into a hole. it seems to me, considering the temptation, that not to clump is to be at the very pinnacle of human virtue. another turn in the lane, and we come to the old house standing amongst the high elms--the old farm-house, which always, i don't know why, carries back my imagination to shakspeare's days. it is a long, low, irregular building, with one room, at an angle from the house, covered with ivy, fine white-veined ivy; the first floor of the main building projecting and supported by oaken beams, and one of the windows below, with its old casement and long narrow panes, forming the half of a shallow hexagon. a porch, with seats in it, surmounted by a pinnacle, pointed roofs, and clustered chimneys, complete the picture! alas! it is little else but a picture! the very walls are crumbling to decay under a careless landlord and ruined tenant. now a few yards farther, and i reach the bank. ah! i smell them already--their exquisite perfume steams and lingers in this moist, heavy air. through this little gate, and along the green south bank of this green wheat-field, and they burst upon me, the lovely violets, in tenfold loveliness. the ground is covered with them, white and purple, enamelling the short dewy grass, looking but the more vividly coloured under the dull, leaden sky. there they lie by hundreds, by thousands. in former years i have been used to watch them from the tiny green bud, till one or two stole into bloom. they never came on me before in such a sudden and luxuriant glory of simple beauty,--and i do really owe one pure and genuine pleasure to feverish london! how beautifully they are placed too, on this sloping bank, with the palm branches waving over them, full of early bees, and mixing their honeyed scent with the more delicate violet odour! how transparent and smooth and lusty are the branches, full of sap and life! and there, just by the old mossy root, is a superb tuft of primroses, with a yellow butterfly hovering over them, like a flower floating on the air. what happiness to sit on this tufty knoll, and fill my basket with the blossoms! what a renewal of heart and mind! to inhabit such a scene of peace and sweetness is again to be fearless, gay, and gentle as a child. then it is that thought becomes poetry, and feeling religion. then it is that we are happy and good. oh, that my whole life could pass so, floating on blissful and innocent sensation, enjoying in peace and gratitude the common blessings of nature, thankful above all for the simple habits, the healthful temperament, which render them so dear! alas! who may dare expect a life of such happiness? but i can at least snatch and prolong the fleeting pleasure, can fill my basket with pure flowers, and my heart with pure thoughts; can gladden my little home with their sweetness; can divide my treasures with one, a dear one, who cannot seek them; can see them when i shut my eyes and dream of them when i fall asleep. the copse. april th.--sad wintry weather; a northeast wind; a sun that puts out one's eyes, without affording the slightest warmth; dryness that chaps lips and hands like a frost in december; rain that comes chilly and arrowy like hail in january; nature at a dead pause; no seeds up in the garden; no leaves out in the hedgerows; no cowslips swinging their pretty bells in the fields; no nightingales in the dingles; no swallows skimming round the great pond; no cuckoos (that ever i should miss that rascally sonneteer!) in any part. nevertheless there is something of a charm in this wintry spring, this putting-back of the seasons. if the flower-clock must stand still for a month or two, could it choose a better time than that of the primroses and violets? i never remember (and for such gauds my memory, if not very good for aught of wise or useful, may be trusted) such an affluence of the one or such a duration of the other. primrosy is the epithet which this year will retain in my recollection. hedge, ditch, meadow, field, even the very paths and highways, are set with them; but their chief habitat is a certain copse, about a mile off, where they are spread like a carpet, and where i go to visit them rather oftener than quite comports with the dignity of a lady of mature age. i am going thither this very afternoon, and may and her company are going too. this mayflower of mine is a strange animal. instinct and imitation make in her an approach to reason which is sometimes almost startling. she mimics all that she sees us do, with the dexterity of a monkey, and far more of gravity and apparent purpose; cracks nuts and eats them; gathers currants and severs them from the stalk with the most delicate nicety; filches and munches apples and pears; is as dangerous in an orchard as a schoolboy; smells to flowers; smiles at meeting; answers in a pretty lively voice when spoken to (sad pity that the language should be unknown!) and has greatly the advantage of us in a conversation, inasmuch as our meaning is certainly clear to her;--all this and a thousand amusing prettinesses (to say nothing of her canine feat of bringing her game straight to her master's feet, and refusing to resign it to any hand but his), does my beautiful greyhound perform untaught, by the mere effect of imitation and sagacity. well, may, at the end of the coursing season, having lost brush, our old spaniel, her great friend, and the blue greyhound, mariette, her comrade and rival, both of which four-footed worthies were sent out to keep for the summer, began to find solitude a weary condition, and to look abroad for company. now it so happened that the same suspension of sport which had reduced our little establishment from three dogs to one, had also dispersed the splendid kennel of a celebrated courser in our neighbourhood, three of whose finest young dogs came home to 'their walk' (as the sporting phrase goes) at the collarmaker's in our village. may, accordingly, on the first morning of her solitude (she had never taken the slightest notice of her neighbours before, although they had sojourned in our street upwards of a fortnight), bethought herself of the timely resource offered to her by the vicinity of these canine beaux, and went up boldly and knocked at their stable door, which was already very commodiously on the half-latch. the three dogs came out with much alertness and gallantry, and may, declining apparently to enter their territories, brought them off to her own. this manoeuvre has been repeated every day, with one variation; of the three dogs, the first a brindle, the second a yellow, and the third a black, the two first only are now allowed to walk or consort with her, and the last, poor fellow, for no fault that i can discover except may's caprice, is driven away not only by the fair lady, but even by his old companions--is, so to say, sent to coventry. of her two permitted followers, the yellow gentleman, saladin by name, is decidedly the favourite. he is, indeed, may's shadow, and will walk with me whether i choose or not. it is quite impossible to get rid of him unless by discarding miss may also;--and to accomplish a walk in the country without her, would be like an adventure of don quixote without his faithful 'squire sancho. so forth we set, may and i, and saladin and the brindle; may and myself walking with the sedateness and decorum befitting our sex and age (she is five years old this grass, rising six)--the young things, for the soldan and the brindle are (not meaning any disrespect) little better than puppies, frisking and frolicking as best pleased them. our route lay for the first part along the sheltered quiet lanes which lead to our old habitation; a way never trodden by me without peculiar and homelike feelings, full of the recollections, the pains and pleasures, of other days. but we are not to talk sentiment now;--even may would not understand that maudlin language. we must get on. what a wintry hedgerow this is for the eighteenth of april! primrosy to be sure, abundantly spangled with those stars of the earth,--but so bare, so leafless, so cold! the wind whistles through the brown boughs as in winter. even the early elder shoots, which do make an approach to springiness, look brown, and the small leaves of the woodbine, which have also ventured to peep forth, are of a sad purple, frost-bitten, like a dairymaid's elbows on a snowy morning. the very birds, in this season of pairing and building, look chilly and uncomfortable, and their nests!--'oh, saladin! come away from the hedge! don't you see that what puzzles you and makes you leap up in the air is a redbreast's nest? don't you see the pretty speckled eggs? don't you hear the poor hen calling as it were for help? come here this moment, sir!' and by good luck saladin (who for a paynim has tolerable qualities) comes, before he has touched the nest, or before his playmate the brindle, the less manageable of the two, has espied it. now we go round the corner and cross the bridge, where the common, with its clear stream winding between clumps of elms, assumes so park-like an appearance. who is this approaching so slowly and majestically, this square bundle of petticoat and cloak, this road-waggon of a woman? it is, it must be mrs. sally mearing, the completest specimen within my knowledge of farmeresses (may i be allowed that innovation in language?) as they were. it can be nobody else. mrs. sally mearing, when i first became acquainted with her, occupied, together with her father (a superannuated man of ninety), a large farm very near our former habitation. it had been anciently a great manor-farm or court-house, and was still a stately, substantial building, whose lofty halls and spacious chambers gave an air of grandeur to the common offices to which they were applied. traces of gilding might yet be seen on the panels which covered the walls, and on the huge carved chimney-pieces which rose almost to the ceilings; and the marble tables and the inlaid oak staircase still spoke of the former grandeur of the court. mrs. sally corresponded well with the date of her mansion, although she troubled herself little with its dignity. she was thoroughly of the old school, and had a most comfortable contempt for the new: rose at four in winter and summer, breakfasted at six, dined at eleven in the forenoon, supped at five, and was regularly in bed before eight, except when the hay-time or the harvest imperiously required her to sit up till sunset, a necessity to which she submitted with no very good grace. to a deviation from these hours, and to the modern iniquities of white aprons, cotton stockings, and muslin handkerchiefs (mrs. sally herself always wore check, black worsted, and a sort of yellow compound which she was wont to call 'susy'), together with the invention of drill plough and thrashing-machines, and other agricultural novelties, she failed not to attribute all the mishaps or misdoings of the whole parish. the last-mentioned discovery especially aroused her indignation. oh to hear her descant on the merits of the flail, wielded by a stout right arm, such as she had known in her youth (for by her account there was as great a deterioration in bones and sinews as in the other implements of husbandry), was enough to make the very inventor break his machine. she would even take up her favourite instrument, and thrash the air herself by way of illustrating her argument, and, to say truth, few men in these degenerate days could have matched the stout, brawny, muscular limb which mrs. sally displayed at sixty-five. in spite of this contumacious rejection of agricultural improvements, the world went well with her at court farm. a good landlord, an easy rent, incessant labour, unremitting frugality, and excellent times, insured a regular though moderate profit; and she lived on, grumbling and prospering, flourishing and complaining, till two misfortunes befell her at once--her father died, and her lease expired. the loss of her father although a bedridden man, turned of ninety, who could not in the course of nature have been expected to live long, was a terrible shock to a daughter, who was not so much younger as to be without fears for her own life, and who had besides been so used to nursing the good old man, and looking to his little comforts, that she missed him as a mother would miss an ailing child. the expiration of the lease was a grievance and a puzzle of a different nature. her landlord would have willingly retained his excellent tenant, but not on the terms on which she then held the land, which had not varied for fifty years; so that poor mrs. sally had the misfortune to find rent rising and prices sinking both at the same moment--a terrible solecism in political economy. even this, however, i believe she would have endured, rather than have quitted the house where she was born, and to which all her ways and notions were adapted, had not a priggish steward, as much addicted to improvement and reform as she was to precedent and established usages, insisted on binding her by lease to spread a certain number of loads of chalk on every field. this tremendous innovation, for never had that novelty in manure whitened the crofts and pightles of court farm, decided her at once. she threw the proposals into the fire, and left the place in a week. her choice of a habitation occasioned some wonder, and much amusement in our village world. to be sure, upon the verge of seventy, an old maid may be permitted to dispense with the more rigid punctilio of her class, but mrs. sally had always been so tenacious on the score of character, so very a prude, so determined an avoider of the 'men folk' (as she was wont contemptuously to call them), that we all were conscious of something like astonishment, on finding that she and her little handmaid had taken up their abode in one end of a spacious farmhouse belonging to the bluff old bachelor, george robinson, of the lea. now farmer robinson was quite as notorious for his aversion to petticoated things, as mrs. sally for her hatred to the unfeathered bipeds who wear doublet and hose, so that there was a little astonishment in that quarter too, and plenty of jests, which the honest farmer speedily silenced, by telling all who joked on the subject that he had given his lodger fair warning, that, let people say what they would, he was quite determined not to marry her: so that if she had any views that way, it would be better for her to go elsewhere. this declaration, which must be admitted to have been more remarkable for frankness than civility, made, however, no ill impression on mrs. sally. to the farmer's she went, and at his house she lives still, with her little maid, her tabby cat, a decrepit sheep-dog, and much of the lumber of court farm, which she could not find in her heart to part from. there she follows her old ways and her old hours, untempted by matrimony, and unassailed (as far as i hear) by love or by scandal, with no other grievance than an occasional dearth of employment for herself and her young lass (even pewter dishes do not always want scouring), and now and then a twinge of the rheumatism. here she is, that good relique of the olden time--for, in spite of her whims and prejudices, a better and a kinder woman never lived--here she is, with the hood of her red cloak pulled over her close black bonnet, of that silk which once (it may be presumed) was fashionable, since it is still called mode, and her whole stout figure huddled up in a miscellaneous and most substantial covering of thick petticoats, gowns, aprons, shawls, and cloaks--a weight which it requires the strength of a thrasher to walk under--here she is, with her square honest visage, and her loud frank voice;--and we hold a pleasant disjointed chat of rheumatisms and early chickens, bad weather, and hats with feathers in them;--the last exceedingly sore subject being introduced by poor jane davis (a cousin of mrs. sally), who, passing us in a beaver bonnet, on her road from school, stopped to drop her little curtsy, and was soundly scolded for her civility. jane, who is a gentle, humble, smiling lass, about twelve years old, receives so many rebukes from her worthy relative, and bears them so meekly, that i should not wonder if they were to be followed by a legacy: i sincerely wish they may. well, at last we said good-bye; when, on inquiring my destination, and hearing that i was bent to the ten-acre copse (part of the farm which she ruled so long), she stopped me to tell a dismal story of two sheep-stealers who, sixty years ago, were found hidden in that copse, and only taken after great difficulty and resistance, and the maiming of a peace-officer.--'pray don't go there, miss! for mercy's sake don't be so venturesome! think if they should kill you!' were the last words of mrs. sally. many thanks for her care and kindness! but, without being at all foolhardy in general, i have no great fear of the sheep-stealers of sixty years ago. even if they escaped hanging for that exploit, i should greatly doubt their being in case to attempt another. so on we go: down the short shady lane, and out on the pretty retired green, shut in by fields and hedgerows, which we must cross to reach the copse. how lively this green nook is to-day, half covered with cows, and horses, and sheep! and how glad these frolicsome greyhounds are to exchange the hard gravel of the high road for this pleasant short turf, which seems made for their gambols! how beautifully they are at play, chasing each other round and round in lessening circles, darting off at all kinds of angles, crossing and recrossing may, and trying to win her sedateness into a game at romps, turning round on each other with gay defiance, pursuing the cows and the colts, leaping up as if to catch the crows in their flight;--all in their harmless and innocent--'ah, wretches! villains! rascals! four-footed mischiefs! canine plagues! saladin! brindle!'--they are after the sheep--'saladin, i say!'--they have actually singled out that pretty spotted lamb--'brutes, if i catch you! saladin! brindle!' we shall be taken up for sheep-stealing presently ourselves. they have chased the poor little lamb into a ditch, and are mounting guard over it, standing at bay.--'ah, wretches, i have you now! for shame, saladin! get away, brindle! see how good may is. off with you, brutes! for shame! for shame!' and brandishing a handkerchief, which could hardly be an efficient instrument of correction, i succeeded in driving away the two puppies, who after all meant nothing more than play, although it was somewhat rough, and rather too much in the style of the old fable of the boys and the frogs. may is gone after them, perhaps to scold them: for she has been as grave as a judge during the whole proceeding, keeping ostentatiously close to me, and taking no part whatever in the mischief. the poor little pretty lamb! here it lies on the bank quite motionless, frightened i believe to death, for certainly those villains never touched it. it does not stir. does it breathe? oh yes, it does! it is alive, safe enough. look, it opens its eyes, and, finding the coast clear and its enemies far away, it springs up in a moment and gallops to its dam, who has stood bleating the whole time at a most respectful distance. who would suspect a lamb of so much simple cunning? i really thought the pretty thing was dead--and now how glad the ewe is to recover her curling spotted little one! how fluttered they look! well! this adventure has flurried me too; between fright and running, i warrant you my heart beats as fast as the lamb's. ah! here is the shameless villain saladin, the cause of the commotion, thrusting his slender nose into my hand to beg pardon and make up! 'oh wickedest of soldans! most iniquitous pagan! soul of a turk!'--but there is no resisting the good-humoured creature's penitence. i must pat him. 'there! there! now we will go to the copse; i am sure we shall find no worse malefactors than ourselves--shall we, may?--and the sooner we get out of sight of the sheep the better; for brindle seems meditating another attack. allons, messieurs, over this gate, across this meadow, and here is the copse.' how boldly that superb ash-tree with its fine silver bark rises from the bank, and what a fine entrance it makes with the holly beside it, which also deserves to be called a tree! but here we are in the copse. ah! only one half of the underwood was cut last year, and the other is at its full growth: hazel, brier, woodbine, bramble, forming one impenetrable thicket, and almost uniting with the lower branches of the elms, and oaks, and beeches, which rise at regular distances overhead. no foot can penetrate that dense and thorny entanglement; but there is a walk all round by the side of the wide sloping bank, walk and bank and copse carpeted with primroses, whose fresh and balmy odour impregnates the very air. oh how exquisitely beautiful! and it is not the primroses only, those gems of flowers, but the natural mosaic of which they form a part; that network of ground-ivy, with its lilac blossoms and the subdued tint of its purplish leaves, those rich mosses, those enamelled wild hyacinths, those spotted arums, and above all those wreaths of ivy linking all those flowers together with chains of leaves more beautiful than blossoms, whose white veins seem swelling amidst the deep green or splendid brown;--it is the whole earth that is so beautiful! never surely were primroses so richly set, and never did primroses better deserve such a setting. there they are of their own lovely yellow, the hue to which they have given a name, the exact tint of the butterfly that overhangs them (the first i have seen this year! can spring really be coming at last?)--sprinkled here and there with tufts of a reddish purple, and others of the purest white, as some accident of soil affects that strange and inscrutable operation of nature, the colouring of flowers. oh how fragrant they are, and how pleasant it is to sit in this sheltered copse, listening to the fine creaking of the wind amongst the branches, the most unearthly of sounds, with this gay tapestry under our feet, and the wood-pigeons flitting from tree to tree, and mixing the deep note of love with the elemental music. yes! spring is coming. wood-pigeons, butterflies, and sweet flowers, all give token of the sweetest of the seasons. spring is coming. the hazel stalks are swelling and putting forth their pale tassels, the satin palms with their honeyed odours are out on the willow, and the last lingering winter berries are dropping from the hawthorn, and making way for the bright and blossomy leaves. the wood. april th.--spring is actually come now, with the fulness and almost the suddenness of a northern summer. to-day is completely april;--clouds and sunshine, wind and showers; blossoms on the trees, grass in the fields, swallows by the ponds, snakes in the hedgerows, nightingales in the thickets, and cuckoos everywhere. my young friend ellen g. is going with me this evening to gather wood-sorrel. she never saw that most elegant plant, and is so delicate an artist that the introduction will be a mutual benefit; ellen will gain a subject worthy of her pencil, and the pretty weed will live;--no small favour to a flower almost as transitory as the gum cistus: duration is the only charm which it wants, and that ellen will give it. the weather is, to be sure, a little threatening, but we are not people to mind the weather when we have an object in view; we shall certainly go in quest of the wood-sorrel, and will take may, provided we can escape may's followers; for since the adventure of the lamb, saladin has had an affair with a gander, furious in defence of his goslings, in which rencontre the gander came off conqueror; and as geese abound in the wood to which we are going (called by the country people the pinge), and the victory may not always incline to the right side, i should be very sorry to lead the soldan to fight his battles over again. we will take nobody but may. so saying, we proceeded on our way through winding lanes, between hedgerows tenderly green, till we reached the hatch-gate, with the white cottage beside it embosomed in fruit-trees, which forms the entrance to the pinge, and in a moment the whole scene was before our eyes. 'is not this beautiful, ellen?' the answer could hardly be other than a glowing rapid 'yes!'--a wood is generally a pretty place; but this wood--imagine a smaller forest, full of glades and sheep-walks, surrounded by irregular cottages with their blooming orchards, a clear stream winding about the brakes, and a road intersecting it, and giving life and light to the picture; and you will have a faint idea of the pinge. every step was opening a new point of view, a fresh combination of glade and path and thicket. the accessories too were changing every moment. ducks, geese, pigs, and children, giving way, as we advanced into the wood, to sheep and forest ponies; and they again disappearing as we became more entangled in its mazes, till we heard nothing but the song of the nightingale, and saw only the silent flowers. what a piece of fairy land! the tall elms overhead just bursting into tender vivid leaf, with here and there a hoary oak or a silver-barked beech, every twig swelling with the brown buds, and yet not quite stripped of the tawny foliage of autumn; tall hollies and hawthorn beneath, with their crisp brilliant leaves mixed with the white blossoms of the sloe, and woven together with garlands of woodbines and wild-briers;--what a fairy land! primroses, cowslips, pansies, and the regular open-eyed white blossom of the wood anemone (or, to use the more elegant hampshire name, the windflower), were set under our feet as thick as daisies in a meadow; but the pretty weed that we came to seek was coyer; and ellen began to fear that we had mistaken the place or the season.--at last she had herself the pleasure of finding it under a brake of holly--'oh, look! look! i am sure that this is the wood-sorrel! look at the pendent white flower, shaped like a snowdrop and veined with purple streaks, and the beautiful trefoil leaves folded like a heart,--some, the young ones, so vividly yet tenderly green that the foliage of the elm and the hawthorn would show dully at their side,--others of a deeper tint, and lined, as it were, with a rich and changeful purple!--don't you see them?' pursued my dear young friend, who is a delightful piece of life and sunshine, and was half inclined to scold me for the calmness with which, amused by her enthusiasm, i stood listening to her ardent exclamations--'don't you see them? oh how beautiful! and in what quantity! what profusion! see how the dark shade of the holly sets off the light and delicate colouring of the flower!--and see that other bed of them springing from the rich moss in the roots of that old beech-tree! pray, let us gather some. here are baskets.' so, quickly and carefully we began gathering, leaves, blossoms, roots and all, for the plant is so fragile that it will not brook separation;--quickly and carefully we gathered, encountering divers petty misfortunes in spite of all our care, now caught by the veil in a holly bush, now hitching our shawls in a bramble, still gathering on, in spite of scratched fingers, till we had nearly filled our baskets and began to talk of our departure:-- 'but where is may? may! may! no going home without her. may! here she comes galloping, the beauty!'--(ellen is almost as fond of may as i am.)--'what has she got in her mouth? that rough, round, brown substance which she touches so tenderly? what can it be? a bird's nest? naughty may!' 'no! as i live, a hedgehog! look, ellen, how it has coiled itself into a thorny ball! off with it, may! don't bring it to me!'--and may, somewhat reluctant to part with her prickly prize, however troublesome of carriage, whose change of shape seemed to me to have puzzled her sagacity more than any event i ever witnessed, for in general she has perfectly the air of understanding all that is going forward--may at last dropt the hedgehog; continuing, however, to pat it with her delicate cat-like paw, cautiously and daintily applied, and caught back suddenly and rapidly after every touch, as if her poor captive had been a red-hot coal. finding that these pats entirely failed in solving the riddle (for the hedgehog shammed dead, like the lamb the other day, and appeared entirely motionless), she gave him so spirited a nudge with her pretty black nose, that she not only turned him over, but sent him rolling some little way along the turfy path,--an operation which that sagacious quadruped endured with the most perfect passiveness, the most admirable non-resistance. no wonder that may's discernment was at fault, i myself, if i had not been aware of the trick, should have said that the ugly rough thing which she was trundling along, like a bowl or a cricket-ball, was an inanimate substance, something devoid of sensation and of will. at last my poor pet, thoroughly perplexed and tired out, fairly relinquished the contest, and came slowly away, turning back once or twice to look at the object of her curiosity, as if half inclined to return and try the event of another shove. the sudden flight of a wood-pigeon effectually diverted her attention; and ellen amused herself by fancying how the hedgehog was scuttling away, till our notice was also attracted by a very different object. we had nearly threaded the wood, and were approaching an open grove of magnificent oaks on the other side, when sounds other than of nightingales burst on our ear, the deep and frequent strokes of the woodman's axe, and emerging from the pinge we discovered the havoc which that axe had committed. above twenty of the finest trees lay stretched on the velvet turf. there they lay in every shape and form of devastation: some, bare trunks stripped ready for the timber carriage, with the bark built up in long piles at the side; some with the spoilers busy about them, stripping, hacking, hewing; others with their noble branches, their brown and fragrant shoots all fresh as if they were alive--majestic corses, the slain of to-day! the grove was like a field of battle. the young lads who were stripping the bark, the very children who were picking up the chips, seemed awed and silent, as if conscious that death was around them. the nightingales sang faintly and interruptedly--a few low frightened notes like a requiem. ah! here we are at the very scene of murder, the very tree that they are felling; they have just hewn round the trunk with those slaughtering axes, and are about to saw it asunder. after all, it is a fine and thrilling operation, as the work of death usually is. into how grand an attitude was that young man thrown as he gave the final strokes round the root; and how wonderful is the effect of that supple and apparently powerless saw, bending like a riband, and yet overmastering that giant of the woods, conquering and overthrowing that thing of life! now it has passed half through the trunk, and the woodman has begun to calculate which way the tree will fall; he drives a wedge to direct its course;--now a few more movements of the noiseless saw; and then a larger wedge. see how the branches tremble! hark how the trunk begins to crack! another stroke of the huge hammer on the wedge, and the tree quivers, as with a mortal agony, shakes, reels, and falls. how slow, and solemn, and awful it is! how like to death, to human death in its grandest form! caesar in the capitol, seneca in the bath, could not fall more sublimely than that oak. even the heavens seem to sympathise with the devastation. the clouds have gathered into one thick low canopy, dark and vapoury as the smoke which overhangs london; the setting sun is just gleaming underneath with a dim and bloody glare, and the crimson rays spreading upward with a lurid and portentous grandeur, a subdued and dusky glow, like the light reflected on the sky from some vast conflagration. the deep flush fades away, and the rain begins to descend; and we hurry homeward rapidly, yet sadly, forgetful alike of the flowers, the hedgehog, and the wetting, thinking and talking only of the fallen tree. the dell. may nd.--a delicious evening;--bright sunshine; light summer air; a sky almost cloudless; and a fresh yet delicate verdure on the hedges and in the fields;--an evening that seems made for a visit to my newly-discovered haunt, the mossy dell, one of the most beautiful spots in the neighbourhood, which after passing, times out of number, the field which it terminates, we found out about two months ago from the accident of may's killing a rabbit there. may has had a fancy for the place ever since; and so have i. thither accordingly we bend our way;--through the village;--up the hill;--along the common;--past the avenue;--across the bridge; and by the hill. how deserted the road is to-night! we have not seen a single acquaintance, except poor blind robert, laden with his sack of grass plucked from the hedges, and the little boy that leads him. a singular division of labour! little jem guides robert to the spots where the long grass grows, and tells him where it is most plentiful; and then the old man cuts it close to the roots, and between them they fill the sack, and sell the contents in the village. half the cows in the street--for our baker, our wheelwright, and our shoemaker has each his alderney--owe the best part of their maintenance to blind robert's industry. here we are at the entrance of the cornfield which leads to the dell, and which commands so fine a view of the loddon, the mill, the great farm, with its picturesque outbuildings, and the range of woody hills beyond. it is impossible not to pause a moment at that gate, the landscape, always beautiful, is so suited to the season and the hour,--so bright, and gay, and spring-like. but may, who has the chance of another rabbit in her pretty head, has galloped forward to the dingle, and poor may, who follows me so faithfully in all my wanderings, has a right to a little indulgence in hers. so to the dingle we go. at the end of the field, which when seen from the road seems terminated by a thick dark coppice, we come suddenly to the edge of a ravine, on one side fringed with a low growth of alder, birch, and willow, on the other mossy, turfy, and bare, or only broken by bright tufts of blossomed broom. one or two old pollards almost conceal the winding road that leads down the descent, by the side of which a spring as bright as crystal runs gurgling along. the dell itself is an irregular piece of broken ground, in some parts very deep, intersected by two or three high banks of equal irregularity, now abrupt and bare, and rocklike, now crowned with tufts of the feathery willow or magnificent old thorns. everywhere the earth is covered by short, fine turf, mixed with mosses, soft, beautiful, and various, and embossed with the speckled leaves and lilac flowers of the arum, the paler blossoms of the common orchis, the enamelled blue of the wild hyacinth, so splendid in this evening light, and large tufts of oxslips and cowslips rising like nosegays from the short turf. the ground on the other side of the dell is much lower than the field through which we came, so that it is mainly to the labyrinthine intricacy of these high banks that it owes its singular character of wildness and variety. now we seem hemmed in by those green cliffs, shut out from all the world, with nothing visible but those verdant mounds and the deep blue sky; now by some sudden turn we get a peep at an adjoining meadow, where the sheep are lying, dappling its sloping surface like the small clouds on the summer heaven. poor harmless, quiet creatures, how still they are! some socially lying side by side; some grouped in threes and fours; some quite apart. ah! there are lambs amongst them--pretty, pretty lambs--nestled in by their mothers. soft, quiet, sleepy things! not all so quiet, though! there is a party of these young lambs as wide awake as heart can desire; half a dozen of them playing together, frisking, dancing, leaping, butting, and crying in the young voice, which is so pretty a diminutive of the full-grown bleat. how beautiful they are with their innocent spotted faces, their mottled feet, their long curly tails, and their light flexible forms, frolicking like so many kittens, but with a gentleness, an assurance of sweetness and innocence, which no kitten, nothing that ever is to be a cat, can have. how complete and perfect is their enjoyment of existence! ah! little rogues! your play has been too noisy; you have awakened your mammas; and two or three of the old ewes are getting up; and one of them marching gravely to the troop of lambs has selected her own, given her a gentle butt, and trotted off; the poor rebuked lamb following meekly, but every now and then stopping and casting a longing look at its playmates; who, after a moment's awed pause, had resumed their gambols; whilst the stately dame every now and then looked back in her turn, to see that her little one was following. at last she lay down, and the lamb by her side. i never saw so pretty a pastoral scene in my life.* *i have seen one which affected me much more. walking in the church-lane with one of the young ladies of the vicarage, we met a large flock of sheep, with the usual retinue of shepherds and dogs. lingering after them and almost out of sight, we encountered a straggling ewe, now trotting along, now walking, and every now and then stopping to look back, and bleating. a little behind her came a lame lamb, bleating occasionally, as if in answer to its dam, and doing its very best to keep up with her. it was a lameness of both the fore-feet; the knees were bent, and it seemed to walk on the very edge of the hoof--on tip-toe, if i may venture such an expression. my young friend thought that the lameness proceeded from original malformation, i am rather of opinion that it was accidental, and that the poor creature was wretchedly foot-sore. however that might be, the pain and difficulty with which it took every step were not to be mistaken; and the distress and fondness of the mother, her perplexity as the flock passed gradually out of sight, the effort with which the poor lamb contrived to keep up a sort of trot, and their mutual calls and lamentations were really so affecting, that ellen and i, although not at all lachrymose sort of people, had much ado not to cry. we could not find a boy to carry the lamb, which was too big for us to manage;--but i was quite sure that the ewe would not desert it, and as the dark was coming on, we both trusted that the shepherds on folding their flock would miss them and return for them;--and so i am happy to say it proved. another turning of the dell gives a glimpse of the dark coppice by which it is backed, and from which we are separated by some marshy, rushy ground, where the springs have formed into a pool, and where the moor-hen loves to build her nest. ay, there is one scudding away now;--i can hear her plash into the water, and the rustling of her wings amongst the rushes. this is the deepest part of the wild dingle. how uneven the ground is! surely these excavations, now so thoroughly clothed with vegetation, must originally have been huge gravel pits; there is no other way of accounting for the labyrinth, for they do dig gravel in such capricious meanders; but the quantity seems incredible. well! there is no end of guessing! we are getting amongst the springs, and must turn back. round this corner, where on ledges like fairy terraces the orchises and arums grow, and we emerge suddenly on a new side of the dell, just fronting the small homestead of our good neighbour farmer allen. this rustic dwelling belongs to what used to be called in this part of the country 'a little bargain': thirty or forty acres, perhaps, of arable land, which the owner and his sons cultivated themselves, whilst the wife and daughters assisted in the husbandry, and eked out the slender earnings by the produce of the dairy, the poultry yard, and the orchard;--an order of cultivators now passing rapidly away, but in which much of the best part of the english character, its industry, its frugality, its sound sense, and its kindness might be found. farmer allen himself is an excellent specimen, the cheerful venerable old man with his long white hair, and his bright grey eye, and his wife is a still finer. they have had a hard struggle to win through the world and keep their little property undivided; but good management and good principles, and the assistance afforded them by an admirable son, who left our village a poor 'prentice boy, and is now a partner in a great house in london have enabled them to overcome all the difficulties of these trying times, and they are now enjoying the peaceful evenings of a well-spent life as free from care and anxiety as their best friends could desire. ah! there is mr. allen in the orchard, the beautiful orchard, with its glorious gardens of pink and white, its pearly pear-blossoms and coral apple-buds. what a flush of bloom it is! how brightly delicate it appears, thrown into strong relief by the dark house and the weather-stained barn, in this soft evening light! the very grass is strewed with the snowy petals of the pear and the cherry. and there sits mrs. allen, feeding her poultry, with her three little grand-daughters from london, pretty fairies from three years old to five (only two-and-twenty months elapsed between the birth of the eldest and the youngest) playing round her feet. mrs. allen, my dear mrs. allen, has been that rare thing a beauty, and although she be now an old woman i had almost said that she is so still. why should i not say so? nobleness of feature and sweetness of expression are surely as delightful in age as in youth. her face and figure are much like those which are stamped indelibly on the memory of every one who ever saw that grand specimen of woman--mrs. siddons. the outline of mrs. allen's face is exactly the same; but there is more softness, more gentleness, a more feminine composure in the eye and in the smile. mrs. allen never played lady macbeth. her hair, almost as black as at twenty, is parted on her large fair forehead, and combed under her exquisitely neat and snowy cap; a muslin neckerchief, a grey stuff gown and a white apron complete the picture. there she sits under an old elder-tree which flings its branches over her like a canopy, whilst the setting sun illumines her venerable figure and touches the leaves with an emerald light; there she sits, placid and smiling, with her spectacles in her hand and a measure of barley on her lap, into which the little girls are dipping their chubby hands and scattering the corn amongst the ducks and chickens with unspeakable glee. but those ingrates the poultry don't seem so pleased and thankful as they ought to be; they mistrust their young feeders. all domestic animals dislike children, partly from an instinctive fear of their tricks and their thoughtlessness; partly, i suspect, from jealousy. jealousy seems a strange tragic passion to attribute to the inmates of the basse cour,--but only look at that strutting fellow of a bantam cock (evidently a favourite), who sidles up to his old mistress with an air half affronted and half tender, turning so scornfully from the barley-corns which annie is flinging towards him, and say if he be not as jealous as othello? nothing can pacify him but mrs. allen's notice and a dole from her hand. see, she is calling to him and feeding him, and now how he swells out his feathers, and flutters his wings, and erects his glossy neck, and struts and crows and pecks, proudest and happiest of bantams, the pet and glory of the poultry yard! in the meantime my own pet may, who has all this while been peeping into every hole, and penetrating every nook and winding of the dell, in hopes to find another rabbit, has returned to my side, and is sliding her snake-like head into my hand, at once to invite the caress which she likes so well, and to intimate, with all due respect, that it is time to go home. the setting sun gives the same warning; and in a moment we are through the dell, the field, and the gate, past the farm and the mill, and hanging over the bridge that crosses the loddon river. what a sunset! how golden! how beautiful! the sun just disappearing, and the narrow liny clouds, which a few minutes ago lay like soft vapoury streaks along the horizon, lighted up with a golden splendour that the eye can scarcely endure, and those still softer clouds which floated above them wreathing and curling into a thousand fantastic forms, as thin and changeful as summer smoke, now defined and deepened into grandeur, and edged with ineffable, insufferable light! another minute and the brilliant orb totally disappears, and the sky above grows every moment more varied and more beautiful as the dazzling golden lines are mixed with glowing red and gorgeous purple, dappled with small dark specks, and mingled with such a blue as the egg of the hedge-sparrow. to look up at that glorious sky, and then to see that magnificent picture reflected in the clear and lovely loddon water, is a pleasure never to be described and never forgotten. my heart swells and my eyes fill as i write of it, and think of the immeasurable majesty of nature, and the unspeakable goodness of god, who has spread an enjoyment so pure, so peaceful, and so intense before the meanest and the lowliest of his creatures. the cowslip-ball. may th.--there are moments in life when, without any visible or immediate cause, the spirits sink and fail, as it were, under the mere pressure of existence: moments of unaccountable depression, when one is weary of one's very thoughts, haunted by images that will not depart--images many and various, but all painful; friends lost, or changed, or dead; hopes disappointed even in their accomplishment; fruitless regrets, powerless wishes, doubt and fear, and self-distrust, and self-disapprobation. they who have known these feelings (and who is there so happy as not to have known some of them?) will understand why alfieri became powerless, and froissart dull; and why even needle-work, the most effectual sedative, that grand soother and composer of woman's distress, fails to comfort me to-day. i will go out into the air this cool, pleasant afternoon, and try what that will do. i fancy that exercise or exertion of any kind, is the true specific for nervousness. 'fling but a stone, the giant dies.' i will go to the meadows, the beautiful meadows! and i will have my materials of happiness, lizzy and may, and a basket for flowers, and we will make a cowslip-ball. 'did you ever see a cowslip-ball, my lizzy?'--'no.'--'come away, then; make haste! run, lizzy!' and on we go, fast, fast! down the road, across the lea, past the workhouse, along by the great pond, till we slide into the deep narrow lane, whose hedges seem to meet over the water, and win our way to the little farmhouse at the end. 'through the farmyard, lizzy; over the gate; never mind the cows; they are quiet enough.'--'i don't mind 'em,' said miss lizzy, boldly and truly, and with a proud affronted air, displeased at being thought to mind anything, and showing by her attitude and manner some design of proving her courage by an attack on the largest of the herd, in the shape of a pull by the tail. 'i don't mind 'em.'--'i know you don't, lizzy; but let them alone, and don't chase the turkey-cock. come to me, my dear!' and, for a wonder, lizzy came. in the meantime, my other pet, mayflower, had also gotten into a scrape. she had driven about a huge unwieldy sow, till the animal's grunting had disturbed the repose of a still more enormous newfoundland dog, the guardian of the yard. out he sallied, growling, from the depth of his kennel, erecting his tail, and shaking his long chain. may's attention was instantly diverted from the sow to this new playmate, friend or foe, she cared not which; and he of the kennel, seeing his charge unhurt, and out of danger, was at leisure to observe the charms of his fair enemy, as she frolicked round him, always beyond the reach of his chain, yet always, with the natural instinctive coquetry of her sex, alluring him to the pursuit which she knew to be vain. i never saw a prettier flirtation. at last the noble animal, wearied out, retired to the inmost recesses of his habitation, and would not even approach her when she stood right before the entrance. 'you are properly served, may. come along, lizzy. across this wheatfield, and now over the gate. stop! let me lift you down. no jumping, no breaking of necks, lizzy!' and here we are in the meadows, and out of the world. robinson crusoe, in his lonely island, had scarcely a more complete, or a more beautiful solitude. these meadows consist of a double row of small enclosures of rich grass-land, a mile or two in length, sloping down from high arable grounds on either side, to a little nameless brook that winds between them with a course which, in its infinite variety, clearness, and rapidity, seems to emulate the bold rivers of the north, of whom, far more than of our lazy southern streams, our rivulet presents a miniature likeness. never was water more exquisitely tricksy:--now darting over the bright pebbles, sparkling and flashing in the light with a bubbling music, as sweet and wild as the song of the woodlark; now stretching quietly along, giving back the rich tufts of the golden marsh-marigolds which grow on its margin; now sweeping round a fine reach of green grass, rising steeply into a high mound, a mimic promontory, whilst the other side sinks softly away, like some tiny bay, and the water flows between, so clear, so wide, so shallow, that lizzy, longing for adventure, is sure she could cross unwetted; now dashing through two sand-banks, a torrent deep and narrow, which may clears at a bound; now sleeping, half hidden, beneath the alders, and hawthorns, and wild roses, with which the banks are so profusely and variously fringed, whilst flags,* lilies, and other aquatic plants, almost cover the surface of the stream. in good truth, it is a beautiful brook, and one that walton himself might have sitten by and loved, for trout are there; we see them as they dart up the stream, and hear and start at the sudden plunge when they spring to the surface for the summer flies. izaak walton would have loved our brook and our quiet meadows; they breathe the very spirit of his own peacefulness, a soothing quietude that sinks into the soul. there is no path through them, not one; we might wander a whole spring day, and not see a trace of human habitation. they belong to a number of small proprietors, who allow each other access through their respective grounds, from pure kindness and neighbourly feeling; a privilege never abused: and the fields on the other side of the water are reached by a rough plank, or a tree thrown across, or some such homely bridge. we ourselves possess one of the most beautiful; so that the strange pleasure of property, that instinct which makes lizzy delight in her broken doll, and may in the bare bone which she has pilfered from the kennel of her recreant admirer of newfoundland, is added to the other charms of this enchanting scenery; a strange pleasure it is, when one so poor as i can feel it! perhaps it is felt most by the poor, with the rich it may be less intense--too much diffused and spread out, becoming thin by expansion, like leaf-gold; the little of the poor may be not only more precious, but more pleasant to them: certain that bit of grassy and blossomy earth, with its green knolls and tufted bushes, its old pollards wreathed with ivy, and its bright and babbling waters, is very dear to me. but i must always have loved these meadows, so fresh, and cool, and delicious to the eye and to the tread, full of cowslips, and of all vernal flowers: shakspeare's 'song of spring' bursts irrepressibly from our lips as we step on them. *walking along these meadows one bright sunny afternoon, a year or two back, and rather later in the season, i had an opportunity of noticing a curious circumstance in natural history. standing close to the edge of the stream, i remarked a singular appearance on a large tuft of flags. it looked like bunches of flowers, the leaves of which seemed dark, yet transparent, intermingled with brilliant tubes of bright blue or shining green. on examining this phenomenon more closely, it turned out to be several clusters of dragon-flies, just emerged from their deformed chrysalis state, and still torpid and motionless from the wetness of their filmy wings. half an hour later we returned to the spot and they were gone. we had seen them at the very moment when beauty was complete and animation dormant. i have since found nearly a similar account of this curious process in mr. bingley's very entertaining work, called 'animal biography.' 'when daisies pied and violets blue and lady-smocks all silver-white and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight, the cuckoo then, on every tree--' 'cuckoo! cuckoo!' cried lizzy, breaking in with her clear childish voice; and immediately, as if at her call, the real bird, from a neighbouring tree (for these meadows are dotted with timber like a park), began to echo my lovely little girl, 'cuckoo! cuckoo!' i have a prejudice very unpastoral and unpoetical (but i cannot help it, i have many such) against this 'harbinger of spring.' his note is so monotonous, so melancholy; and then the boys mimic him; one hears 'cuckoo! cuckoo!' in dirty streets, amongst smoky houses, and the bird is hated for faults not his own. but prejudices of taste, likings and dislikings, are not always vanquishable by reason; so, to escape the serenade from the tree, which promised to be of considerable duration (when once that eternal song begins, on it goes ticking like a clock)--to escape that noise i determined to excite another, and challenged lizzy to a cowslip-gathering; a trial of skill and speed, to see which should soonest fill her basket. my stratagem succeeded completely. what scrambling, what shouting, what glee from lizzy! twenty cuckoos might have sung unheard whilst she was pulling her own flowers, and stealing mine, and laughing, screaming, and talking through all. at last the baskets were filled, and lizzy declared victor: and down we sat, on the brink of the stream, under a spreading hawthorn, just disclosing its own pearly buds, and surrounded with the rich and enamelled flowers of the wild hyacinth, blue and white, to make our cowslip-ball. every one knows the process: to nip off the tuft of flowerets just below the top of the stalk, and hang each cluster nicely balanced across a riband, till you have a long string like a garland; then to press them closely together, and tie them tightly up. we went on very prosperously, considering; as people say of a young lady's drawing, or a frenchman's english, or a woman's tragedy, or of the poor little dwarf who works without fingers, or the ingenious sailor who writes with his toes, or generally of any performance which is accomplished by means seemingly inadequate to its production. to be sure we met with a few accidents. first, lizzy spoiled nearly all her cowslips by snapping them off too short; so there was a fresh gathering; in the next place, may overset my full basket, and sent the blossoms floating, like so many fairy favours, down the brook; then, when we were going on pretty steadily, just as we had made a superb wreath, and were thinking of tying it together, lizzy, who held the riband, caught a glimpse of a gorgeous butterfly, all brown and red and purple, and, skipping off to pursue the new object, let go her hold; so all our treasures were abroad again. at last, however, by dint of taking a branch of alder as a substitute for lizzy, and hanging the basket in a pollard-ash, out of sight of may, the cowslip-ball was finished. what a concentration of fragrance and beauty it was! golden and sweet to satiety! rich to sight, and touch, and smell! lizzy was enchanted, and ran off with her prize, hiding amongst the trees in the very coyness of ecstasy, as if any human eye, even mine, would be a restraint on her innocent raptures. in the meanwhile i sat listening, not to my enemy the cuckoo, but to a whole concert of nightingales, scarcely interrupted by any meaner bird, answering and vying with each other in those short delicious strains which are to the ear as roses to the eye: those snatches of lovely sound which come across us as airs from heaven. pleasant thoughts, delightful associations, awoke as i listened; and almost unconsciously i repeated to myself the beautiful story of the lutist and the nightingale, from ford's 'lover's melancholy.' here it is. is there in english poetry anything finer? 'passing from italy to greece, the tales which poets of an elder time have feign'd to glorify their tempe, bred in me desire of visiting paradise. to thessaly i came, and living private, without acquaintance of more sweet companions than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, i day by day frequented silent groves and solitary walks. one morning early this accident encounter'd me: i heard the sweetest and most ravishing contention that art and nature ever were at strife in. a sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather indeed entranced my soul; as i stole nearer, invited by the melody, i saw this youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute with strains of strange variety and harmony proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge to the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, that as they flock'd about him, all stood silent, wondering at what they heard. i wonder'd too. a nightingale, nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes the challenge; and for every several strain the well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down. he could not run divisions with more art upon his quaking instrument than she, the nightingale, did with her various notes reply to. some time thus spent, the young man grew at last into a pretty anger, that a bird, whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes should vie with him for mastery, whose study had busied many hours to perfect practice. to end the controversy, in a rapture upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, so many voluntaries, and so quick, that there was curiosity and cunning, concord in discord, lines of differing method meeting in one full centre of delight. the bird (ordain'd to be music's first martyr) strove to imitate these several sounds; which when her warbling throat fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute, and brake her heart. it was the quaintest sadness to see the conqueror upon her hearse to weep a funeral elegy of tears. he look'd upon the trophies of his art, then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes; then sigh'd, and cry'd "alas! poor creature, i will soon revenge this cruelty upon the author of it. henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, shall never more betray a harmless peace to an untimely end:" and in that sorrow, as he was pashing it against a tree, i suddenly stept in.' when i had finished the recitation of this exquisite passage, the sky, which had been all the afternoon dull and heavy, began to look more and more threatening; darker clouds, like wreaths of black smoke, flew across the dead leaden tint; a cooler, damper air blew over the meadows, and a few large heavy drops splashed in the water. 'we shall have a storm. lizzy! may! where are ye? quick, quick, my lizzy! run, run! faster, faster!' and off we ran; lizzy not at all displeased at the thoughts of a wetting, to which indeed she is almost as familiar as a duck; may, on the other hand, peering up at the weather, and shaking her pretty ears with manifest dismay. of all animals, next to a cat, a greyhound dreads rain. she might have escaped it; her light feet would have borne her home long before the shower; but may is too faithful for that, too true a comrade, understands too well the laws of good-fellowship; so she waited for us. she did, to be sure, gallop on before, and then stop and look back, and beckon, as it were, with some scorn in her black eyes at the slowness of our progress. we in the meanwhile got on as fast as we could, encouraging and reproaching each other. 'faster, my lizzy! oh, what a bad runner!'--'faster, faster! oh, what a bad runner!' echoed my saucebox. 'you are so fat, lizzy, you make no way!'--'ah! who else is fat?' retorted the darling. certainly her mother is right; i do spoil that child. by this time we were thoroughly soaked, all three. it was a pelting shower, that drove through our thin summer clothing and poor may's short glossy coat in a moment. and then, when we were wet to the skin, the sun came out, actually the sun, as if to laugh at our plight; and then, more provoking still, when the sun was shining, and the shower over, came a maid and a boy to look after us, loaded with cloaks and umbrellas enough to fence us against a whole day's rain. never mind! on we go, faster and faster; lizzy obliged to be most ignobly carried, having had the misfortune to lose a shoe in the mud, which we left the boy to look after. here we are at home--dripping; but glowing and laughing, and bearing our calamity most manfully. may, a dog of excellent sense, went instantly to bed in the stable, and is at this moment over head and ears in straw; lizzy is gone to bed too, coaxed into that wise measure by a promise of tea and toast, and of not going home till to-morrow, and the story of little red riding hood; and i am enjoying the luxury of dry clothing by a good fire. really getting wet through now and then is no bad thing, finery apart; for one should not like spoiling a new pelisse, or a handsome plume; but when there is nothing in question but a white gown and a straw bonnet, as was the case to-day, it is rather pleasant than not. the little chill refreshes, and our enjoyment of the subsequent warmth and dryness is positive and absolute. besides, the stimulus and exertion do good to the mind as well as body. how melancholy i was all the morning! how cheerful i am now! nothing like a shower-bath--a real shower-bath, such as lizzy and may and i have undergone, to cure low spirits. try it, my dear readers, if ever ye be nervous--i will answer for its success. the old house at aberleigh. june th.--what a glowing glorious day! summer in its richest prime, noon in its most sparkling brightness, little white clouds dappling the deep blue sky, and the sun, now partially veiled, and now bursting through them with an intensity of light! it would not do to walk to-day, professedly to walk,--we should be frightened at the very sound! and yet it is probable that we may be beguiled into a pretty long stroll before we return home. we are going to drive to the old house at aberleigh, to spend the morning under the shade of those balmy firs, and amongst those luxuriant rose trees, and by the side of that brimming loddon river. 'do not expect us before six o'clock,' said i, as i left the house; 'six at soonest!' added my charming companion; and off we drove in our little pony chaise, drawn by our old mare, and with the good humoured urchin, henry's successor, a sort of younger scrub, who takes care of horse and chaise, and cow and garden, for our charioteer. my comrade in this homely equipage was a young lady of high family and higher endowments, to whom the novelty of the thing, and her own naturalness of character and simplicity of taste, gave an unspeakable enjoyment. she danced the little chaise up and down as she got into it, and laughed for very glee like a child, lizzy herself could not have been more delighted. she praised the horse and the driver, and the roads and the scenery, and gave herself fully up to the enchantment of a rural excursion in the sweetest weather of this sweet season. i enjoyed all this too; for the road was pleasant to every sense, winding through narrow lanes, under high elms, and between hedges garlanded with woodbine and rose trees, whilst the air was scented with the delicious fragrance of blossomed beans. i enjoyed it all,--but, i believe, my principal pleasure was derived from my companion herself. emily i. is a person whom it is a privilege to know. she is quite like a creation of the older poets, and might pass for one of shakspeare's or fletcher's women stepped into life; just as tender, as playful, as gentle, and as kind. she is clever too, and has all the knowledge and accomplishments that a carefully-conducted education, acting on a mind of singular clearness and ductility, matured and improved by the very best company, can bestow. but one never thinks of her acquirements. it is the charming artless character, the bewitching sweetness of manner, the real and universal sympathy, the quick taste and the ardent feeling, that one loves in emily. she is irish by birth, and has in perfection the melting voice and soft caressing accent by which her fair countrywomen are distinguished. moreover she is pretty--i think her beautiful, and so do all who have heard as well as seen her,--but pretty, very pretty, all the world must confess; and perhaps that is a distinction more enviable, because less envied, than the 'palmy state' of beauty. her prettiness is of the prettiest kind--that of which the chief character is youthfulness. a short but pleasing figure, all grace and symmetry, a fair blooming face, beaming with intelligence and good-humour; the prettiest little feet and the whitest hands in the world;--such is emily i. she resides with her maternal grandmother, a venerable old lady, slightly shaken with the palsy; and when together (and they are so fondly attached to each other that they are seldom parted), it is one of the loveliest combinations of youth and age ever witnessed. there is no seeing them without feeling an increase of respect and affection for both grandmother and granddaughter--always one of the tenderest and most beautiful of natural connections--as richardson knew when he made such exquisite use of it in his matchless book. i fancy that grandmamma shirley must have been just such another venerable lady as mrs. s., and our sweet emily--oh no! harriet byron is not half good enough for her! there is nothing like her in the whole seven volumes. but here we are at the bridge! here we must alight! 'this is the loddon, emily. is it not a beautiful river? rising level with its banks, so clear, and smooth, and peaceful, giving back the verdant landscape and the bright blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid stream the snowy water-lily, the purest of flowers, which sits enthroned on its own cool leaves, looking chastity itself, like the lady in comus. that queenly flower becomes the water, and so do the stately swans who are sailing so majestically down the stream, like those who "'on st. mary's lake float double, swan and shadow." we must dismount here, and leave richard to take care of our equipage under the shade of these trees, whilst we walk up to the house:--see, there it is! we must cross this stile; there is no other way now.' and crossing the stile we were immediately in what had been a drive round a spacious park, and still retained something of the character, though the park itself had long been broken into arable fields,--and in full view of the great house, a beautiful structure of james the first's time, whose glassless windows and dilapidated doors form a melancholy contrast with the strength and entireness of the rich and massive front. the story of that ruin--for such it is--is always to me singularly affecting. it is that of the decay of an ancient and distinguished family, gradually reduced from the highest wealth and station to actual poverty. the house and park, and a small estate around it, were entailed on a distant cousin, and could not be alienated; and the late owner, the last of his name and lineage, after long struggling with debt and difficulty, farming his own lands, and clinging to his magnificent home with a love of place almost as tenacious as that of the younger foscari, was at last forced to abandon it, retired to a paltry lodging in a paltry town, and died there about twenty years ago, broken-hearted. his successor, bound by no ties of association to the spot, and rightly judging the residence to be much too large for the diminished estate, immediately sold the superb fixtures, and would have entirely taken down the house, if, on making the attempt, the masonry had not been found so solid that the materials were not worth the labour. a great part, however, of one side is laid open, and the splendid chambers, with their carving and gilding, are exposed to the wind and rain--sad memorials of past grandeur! the grounds have been left in a merciful neglect; the park, indeed, is broken up, the lawn mown twice a year like a common hayfield, the grotto mouldering into ruin, and the fishponds choked with rushes and aquatic plants; but the shrubs and flowering trees are undestroyed, and have grown into a magnificence of size and wildness of beauty, such as we may imagine them to attain in their native forests. nothing can exceed their luxuriance, especially in the spring, when the lilac, and laburnum, and double-cherry put forth their gorgeous blossoms. there is a sweet sadness in the sight of such floweriness amidst such desolation; it seems the triumph of nature over the destructive power of man. the whole place, in that season more particularly, is full of a soft and soothing melancholy, reminding me, i scarcely know why, of some of the descriptions of natural scenery in the novels of charlotte smith, which i read when a girl, and which, perhaps, for that reason hang on my memory. but here we are, in the smooth grassy ride, on the top of a steep turfy slope descending to the river, crowned with enormous firs and limes of equal growth, looking across the winding waters into a sweet peaceful landscape of quiet meadows, shut in by distant woods. what a fragrance is in the air from the balmy fir trees and the blossomed limes! what an intensity of odour! and what a murmur of bees in the lime trees! what a coil those little winged people make over our heads! and what a pleasant sound it is! the pleasantest of busy sounds, that which comes associated with all that is good and beautiful--industry and forecast, and sunshine and flowers. surely these lime trees might store a hundred hives; the very odour is of a honeyed richness, cloying, satiating. emily exclaimed in admiration as we stood under the deep, strong, leafy shadow, and still more when honeysuckles trailed their untrimmed profusion in our path, and roses, really trees, almost intercepted our passage. 'on, emily! farther yet! force your way by that jessamine--it will yield; i will take care of this stubborn white rose bough.'--'take care of yourself! pray take care,' said my fairest friend; 'let me hold back the branches.'--after we had won our way through the strait, at some expense of veils and flounces, she stopped to contemplate and admire the tall, graceful shrub, whose long thorny stems, spreading in every direction, had opposed our progress, and now waved their delicate clusters over our heads. 'did i ever think,' exclaimed she, 'of standing under the shadow of a white rose tree! what an exquisite fragrance! and what a beautiful flower! so pale, and white, and tender, and the petals thin and smooth as silk! what rose is it?'--'don't you know? did you never see it before? it is rare now, i believe, and seems rarer than it is, because it only blossoms in very hot summers; but this, emily, is the musk rose,--that very musk rose of which titania talks, and which is worthy of shakspeare and of her. is it not?--no! do not smell to it; it is less sweet so than other roses; but one cluster in a vase, or even that bunch in your bosom, will perfume a large room, as it does the summer air.'--'oh! we will take twenty clusters,' said emily. 'i wish grandmamma were here! she talks so often of a musk rose tree that grew against one end of her father's house. i wish she were here to see this!' echoing her wish, and well laden with musk roses, planted perhaps in the days of shakspeare, we reached the steps that led to a square summer-house or banqueting-room, overhanging the river: the under part was a boat-house, whose projecting roof, as well as the walls and the very top of the little tower, was covered with ivy and woodbine, and surmounted by tufted barberries, bird cherries, acacias, covered with their snowy chains, and other pendent and flowering trees. beyond rose two poplars of unrivalled magnitude, towering like stately columns over the dark tall firs, and giving a sort of pillared and architectural grandeur to the scene. we were now close to the mansion; but it looked sad and desolate, and the entrance, choked with brambles and nettles, seemed almost to repel our steps. the summer-house, the beautiful summer-house, was free and open, and inviting, commanding from the unglazed windows, which hung high above the water, a reach of the river terminated by a rustic mill. there we sat, emptying our little basket of fruit and country cakes, till emily was seized with a desire of viewing, from the other side of the loddon, the scenery which had so much enchanted her. 'i must,' said she, 'take a sketch of the ivied boat-house, and of this sweet room, and this pleasant window;--grandmamma would never be able to walk from the road to see the place itself, but she must see its likeness.' so forth we sallied, not forgetting the dear musk roses. we had no way of reaching the desired spot but by retracing our steps a mile, during the heat of the hottest hour of the day, and then following the course of the river to an equal distance on the other side; nor had we any materials for sketching, except the rumpled paper which had contained our repast, and a pencil without a point which i happened to have about me. but these small difficulties are pleasures to gay and happy youth. regardless of such obstacles, the sweet emily bounded on like a fawn, and i followed delighting in her delight. the sun went in, and the walk was delicious; a reviving coolness seemed to breathe over the water, wafting the balmy scent of the firs and limes; we found a point of view presenting the boat-house, the water, the poplars, and the mill, in a most felicitous combination; the little straw fruit basket made a capital table; and refreshed and sharpened and pointed by our trusty lacquey's excellent knife (your country boy is never without a good knife, it is his prime treasure), the pencil did double duty;--first in the skilful hands of emily, whose faithful and spirited sketch does equal honour to the scene and to the artist, and then in the humbler office of attempting a faint transcript of my own impressions in the following sonnet:-- it was an hour of calmest noon, at day of ripest summer: o'er the deep blue sky white speckled clouds came sailing peacefully, half-shrouding in a chequer'd veil the ray of the sun, too ardent else,--what time we lay by the smooth loddon, opposite the high steep bank, which as a coronet gloriously wore its rich crest of firs and lime trees, gay with their pale tassels; while from out a bower of ivy (where those column'd poplars rear their heads) the ruin'd boat-house, like a tower, flung its deep shadow on the waters clear. my emily! forget not that calm hour, nor that fair scene, by thee made doubly dear! the hard summer. august th.--cold, cloudy, windy, wet. here we are, in the midst of the dog-days, clustering merrily round the warm hearth like so many crickets, instead of chirruping in the green fields like that other merry insect the grasshopper; shivering under the influence of the jupiter pluvius of england, the watery st. swithin; peering at that scarce personage the sun, when he happens to make his appearance, as intently as astronomers look after a comet, or the common people stare at a balloon; exclaiming against the cold weather, just as we used to exclaim against the warm. 'what a change from last year!' is the first sentence you hear, go where you may. everybody remarks it, and everybody complains of it; and yet in my mind it has its advantages, or at least its compensations, as everything in nature has, if we would only take the trouble to seek for them. last year, in spite of the love which we are now pleased to profess towards that ardent luminary, not one of the sun's numerous admirers had courage to look him in the face: there was no bearing the world till he had said 'good-night' to it. then we might stir: then we began to wake and to live. all day long we languished under his influence in a strange dreaminess, too hot to work, too hot to read, too hot to write, too hot even to talk; sitting hour after hour in a green arbour, embowered in leafiness, letting thought and fancy float as they would. those day-dreams were pretty things in their way; there is no denying that. but then, if one half of the world were to dream through a whole summer, like the sleeping beauty in the wood, what would become of the other? the only office requiring the slightest exertion, which i performed in that warm weather, was watering my flowers. common sympathy called for that labour. the poor things withered, and faded, and pined away; they almost, so to say, panted for draught. moreover, if i had not watered them myself, i suspect that no one else would; for water last year was nearly as precious hereabout as wine. our land-springs were dried up; our wells were exhausted; our deep ponds were dwindling into mud; and geese, and ducks, and pigs, and laundresses, used to look with a jealous and suspicious eye on the few and scanty half-buckets of that impure element, which my trusty lacquey was fain to filch for my poor geraniums and campanulas and tuberoses. we were forced to smuggle them in through my faithful adherent's territories, the stable, to avoid lectures within doors and at last even that resource failed; my garden, my blooming garden, the joy of my eyes, was forced to go waterless like its neighbours, and became shrivelled, scorched, and sunburnt, like them. it really went to my heart to look at it. on the other side of the house matters were still worse. what a dusty world it was, when about sunset we became cool enough to creep into it! flowers in the court looking fit for a 'hortus siccus;' mummies of plants, dried as in an oven; hollyhocks, once pink, turned into quakers; cloves smelling of dust. oh, dusty world! may herself looked of that complexion; so did lizzy; so did all the houses, windows, chickens, children, trees, and pigs in the village; so above all did the shoes. no foot could make three plunges into that abyss of pulverised gravel, which had the impudence to call itself a hard road, without being clothed with a coat a quarter of an inch thick. woe to white gowns! woe to black! drab was your only wear. then, when we were out of the street, what a toil it was to mount the hill, climbing with weary steps and slow upon the brown turf by the wayside, slippery, hot, and hard as a rock! and then if we happened to meet a carriage coming along the middle of the road,--the bottomless middle,--what a sandy whirlwind it was! what choking! what suffocation! no state could be more pitiable, except indeed that of the travellers who carried this misery about with them. i shall never forget the plight in which we met the coach one evening in last august, full an hour after its time, steeds and driver, carriage and passengers, all one dust. the outsides, and the horses, and the coachman, seemed reduced to a torpid quietness, the resignation of despair. they had left off trying to better their condition, and taken refuge in a wise and patient hopelessness, bent to endure in silence the extremity of ill. the six insides, on the contrary, were still fighting against their fate, vainly struggling to ameliorate their hapless destiny. they were visibly grumbling at the weather, scolding at the dust, and heating themselves like a furnace, by striving against the heat. how well i remember the fat gentleman without his coat, who was wiping his forehead, heaving up his wig, and certainly uttering that english ejaculation, which, to our national reproach, is the phrase of our language best known on the continent. and that poor boy, red-hot, all in a flame, whose mamma, having divested her own person of all superfluous apparel, was trying to relieve his sufferings by the removal of his neckerchief--an operation which he resisted with all his might. how perfectly i remember him, as well as the pale girl who sat opposite, fanning herself with her bonnet into an absolute fever! they vanished after a while into their own dust; but i have them all before my eyes at this moment, a companion picture to hogarth's 'afternoon,' a standing lesson to the grumblers at cold summers. for my part, i really like this wet season. it keeps us within, to be sure, rather more than is quite agreeable; but then we are at least awake and alive there, and the world out of doors is so much the pleasanter when we can get abroad. everything does well, except those fastidious bipeds, men and women; corn ripens, grass grows, fruit is plentiful; there is no lack of birds to eat it, and there has not been such a wasp-season these dozen years. my garden wants no watering, and is more beautiful than ever, beating my old rival in that primitive art, the pretty wife of the little mason, out and out. measured with mine, her flowers are naught. look at those hollyhocks, like pyramids of roses; those garlands of the convolvulus major of all colours, hanging around that tall pole, like the wreathy hop-bine; those magnificent dusky cloves, breathing of the spice islands; those flaunting double dahlias; those splendid scarlet geraniums, and those fierce and warlike flowers the tiger-lilies. oh, how beautiful they are! besides, the weather clears sometimes--it has cleared this evening; and here are we, after a merry walk up the hill, almost as quick as in the winter, bounding lightly along the bright green turf of the pleasant common, enticed by the gay shouts of a dozen clear young voices, to linger awhile, and see the boys play at cricket. i plead guilty to a strong partiality towards that unpopular class of beings, country boys: i have a large acquaintance amongst them, and i can almost say, that i know good of many and harm of none. in general they are an open, spirited, good-humoured race, with a proneness to embrace the pleasures and eschew the evils of their condition, a capacity for happiness, quite unmatched in man, or woman, or a girl. they are patient, too, and bear their fate as scape-goats (for all sins whatsoever are laid as matters of course to their door), whether at home or abroad, with amazing resignation and, considering the many lies of which they are the objects, they tell wonderfully few in return. the worst that can be said of them is, that they seldom, when grown to man's estate, keep the promise of their boyhood; but that is a fault to come--a fault that may not come, and ought not to be anticipated. it is astonishing how sensible they are to notice from their betters, or those whom they think such. i do not speak of money, or gifts, or praise, or the more coarse and common briberies--they are more delicate courtiers; a word, a nod, a smile, or the mere calling of them by their names, is enough to ensure their hearts and their services. half a dozen of them, poor urchins, have run away now to bring us chairs from their several homes. 'thank you, joe kirby!--you are always first--yes, that is just the place--i shall see everything there. have you been in yet, joe?'--'no, ma'am! i go in next.'--'ah, i am glad of that--and now's the time. really that was a pretty ball of jem eusden's!--i was sure it would go to the wicket. run, joe! they are waiting for you.' there was small need to bid joe kirby make haste; i think he is, next to a race-horse, or a greyhound, or a deer, the fastest creature that runs--the most completely alert and active. joe is mine especial friend, and leader of the 'tender juveniles,' as joel brent is of the adults. in both instances this post of honour was gained by merit, even more remarkably so in joe's case than in joel's; for joe is a less boy than many of his companions (some of whom are fifteeners and sixteeners, quite as tall and nearly as old as tom coper), and a poorer than all, as may be conjectured from the lamentable state of that patched round frock, and the ragged condition of those unpatched shoes, which would encumber, if anything could, the light feet that wear them. but why should i lament the poverty that never troubles him? joe is the merriest and happiest creature that ever lived twelve years in this wicked world. care cannot come near him. he hath a perpetual smile on his round ruddy face, and a laugh in his hazel eye, that drives the witch away. he works at yonder farm on the top of the hill, where he is in such repute for intelligence and good-humour, that he has the honour of performing all the errands of the house, of helping the maid, the mistress, and the master, in addition to his own stated office of carter's boy. there he works hard from five till seven, and then he comes here to work still harder, under the name of play--batting, bowling, and fielding, as if for life, filling the place of four boys; being, at a pinch, a whole eleven. the late mr. knyvett, the king's organist, who used in his own person to sing twenty parts at once of the hallelujah chorus, so that you would have thought he had a nest of nightingales in his throat, was but a type of joe kirby. there is a sort of ubiquity about him; he thinks nothing of being in two places at once, and for pitching a ball, william grey himself is nothing to him. it goes straight to the mark like a bullet. he is king of the cricketers from eight to sixteen, both inclusive, and an excellent ruler he makes. nevertheless, in the best-ordered states there will be grumblers, and we have an opposition here in the shape of jem eusden. jem eusden is a stunted lad of thirteen, or thereabout, lean, small, and short, yet strong and active. his face is of an extraordinary ugliness, colourless, withered, haggard, with a look of extreme age, much increased by hair so light that it might rather pass for white than flaxen. he is constantly arrayed in the blue cap and old-fashioned coat, the costume of an endowed school to which he belongs; where he sits still all day, and rushes into the field at night, fresh, untired, and ripe for action, to scold and brawl, and storm, and bluster. he hates joe kirby, whose immovable good-humour, broad smiles, and knowing nods, must certainly be very provoking to so fierce and turbulent a spirit; and he has himself (being, except by rare accident, no great player) the preposterous ambition of wishing to be manager of the sports. in short, he is a demagogue in embryo, with every quality necessary to a splendid success in that vocation,--a strong voice, a fluent utterance, an incessant iteration, and a frontless impudence. he is a great 'scholar' too, to use the country phrase; his 'piece,' as our village schoolmaster terms a fine sheet of flourishing writing, something between a valentine and a sampler, enclosed within a border of little coloured prints--his last, i remember, was encircled by an engraved history of moses, beginning at the finding in the bulrushes, with pharaoh's daughter dressed in a rose-coloured gown and blue feathers--his piece is not only the admiration of the school, but of the parish, and is sent triumphantly round from house to house at christmas, to extort halfpence and sixpences from all encouragers of learning--montem in miniature. the mosaic history was so successful, that the produce enabled jem to purchase a bat and ball, which, besides adding to his natural arrogance (for the little pedant actually began to mutter against being eclipsed by a dunce, and went so far as to challenge joe kirby to a trial in practice, or the rule of three), gave him, when compared with the general poverty, a most unnatural preponderance in the cricket state. he had the ways and means in his hands (for alas! the hard winter had made sad havoc among the bats, and the best ball was a bad one)--he had the ways and means, could withhold the supplies, and his party was beginning to wax strong, when joe received a present of two bats and a ball for the youngsters in general and himself in particular--and jem's adherents left him on the spot--they ratted, to a man, that very evening. notwithstanding this desertion, their forsaken leader has in nothing relaxed from his pretensions, or his ill-humour. he stills quarrels and brawls as if he had a faction to back him, and thinks nothing of contending with both sides, the ins and the outs, secure of out-talking the whole field. he has been squabbling these ten minutes, and is just marching off now with his own bat (he has never deigned to use one of joe's) in his hand. what an ill-conditioned hobgoblin it is! and yet there is something bold and sturdy about him too. i should miss jem eusden. ah, there is another deserter from the party! my friend the little hussar--i do not know his name, and call him after his cap and jacket. he is a very remarkable person, about the age of eight years, the youngest piece of gravity and dignity i ever encountered; short, and square, and upright, and slow, with a fine bronzed flat visage, resembling those convertible signs the broad-face and the saracen's-head, which, happening to be next-door neighbours in the town of b., i never knew apart, resembling, indeed, any face that is open-eyed and immovable, the very sign of a boy! he stalks about with his hands in his breeches pockets, like a piece of machinery; sits leisurely down when he ought to field, and never gets farther in batting than to stop the ball. his is the only voice never heard in the melee: i doubt, indeed, if he have one, which may be partly the reason of a circumstance that i record to his honour, his fidelity to jem eusden, to whom he has adhered through every change of fortune, with a tenacity proceeding perhaps from an instinctive consciousness that the loquacious leader talks enough for two. he is the only thing resembling a follower that our demagogue possesses, and is cherished by him accordingly. jem quarrels for him, scolds for him, pushes for him; and but for joe kirby's invincible good-humour, and a just discrimination of the innocent from the guilty, the activity of jem's friendship would get the poor hussar ten drubbings a day. but it is growing late. the sun has set a long time. only see what a gorgeous colouring has spread itself over those parting masses of clouds in the west,--what a train of rosy light! we shall have a fine sunshiny day to-morrow,--a blessing not to be undervalued, in spite of my late vituperation of heat. shall we go home now? and shall we take the longest but prettiest road, that by the green lanes? this way, to the left, round the corner of the common, past mr. welles's cottage, and our path lies straight before us. how snug and comfortable that cottage looks! its little yard all alive with the cow, and the mare, and the colt almost as large as the mare, and the young foal, and the great yard-dog, all so fat! fenced in with hay-rick, and wheat-rick, and bean-stack, and backed by the long garden, the spacious drying-ground, the fine orchard, and that large field quartered into four different crops. how comfortable this cottage looks, and how well the owners earn their comforts! they are the most prosperous pair in the parish--she a laundress with twenty times more work than she can do, unrivalled in flounces and shirt-frills, and such delicacies of the craft; he, partly a farmer, partly a farmer's man, tilling his own ground, and then tilling other people's;--affording a proof, even in this declining age, when the circumstances of so many worthy members of the community seem to have 'an alacrity in sinking,' that it is possible to amend them by sheer industry. he, who was born in the workhouse, and bred up as a parish boy, has now, by mere manual labour, risen to the rank of a land-owner, pays rates and taxes, grumbles at the times, and is called master welles,--the title next to mister--that by which shakspeare was called;--what would man have more? his wife, besides being the best laundress in the county, is a comely woman still. there she stands at the spring, dipping up water for to-morrow,--the clear, deep, silent spring, which sleeps so peacefully under its high flowery bank, red with the tall spiral stalks of the foxglove and their rich pendent bells, blue with the beautiful forget-me-not, that gem-like blossom, which looks like a living jewel of turquoise and topaz. it is almost too late to see its beauty; and here is the pleasant shady lane, where the high elms will shut out the little twilight that remains. ah, but we shall have the fairies' lamps to guide us, the stars of the earth, the glow-worms! here they are, three almost together. do you not see them? one seems tremulous, vibrating, as if on the extremity of a leaf of grass; the others are deeper in the hedge, in some green cell on which their light falls with an emerald lustre. i hope my friends the cricketers will not come this way home. i would not have the pretty creatures removed for more than i care to say, and in this matter i would hardly trust joe kirby--boys so love to stick them in their hats. but this lane is quite deserted. it is only a road from field to field. no one comes here at this hour. they are quite safe; and i shall walk here to-morrow and visit them again. and now, goodnight! beautiful insects, lamps of the fairies, good-night! the shaw. september th.--a bright sunshiny afternoon. what a comfort it is to get out again--to see once more that rarity of rarities, a fine day! we english people are accused of talking overmuch of the weather; but the weather, this summer, has forced people to talk of it. summer! did i say? oh! season most unworthy of that sweet, sunny name! season of coldness and cloudiness, of gloom and rain! a worse november!--for in november the days are short; and shut up in a warm room, lighted by that household sun, a lamp, one feels through the long evenings comfortably independent of the out-of-door tempests. but though we may have, and did have, fires all through the dog-days, there is no shutting out daylight; and sixteen hours of rain, pattering against the windows and dripping from the eaves--sixteen hours of rain, not merely audible, but visible for seven days in the week--would be enough to exhaust the patience of job or grizzel; especially if job were a farmer, and grizzel a country gentlewoman. never was known such a season! hay swimming, cattle drowning, fruit rotting, corn spoiling! and that naughty river, the loddon, who never can take puff's advice, and 'keep between its banks,' running about the country, fields, roads, gardens, and houses, like mad! the weather would be talked of. indeed, it was not easy to talk of anything else. a friend of mine having occasion to write me a letter, thought it worth abusing in rhyme, and bepommelled it through three pages of bath-guide verse; of which i subjoin a specimen:-- 'aquarius surely reigns over the world, and of late he his water-pot strangely has twirl'd; or he's taken a cullender up by mistake, and unceasingly dips it in some mighty lake; though it is not in lethe--for who can forget the annoyance of getting most thoroughly wet? it must be in the river called styx, i declare, for the moment it drizzles it makes the men swear. "it did rain to-morrow," is growing good grammar; vauxhall and camp-stools have been brought to the hammer; a pony-gondola is all i can keep, and i use my umbrella and pattens in sleep: row out of my window, whene'er 'tis my whim to visit a friend, and just ask, "can you swim?"' so far my friend. * in short, whether in prose or in verse, everybody railed at the weather. but this is over now. the sun has come to dry the world; mud is turned into dust; rivers have retreated to their proper limits; farmers have left off grumbling; and we are about to take a walk, as usual, as far as the shaw, a pretty wood about a mile off. but one of our companions being a stranger to the gentle reader, we must do him the honour of an introduction. *this friend of mine is a person of great quickness and talent, who, if she were not a beauty and a woman of fortune--that is to say, if she were prompted by either of those two powerful stimuli, want of money or want of admiration, to take due pains--would inevitably become a clever writer. as it is, her notes and 'jeux d'esprit' struck off 'a trait de plume,' have great point and neatness. take the following billet, which formed the label to a closed basket, containing the ponderous present alluded to, last michaelmas day:-- 'to miss m. "when this you see remember me," was long a phrase in use; and so i send to you, dear friend, my proxy, "what?"--a goose!' dogs, when they are sure of having their own way, have sometimes ways as odd as those of the unfurred, unfeathered animals, who walk on two legs, and talk, and are called rational. my beautiful white greyhound, mayflower,* for instance, is as whimsical as the finest lady in the land. amongst her other fancies, she has taken a violent affection for a most hideous stray dog, who made his appearance here about six months ago, and contrived to pick up a living in the village, one can hardly tell how. now appealing to the charity of old rachael strong, the laundress--a dog-lover by profession; now winning a meal from the lightfooted and open-hearted lasses at the rose; now standing on his hind-legs, to extort by sheer beggary a scanty morsel from some pair of 'drouthy cronies,' or solitary drover, discussing his dinner or supper on the alehouse-bench; now catching a mouthful, flung to him in pure contempt by some scornful gentleman of the shoulder-knot, mounted on his throne, the coach-box, whose notice he had attracted by dint of ugliness; now sharing the commons of master keep the shoemaker's pigs; now succeeding to the reversion of the well-gnawed bone of master brown the shopkeeper's fierce house-dog; now filching the skim-milk of dame wheeler's cat:--spit at by the cat; worried by the mastiff; chased by the pigs; screamed at by the dame; stormed at by the shoemaker; flogged by the shopkeeper; teased by all the children, and scouted by all the animals of the parish;--but yet living through his griefs, and bearing them patiently, 'for sufferance is the badge of all his tribe;'--and even seeming to find, in an occasional full meal, or a gleam of sunshine, or a wisp of dry straw on which to repose his sorry carcase, some comfort in his disconsolate condition. *dead, alas, since this was written. in this plight was he found by may, the most high-blooded and aristocratic of greyhounds; and from this plight did may rescue him;--invited him into her territory, the stable; resisted all attempts to turn him out; reinstated him there, in spite of maid and boy, and mistress and master; wore out everybody's opposition, by the activity of her protection, and the pertinacity of her self-will; made him sharer of her bed and of her mess; and, finally, established him as one of the family as firmly as herself. dash--for he has even won himself a name amongst us, before he was anonymous--dash is a sort of a kind of a spaniel; at least there is in his mongrel composition some sign of that beautiful race. besides his ugliness, which is of the worst sort--that is to say, the shabbiest--he has a limp on one leg that gives a peculiar one-sided awkwardness to his gait; but independently of his great merit in being may's pet, he has other merits which serve to account for that phenomenon--being, beyond all comparison, the most faithful, attached, and affectionate animal that i have ever known; and that is saying much. he seems to think it necessary to atone for his ugliness by extra good conduct, and does so dance on his lame leg, and so wag his scrubby tail, that it does any one who has a taste for happiness good to look at him--so that he may now be said to stand on his own footing. we are all rather ashamed of him when strangers come in the way, and think it necessary to explain that he is may's pet; but amongst ourselves, and those who are used to his appearance, he has reached the point of favouritism in his own person. i have, in common with wiser women, the feminine weakness of loving whatever loves me--and, therefore, i like dash. his master has found out that he is a capital finder, and in spite of his lameness will hunt a field or beat a cover with any spaniel in england--and, therefore, he likes dash. the boy has fought a battle, in defence of his beauty, with another boy, bigger than himself, and beat his opponent most handsomely--and, therefore, he likes dash; and the maids like him, or pretend to like him, because we do--as is the fashion of that pliant and imitative class. and now dash and may follow us everywhere, and are going with us to the shaw, as i said before--or rather to the cottage by the shaw, to bespeak milk and butter of our little dairy-woman, hannah bint--a housewifely occupation, to which we owe some of our pleasantest rambles. and now we pass the sunny, dusty village street--who would have thought, a month ago, that we should complain of sun and dust again!--and turn the corner where the two great oaks hang so beautifully over the clear deep pond, mixing their cool green shadows with the bright blue sky, and the white clouds that flit over it; and loiter at the wheeler's shop, always picturesque, with its tools, and its work, and its materials, all so various in form, and so harmonious in colour; and its noise, merry workmen, hammering and singing, and making a various harmony also. the shop is rather empty to-day, for its usual inmates are busy on the green beyond the pond--one set building a cart, another painting a waggon. and then we leave the village quite behind, and proceed slowly up the cool, quiet lane, between tall hedgerows of the darkest verdure, overshadowing banks green and fresh as an emerald. not so quick as i expected, though--for they are shooting here to-day, as dash and i have both discovered: he with great delight, for a gun to him is as a trumpet to a war-horse; i with no less annoyance, for i don't think that a partridge itself, barring the accident of being killed, can be more startled than i at that abominable explosion. dash has certainly better blood in his veins than any one would guess to look at him. he even shows some inclination to elope into the fields, in pursuit of those noisy iniquities. but he is an orderly person after all, and a word has checked him. ah! here is a shriller din mingling with the small artillery--a shriller and more continuous. we are not yet arrived within sight of master weston's cottage, snugly hidden behind a clump of elms; but we are in full hearing of dame weston's tongue, raised as usual to scolding pitch. the westons are new arrivals in our neighbourhood, and the first thing heard of them was a complaint from the wife to our magistrate of her husband's beating her: it was a regular charge of assault--an information in full form. a most piteous case did dame weston make of it, softening her voice for the nonce into a shrill tremulous whine, and exciting the mingled pity and anger--pity towards herself, anger towards her husband--of the whole female world, pitiful and indignant as the female world is wont to be on such occasions. every woman in the parish railed at master weston; and poor master weston was summoned to attend the bench on the ensuing saturday, and answer the charge; and such was the clamour abroad and at home, that the unlucky culprit, terrified at the sound of a warrant and a constable, ran away, and was not heard of for a fortnight. at the end of that time he was discovered, and brought to the bench; and dame weston again told her story, and, as before, on the full cry. she had no witnesses, and the bruises of which she made complaint had disappeared, and there were no women present to make common cause with the sex. still, however, the general feeling was against master weston; and it would have gone hard with him when he was called in, if a most unexpected witness had not risen up in his favour. his wife had brought in her arms a little girl about eighteen months old, partly perhaps to move compassion in her favour; for a woman with a child in her arms is always an object that excites kind feelings. the little girl had looked shy and frightened, and had been as quiet as a lamb during her mother's examination; but she no sooner saw her father, from whom she had been a fortnight separated, than she clapped her hands, and laughed, and cried, 'daddy! daddy!' and sprang into his arms, and hung round his neck, and covered him with kisses--again shouting, 'daddy, come home! daddy! daddy!'--and finally nestled her little head in his bosom, with a fulness of contentment, an assurance of tenderness and protection such as no wife-beating tyrant ever did inspire, or ever could inspire, since the days of king solomon. our magistrates acted in the very spirit of the jewish monarch: they accepted the evidence of nature, and dismissed the complaint. and subsequent events have fully justified their decision; mistress weston proving not only renowned for the feminine accomplishment of scolding (tongue-banging, it is called in our parts, a compound word which deserves to be greek), but is actually herself addicted to administering the conjugal discipline, the infliction of which she was pleased to impute to her luckless husband. now we cross the stile, and walk up the fields to the shaw. how beautifully green this pasture looks! and how finely the evening sun glances between the boles of that clump of trees, beech, and ash, and aspen! and how sweet the hedgerows are with woodbine and wild scabious, or, as the country people call it, the gipsy-rose! here is little dolly weston, the unconscious witness, with cheeks as red as a real rose, tottering up the path to meet her father. and here is the carroty-poled urchin, george coper, returning from work, and singing 'home! sweet home!' at the top of his voice; and then, when the notes prove too high for him, continuing the air in a whistle, until he has turned the impassable corner; then taking up again the song and the words, 'home! sweet home!' and looking as if he felt their full import, ploughboy though he be. and so he does; for he is one of a large, an honest, a kind, and an industrious family, where all goes well, and where the poor ploughboy is sure of finding cheerful faces and coarse comforts--all that he has learned to desire. oh, to be as cheaply and as thoroughly contented as george coper! all his luxuries a cricket-match!--all his wants satisfied in 'home! sweet home!' nothing but noises to-day! they are clearing farmer brooke's great bean-field, and crying the 'harvest home!' in a chorus, before which all other sounds--the song, the scolding, the gunnery--fade away, and become faint echoes. a pleasant noise is that! though, for one's ears' sake, one makes some haste to get away from it. and here, in happy time, is that pretty wood, the shaw, with its broad pathway, its tangled dingles, its nuts and its honeysuckles;--and, carrying away a faggot of those sweetest flowers, we reach hannah bint's: of whom, and of whose doings, we shall say more another time. note.--poor dash is also dead. we did not keep him long, indeed i believe that he died of the transition from starvation to good feed, as dangerous to a dog's stomach, and to most stomachs, as the less agreeable change from good feed to starvation. he has been succeeded in place and favour by another dash, not less amiable in demeanour and far more creditable in appearance, bearing no small resemblance to the pet spaniel of my friend master dinely, he who stole the bone from the magpies, and who figures as the first dash of this volume. let not the unwary reader opine, that in assigning the same name to three several individuals, i am acting as an humble imitator of the inimitable writer who has given immortality to the peppers and the mustards, on the one hand; or showing a poverty of invention or a want of acquaintance with the bead-roll of canine appellations on the other. i merely, with my usual scrupulous fidelity, take the names as i find them. the fact is that half the handsome spaniels in england are called dash, just as half the tall footmen are called thomas. the name belongs to the species. sitting in an open carriage one day last summer at the door of a farmhouse where my father had some business, i saw a noble and beautiful animal of this kind lying in great state and laziness on the steps, and felt an immediate desire to make acquaintance with him. my father, who had had the same fancy, had patted him and called him 'poor fellow' in passing, without eliciting the smallest notice in return. 'dash!' cried i at a venture, 'good dash! noble dash!' and up he started in a moment, making but one spring from the door into the gig. of course i was right in my guess. the gentleman's name was dash. nutting. september th.--one of those delicious autumnal days, when the air, the sky, and the earth seem lulled into a universal calm, softer and milder even than may. we sallied forth for a walk, in a mood congenial to the weather and the season, avoiding, by mutual consent, the bright and sunny common, and the gay highroad, and stealing through shady, unfrequented lanes, where we were not likely to meet any one,--not even the pretty family procession which in other years we used to contemplate with so much interest--the father, mother, and children, returning from the wheat-field, the little ones laden with bristling close-tied bunches of wheat-ears, their own gleanings, or a bottle and a basket which had contained their frugal dinner, whilst the mother would carry her babe hushing and lulling it, and the father and an elder child trudged after with the cradle, all seeming weary and all happy. we shall not see such a procession as this to-day; for the harvest is nearly over, the fields are deserted, the silence may almost be felt. except the wintry notes of the redbreast, nature herself is mute. but how beautiful, how gentle, how harmonious, how rich! the rain has preserved to the herbage all the freshness and verdure of spring, and the world of leaves has lost nothing of its midsummer brightness, and the harebell is on the banks, and the woodbine in the hedges, and the low furze, which the lambs cropped in the spring, has burst again into its golden blossoms. all is beautiful that the eye can see; perhaps the more beautiful for being shut in with a forest-like closeness. we have no prospect in this labyrinth of lanes, cross-roads, mere cart-ways, leading to the innumerable little farms into which this part of the parish is divided. up-hill or down, these quiet woody lanes scarcely give us a peep at the world, except when, leaning over a gate, we look into one of the small enclosures, hemmed in with hedgerows, so closely set with growing timber, that the meady opening looks almost like a glade in a wood; or when some cottage, planted at a corner of one of the little greens formed by the meeting of these cross-ways, almost startles us by the unexpected sight of the dwellings of men in such a solitude. but that we have more of hill and dale, and that our cross-roads are excellent in their kind, this side of our parish would resemble the description given of la vendee, in madame laroche-jacquelin's most interesting book.* i am sure if wood can entitle a country to be called le bocage, none can have a better right to the name. even this pretty snug farmhouse on the hillside, with its front covered with the rich vine, which goes wreathing up to the very top of the clustered chimney, and its sloping orchard full of fruit--even this pretty quiet nest can hardly peep out of its leaves. ah! they are gathering in the orchard harvest. look at that young rogue in the old mossy apple-tree--that great tree, bending with the weight of its golden-rennets--see how he pelts his little sister beneath with apples as red and as round as her own cheeks, while she, with her outstretched frock, is trying to catch them, and laughing and offering to pelt again as often as one bobs against her; and look at that still younger imp, who, as grave as a judge, is creeping on hands and knees under the tree, picking up the apples as they fall so deedily,** and depositing them so honestly in the great basket on the grass, already fixed so firmly and opened so widely, and filled almost to overflowing by the brown rough fruitage of the golden-rennet's next neighbour the russeting; and see that smallest urchin of all, seated apart in infantine state on the turfy bank, with that toothsome piece of deformity a crumpling in each hand, now biting from one sweet, hard, juicy morsel and now from another--is not that a pretty english picture? and then, farther up the orchard, that bold hardy lad, the eldest born, who has scaled (heaven knows how) the tall, straight upper branch of that great pear-tree, and is sitting there as securely and as fearlessly, in as much real safety and apparent danger, as a sailor on the top-mast. now he shakes the tree with a mighty swing that brings down a pelting shower of stony bergamots, which the father gathers rapidly up, whilst the mother can hardly assist for her motherly fear--a fear which only spurs the spirited boy to bolder ventures. is not that a pretty picture? and they are such a handsome family too, the brookers. i do not know that there is any gipsy blood, but there is the true gipsy complexion, richly brown, with cheeks and lips so red, black hair curling close to their heads in short crisp rings, white shining teeth--and such eyes!--that sort of beauty entirely eclipses your mere roses and lilies. even lizzy, the prettiest of fair children, would look poor and watery by the side of willy brooker, the sober little personage who is picking up the apples with his small chubby hands, and filling the basket so orderly, next to his father the most useful man in the field. 'willy!' he hears without seeing; for we are quite hidden by the high bank, and a spreading hawthorn bush that overtops it, though between the lower branches and the grass we have found a convenient peep-hole. 'willy!' the voice sounds to him like some fairy dream, and the black eyes are raised from the ground with sudden wonder, the long silky eyelashes thrown back till they rest on the delicate brow, and a deeper blush is burning on those dark cheeks, and a smile is dimpling about those scarlet lips. but the voice is silent now, and the little quiet boy, after a moment's pause, is gone coolly to work again. he is indeed a most lovely child. i think some day or other he must marry lizzy; i shall propose the match to their respective mammas. at present the parties are rather too young for a wedding--the intended bridegroom being, as i should judge, six, or thereabout, and the fair bride barely five,--but at least we might have a betrothment after the royal fashion,--there could be no harm in that. miss lizzy, i have no doubt, would be as demure and coquettish as if ten winters more had gone over her head, and poor willy would open his innocent black eyes, and wonder what was going forward. they would be the very oberon and titania of the village, the fairy king and queen. *an almost equally interesting account of that very peculiar and interesting scenery, may be found in the maid of la vendee, an english novel, remarkable for its simplicity and truth of painting, written by mrs. le noir, the daughter of christopher smart, an inheritrix of much of his talent. her works deserve to be better known. **'deedily,'--i am not quite sure that this word is good english; but it is genuine hampshire, and is used by the most correct of female writers, miss austen. it means (and it is no small merit that it has no exact synonym) anything done with a profound and plodding attention, an action which engrosses all the powers of mind and body. ah! here is the hedge along which the periwinkle wreathes and twines so profusely, with its evergreen leaves shining like the myrtle, and its starry blue flowers. it is seldom found wild in this part of england; but, when we do meet with it, it is so abundant and so welcome,--the very robin-redbreast of flowers, a winter friend. unless in those unfrequent frosts which destroy all vegetation, it blossoms from september to june, surviving the last lingering crane's-bill, forerunning the earliest primrose, hardier even than the mountain daisy,--peeping out from beneath the snow, looking at itself in the ice, smiling through the tempests of life, and yet welcoming and enjoying the sunbeams. oh, to be like that flower! the little spring that has been bubbling under the hedge all along the hillside, begins, now that we have mounted the eminence and are imperceptibly descending, to deviate into a capricious variety of clear deep pools and channels, so narrow and so choked with weeds, that a child might overstep them. the hedge has also changed its character. it is no longer the close compact vegetable wall of hawthorn, and maple, and brier-roses, intertwined with bramble and woodbine, and crowned with large elms or thickly-set saplings. no! the pretty meadow which rises high above us, backed and almost surrounded by a tall coppice, needs no defence on our side but its own steep bank, garnished with tufts of broom, with pollard oaks wreathed with ivy, and here and there with long patches of hazel overhanging the water. 'ah, there are still nuts on that bough!' and in an instant my dear companion, active and eager and delighted as a boy, has hooked down with his walking-stick one of the lissome hazel stalks, and cleared it of its tawny clusters, and in another moment he has mounted the bank, and is in the midst of the nuttery, now transferring the spoil from the lower branches into that vast variety of pockets which gentlemen carry about them, now bending the tall tops into the lane, holding them down by main force, so that i might reach them and enjoy the pleasure of collecting some of the plunder myself. a very great pleasure he knew it would be. i doffed my shawl, tucked up my flounces, turned my straw bonnet into a basket, and began gathering and scrambling--for, manage it how you may, nutting is scrambling work,--those boughs, however tightly you may grasp them by the young fragrant twigs and the bright green leaves, will recoil and burst away; but there is a pleasure even in that: so on we go, scrambling and gathering with all our might and all our glee. oh, what an enjoyment! all my life long i have had a passion for that sort of seeking which implies finding (the secret, i believe, of the love of field-sports, which is in man's mind a natural impulse)--therefore i love violeting,--therefore, when we had a fine garden, i used to love to gather strawberries, and cut asparagus, and above all, to collect the filberts from the shrubberies: but this hedgerow nutting beats that sport all to nothing. that was a make-believe thing, compared with this; there was no surprise, no suspense, no unexpectedness--it was as inferior to this wild nutting, as the turning out of a bag-fox is to unearthing the fellow, in the eyes of a staunch foxhunter. oh, what enjoyment this nut-gathering is! they are in such abundance, that it seems as if there were not a boy in the parish, nor a young man, nor a young woman,--for a basket of nuts is the universal tribute of country gallantry; our pretty damsel harriet has had at least half a dozen this season; but no one has found out these. and they are so full too, we lose half of them from over-ripeness; they drop from the socket at the slightest motion. if we lose, there is one who finds. may is as fond of nuts as a squirrel, and cracks the shell and extracts the kernel with equal dexterity. her white glossy head is upturned now to watch them as they fall. see how her neck is thrown back like that of a swan, and how beautifully her folded ears quiver with expectation, and how her quick eye follows the rustling noise, and her light feet dance and pat the ground, and leap up with eagerness, seeming almost sustained in the air, just as i have seen her when brush is beating a hedgerow, and she knows from his questing that there is a hare afoot. see, she has caught that nut just before it touched the water; but the water would have been no defence,--she fishes them from the bottom, she delves after them amongst the matted grass--even my bonnet--how beggingly she looks at that! 'oh, what a pleasure nutting is!--is it not, may? but the pockets are almost full, and so is the basket-bonnet, and that bright watch the sun says it is late; and after all it is wrong to rob the poor boys--is it not, may?'--may shakes her graceful head denyingly, as if she understood the question--'and we must go home now--must we not? but we will come nutting again some time or other--shall we not, my may?' the visit. october th.--a lovely autumnal day; the air soft, balmy, genial; the sky of that softened and delicate blue upon which the eye loves to rest,--the blue which gives such relief to the rich beauty of the earth, all around glowing in the ripe and mellow tints of the most gorgeous of the seasons. really such an autumn may well compensate our english climate for the fine spring of the south, that spring of which the poets talk, but which we so seldom enjoy. such an autumn glows upon us like a splendid evening; it is the very sunset of the year; and i have been tempted forth into a wider range of enjoyment than usual. this walk (if i may use the irish figure of speech called a bull) will be a ride. a very dear friend has beguiled me into accompanying her in her pretty equipage to her beautiful home, four miles off; and having sent forward in the style of a running footman the servant who had driven her, she assumes the reins, and off we set. my fair companion is a person whom nature and fortune would have spoiled if they could. she is one of those striking women whom a stranger cannot pass without turning to look again; tall and finely proportioned, with a bold roman contour of figure and feature, a delicate english complexion, and an air of distinction altogether her own. her beauty is duchess-like. she seems born to wear feathers and diamonds, and to form the grace and ornament of a court; and the noble frankness and simplicity of her countenance and manner confirm the impression. destiny has, however, dealt more kindly by her. she is the wife of a rich country gentleman of high descent and higher attainments, to whom she is most devotedly attached,--the mother of a little girl as lovely as herself, and the delight of all who have the happiness of her acquaintance, to whom she is endeared not merely by her remarkable sweetness of temper and kindness of heart, but by the singular ingenuousness and openness of character which communicate an indescribable charm to her conversation. she is as transparent as water. you may see every colour, every shade of a mind as lofty and beautiful as her person. talking with her is like being in the palace of truth described by madame de genlis; and yet so kindly are her feelings, so great her indulgence to the little failings and foibles of our common nature, so intense her sympathy with the wants, the wishes, the sorrows, and the happiness of her fellow-creatures, that, with all her frank-speaking, i never knew her make an enemy or lose a friend. but we must get on. what would she say if she knew i was putting her into print? we must get on up the hill. ah! that is precisely what we are not likely to do! this horse, this beautiful and high-bred horse, well-fed, and fat and glossy, who stood prancing at our gate like an arabian, has suddenly turned sulky. he does not indeed stand quite still, but his way of moving is little better--the slowest and most sullen of all walks. even they who ply the hearse at funerals, sad-looking beasts who totter under black feathers, go faster. it is of no use to admonish him by whip, or rein, or word. the rogue has found out that it is a weak and tender hand that guides him now. oh, for one pull, one stroke of his old driver, the groom! how he would fly! but there is the groom half a mile before us, out of earshot, clearing the ground at a capital rate, beating us hollow. he has just turned the top of the hill;--and in a moment--ay, now he is out of sight, and will undoubtedly so continue till he meets us at the lawn gate. well! there is no great harm. it is only prolonging the pleasure of enjoying together this charming scenery in this fine weather. if once we make up our minds not to care how slowly our steed goes, not to fret ourselves by vain exertions, it is no matter what his pace may be. there is little doubt of his getting home by sunset, and that will content us. he is, after all, a fine noble animal; and perhaps when he finds that we are determined to give him his way, he may relent and give us ours. all his sex are sticklers for dominion, though, when it is undisputed, some of them are generous enough to abandon it. two or three of the most discreet wives of my acquaintance contrive to manage their husbands sufficiently with no better secret than this seeming submission; and in our case the example has the more weight since we have no possible way of helping ourselves. thus philosophising, we reached the top of the hill, and viewed with 'reverted eyes' the beautiful prospect that lay bathed in golden sunshine behind us. cowper says, with that boldness of expressing in poetry the commonest and simplest feelings, which is perhaps one great secret of his originality, 'scenes must be beautiful, which, daily seen, please daily, and whose novelty survives long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.' every day i walk up this hill--every day i pause at the top to admire the broad winding road with the green waste on each side, uniting it with the thickly timbered hedgerows; the two pretty cottages at unequal distances, placed so as to mark the bends; the village beyond, with its mass of roofs and clustered chimneys peeping through the trees; and the rich distance, where cottages, mansions, churches, towns, seem embowered in some wide forest, and shut in by blue shadowy hills. every day i admire this most beautiful landscape; yet never did it seem to me so fine or so glowing as now. all the tints of the glorious autumn, orange, tawny, yellow, red, are poured in profusion among the bright greens of the meadows and turnip fields, till the eyes are satiated with colour; and then before us we have the common with its picturesque roughness of surface tufted with cottages, dappled with water, edging off on one side into fields and farms and orchards, and terminated on the other by the princely oak avenue. what a richness and variety the wild broken ground gives to the luxuriant cultivation of the rest of the landscape! cowper has described it for me. how perpetually, as we walk in the country, his vivid pictures recur to the memory! here is his common and mine! 'the common overgrown with fern, and rough with prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd and dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, and decks itself with ornaments of gold;-- --------------- there the turf smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs and fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense with luxury of unexpected sweets.' the description is exact. there, too, to the left is my cricket-ground (cowper's common wanted that finishing grace); and there stands one solitary urchin, as if in contemplation of its past and future glories; for, alas! cricket is over for the season. ah! it is ben kirby, next brother to joe, king of the youngsters, and probably his successor--for this michaelmas has cost us joe! he is promoted from the farm to the mansion-house, two miles off; there he cleans shoes, rubs knives, and runs on errands, and is, as his mother expresses it, 'a sort of 'prentice to the footman.' i should not wonder if joe, some day or other, should overtop the footman, and rise to be butler; and his splendid prospects must be our consolation for the loss of this great favourite. in the meantime we have ben. ben kirby is a year younger than joe, and the school-fellow and rival of jem eusden. to be sure his abilities lie in rather a different line: jem is a scholar, ben is a wag: jem is great in figures and writing, ben in faces and mischief. his master says of him, that, if there were two such in the school, he must resign his office; and as far as my observation goes, the worthy pedagogue is right. ben is, it must be confessed, a great corrupter of gravity. he hath an exceeding aversion to authority and decorum, and a wonderful boldness and dexterity in overthrowing the one and puzzling the other. his contortions of visage are astounding. his 'power over his own muscles and those of other people' is almost equal to that of liston; and indeed the original face, flat and square and chinese in its shape, of a fine tan complexion, with a snub nose, and a slit for a mouth, is nearly as comical as that matchless performer's. when aided by ben's singular mobility of feature, his knowing winks and grins and shrugs and nods, together with a certain dry shrewdness, a habit of saying sharp things, and a marvellous gift of impudence, it forms as fine a specimen as possible of a humorous country boy, an oddity in embryo. everybody likes ben, except his butts (which may perhaps comprise half his acquaintance); and of them no one so thoroughly hates and dreads him as our parish schoolmaster, a most worthy king log, whom ben dumbfounds twenty times a day. he is a great ornament of the cricket-ground, has a real genius for the game, and displays it after a very original manner, under the disguise of awkwardness--as the clown shows off his agility in a pantomime. nothing comes amiss to him. by the bye, he would have been the very lad for us in our present dilemma; not a horse in england could master ben kirby. but we are too far from him now--and perhaps it is as well that we are so. i believe the rogue has a kindness for me, in remembrance of certain apples and nuts, which my usual companion, who delights in his wit, is accustomed to dole out to him. but it is a robin goodfellow nevertheless, a perfect puck, that loves nothing on earth so well as mischief. perhaps the horse may be the safer conductor of the two. the avenue is quite alive to-day. old women are picking up twigs and acorns, and pigs of all sizes doing their utmost to spare them the latter part of the trouble; boys and girls groping for beech-nuts under yonder clump; and a group of younger elves collecting as many dead leaves as they can find to feed the bonfire which is smoking away so briskly amongst the trees,--a sort of rehearsal of the grand bonfire nine days hence; of the loyal conflagration of the arch-traitor guy vaux, which is annually solemnised in the avenue, accompanied with as much of squibbery and crackery as our boys can beg or borrow--not to say steal. ben kirby is a great man on the th of november. all the savings of a month, the hoarded halfpence, the new farthings, the very luck-penny, go off in fumo on that night. for my part, i like this daylight mockery better. there is no gunpowder--odious gunpowder! no noise but the merry shouts of the small fry, so shrill and happy, and the cawing of the rooks, who are wheeling in large circles overhead, and wondering what is going forward in their territory--seeming in their loud clamour to ask what that light smoke may mean that curls so prettily amongst their old oaks, towering as if to meet the clouds. there is something very intelligent in the ways of that black people the rooks, particularly in their wonder. i suppose it results from their numbers and their unity of purpose, a sort of collective and corporate wisdom. yet geese congregate also; and geese never by any chance look wise. but then geese are a domestic fowl; we have spoiled them; and rooks are free commoners of nature, who use the habitations we provide for them, tenant our groves and our avenues, but never dream of becoming our subjects. what a labyrinth of a road this is! i do think there are four turnings in the short half-mile between the avenue and the mill. and what a pity, as my companion observes--not that our good and jolly miller, the very representative of the old english yeomanry, should be so rich, but that one consequence of his riches should be the pulling down of the prettiest old mill that ever looked at itself in the loddon, with the picturesque, low-browed, irregular cottage, which stood with its light-pointed roof, its clustered chimneys, and its ever-open door, looking like the real abode of comfort and hospitality, to build this huge, staring, frightful, red-brick mill, as ugly as a manufactory, and this great square house, ugly and red to match, just behind. the old buildings always used to remind me of wollett's beautiful engraving of a scene in the maid of the mill. it will be long before any artist will make a drawing of this. only think of this redness in a picture! this boiled lobster of a house! falstaff's description of bardolph's nose would look pale in the comparison. here is that monstrous machine of a tilted waggon, with its load of flour, and its four fat horses. i wonder whether our horse will have the decency to get out of the way. if he does not, i am sure we cannot make him; and that enormous ship upon wheels, that ark on dry land, would roll over us like the car of juggernaut. really--oh no! there is no danger now. i should have remembered that it is my friend samuel long who drives the mill team. he will take care of us. 'thank you, samuel!' and samuel has put us on our way, steered us safely past his waggon, escorted us over the bridge and now, having seen us through our immediate difficulties, has parted from us with a very civil bow and good-humoured smile, as one who is always civil and good-humoured, but with a certain triumphant masterful look in his eyes, which i have noted in men, even the best of them, when a woman gets into straits by attempting manly employments. he has done us great good though, and may be allowed his little feeling of superiority. the parting salute he bestowed on our steed, in the shape of an astounding crack of his huge whip, has put that refractory animal on his mettle. on we go! past the glazier's pretty house, with its porch and its filbert walk; along the narrow lane bordered with elms, whose fallen leaves have made the road one yellow; past that little farmhouse with the horse-chestnut trees before, glowing like oranges; past the whitewashed school on the other side, gay with october roses; past the park, and the lodge, and the mansion, where once dwelt the great earl of clarendon;--and now the rascal has begun to discover that samuel long and his whip are a mile off, and that his mistress is driving him, and he slackens his pace accordingly. perhaps he feels the beauty of the road just here, and goes slowly to enjoy it. very beautiful it certainly is. the park paling forms the boundary on one side, with fine clumps of oak, and deer in all attitudes; the water, tufted with alders, flowing along on the other. another turn, and the water winds away, succeeded by a low hedge, and a sweep of green meadows; whilst the park and its palings are replaced by a steep bank, on which stands a small, quiet, village alehouse; and higher up, embosomed in wood, is the little country church, with its sloping churchyard and its low white steeple, peeping out from amongst magnificent yew-trees:-- 'huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth of intertwisted fibres serpentine up-coiling, and invet'rately convolved.' wordsworth. no village church was ever more happily placed. it is the very image of the peace and humbleness inculcated within its walls. ah! here is a higher hill rising before us, almost like a mountain. how grandly the view opens as we ascend over that wild bank, overgrown with fern, and heath, and gorse, and between those tall hollies, glowing with their coral berries! what an expanse! but we have little time to gaze at present; for that piece of perversity, our horse, who has walked over so much level ground, has now, inspired, i presume, by a desire to revisit his stable, taken it into that unaccountable noddle of his to trot up this, the very steepest hill in the county. here we are on the top; and in five minutes we have reached the lawn gate, and are in the very midst of that beautiful piece of art or nature (i do not know to which class it belongs), the pleasure-ground of f. hill. never was the 'prophetic eye of taste' exerted with more magical skill than in these plantations. thirty years ago this place had no existence; it was a mere undistinguished tract of field and meadow and common land; now it is a mimic forest, delighting the eye with the finest combinations of trees and shrubs, the rarest effects of form and foliage, and bewildering the mind with its green glades, and impervious recesses, and apparently interminable extent. it is the triumph of landscape gardening, and never more beautiful than in this autumn sunset, lighting up the ruddy beech and the spotted sycamore, and gilding the shining fir-cones that hang so thickly amongst the dark pines. the robins are singing around us, as if they too felt the magic of the hour. how gracefully the road winds through the leafy labyrinth, leading imperceptibly to the more ornamented sweep. here we are at the door amidst geraniums, and carnations, and jasmines, still in flower. ah! here is a flower sweeter than all, a bird gayer than the robin, the little bird that chirps to the tune of 'mamma! mamma!', the bright-faced fairy, whose tiny feet come pattering along, making a merry music, mamma's own frances! and following her guidance, here we are in the dear round room time enough to catch the last rays of the sun, as they light the noble landscape which lies like a panorama around us, lingering longest on that long island of old thorns and stunted oaks, the oasis of b. heath, and then vanishing in a succession of gorgeous clouds. october th.--another soft and brilliant morning. but the pleasures of to-day must be written in shorthand. i have left myself no room for notes of admiration. first we drove about the coppice: an extensive wood of oak, and elm, and beech, chiefly the former, which adjoins the park-paling of f. hill, of which demesne, indeed, it forms one of the most delightful parts. the roads through the coppice are studiously wild; so that they have the appearance of mere cart-tracks: and the manner in which the ground is tumbled about, the steep declivities, the sunny slopes, the sudden swells and falls, now a close narrow valley, then a sharp ascent to an eminence commanding an immense extent of prospect, have a striking air of natural beauty, developed and heightened by the perfection of art. all this, indeed, was familiar to me; the colouring only was new. i had been there in early spring, when the fragrant palms were on the willow, and the yellow tassels on the hazel, and every twig was swelling with renewed life; and i had been there again and again in the green leafiness of midsummer; but never as now, when the dark verdure of the fir-plantations, hanging over the picturesque and unequal paling, partly covered with moss and ivy, contrasts so remarkably with the shining orange-leaves of the beech, already half fallen, the pale yellow of the scattering elm, the deeper and richer tints of the oak, and the glossy stems of the 'lady of the woods,' the delicate weeping birch. the underwood is no less picturesque. the red-spotted leaves and redder berries of the old thorns, the scarlet festoons of the bramble, the tall fern of every hue, seem to vie with the brilliant mosaic of the ground, now covered with dead leaves and strewn with fir-cones, now, where a little glade intervenes, gay with various mosses and splendid fungi. how beautiful is this coppice to-day! especially where the little spring, as clear as crystal, comes bubbling out from the old 'fantastic' beech root, and trickles over the grass, bright and silent as the dew in a may morning. the wood-pigeons (who are just returned from their summer migration, and are cropping the ivy berries) add their low cooings, the very note of love, to the slight fluttering of the falling leaves in the quiet air, giving a voice to the sunshine and the beauty. this coppice is a place to live and die in. but we must go. and how fine is the ascent which leads us again into the world, past those cottages hidden as in a pit, and by that hanging orchard and that rough heathy bank! the scenery in this one spot has a wildness, an abruptness of rise and fall, rare in any part of england, rare above all in this rich and lovely but monotonous county. it is switzerland in miniature. and now we cross the hill to pay a morning visit to the family at the great house,--another fine place, commanding another fine sweep of country. the park, studded with old trees, and sinking gently into a valley, rich in wood and water, is in the best style of ornamental landscape, though more according to the common routine of gentlemen's seats than the singularly original place which we have just left. there is, however, one distinctive beauty in the grounds of the great house;--the magnificent firs which shade the terraces and surround the sweep, giving out in summer odours really sabaean, and now in this low autumn sun producing an effect almost magical, as the huge red trunks, garlanded with ivy, stand out from the deep shadows like an army of giants. indoors--oh i must not take my readers indoors, or we shall never get away! indoors the sunshine is brighter still; for there, in a lofty, lightsome room, sat a damsel fair and arch and piquante, one whom titian or velasquez should be born again to paint, leaning over an instrument* as sparkling and fanciful as herself, singing pretty french romances, and scottish jacobite songs, and all sorts of graceful and airy drolleries picked up i know not where--an english improvisatrice! a gayer annot lyle! whilst her sister, of a higher order of beauty, and with an earnest kindness in her smile that deepens its power, lends to the piano, as her father to the violin, an expression, a sensibility, a spirit, an eloquence almost superhuman--almost divine! oh to hear these two instruments accompanying my dear companion (i forgot to say that she is a singer worthy to be so accompanied) in haydn's exquisite canzonet, "she never told her love,"--to hear her voice, with all its power, its sweetness, its gush of sound, so sustained and assisted by modulations that rivalled its intensity of expression; to hear at once such poetry, such music, such execution, is a pleasure never to be forgotten, or mixed with meaner things. i seem to hear it still. as in the bursting spring time o'er the eye of one who haunts the fields fair visions creep beneath the closed lids (afore dull sleep dims the quick fancy) of sweet flowers that lie on grassy banks, oxlip of orient dye, and palest primrose and blue violet, all in their fresh and dewy beauty set, pictured within the sense, and will not fly: so in mine ear resounds and lives again one mingled melody,--a voice, a pair of instruments most voice-like! of the air rather than of the earth seems that high strain, a spirit's song, and worthy of the train that soothed old prospero with music rare. *the dital harp. hannah bint. the shaw, leading to hannah bint's habitation, is, as i perhaps have said before, a very pretty mixture of wood and coppice; that is to say, a tract of thirty or forty acres covered with fine growing timber--ash, and oak, and elm, very regularly planted; and interspersed here and there with large patches of underwood, hazel, maple, birch, holly, and hawthorn, woven into almost impenetrable thickets by long wreaths of the bramble, the briony, and the brier-rose, or by the pliant and twisting garlands of the wild honeysuckle. in other parts, the shaw is quite clear of its bosky undergrowth, and clothed only with large beds of feathery fern, or carpets of flowers, primroses, orchises, cowslips, ground-ivy, crane's-bill, cotton-grass, solomon's seal, and forget-me-not, crowded together with a profusion and brilliancy of colour, such as i have rarely seen equalled even in a garden. here the wild hyacinth really enamels the ground with its fresh and lovely purple; there, 'on aged roots, with bright green mosses clad, dwells the wood-sorrel, with its bright thin leaves heart-shaped and triply folded, and its root creeping like beaded coral; whilst around flourish the copse's pride, anemones, with rays like golden studs on ivory laid most delicate; but touch'd with purple clouds, fit crown for april's fair but changeful brow.' the variety is much greater than i have enumerated; for the ground is so unequal, now swelling in gentle ascents, now dimpling into dells and hollows, and the soil so different in different parts, that the sylvan flora is unusually extensive and complete. the season is, however, now too late for this floweriness; and except the tufted woodbines, which have continued in bloom during the whole of this lovely autumn, and some lingering garlands of the purple wild vetch, wreathing round the thickets, and uniting with the ruddy leaves of the bramble, and the pale festoons of the briony, there is little to call one's attention from the grander beauties of the trees--the sycamore, its broad leaves already spotted--the oak, heavy with acorns--and the delicate shining rind of the weeping birch, 'the lady of the woods,' thrown out in strong relief from a background of holly and hawthorn, each studded with coral berries, and backed with old beeches, beginning to assume the rich tawny hue which makes them perhaps the most picturesque of autumnal trees, as the transparent freshness of their young foliage is undoubtedly the choicest ornament of the forest in spring. a sudden turn round one of these magnificent beeches brings us to the boundary of the shaw, and leaning upon a rude gate, we look over an open space of about ten acres of ground, still more varied and broken than that which we have passed, and surrounded on all sides by thick woodland. as a piece of colour, nothing can be well finer. the ruddy glow of the heath-flower, contrasting, on the one hand, with the golden-blossomed furze--on the other, with a patch of buck-wheat, of which the bloom is not past, although the grain be ripening, the beautiful buck-wheat, whose transparent leaves and stalks are so brightly tinged with vermilion, while the delicate pink-white of the flower, a paler persicaria, has a feathery fall, at once so rich and so graceful, and a fresh and reviving odour, like that of birch trees in the dew of a may evening. the bank that surmounts this attempt at cultivation is crowned with the late foxglove and the stately mullein; the pasture of which so great a part of the waste consists, looks as green as an emerald; a clear pond, with the bright sky reflected in it, lets light into the picture; the white cottage of the keeper peeps from the opposite coppice; and the vine-covered dwelling of hannah bint rises from amidst the pretty garden, which lies bathed in the sunshine around it. the living and moving accessories are all in keeping with the cheerfulness and repose of the landscape. hannah's cow grazing quietly beside the keeper's pony; a brace of fat pointer puppies holding amicable intercourse with a litter of young pigs; ducks, geese, cocks, hens, and chickens scattered over the turf; hannah herself sallying forth from the cottage-door, with her milk-bucket in her hand, and her little brother following with the milking-stool. my friend, hannah bint, is by no means an ordinary person. her father, jack bint (for in all his life he never arrived at the dignity of being called john, indeed in our parts he was commonly known by the cognomen of london jack), was a drover of high repute in his profession. no man, between salisbury plain and smithfield, was thought to conduct a flock of sheep so skilfully through all the difficulties of lanes and commons, streets and high-roads, as jack bint, aided by jack bint's famous dog, watch; for watch's rough, honest face, black, with a little white about the muzzle, and one white ear, was as well known at fairs and markets as his master's equally honest and weather-beaten visage. lucky was the dealer that could secure their services; watch being renowned for keeping a flock together better than any shepherd's dog on the road--jack, for delivering them more punctually, and in better condition. no man had a more thorough knowledge of the proper night stations, where good feed might be procured for his charge, and good liquor for watch and himself; watch, like other sheep dogs, being accustomed to live chiefly on bread and beer. his master, though not averse to a pot of good double x, preferred gin; and they who plod slowly along, through wet and weary ways, in frost and in fog, have undoubtedly a stronger temptation to indulge in that cordial and reviving stimulus, than we water-drinkers, sitting in warm and comfortable rooms, can readily imagine. for certain, our drover could never resist the gentle seduction of the gin-bottle, and being of a free, merry, jovial temperament, one of those persons commonly called good fellows, who like to see others happy in the same way with themselves, he was apt to circulate it at his own expense, to the great improvement of his popularity, and the great detriment of his finances. all this did vastly well whilst his earnings continued proportionate to his spendings, and the little family at home were comfortably supported by his industry: but when a rheumatic fever came on, one hard winter, and finally settled in his limbs, reducing the most active and hardy man in the parish to the state of a confirmed cripple, then his reckless improvidence stared him in the face; and poor jack, a thoughtless, but kind creature, and a most affectionate father, looked at his three motherless children with the acute misery of a parent who has brought those whom he loves best in the world to abject destitution. he found help, where he probably least expected it, in the sense and spirit of his young daughter, a girl of twelve years old. hannah was the eldest of the family, and had, ever since her mother's death, which event had occurred two or three years before, been accustomed to take the direction of their domestic concerns, to manage her two brothers, to feed the pigs and the poultry, and to keep house during the almost constant absence of her father. she was a quick, clever lass, of a high spirit, a firm temper, some pride, and a horror of accepting parochial relief, which is every day becoming rarer amongst the peasantry; but which forms the surest safeguard to the sturdy independence of the english character. our little damsel possessed this quality in perfection; and when her father talked of giving up their comfortable cottage, and removing to the workhouse, whilst she and her brothers must go to service, hannah formed a bold resolution, and without disturbing the sick man by any participation of her hopes and fears, proceeded after settling their trifling affairs to act at once on her own plans and designs. careless of the future as the poor drover had seemed, he had yet kept clear of debt, and by subscribing constantly to a benefit club, had secured a pittance that might at least assist in supporting him during the long years of sickness and helplessness to which he was doomed to look forward. this his daughter knew. she knew also, that the employer in whose service his health had suffered so severely, was a rich and liberal cattle-dealer in the neighbourhood, who would willingly aid an old and faithful servant, and had, indeed, come forward with offers of money. to assistance from such a quarter hannah saw no objection. farmer oakley and the parish were quite distinct things. of him, accordingly, she asked, not money, but something much more in his own way--'a cow! any cow! old or lame, or what not, so that it were a cow! she would be bound to keep it well; if she did not, he might take it back again. she even hoped to pay for it by and by, by instalments, but that she would not promise!' and, partly amused, partly interested by the child's earnestness, the wealthy yeoman gave her, not as a purchase, but as a present, a very fine young alderney. she then went to the lord of the manor, and, with equal knowledge of character, begged his permission to keep her cow on the shaw common. 'farmer oakley had given her a fine alderney, and she would be bound to pay the rent, and keep her father off the parish, if he would only let it graze on the waste;' and he too, half from real good nature--half, not to be outdone in liberality by his tenant, not only granted the requested permission, but reduced the rent so much, that the produce of the vine seldom fails to satisfy their kind landlord. now hannah showed great judgment in setting up as a dairy-woman. she could not have chosen an occupation more completely unoccupied, or more loudly called for. one of the most provoking of the petty difficulties which beset people with a small establishment in this neighbourhood, is the trouble, almost the impossibility, of procuring the pastoral luxuries of milk, eggs, and butter, which rank, unfortunately, amongst the indispensable necessaries of housekeeping. to your thoroughbred londoner, who, whilst grumbling over his own breakfast, is apt to fancy that thick cream, and fresh butter, and new-laid eggs, grow, so to say, in the country--form an actual part of its natural produce--it may be some comfort to learn, that in this great grazing district, however the calves and the farmers may be the better for cows, nobody else is; that farmers' wives have ceased to keep poultry; and that we unlucky villagers sit down often to our first meal in a state of destitution, which may well make him content with his thin milk and his cambridge butter, when compared to our imputed pastoralities. hannah's alderney restored us to one rural privilege. never was so cleanly a little milkmaid. she changed away some of the cottage finery, which, in his prosperous days, poor jack had pleased himself with bringing home, the china tea-service, the gilded mugs, and the painted waiters, for the useful utensils of the dairy, and speedily established a regular and gainful trade in milk, eggs, butter, honey, and poultry--for poultry they had always kept. her domestic management prospered equally. her father, who retained the perfect use of his hands, began a manufacture of mats and baskets, which he constructed with great nicety and adroitness; the eldest boy, a sharp and clever lad, cut for him his rushes and osiers; erected, under his sister's direction, a shed for the cow, and enlarged and cultivated the garden (always with the good leave of her kind patron the lord of the manor) until it became so ample, that the produce not only kept the pig, and half kept the family, but afforded another branch of merchandise to the indefatigable directress of the establishment. for the younger boy, less quick and active, hannah contrived to obtain an admission to the charity-school, where he made great progress--retaining him at home, however, in the hay-making and leasing season, or whenever his services could be made available, to the great annoyance of the schoolmaster, whose favourite he is, and who piques himself so much on george's scholarship (your heavy sluggish boy at country work often turns out quick at his book), that it is the general opinion that this much-vaunted pupil will, in process of time, be promoted to the post of assistant, and may, possibly, in course of years, rise to the dignity of a parish pedagogue in his own person; so that his sister, although still making him useful at odd times, now considers george as pretty well off her hands, whilst his elder brother, tom, could take an under-gardener's place directly, if he were not too important at home to be spared even for a day. in short, during the five years that she has ruled at the shaw cottage, the world has gone well with hannah bint. her cow, her calves, her pigs, her bees, her poultry, have each, in their several ways, thriven and prospered. she has even brought watch to like butter-milk, as well as strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her father (to whose wants and wishes she is most anxiously attentive) to accept of milk as a substitute for gin. not but hannah hath had her enemies as well as her betters. why should she not? the old woman at the lodge, who always piqued herself on being spiteful, and crying down new ways, foretold from the first she would come to no good, and could not forgive her for falsifying her prediction; and betty barnes, the slatternly widow of a tippling farmer, who rented a field, and set up a cow herself, and was universally discarded for insufferable dirt, said all that the wit of an envious woman could devise against hannah and her alderney; nay, even ned miles, the keeper, her next neighbour, who had whilom held entire sway over the shaw common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as much as so good-natured and genial a person could grumble, when he found a little girl sharing his dominion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and vulgar cocks and hens hovering around the buck-wheat destined to feed his noble pheasants. nobody that had been accustomed to see that paragon of keepers, so tall and manly, and pleasant looking, with his merry eye, and his knowing smile, striding gaily along, in his green coat, and his gold-laced hat, with neptune, his noble newfoundland dog (a retriever is the sporting word), and his beautiful spaniel flirt at his heels, could conceive how askew he looked, when he first found hannah and watch holding equal reign over his old territory, the shaw common. yes! hannah hath had her enemies; but they are passing away. the old woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and betty barnes, having herself taken to tippling, has lost the few friends she once possessed, and looks, luckless wretch, as if she would soon die too!--and the keeper?--why, he is not dead, or like to die; but the change that has taken place there is the most astonishing of all--except, perhaps, the change in hannah herself. few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less pretty than hannah bint. short and stunted in her figure, thin in face, sharp in feature, with a muddled complexion, wild sunburnt hair, and eyes whose very brightness had in them something startling, over-informed, super-subtle, too clever for her age,--at twelve years old she had quite the air of a little old fairy. now, at seventeen, matters are mended. her complexion has cleared; her countenance has developed itself; her figure has shot up into height and lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is softened and sweetened by the womanly wish to please; her hair is trimmed, and curled and brushed, with exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the becoming, the suitable both in form and texture, which would be called the highest degree of coquetry, if it did not deserve the better name of propriety. never was such a transmogrification beheld. the lass is really pretty, and ned miles has discovered that she is so. there he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath joined her whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking is over!)--there he stands--holding her milk-pail in one hand, and stroking watch with the other; whilst she is returning the compliment by patting neptune's magnificent head. there they stand, as much like lovers as may be; he smiling, and she blushing--he never looking so handsome nor she so pretty in all their lives. there they stand, in blessed forgetfulness of all except each other; as happy a couple as ever trod the earth. there they stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and butter in christendom. i should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding day. the fall of the leaf. november th.--the weather is as peaceful to-day, as calm, and as mild, as in early april; and, perhaps, an autumn afternoon and a spring morning do resemble each other more in feeling, and even in appearance, than any two periods of the year. there is in both the same freshness and dewiness of the herbage; the same balmy softness in the air; and the same pure and lovely blue sky, with white fleecy clouds floating across it. the chief difference lies in the absence of flowers, and the presence of leaves. but then the foliage of november is so rich, and glowing, and varied, that it may well supply the place of the gay blossoms of the spring; whilst all the flowers of the field or the garden could never make amends for the want of leaves,--that beautiful and graceful attire in which nature has clothed the rugged forms of trees--the verdant drapery to which the landscape owes its loveliness, and the forests their glory. if choice must be between two seasons, each so full of charm, it is at least no bad philosophy to prefer the present good, even whilst looking gratefully back, and hopefully forward, to the past and the future. and of a surety, no fairer specimen of a november day could well be found than this,--a day made to wander 'by yellow commons and birch-shaded hollows, and hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes;' nor could a prettier country be found for our walk than this shady and yet sunny berkshire, where the scenery, without rising into grandeur or breaking into wildness, is so peaceful, so cheerful, so varied, and so thoroughly english. we must bend our steps towards the water side, for i have a message to leave at farmer riley's: and sooth to say, it is no unpleasant necessity; for the road thither is smooth and dry, retired, as one likes a country walk to be, but not too lonely, which women never like; leading past the loddon--the bright, brimming, transparent loddon--a fitting mirror for this bright blue sky, and terminating at one of the prettiest and most comfortable farmhouses in the neighbourhood. how beautiful the lane is to-day, decorated with a thousand colours! the brown road, and the rich verdure that borders it, strewed with the pale yellow leaves of the elm, just beginning to fall; hedgerows glowing with long wreaths of the bramble in every variety of purplish red; and overhead the unchanged green of the fir, contrasting with the spotted sycamore, the tawny beech, and the dry sere leaves of the oak, which rustle as the light wind passes through them; a few common hardy yellow flowers (for yellow is the common colour of flowers, whether wild or cultivated, as blue is the rare one), flowers of many sorts, but almost of one tint, still blowing in spite of the season, and ruddy berries glowing through all. how very beautiful is the lane! and how pleasant is this hill where the road widens, with the group of cattle by the wayside, and george hearn, the little post-boy, trundling his hoop at full speed, making all the better haste in his work, because he cheats himself into thinking it play! and how beautiful, again, is this patch of common at the hilltop with the clear pool, where martha pither's children,--elves of three, and four, and five years old,--without any distinction of sex in their sunburnt faces and tattered drapery, are dipping up water in their little homely cups shining with cleanliness, and a small brown pitcher with the lip broken, to fill that great kettle, which, when it is filled, their united strength will never be able to lift! they are quite a group for a painter, with their rosy cheeks, and chubby hands, and round merry faces; and the low cottage in the background, peeping out of its vine leaves and china roses, with martha at the door, tidy, and comely, and smiling, preparing the potatoes for the pot, and watching the progress of dipping and filling that useful utensil, completes the picture. but we must go on. no time for more sketches in these short days. it is getting cold too. we must proceed in our walk. dash is showing us the way and beating the thick double hedgerow that runs along the side of the meadows, at a rate that indicates game astir, and causes the leaves to fly as fast as an east-wind after a hard frost. ah! a pheasant! a superb cock pheasant! nothing is more certain than dash's questing, whether in a hedgerow or covert, for a better spaniel never went into the field; but i fancied that it was a hare afoot, and was almost as much startled to hear the whirring of those splendid wings, as the princely bird himself would have been at the report of a gun. indeed, i believe that the way in which a pheasant goes off, does sometimes make young sportsmen a little nervous, (they don't own it very readily, but the observation may be relied on nevertheless), until they get as it were broken in to the sound; and then that grand and sudden burst of wing becomes as pleasant to them as it seems to be to dash, who is beating the hedgerow with might and main, and giving tongue louder, and sending the leaves about faster than ever--very proud of finding the pheasant, and perhaps a little angry with me for not shooting it; at least looking as if he would be angry if i were a man; for dash is a dog of great sagacity, and has doubtless not lived four years in the sporting world without making the discovery, that although gentlemen do shoot, ladies do not. the loddon at last! the beautiful loddon! and the bridge, where every one stops, as by instinct, to lean over the rails, and gaze a moment on a landscape of surpassing loveliness,--the fine grounds of the great house, with their magnificent groups of limes, and firs, and poplars grander than ever poplars were; the green meadows opposite, studded with oaks and elms; the clear winding river; the mill with its picturesque old buildings, bounding the scene; all glowing with the rich colouring of autumn, and harmonised by the soft beauty of the clear blue sky, and the delicious calmness of the hour. the very peasant whose daily path it is, cannot cross that bridge without a pause. but the day is wearing fast, and it grows colder and colder. i really think it will be a frost. after all, spring is the pleasantest season, beautiful as this scenery is. we must get on. down that broad yet shadowy lane, between the park, dark with evergreens and dappled with deer, and the meadows where sheep, and cows, and horses are grazing under the tall elms; that lane, where the wild bank, clothed with fern, and tufted with furze, and crowned by rich berried thorn, and thick shining holly on the one side, seems to vie in beauty with the picturesque old paling, the bright laurels, and the plumy cedars, on the other;--down that shady lane, until the sudden turn brings us to an opening where four roads meet, where a noble avenue turns down to the great house; where the village church rears its modest spire from amidst its venerable yew trees: and where, embosomed in orchards and gardens, and backed by barns and ricks, and all the wealth of the farmyard, stands the spacious and comfortable abode of good farmer riley,--the end and object of our walk. and in happy time the message is said and the answer given, for this beautiful mild day is edging off into a dense frosty evening; the leaves of the elm and the linden in the old avenue are quivering and vibrating and fluttering in the air, and at length falling crisply on the earth, as if dash were beating for pheasants in the tree-tops; the sun gleams dimly through the fog, giving little more of light and heat than his fair sister the lady moon;--i don't know a more disappointing person than a cold sun; and i am beginning to wrap my cloak closely round me, and to calculate the distance to my own fireside, recanting all the way my praises of november, and longing for the showery, flowery april, as much as if i were a half-chilled butterfly, or a dahlia knocked down by the frost. ah, dear me! what a climate this is, that one cannot keep in the same mind about it for half an hour together! i wonder, by the way, whether the fault is in the weather, which dash does not seem to care for, or in me? if i should happen to be wet through in a shower next spring, and should catch myself longing for autumn, that would settle the question. the love of ulrich nebendahl by jerome k. jerome author of "paul kelver," "three men in a boat," etc., etc. new york dodd, mead & company copyright, , by jerome k. jerome copyright, , by dodd, mead & company published, september, the love of ulrich nebendahl perhaps of all, it troubled most the herr pfarrer. was he not the father of the village? and as such did it not fall to him to see his children marry well and suitably? marry in any case. it was the duty of every worthy citizen to keep alive throughout the ages the sacred hearth fire, to rear up sturdy lads and honest lassies that would serve god, and the fatherland. a true son of saxon soil was the herr pastor winckelmann--kindly, simple, sentimental. "why, at your age, ulrich--at your age," repeated the herr pastor, setting down his beer and wiping with the back of his hand his large uneven lips, "i was the father of a family--two boys and a girl. you never saw her, ulrich; so sweet, so good. we called her maria." the herr pfarrer sighed and hid his broad red face behind the raised cover of his pewter pot. "they must be good fun in a house, the little ones," commented ulrich, gazing upward with his dreamy eyes at the wreath of smoke ascending from his long-stemmed pipe. "the little ones, always my heart goes out to them." "take to yourself a wife," urged the herr pfarrer. "it is your duty. the good god has given to you ample means. it is not right that you should lead this lonely life. bachelors make old maids; things of no use." "that is so," ulrich agreed. "i have often said the same unto myself. it would be pleasant to feel one was not working merely for oneself." "elsa, now," went on the herr pfarrer, "she is a good child, pious and economical. the price of such is above rubies." ulrich's face lightened with a pleasant smile. "aye, elsa is a good girl," he answered. "her little hands--have you ever noticed them, herr pastor--so soft and dimpled." the pfarrer pushed aside his empty pot and leaned his elbows on the table. "i think--i do not think--she would say no. her mother, i have reason to believe--let me sound them--discreetly." the old pastor's red face glowed redder, yet with pleasurable anticipation; he was a born matchmaker. but ulrich the wheelwright shuffled in his chair uneasily. "a little longer," he pleaded. "let me think it over. a man should not marry without first being sure he loves. things might happen. it would not be fair to the maiden." the herr pfarrer stretched his hand across the table and laid it upon ulrich's arm. "it is hedwig; twice you walked home with her last week." "it is a lonesome way for a timid maiden; and there is the stream to cross," explained the wheelwright. for a moment the herr pastor's face had clouded, but now it cleared again. "well, well, why not? elsa would have been better in some respects, but hedwig--ah, yes, she, too, is a good girl a little wild perhaps--it will wear off. have you spoken with her?" "not yet." "but you will?" again there fell that troubled look into those dreamy eyes. this time it was ulrich who, laying aside his pipe, rested his great arms upon the wooden table. "now, how does a man know when he is in love?" asked ulrich of the pastor who, having been married twice, should surely be experienced upon the point. "how should he be sure that it is this woman and no other to whom his heart has gone out?" a commonplace-looking man was the herr pastor, short and fat and bald. but there had been other days, and these had left to him a voice that still was young; and the evening twilight screening the seared face, ulrich heard but the pastor's voice, which was the voice of a boy. "she will be dearer to you than yourself. thinking of her, all else will be as nothing. for her you would lay down your life." they sat in silence for a while; for the fat little herr pfarrer was dreaming of the past; and long, lanky ulrich nebendahl, the wheelwright, of the future. that evening, as chance would have it, ulrich returning to his homestead--a rambling mill beside the river, where he dwelt alone with ancient anna--met elsa of the dimpled hands upon the bridge that spans the murmuring muhlde, and talked a while with her, and said good-night. how sweet it had been to watch her ox-like eyes shyly seeking his, to press her dimpled hand and feel his own great strength. surely he loved her better than he did himself. there could be no doubt of it. he pictured her in trouble, in danger from the savage soldiery that came and went like evil shadows through these pleasant saxon valleys, leaving death and misery behind them: burnt homesteads; wild-eyed women, hiding their faces from the light. would he not for her sake give his life? so it was made clear to him that little elsa was his love. until next morning, when, raising his eyes from the whirling saw, there stood before him margot, laughing. margot, mischief-loving, wayward, that would ever be to him the baby he had played with, nursed, and comforted. margot weary! had he not a thousand times carried her sleeping in his arms. margot in danger! at the mere thought his face flushed an angry scarlet. all that afternoon ulrich communed with himself, tried to understand himself, and could not. for elsa and margot and hedwig were not the only ones by a long way. what girl in the village did he not love, if it came to that: liesel, who worked so hard and lived so poorly, bullied by her cross-grained granddam. susanna, plain and a little crotchety, who had never had a sweetheart to coax the thin lips into smiles. the little ones--for so they seemed to long, lanky ulrich, with their pleasant ways--ulrich smiled as he thought of them--how should a man love one more than another? the herr pfarrer shook his head and sighed. "that is not love. gott in himmel! think what it would lead to? the good god never would have arranged things so. you love one; she is the only woman in the world for you." "but you, yourself, herr pastor, you have twice been married," suggested the puzzled wheelwright. "but one at a time, ulrich--one at a time. that is a very different thing." why should it not come to him, alone among men? surely it was a beautiful thing, this love; a thing worthy of a man, without which a man was but a useless devourer of food, cumbering the earth. so ulrich pondered, pausing from his work one drowsy summer's afternoon, listening to the low song of the waters. how well he knew the winding muhlde's merry voice. he had worked beside it, played beside it all his life. often he would sit and talk to it as to an old friend, reading answers in its changing tones. trudchen, seeing him idle, pushed her cold nose into his hand. trudchen just now was feeling clever and important. was she not the mother of the five most wonderful puppies in all saxony? they swarmed about his legs, pressing him with their little foolish heads. ulrich stooped and picked up one in each big hand. but this causing jealousy and heartburning, laughing, he lay down upon a log. then the whole five stormed over him, biting his hair, trampling with their clumsy paws upon his face; till suddenly they raced off in a body to attack a floating feather. ulrich sat up and watched them, the little rogues, the little foolish, helpless things, that called for so much care. a mother thrush twittered above his head. ulrich rose and creeping on tiptoe, peeped into the nest. but the mother bird, casting one glance towards him, went on with her work. whoever was afraid of ulrich the wheelwright! the tiny murmuring insects buzzed to and fro about his feet. an old man, passing to his evening rest, gave him "good-day." a zephyr whispered something to the leaves, at which they laughed, then passed upon his way. here and there a shadow crept out from its hiding-place. "if only i could marry the whole village!" laughed ulrich to himself. but that, of course, is nonsense! the spring that followed let loose the dogs of war again upon the blood-stained land, for now all germany, taught late by common suffering forgetfulness of local rivalries, was rushing together in a mighty wave that would sweep french feet for ever from their hold on german soil. ulrich, for whom the love of woman seemed not, would at least be the lover of his country. he, too, would march among those brave stern hearts that, stealing like a thousand rivulets from every german valley, were flowing north and west to join the prussian eagles. but even love of country seemed denied to ulrich of the dreamy eyes. his wheelwright's business had called him to a town far off. he had been walking all the day. towards evening, passing the outskirts of a wood, a feeble cry for help, sounding from the shadows, fell upon his ear. ulrich paused, and again from the sombre wood crept that weary cry of pain. ulrich ran and came at last to where, among the wild flowers and the grass, lay prone five human figures. two of them were of the german landwehr, the other three frenchmen in the hated uniform of napoleon's famous scouts. it had been some unimportant "affair of outposts," one of those common incidents of warfare that are never recorded--never remembered save here and there by some sad face unnoticed in the crowd. four of the men were dead; one, a frenchman was still alive, though bleeding copiously from a deep wound in the chest that with a handful of dank grass he was trying to staunch. ulrich raised him in his arms. the man spoke no german, and ulrich knew but his mother tongue; but when the man, turning towards the neighbouring village with a look of terror in his half-glazed eyes, pleaded with his hands, ulrich understood, and lifting him gently carried him further into the wood. he found a small deserted shelter that had been made by charcoal-burners, and there on a bed of grass and leaves ulrich laid him; and there for a week all but a day ulrich tended him and nursed him back to life, coming and going stealthily like a thief in the darkness. then ulrich, who had thought his one desire in life to be to kill all frenchmen, put food and drink into the frenchman's knapsack and guided him half through the night and took his hand; and so they parted. ulrich did not return to alt waldnitz, that lies hidden in the forest beside the murmuring muhlde. they would think he had gone to the war; he would let them think so. he was too great a coward to go back to them and tell them that he no longer wanted to fight; that the sound of the drum brought to him only the thought of trampled grass where dead men lay with curses in their eyes. so, with head bowed down in shame, to and fro about the moaning land, ulrich of the dreamy eyes came and went, guiding his solitary footsteps by the sounds of sorrow, driving away the things of evil where they crawled among the wounded, making his way swiftly to the side of pain, heedless of the uniform. thus one day he found himself by chance near again to forest-girdled waldnitz. he would push his way across the hills, wander through its quiet ways in the moonlight while the good folks all lay sleeping. his foot-steps quickened as he drew nearer. where the trees broke he would be able to look down upon it, see every roof he knew so well--the church, the mill, the winding muhlde--the green, worn grey with dancing feet, where, when the hateful war was over, would be heard again the saxon folk-songs. another was there, where the forest halts on the brow of the hill--a figure kneeling on the ground with his face towards the village. ulrich stole closer. it was the herr pfarrer, praying volubly but inaudibly. he scrambled to his feet as ulrich touched him, and his first astonishment over, poured forth his tale of woe. there had been trouble since ulrich's departure. a french corps of observation had been camped upon the hill, and twice within the month had a french soldier been found murdered in the woods. heavy had been the penalties exacted from the village, and terrible had been the colonel's threats of vengeance. now, for a third time, a soldier stabbed in the back had been borne into camp by his raging comrades, and this very afternoon the colonel had sworn that if the murderer were not handed over to him within an hour from dawn, when the camp was to break up, he would before marching burn the village to the ground. the herr pfarrer was on his way back from the camp where he had been to plead for mercy, but it had been in vain. "such are foul deeds!" said ulrich. "the people are mad with hatred of the french," answered the herr pastor. "it may be one, it may be a dozen who have taken vengeance into their own hands. may god forgive them." "they will not come forward--not to save the village?" "can you expect it of them! there is no hope for us; the village will burn as a hundred others have burned." aye, that was true; ulrich had seen their blackened ruins; the old sitting with white faces among the wreckage of their homes, the little children wailing round their knees, the tiny broods burned in their nests. he had picked their corpses from beneath the charred trunks of the dead elms. the herr pfarrer had gone forward on his melancholy mission to prepare the people for their doom. ulrich stood alone, looking down upon alt waldnitz bathed in moonlight. and there came to him the words of the old pastor: "she will be dearer to you than yourself. for her you would lay down your life." and ulrich knew that his love was the village of alt waldnitz, where dwelt his people, the old and wrinkled, the laughing "little ones," where dwelt the helpless dumb things with their deep pathetic eyes, where the bees hummed drowsily, and the thousand tiny creatures of the day. they hanged him high upon a withered elm, with his face towards alt waldnitz, that all the village, old and young, might see; and then to the beat of drum and scream of fife they marched away; and forest-hidden waldnitz gathered up once more its many threads of quiet life and wove them into homely pattern. they talked and argued many a time, and some there were who praised and some who blamed. but the herr pfarrer could not understand. until years later a dying man unburdened his soul so that the truth became known. then they raised ulrich's coffin reverently, and the young men carried it into the village and laid it in the churchyard that it might always be among them. they reared above him what in their eyes was a grand monument, and carved upon it: "greater love hath no man than this." the woodlanders by thomas hardy chapter i. the rambler who, for old association or other reasons, should trace the forsaken coach-road running almost in a meridional line from bristol to the south shore of england, would find himself during the latter half of his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands, interspersed with apple-orchards. here the trees, timber or fruit-bearing, as the case may be, make the wayside hedges ragged by their drip and shade, stretching over the road with easeful horizontality, as if they found the unsubstantial air an adequate support for their limbs. at one place, where a hill is crossed, the largest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high-way, as the head of thick hair is bisected by the white line of its parting. the spot is lonely. the physiognomy of a deserted highway expresses solitude to a degree that is not reached by mere dales or downs, and bespeaks a tomb-like stillness more emphatic than that of glades and pools. the contrast of what is with what might be probably accounts for this. to step, for instance, at the place under notice, from the hedge of the plantation into the adjoining pale thoroughfare, and pause amid its emptiness for a moment, was to exchange by the act of a single stride the simple absence of human companionship for an incubus of the forlorn. at this spot, on the lowering evening of a by-gone winter's day, there stood a man who had entered upon the scene much in the aforesaid manner. alighting into the road from a stile hard by, he, though by no means a "chosen vessel" for impressions, was temporarily influenced by some such feeling of being suddenly more alone than before he had emerged upon the highway. it could be seen by a glance at his rather finical style of dress that he did not belong to the country proper; and from his air, after a while, that though there might be a sombre beauty in the scenery, music in the breeze, and a wan procession of coaching ghosts in the sentiment of this old turnpike-road, he was mainly puzzled about the way. the dead men's work that had been expended in climbing that hill, the blistered soles that had trodden it, and the tears that had wetted it, were not his concern; for fate had given him no time for any but practical things. he looked north and south, and mechanically prodded the ground with his walking-stick. a closer glance at his face corroborated the testimony of his clothes. it was self-complacent, yet there was small apparent ground for such complacence. nothing irradiated it; to the eye of the magician in character, if not to the ordinary observer, the expression enthroned there was absolute submission to and belief in a little assortment of forms and habitudes. at first not a soul appeared who could enlighten him as he desired, or seemed likely to appear that night. but presently a slight noise of laboring wheels and the steady dig of a horse's shoe-tips became audible; and there loomed in the notch of the hill and plantation that the road formed here at the summit a carrier's van drawn by a single horse. when it got nearer, he said, with some relief to himself, "'tis mrs. dollery's--this will help me." the vehicle was half full of passengers, mostly women. he held up his stick at its approach, and the woman who was driving drew rein. "i've been trying to find a short way to little hintock this last half-hour, mrs. dollery," he said. "but though i've been to great hintock and hintock house half a dozen times i am at fault about the small village. you can help me, i dare say?" she assured him that she could--that as she went to great hintock her van passed near it--that it was only up the lane that branched out of the lane into which she was about to turn--just ahead. "though," continued mrs. dollery, "'tis such a little small place that, as a town gentleman, you'd need have a candle and lantern to find it if ye don't know where 'tis. bedad! i wouldn't live there if they'd pay me to. now at great hintock you do see the world a bit." he mounted and sat beside her, with his feet outside, where they were ever and anon brushed over by the horse's tail. this van, driven and owned by mrs. dollery, was rather a movable attachment of the roadway than an extraneous object, to those who knew it well. the old horse, whose hair was of the roughness and color of heather, whose leg-joints, shoulders, and hoofs were distorted by harness and drudgery from colthood--though if all had their rights, he ought, symmetrical in outline, to have been picking the herbage of some eastern plain instead of tugging here--had trodden this road almost daily for twenty years. even his subjection was not made congruous throughout, for the harness being too short, his tail was not drawn through the crupper, so that the breeching slipped awkwardly to one side. he knew every subtle incline of the seven or eight miles of ground between hintock and sherton abbas--the market-town to which he journeyed--as accurately as any surveyor could have learned it by a dumpy level. the vehicle had a square black tilt which nodded with the motion of the wheels, and at a point in it over the driver's head was a hook to which the reins were hitched at times, when they formed a catenary curve from the horse's shoulders. somewhere about the axles was a loose chain, whose only known purpose was to clink as it went. mrs. dollery, having to hop up and down many times in the service of her passengers, wore, especially in windy weather, short leggings under her gown for modesty's sake, and instead of a bonnet a felt hat tied down with a handkerchief, to guard against an earache to which she was frequently subject. in the rear of the van was a glass window, which she cleaned with her pocket-handkerchief every market-day before starting. looking at the van from the back, the spectator could thus see through its interior a square piece of the same sky and landscape that he saw without, but intruded on by the profiles of the seated passengers, who, as they rumbled onward, their lips moving and heads nodding in animated private converse, remained in happy unconsciousness that their mannerisms and facial peculiarities were sharply defined to the public eye. this hour of coming home from market was the happy one, if not the happiest, of the week for them. snugly ensconced under the tilt, they could forget the sorrows of the world without, and survey life and recapitulate the incidents of the day with placid smiles. the passengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and while the new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in a confidential chat about him as about other people, which the noise of the van rendered inaudible to himself and mrs. dollery, sitting forward. "'tis barber percombe--he that's got the waxen woman in his window at the top of abbey street," said one. "what business can bring him from his shop out here at this time and not a journeyman hair-cutter, but a master-barber that's left off his pole because 'tis not genteel!" they listened to his conversation, but mr. percombe, though he had nodded and spoken genially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiosity which he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which had animated the inside of the van before his arrival was checked thenceforward. thus they rode on till they turned into a half-invisible little lane, whence, as it reached the verge of an eminence, could be discerned in the dusk, about half a mile to the right, gardens and orchards sunk in a concave, and, as it were, snipped out of the woodland. from this self-contained place rose in stealthy silence tall stems of smoke, which the eye of imagination could trace downward to their root on quiet hearth-stones festooned overhead with hams and flitches. it was one of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world where may usually be found more meditation than action, and more passivity than meditation; where reasoning proceeds on narrow premises, and results in inferences wildly imaginative; yet where, from time to time, no less than in other places, dramas of a grandeur and unity truly sophoclean are enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions and closely knit interdependence of the lives therein. this place was the little hintock of the master-barber's search. the coming night gradually obscured the smoke of the chimneys, but the position of the sequestered little world could still be distinguished by a few faint lights, winking more or less ineffectually through the leafless boughs, and the undiscerned songsters they bore, in the form of balls of feathers, at roost among them. out of the lane followed by the van branched a yet smaller lane, at the corner of which the barber alighted, mrs. dollery's van going on to the larger village, whose superiority to the despised smaller one as an exemplar of the world's movements was not particularly apparent in its means of approach. "a very clever and learned young doctor, who, they say, is in league with the devil, lives in the place you be going to--not because there's anybody for'n to cure there, but because 'tis the middle of his district." the observation was flung at the barber by one of the women at parting, as a last attempt to get at his errand that way. but he made no reply, and without further pause the pedestrian plunged towards the umbrageous nook, and paced cautiously over the dead leaves which nearly buried the road or street of the hamlet. as very few people except themselves passed this way after dark, a majority of the denizens of little hintock deemed window-curtains unnecessary; and on this account mr. percombe made it his business to stop opposite the casements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showed that he was endeavoring to conjecture, from the persons and things he observed within, the whereabouts of somebody or other who resided here. only the smaller dwellings interested him; one or two houses, whose size, antiquity, and rambling appurtenances signified that notwithstanding their remoteness they must formerly have been, if they were not still, inhabited by people of a certain social standing, being neglected by him entirely. smells of pomace, and the hiss of fermenting cider, which reached him from the back quarters of other tenements, revealed the recent occupation of some of the inhabitants, and joined with the scent of decay from the perishing leaves underfoot. half a dozen dwellings were passed without result. the next, which stood opposite a tall tree, was in an exceptional state of radiance, the flickering brightness from the inside shining up the chimney and making a luminous mist of the emerging smoke. the interior, as seen through the window, caused him to draw up with a terminative air and watch. the house was rather large for a cottage, and the door, which opened immediately into the living-room, stood ajar, so that a ribbon of light fell through the opening into the dark atmosphere without. every now and then a moth, decrepit from the late season, would flit for a moment across the out-coming rays and disappear again into the night. chapter ii. in the room from which this cheerful blaze proceeded, he beheld a girl seated on a willow chair, and busily occupied by the light of the fire, which was ample and of wood. with a bill-hook in one hand and a leather glove, much too large for her, on the other, she was making spars, such as are used by thatchers, with great rapidity. she wore a leather apron for this purpose, which was also much too large for her figure. on her left hand lay a bundle of the straight, smooth sticks called spar-gads--the raw material of her manufacture; on her right, a heap of chips and ends--the refuse--with which the fire was maintained; in front, a pile of the finished articles. to produce them she took up each gad, looked critically at it from end to end, cut it to length, split it into four, and sharpened each of the quarters with dexterous blows, which brought it to a triangular point precisely resembling that of a bayonet. beside her, in case she might require more light, a brass candlestick stood on a little round table, curiously formed of an old coffin-stool, with a deal top nailed on, the white surface of the latter contrasting oddly with the black carved oak of the substructure. the social position of the household in the past was almost as definitively shown by the presence of this article as that of an esquire or nobleman by his old helmets or shields. it had been customary for every well-to-do villager, whose tenure was by copy of court-roll, or in any way more permanent than that of the mere cotter, to keep a pair of these stools for the use of his own dead; but for the last generation or two a feeling of cui bono had led to the discontinuance of the custom, and the stools were frequently made use of in the manner described. the young woman laid down the bill-hook for a moment and examined the palm of her right hand, which, unlike the other, was ungloved, and showed little hardness or roughness about it. the palm was red and blistering, as if this present occupation were not frequent enough with her to subdue it to what it worked in. as with so many right hands born to manual labor, there was nothing in its fundamental shape to bear out the physiological conventionalism that gradations of birth, gentle or mean, show themselves primarily in the form of this member. nothing but a cast of the die of destiny had decided that the girl should handle the tool; and the fingers which clasped the heavy ash haft might have skilfully guided the pencil or swept the string, had they only been set to do it in good time. her face had the usual fulness of expression which is developed by a life of solitude. where the eyes of a multitude beat like waves upon a countenance they seem to wear away its individuality; but in the still water of privacy every tentacle of feeling and sentiment shoots out in visible luxuriance, to be interpreted as readily as a child's look by an intruder. in years she was no more than nineteen or twenty, but the necessity of taking thought at a too early period of life had forced the provisional curves of her childhood's face to a premature finality. thus she had but little pretension to beauty, save in one prominent particular--her hair. its abundance made it almost unmanageable; its color was, roughly speaking, and as seen here by firelight, brown, but careful notice, or an observation by day, would have revealed that its true shade was a rare and beautiful approximation to chestnut. on this one bright gift of time to the particular victim of his now before us the new-comer's eyes were fixed; meanwhile the fingers of his right hand mechanically played over something sticking up from his waistcoat-pocket--the bows of a pair of scissors, whose polish made them feebly responsive to the light within. in her present beholder's mind the scene formed by the girlish spar-maker composed itself into a post-raffaelite picture of extremest quality, wherein the girl's hair alone, as the focus of observation, was depicted with intensity and distinctness, and her face, shoulders, hands, and figure in general, being a blurred mass of unimportant detail lost in haze and obscurity. he hesitated no longer, but tapped at the door and entered. the young woman turned at the crunch of his boots on the sanded floor, and exclaiming, "oh, mr. percombe, how you frightened me!" quite lost her color for a moment. he replied, "you should shut your door--then you'd hear folk open it." "i can't," she said; "the chimney smokes so. mr. percombe, you look as unnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge. surely you have not come out here on my account--for--" "yes--to have your answer about this." he touched her head with his cane, and she winced. "do you agree?" he continued. "it is necessary that i should know at once, as the lady is soon going away, and it takes time to make up." "don't press me--it worries me. i was in hopes you had thought no more of it. i can not part with it--so there!" "now, look here, marty," said the barber, sitting down on the coffin-stool table. "how much do you get for making these spars?" "hush--father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that i am doing his work." "well, now tell me," said the man, more softly. "how much do you get?" "eighteenpence a thousand," she said, reluctantly. "who are you making them for?" "mr. melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here." "and how many can you make in a day?" "in a day and half the night, three bundles--that's a thousand and a half." "two and threepence." the barber paused. "well, look here," he continued, with the remains of a calculation in his tone, which calculation had been the reduction to figures of the probable monetary magnetism necessary to overpower the resistant force of her present purse and the woman's love of comeliness, "here's a sovereign--a gold sovereign, almost new." he held it out between his finger and thumb. "that's as much as you'd earn in a week and a half at that rough man's work, and it's yours for just letting me snip off what you've got too much of." the girl's bosom moved a very little. "why can't the lady send to some other girl who don't value her hair--not to me?" she exclaimed. "why, simpleton, because yours is the exact shade of her own, and 'tis a shade you can't match by dyeing. but you are not going to refuse me now i've come all the way from sherton o' purpose?" "i say i won't sell it--to you or anybody." "now listen," and he drew up a little closer beside her. "the lady is very rich, and won't be particular to a few shillings; so i will advance to this on my own responsibility--i'll make the one sovereign two, rather than go back empty-handed." "no, no, no!" she cried, beginning to be much agitated. "you are a-tempting me, mr. percombe. you go on like the devil to dr. faustus in the penny book. but i don't want your money, and won't agree. why did you come? i said when you got me into your shop and urged me so much, that i didn't mean to sell my hair!" the speaker was hot and stern. "marty, now hearken. the lady that wants it wants it badly. and, between you and me, you'd better let her have it. 'twill be bad for you if you don't." "bad for me? who is she, then?" the barber held his tongue, and the girl repeated the question. "i am not at liberty to tell you. and as she is going abroad soon it makes no difference who she is at all." "she wants it to go abroad wi'?" percombe assented by a nod. the girl regarded him reflectively. "barber percombe," she said, "i know who 'tis. 'tis she at the house--mrs. charmond!" "that's my secret. however, if you agree to let me have it, i'll tell you in confidence." "i'll certainly not let you have it unless you tell me the truth. it is mrs. charmond." the barber dropped his voice. "well--it is. you sat in front of her in church the other day, and she noticed how exactly your hair matched her own. ever since then she's been hankering for it, and at last decided to get it. as she won't wear it till she goes off abroad, she knows nobody will recognize the change. i'm commissioned to get it for her, and then it is to be made up. i shouldn't have vamped all these miles for any less important employer. now, mind--'tis as much as my business with her is worth if it should be known that i've let out her name; but honor between us two, marty, and you'll say nothing that would injure me?" "i don't wish to tell upon her," said marty, coolly. "but my hair is my own, and i'm going to keep it." "now, that's not fair, after what i've told you," said the nettled barber. "you see, marty, as you are in the same parish, and in one of her cottages, and your father is ill, and wouldn't like to turn out, it would be as well to oblige her. i say that as a friend. but i won't press you to make up your mind to-night. you'll be coming to market to-morrow, i dare say, and you can call then. if you think it over you'll be inclined to bring what i want, i know." "i've nothing more to say," she answered. her companion saw from her manner that it was useless to urge her further by speech. "as you are a trusty young woman," he said, "i'll put these sovereigns up here for ornament, that you may see how handsome they are. bring the hair to-morrow, or return the sovereigns." he stuck them edgewise into the frame of a small mantle looking-glass. "i hope you'll bring it, for your sake and mine. i should have thought she could have suited herself elsewhere; but as it's her fancy it must be indulged if possible. if you cut it off yourself, mind how you do it so as to keep all the locks one way." he showed her how this was to be done. "but i sha'nt," she replied, with laconic indifference. "i value my looks too much to spoil 'em. she wants my hair to get another lover with; though if stories are true she's broke the heart of many a noble gentleman already." "lord, it's wonderful how you guess things, marty," said the barber. "i've had it from them that know that there certainly is some foreign gentleman in her eye. however, mind what i ask." "she's not going to get him through me." percombe had retired as far as the door; he came back, planted his cane on the coffin-stool, and looked her in the face. "marty south," he said, with deliberate emphasis, "you've got a lover yourself, and that's why you won't let it go!" she reddened so intensely as to pass the mild blush that suffices to heighten beauty; she put the yellow leather glove on one hand, took up the hook with the other, and sat down doggedly to her work without turning her face to him again. he regarded her head for a moment, went to the door, and with one look back at her, departed on his way homeward. marty pursued her occupation for a few minutes, then suddenly laying down the bill-hook, she jumped up and went to the back of the room, where she opened a door which disclosed a staircase so whitely scrubbed that the grain of the wood was wellnigh sodden away by such cleansing. at the top she gently approached a bedroom, and without entering, said, "father, do you want anything?" a weak voice inside answered in the negative; adding, "i should be all right by to-morrow if it were not for the tree!" "the tree again--always the tree! oh, father, don't worry so about that. you know it can do you no harm." "who have ye had talking to ye down-stairs?" "a sherton man called--nothing to trouble about," she said, soothingly. "father," she went on, "can mrs. charmond turn us out of our house if she's minded to?" "turn us out? no. nobody can turn us out till my poor soul is turned out of my body. 'tis life-hold, like ambrose winterborne's. but when my life drops 'twill be hers--not till then." his words on this subject so far had been rational and firm enough. but now he lapsed into his moaning strain: "and the tree will do it--that tree will soon be the death of me." "nonsense, you know better. how can it be?" she refrained from further speech, and descended to the ground-floor again. "thank heaven, then," she said to herself, "what belongs to me i keep." chapter iii. the lights in the village went out, house after house, till there only remained two in the darkness. one of these came from a residence on the hill-side, of which there is nothing to say at present; the other shone from the window of marty south. precisely the same outward effect was produced here, however, by her rising when the clock struck ten and hanging up a thick cloth curtain. the door it was necessary to keep ajar in hers, as in most cottages, because of the smoke; but she obviated the effect of the ribbon of light through the chink by hanging a cloth over that also. she was one of those people who, if they have to work harder than their neighbors, prefer to keep the necessity a secret as far as possible; and but for the slight sounds of wood-splintering which came from within, no wayfarer would have perceived that here the cottager did not sleep as elsewhere. eleven, twelve, one o'clock struck; the heap of spars grew higher, and the pile of chips and ends more bulky. even the light on the hill had now been extinguished; but still she worked on. when the temperature of the night without had fallen so low as to make her chilly, she opened a large blue umbrella to ward off the draught from the door. the two sovereigns confronted her from the looking-glass in such a manner as to suggest a pair of jaundiced eyes on the watch for an opportunity. whenever she sighed for weariness she lifted her gaze towards them, but withdrew it quickly, stroking her tresses with her fingers for a moment, as if to assure herself that they were still secure. when the clock struck three she arose and tied up the spars she had last made in a bundle resembling those that lay against the wall. she wrapped round her a long red woollen cravat and opened the door. the night in all its fulness met her flatly on the threshold, like the very brink of an absolute void, or the antemundane ginnung-gap believed in by her teuton forefathers. for her eyes were fresh from the blaze, and here there was no street-lamp or lantern to form a kindly transition between the inner glare and the outer dark. a lingering wind brought to her ear the creaking sound of two over-crowded branches in the neighboring wood which were rubbing each other into wounds, and other vocalized sorrows of the trees, together with the screech of owls, and the fluttering tumble of some awkward wood-pigeon ill-balanced on its roosting-bough. but the pupils of her young eyes soon expanded, and she could see well enough for her purpose. taking a bundle of spars under each arm, and guided by the serrated line of tree-tops against the sky, she went some hundred yards or more down the lane till she reached a long open shed, carpeted around with the dead leaves that lay about everywhere. night, that strange personality, which within walls brings ominous introspectiveness and self-distrust, but under the open sky banishes such subjective anxieties as too trivial for thought, inspired marty south with a less perturbed and brisker manner now. she laid the spars on the ground within the shed and returned for more, going to and fro till her whole manufactured stock were deposited here. this erection was the wagon-house of the chief man of business hereabout, mr. george melbury, the timber, bark, and copse-ware merchant for whom marty's father did work of this sort by the piece. it formed one of the many rambling out-houses which surrounded his dwelling, an equally irregular block of building, whose immense chimneys could just be discerned even now. the four huge wagons under the shed were built on those ancient lines whose proportions have been ousted by modern patterns, their shapes bulging and curving at the base and ends like trafalgar line-of-battle ships, with which venerable hulks, indeed, these vehicles evidenced a constructed spirit curiously in harmony. one was laden with sheep-cribs, another with hurdles, another with ash poles, and the fourth, at the foot of which she had placed her thatching-spars was half full of similar bundles. she was pausing a moment with that easeful sense of accomplishment which follows work done that has been a hard struggle in the doing, when she heard a woman's voice on the other side of the hedge say, anxiously, "george!" in a moment the name was repeated, with "do come indoors! what are you doing there?" the cart-house adjoined the garden, and before marty had moved she saw enter the latter from the timber-merchant's back door an elderly woman sheltering a candle with her hand, the light from which cast a moving thorn-pattern of shade on marty's face. its rays soon fell upon a man whose clothes were roughly thrown on, standing in advance of the speaker. he was a thin, slightly stooping figure, with a small nervous mouth and a face cleanly shaven; and he walked along the path with his eyes bent on the ground. in the pair marty south recognized her employer melbury and his wife. she was the second mrs. melbury, the first having died shortly after the birth of the timber-merchant's only child. "'tis no use to stay in bed," he said, as soon as she came up to where he was pacing restlessly about. "i can't sleep--i keep thinking of things, and worrying about the girl, till i'm quite in a fever of anxiety." he went on to say that he could not think why "she (marty knew he was speaking of his daughter) did not answer his letter. she must be ill--she must, certainly," he said. "no, no. 'tis all right, george," said his wife; and she assured him that such things always did appear so gloomy in the night-time, if people allowed their minds to run on them; that when morning came it was seen that such fears were nothing but shadows. "grace is as well as you or i," she declared. but he persisted that she did not see all--that she did not see as much as he. his daughter's not writing was only one part of his worry. on account of her he was anxious concerning money affairs, which he would never alarm his mind about otherwise. the reason he gave was that, as she had nobody to depend upon for a provision but himself, he wished her, when he was gone, to be securely out of risk of poverty. to this mrs. melbury replied that grace would be sure to marry well, and that hence a hundred pounds more or less from him would not make much difference. her husband said that that was what she, mrs. melbury, naturally thought; but there she was wrong, and in that lay the source of his trouble. "i have a plan in my head about her," he said; "and according to my plan she won't marry a rich man." "a plan for her not to marry well?" said his wife, surprised. "well, in one sense it is that," replied melbury. "it is a plan for her to marry a particular person, and as he has not so much money as she might expect, it might be called as you call it. i may not be able to carry it out; and even if i do, it may not be a good thing for her. i want her to marry giles winterborne." his companion repeated the name. "well, it is all right," she said, presently. "he adores the very ground she walks on; only he's close, and won't show it much." marty south appeared startled, and could not tear herself away. yes, the timber-merchant asserted, he knew that well enough. winterborne had been interested in his daughter for years; that was what had led him into the notion of their union. and he knew that she used to have no objection to him. but it was not any difficulty about that which embarrassed him. it was that, since he had educated her so well, and so long, and so far above the level of daughters thereabout, it was "wasting her" to give her to a man of no higher standing than the young man in question. "that's what i have been thinking," said mrs. melbury. "well, then, lucy, now you've hit it," answered the timber-merchant, with feeling. "there lies my trouble. i vowed to let her marry him, and to make her as valuable as i could to him by schooling her as many years and as thoroughly as possible. i mean to keep my vow. i made it because i did his father a terrible wrong; and it was a weight on my conscience ever since that time till this scheme of making amends occurred to me through seeing that giles liked her." "wronged his father?" asked mrs. melbury. "yes, grievously wronged him," said her husband. "well, don't think of it to-night," she urged. "come indoors." "no, no, the air cools my head. i shall not stay long." he was silent a while; then he told her, as nearly as marty could gather, that his first wife, his daughter grace's mother, was first the sweetheart of winterborne's father, who loved her tenderly, till he, the speaker, won her away from him by a trick, because he wanted to marry her himself. he sadly went on to say that the other man's happiness was ruined by it; that though he married winterborne's mother, it was but a half-hearted business with him. melbury added that he was afterwards very miserable at what he had done; but that as time went on, and the children grew up, and seemed to be attached to each other, he determined to do all he could to right the wrong by letting his daughter marry the lad; not only that, but to give her the best education he could afford, so as to make the gift as valuable a one as it lay in his power to bestow. "i still mean to do it," said melbury. "then do," said she. "but all these things trouble me," said he; "for i feel i am sacrificing her for my own sin; and i think of her, and often come down here and look at this." "look at what?" asked his wife. he took the candle from her hand, held it to the ground, and removed a tile which lay in the garden-path. "'tis the track of her shoe that she made when she ran down here the day before she went away all those months ago. i covered it up when she was gone; and when i come here and look at it, i ask myself again, why should she be sacrificed to a poor man?" "it is not altogether a sacrifice," said the woman. "he is in love with her, and he's honest and upright. if she encourages him, what can you wish for more?" "i wish for nothing definite. but there's a lot of things possible for her. why, mrs. charmond is wanting some refined young lady, i hear, to go abroad with her--as companion or something of the kind. she'd jump at grace." "that's all uncertain. better stick to what's sure." "true, true," said melbury; "and i hope it will be for the best. yes, let me get 'em married up as soon as i can, so as to have it over and done with." he continued looking at the imprint, while he added, "suppose she should be dying, and never make a track on this path any more?" "she'll write soon, depend upon't. come, 'tis wrong to stay here and brood so." he admitted it, but said he could not help it. "whether she write or no, i shall fetch her in a few days." and thus speaking, he covered the track, and preceded his wife indoors. melbury, perhaps, was an unlucky man in having within him the sentiment which could indulge in this foolish fondness about the imprint of a daughter's footstep. nature does not carry on her government with a view to such feelings, and when advancing years render the open hearts of those who possess them less dexterous than formerly in shutting against the blast, they must suffer "buffeting at will by rain and storm" no less than little celandines. but her own existence, and not mr. melbury's, was the centre of marty's consciousness, and it was in relation to this that the matter struck her as she slowly withdrew. "that, then, is the secret of it all," she said. "and giles winterborne is not for me, and the less i think of him the better." she returned to her cottage. the sovereigns were staring at her from the looking-glass as she had left them. with a preoccupied countenance, and with tears in her eyes, she got a pair of scissors, and began mercilessly cutting off the long locks of her hair, arranging and tying them with their points all one way, as the barber had directed. upon the pale scrubbed deal of the coffin-stool table they stretched like waving and ropy weeds over the washed gravel-bed of a clear stream. she would not turn again to the little looking-glass, out of humanity to herself, knowing what a deflowered visage would look back at her, and almost break her heart; she dreaded it as much as did her own ancestral goddess sif the reflection in the pool after the rape of her locks by loke the malicious. she steadily stuck to business, wrapped the hair in a parcel, and sealed it up, after which she raked out the fire and went to bed, having first set up an alarum made of a candle and piece of thread, with a stone attached. but such a reminder was unnecessary to-night. having tossed till about five o'clock, marty heard the sparrows walking down their long holes in the thatch above her sloping ceiling to their orifice at the eaves; whereupon she also arose, and descended to the ground-floor again. it was still dark, but she began moving about the house in those automatic initiatory acts and touches which represent among housewives the installation of another day. while thus engaged she heard the rumbling of mr. melbury's wagons, and knew that there, too, the day's toil had begun. an armful of gads thrown on the still hot embers caused them to blaze up cheerfully and bring her diminished head-gear into sudden prominence as a shadow. at this a step approached the door. "are folk astir here yet?" inquired a voice she knew well. "yes, mr. winterborne," said marty, throwing on a tilt bonnet, which completely hid the recent ravages of the scissors. "come in!" the door was flung back, and there stepped in upon the mat a man not particularly young for a lover, nor particularly mature for a person of affairs. there was reserve in his glance, and restraint upon his mouth. he carried a horn lantern which hung upon a swivel, and wheeling as it dangled marked grotesque shapes upon the shadier part of the walls. he said that he had looked in on his way down, to tell her that they did not expect her father to make up his contract if he was not well. mr. melbury would give him another week, and they would go their journey with a short load that day. "they are done," said marty, "and lying in the cart-house." "done!" he repeated. "your father has not been too ill to work after all, then?" she made some evasive reply. "i'll show you where they be, if you are going down," she added. they went out and walked together, the pattern of the air-holes in the top of the lantern being thrown upon the mist overhead, where they appeared of giant size, as if reaching the tent-shaped sky. they had no remarks to make to each other, and they uttered none. hardly anything could be more isolated or more self-contained than the lives of these two walking here in the lonely antelucan hour, when gray shades, material and mental, are so very gray. and yet, looked at in a certain way, their lonely courses formed no detached design at all, but were part of the pattern in the great web of human doings then weaving in both hemispheres, from the white sea to cape horn. the shed was reached, and she pointed out the spars. winterborne regarded them silently, then looked at her. "now, marty, i believe--" he said, and shook his head. "what?" "that you've done the work yourself." "don't you tell anybody, will you, mr. winterborne?" she pleaded, by way of answer. "because i am afraid mr. melbury may refuse my work if he knows it is mine." "but how could you learn to do it? 'tis a trade." "trade!" said she. "i'd be bound to learn it in two hours." "oh no, you wouldn't, mrs. marty." winterborne held down his lantern, and examined the cleanly split hazels as they lay. "marty," he said, with dry admiration, "your father with his forty years of practice never made a spar better than that. they are too good for the thatching of houses--they are good enough for the furniture. but i won't tell. let me look at your hands--your poor hands!" he had a kindly manner of a quietly severe tone; and when she seemed reluctant to show her hands, he took hold of one and examined it as if it were his own. her fingers were blistered. "they'll get harder in time," she said. "for if father continues ill, i shall have to go on wi' it. now i'll help put 'em up in wagon." winterborne without speaking set down his lantern, lifted her as she was about to stoop over the bundles, placed her behind him, and began throwing up the bundles himself. "rather than you should do it i will," he said. "but the men will be here directly. why, marty!--whatever has happened to your head? lord, it has shrunk to nothing--it looks an apple upon a gate-post!" her heart swelled, and she could not speak. at length she managed to groan, looking on the ground, "i've made myself ugly--and hateful--that's what i've done!" "no, no," he answered. "you've only cut your hair--i see now." "then why must you needs say that about apples and gate-posts?" "let me see." "no, no!" she ran off into the gloom of the sluggish dawn. he did not attempt to follow her. when she reached her father's door she stood on the step and looked back. mr. melbury's men had arrived, and were loading up the spars, and their lanterns appeared from the distance at which she stood to have wan circles round them, like eyes weary with watching. she observed them for a few seconds as they set about harnessing the horses, and then went indoors. chapter iv. there was now a distinct manifestation of morning in the air, and presently the bleared white visage of a sunless winter day emerged like a dead-born child. the villagers everywhere had already bestirred themselves, rising at this time of the year at the far less dreary hour of absolute darkness. it had been above an hour earlier, before a single bird had untucked his head, that twenty lights were struck in as many bedrooms, twenty pairs of shutters opened, and twenty pairs of eyes stretched to the sky to forecast the weather for the day. owls that had been catching mice in the out-houses, rabbits that had been eating the wintergreens in the gardens, and stoats that had been sucking the blood of the rabbits, discerning that their human neighbors were on the move, discreetly withdrew from publicity, and were seen and heard no more that day. the daylight revealed the whole of mr. melbury's homestead, of which the wagon-sheds had been an outlying erection. it formed three sides of an open quadrangle, and consisted of all sorts of buildings, the largest and central one being the dwelling itself. the fourth side of the quadrangle was the public road. it was a dwelling-house of respectable, roomy, almost dignified aspect; which, taken with the fact that there were the remains of other such buildings thereabout, indicated that little hintock had at some time or other been of greater importance than now, as its old name of hintock st. osmond also testified. the house was of no marked antiquity, yet of well-advanced age; older than a stale novelty, but no canonized antique; faded, not hoary; looking at you from the still distinct middle-distance of the early georgian time, and awakening on that account the instincts of reminiscence more decidedly than the remoter and far grander memorials which have to speak from the misty reaches of mediaevalism. the faces, dress, passions, gratitudes, and revenues of the great-great-grandfathers and grandmothers who had been the first to gaze from those rectangular windows, and had stood under that key-stoned doorway, could be divined and measured by homely standards of to-day. it was a house in whose reverberations queer old personal tales were yet audible if properly listened for; and not, as with those of the castle and cloister, silent beyond the possibility of echo. the garden-front remained much as it had always been, and there was a porch and entrance that way. but the principal house-door opened on the square yard or quadrangle towards the road, formerly a regular carriage entrance, though the middle of the area was now made use of for stacking timber, fagots, bundles, and other products of the wood. it was divided from the lane by a lichen-coated wall, in which hung a pair of gates, flanked by piers out of the perpendicular, with a round white ball on the top of each. the building on the left of the enclosure was a long-backed erection, now used for spar-making, sawing, crib-framing, and copse-ware manufacture in general. opposite were the wagon-sheds where marty had deposited her spars. here winterborne had remained after the girl's abrupt departure, to see that the wagon-loads were properly made up. winterborne was connected with the melbury family in various ways. in addition to the sentimental relationship which arose from his father having been the first mrs. melbury's lover, winterborne's aunt had married and emigrated with the brother of the timber-merchant many years before--an alliance that was sufficient to place winterborne, though the poorer, on a footing of social intimacy with the melburys. as in most villages so secluded as this, intermarriages were of hapsburgian frequency among the inhabitants, and there were hardly two houses in little hintock unrelated by some matrimonial tie or other. for this reason a curious kind of partnership existed between melbury and the younger man--a partnership based upon an unwritten code, by which each acted in the way he thought fair towards the other, on a give-and-take principle. melbury, with his timber and copse-ware business, found that the weight of his labor came in winter and spring. winterborne was in the apple and cider trade, and his requirements in cartage and other work came in the autumn of each year. hence horses, wagons, and in some degree men, were handed over to him when the apples began to fall; he, in return, lending his assistance to melbury in the busiest wood-cutting season, as now. before he had left the shed a boy came from the house to ask him to remain till mr. melbury had seen him. winterborne thereupon crossed over to the spar-house where two or three men were already at work, two of them being travelling spar-makers from white-hart lane, who, when this kind of work began, made their appearance regularly, and when it was over disappeared in silence till the season came again. firewood was the one thing abundant in little hintock; and a blaze of gad-cuds made the outhouse gay with its light, which vied with that of the day as yet. in the hollow shades of the roof could be seen dangling etiolated arms of ivy which had crept through the joints of the tiles and were groping in vain for some support, their leaves being dwarfed and sickly for want of sunlight; others were pushing in with such force at the eaves as to lift from their supports the shelves that were fixed there. besides the itinerant journey-workers there were also present john upjohn, engaged in the hollow-turnery trade, who lived hard by; old timothy tangs and young timothy tangs, top and bottom sawyers, at work in mr. melbury's pit outside; farmer bawtree, who kept the cider-house, and robert creedle, an old man who worked for winterborne, and stood warming his hands; these latter being enticed in by the ruddy blaze, though they had no particular business there. none of them call for any remark except, perhaps, creedle. to have completely described him it would have been necessary to write a military memoir, for he wore under his smock-frock a cast-off soldier's jacket that had seen hot service, its collar showing just above the flap of the frock; also a hunting memoir, to include the top-boots that he had picked up by chance; also chronicles of voyaging and shipwreck, for his pocket-knife had been given him by a weather-beaten sailor. but creedle carried about with him on his uneventful rounds these silent testimonies of war, sport, and adventure, and thought nothing of their associations or their stories. copse-work, as it was called, being an occupation which the secondary intelligence of the hands and arms could carry on without requiring the sovereign attention of the head, the minds of its professors wandered considerably from the objects before them; hence the tales, chronicles, and ramifications of family history which were recounted here were of a very exhaustive kind, and sometimes so interminable as to defy description. winterborne, seeing that melbury had not arrived, stepped back again outside the door; and the conversation interrupted by his momentary presence flowed anew, reaching his ears as an accompaniment to the regular dripping of the fog from the plantation boughs around. the topic at present handled was a highly popular and frequent one--the personal character of mrs. charmond, the owner of the surrounding woods and groves. "my brother-in-law told me, and i have no reason to doubt it," said creedle, "that she'd sit down to her dinner with a frock hardly higher than her elbows. 'oh, you wicked woman!' he said to himself when he first see her, 'you go to your church, and sit, and kneel, as if your knee-jints were greased with very saint's anointment, and tell off your hear-us-good-lords like a business man counting money; and yet you can eat your victuals such a figure as that!' whether she's a reformed character by this time i can't say; but i don't care who the man is, that's how she went on when my brother-in-law lived there." "did she do it in her husband's time?" "that i don't know--hardly, i should think, considering his temper. ah!" here creedle threw grieved remembrance into physical form by slowly resigning his head to obliquity and letting his eyes water. "that man! 'not if the angels of heaven come down, creedle,' he said, 'shall you do another day's work for me!' yes--he'd say anything--anything; and would as soon take a winged creature's name in vain as yours or mine! well, now i must get these spars home-along, and to-morrow, thank god, i must see about using 'em." an old woman now entered upon the scene. she was mr. melbury's servant, and passed a great part of her time in crossing the yard between the house-door and the spar-shed, whither she had come now for fuel. she had two facial aspects--one, of a soft and flexible kind, she used indoors when assisting about the parlor or upstairs; the other, with stiff lines and corners, when she was bustling among the men in the spar-house or out-of-doors. "ah, grammer oliver," said john upjohn, "it do do my heart good to see a old woman like you so dapper and stirring, when i bear in mind that after fifty one year counts as two did afore! but your smoke didn't rise this morning till twenty minutes past seven by my beater; and that's late, grammer oliver." "if you was a full-sized man, john, people might take notice of your scornful meanings. but your growing up was such a scrimped and scanty business that really a woman couldn't feel hurt if you were to spit fire and brimstone itself at her. here," she added, holding out a spar-gad to one of the workmen, from which dangled a long black-pudding--"here's something for thy breakfast, and if you want tea you must fetch it from in-doors." "mr. melbury is late this morning," said the bottom-sawyer. "yes. 'twas a dark dawn," said mrs. oliver. "even when i opened the door, so late as i was, you couldn't have told poor men from gentlemen, or john from a reasonable-sized object. and i don't think maister's slept at all well to-night. he's anxious about his daughter; and i know what that is, for i've cried bucketfuls for my own." when the old woman had gone creedle said, "he'll fret his gizzard green if he don't soon hear from that maid of his. well, learning is better than houses and lands. but to keep a maid at school till she is taller out of pattens than her mother was in 'em--'tis tempting providence." "it seems no time ago that she was a little playward girl," said young timothy tangs. "i can mind her mother," said the hollow-turner. "always a teuny, delicate piece; her touch upon your hand was as soft and cool as wind. she was inoculated for the small-pox and had it beautifully fine, just about the time that i was out of my apprenticeship--ay, and a long apprenticeship 'twas. i served that master of mine six years and three hundred and fourteen days." the hollow-turner pronounced the days with emphasis, as if, considering their number, they were a rather more remarkable fact than the years. "mr. winterborne's father walked with her at one time," said old timothy tangs. "but mr. melbury won her. she was a child of a woman, and would cry like rain if so be he huffed her. whenever she and her husband came to a puddle in their walks together he'd take her up like a half-penny doll and put her over without dirting her a speck. and if he keeps the daughter so long at boarding-school, he'll make her as nesh as her mother was. but here he comes." just before this moment winterborne had seen melbury crossing the court from his door. he was carrying an open letter in his hand, and came straight to winterborne. his gloom of the preceding night had quite gone. "i'd no sooner made up my mind, giles, to go and see why grace didn't come or write than i get a letter from her--'clifton: wednesday. my dear father,' says she, 'i'm coming home to-morrow' (that's to-day), 'but i didn't think it worth while to write long beforehand.' the little rascal, and didn't she! now, giles, as you are going to sherton market to-day with your apple-trees, why not join me and grace there, and we'll drive home all together?" he made the proposal with cheerful energy; he was hardly the same man as the man of the small dark hours. ever it happens that even among the moodiest the tendency to be cheered is stronger than the tendency to be cast down; and a soul's specific gravity stands permanently less than that of the sea of troubles into which it is thrown. winterborne, though not demonstrative, replied to this suggestion with something like alacrity. there was not much doubt that marty's grounds for cutting off her hair were substantial enough, if ambrose's eyes had been a reason for keeping it on. as for the timber-merchant, it was plain that his invitation had been given solely in pursuance of his scheme for uniting the pair. he had made up his mind to the course as a duty, and was strenuously bent upon following it out. accompanied by winterborne, he now turned towards the door of the spar-house, when his footsteps were heard by the men as aforesaid. "well, john, and lot," he said, nodding as he entered. "a rimy morning." "'tis, sir!" said creedle, energetically; for, not having as yet been able to summon force sufficient to go away and begin work, he felt the necessity of throwing some into his speech. "i don't care who the man is, 'tis the rimiest morning we've had this fall." "i heard you wondering why i've kept my daughter so long at boarding-school," resumed mr. melbury, looking up from the letter which he was reading anew by the fire, and turning to them with the suddenness that was a trait in him. "hey?" he asked, with affected shrewdness. "but you did, you know. well, now, though it is my own business more than anybody else's, i'll tell ye. when i was a boy, another boy--the pa'son's son--along with a lot of others, asked me 'who dragged whom round the walls of what?' and i said, 'sam barrett, who dragged his wife in a chair round the tower corner when she went to be churched.' they laughed at me with such torrents of scorn that i went home ashamed, and couldn't sleep for shame; and i cried that night till my pillow was wet: till at last i thought to myself there and then--'they may laugh at me for my ignorance, but that was father's fault, and none o' my making, and i must bear it. but they shall never laugh at my children, if i have any: i'll starve first!' thank god, i've been able to keep her at school without sacrifice; and her scholarship is such that she stayed on as governess for a time. let 'em laugh now if they can: mrs. charmond herself is not better informed than my girl grace." there was something between high indifference and humble emotion in his delivery, which made it difficult for them to reply. winterborne's interest was of a kind which did not show itself in words; listening, he stood by the fire, mechanically stirring the embers with a spar-gad. "you'll be, then, ready, giles?" melbury continued, awaking from a reverie. "well, what was the latest news at shottsford yesterday, mr. bawtree?" "well, shottsford is shottsford still--you can't victual your carcass there unless you've got money; and you can't buy a cup of genuine there, whether or no....but as the saying is, 'go abroad and you'll hear news of home.' it seems that our new neighbor, this young dr. what's-his-name, is a strange, deep, perusing gentleman; and there's good reason for supposing he has sold his soul to the wicked one." "'od name it all," murmured the timber-merchant, unimpressed by the news, but reminded of other things by the subject of it; "i've got to meet a gentleman this very morning? and yet i've planned to go to sherton abbas for the maid." "i won't praise the doctor's wisdom till i hear what sort of bargain he's made," said the top-sawyer. "'tis only an old woman's tale," said bawtree. "but it seems that he wanted certain books on some mysterious science or black-art, and in order that the people hereabout should not know anything about his dark readings, he ordered 'em direct from london, and not from the sherton book-seller. the parcel was delivered by mistake at the pa'son's, and he wasn't at home; so his wife opened it, and went into hysterics when she read 'em, thinking her husband had turned heathen, and 'twould be the ruin of the children. but when he came he said he knew no more about 'em than she; and found they were this mr. fitzpier's property. so he wrote 'beware!' outside, and sent 'em on by the sexton." "he must be a curious young man," mused the hollow-turner. "he must," said timothy tangs. "nonsense," said mr. melbury, authoritatively, "he's only a gentleman fond of science and philosophy and poetry, and, in fact, every kind of knowledge; and being lonely here, he passes his time in making such matters his hobby." "well," said old timothy, "'tis a strange thing about doctors that the worse they be the better they be. i mean that if you hear anything of this sort about 'em, ten to one they can cure ye as nobody else can." "true," said bawtree, emphatically. "and for my part i shall take my custom from old jones and go to this one directly i've anything the matter with me. that last medicine old jones gave me had no taste in it at all." mr. melbury, as became a well-informed man, did not listen to these recitals, being moreover preoccupied with the business appointment which had come into his head. he walked up and down, looking on the floor--his usual custom when undecided. that stiffness about the arm, hip, and knee-joint which was apparent when he walked was the net product of the divers sprains and over-exertions that had been required of him in handling trees and timber when a young man, for he was of the sort called self-made, and had worked hard. he knew the origin of every one of these cramps: that in his left shoulder had come of carrying a pollard, unassisted, from tutcombe bottom home; that in one leg was caused by the crash of an elm against it when they were felling; that in the other was from lifting a bole. on many a morrow after wearying himself by these prodigious muscular efforts, he had risen from his bed fresh as usual; his lassitude had departed, apparently forever; and confident in the recuperative power of his youth, he had repeated the strains anew. but treacherous time had been only hiding ill results when they could be guarded against, for greater accumulation when they could not. in his declining years the store had been unfolded in the form of rheumatisms, pricks, and spasms, in every one of which melbury recognized some act which, had its consequence been contemporaneously made known, he would wisely have abstained from repeating. on a summons by grammer oliver to breakfast, he left the shed. reaching the kitchen, where the family breakfasted in winter to save house-labor, he sat down by the fire, and looked a long time at the pair of dancing shadows cast by each fire-iron and dog-knob on the whitewashed chimney-corner--a yellow one from the window, and a blue one from the fire. "i don't quite know what to do to-day," he said to his wife at last. "i've recollected that i promised to meet mrs. charmond's steward in round wood at twelve o'clock, and yet i want to go for grace." "why not let giles fetch her by himself? 'twill bring 'em together all the quicker." "i could do that--but i should like to go myself. i always have gone, without fail, every time hitherto. it has been a great pleasure to drive into sherton, and wait and see her arrive; and perhaps she'll be disappointed if i stay away." "you may be disappointed, but i don't think she will, if you send giles," said mrs. melbury, dryly. "very well--i'll send him." melbury was often persuaded by the quietude of his wife's words when strenuous argument would have had no effect. this second mrs. melbury was a placid woman, who had been nurse to his child grace before her mother's death. after that melancholy event little grace had clung to the nurse with much affection; and ultimately melbury, in dread lest the only woman who cared for the girl should be induced to leave her, persuaded the mild lucy to marry him. the arrangement--for it was little more--had worked satisfactorily enough; grace had thriven, and melbury had not repented. he returned to the spar-house and found giles near at hand, to whom he explained the change of plan. "as she won't arrive till five o'clock, you can get your business very well over in time to receive her," said melbury. "the green gig will do for her; you'll spin along quicker with that, and won't be late upon the road. her boxes can be called for by one of the wagons." winterborne, knowing nothing of the timber-merchant's restitutory aims, quietly thought all this to be a kindly chance. wishing even more than her father to despatch his apple-tree business in the market before grace's arrival, he prepared to start at once. melbury was careful that the turnout should be seemly. the gig-wheels, for instance, were not always washed during winter-time before a journey, the muddy roads rendering that labor useless; but they were washed to-day. the harness was blacked, and when the rather elderly white horse had been put in, and winterborne was in his seat ready to start, mr. melbury stepped out with a blacking-brush, and with his own hands touched over the yellow hoofs of the animal. "you see, giles," he said, as he blacked, "coming from a fashionable school, she might feel shocked at the homeliness of home; and 'tis these little things that catch a dainty woman's eye if they are neglected. we, living here alone, don't notice how the whitey-brown creeps out of the earth over us; but she, fresh from a city--why, she'll notice everything!" "that she will," said giles. "and scorn us if we don't mind." "not scorn us." "no, no, no--that's only words. she's too good a girl to do that. but when we consider what she knows, and what she has seen since she last saw us, 'tis as well to meet her views as nearly as possible. why, 'tis a year since she was in this old place, owing to her going abroad in the summer, which i agreed to, thinking it best for her; and naturally we shall look small, just at first--i only say just at first." mr. melbury's tone evinced a certain exultation in the very sense of that inferiority he affected to deplore; for this advanced and refined being, was she not his own all the time? not so giles; he felt doubtful--perhaps a trifle cynical--for that strand was wound into him with the rest. he looked at his clothes with misgiving, then with indifference. it was his custom during the planting season to carry a specimen apple-tree to market with him as an advertisement of what he dealt in. this had been tied across the gig; and as it would be left behind in the town, it would cause no inconvenience to miss grace melbury coming home. he drove away, the twigs nodding with each step of the horse; and melbury went in-doors. before the gig had passed out of sight, mr. melbury reappeared and shouted after-- "here, giles," he said, breathlessly following with some wraps, "it may be very chilly to-night, and she may want something extra about her. and, giles," he added, when the young man, having taken the articles, put the horse in motion once more, "tell her that i should have come myself, but i had particular business with mrs. charmond's agent, which prevented me. don't forget." he watched winterborne out of sight, saying, with a jerk--a shape into which emotion with him often resolved itself--"there, now, i hope the two will bring it to a point and have done with it! 'tis a pity to let such a girl throw herself away upon him--a thousand pities!...and yet 'tis my duty for his father's sake." chapter v. winterborne sped on his way to sherton abbas without elation and without discomposure. had he regarded his inner self spectacularly, as lovers are now daily more wont to do, he might have felt pride in the discernment of a somewhat rare power in him--that of keeping not only judgment but emotion suspended in difficult cases. but he noted it not. neither did he observe what was also the fact, that though he cherished a true and warm feeling towards grace melbury, he was not altogether her fool just now. it must be remembered that he had not seen her for a year. arrived at the entrance to a long flat lane, which had taken the spirit out of many a pedestrian in times when, with the majority, to travel meant to walk, he saw before him the trim figure of a young woman in pattens, journeying with that steadfast concentration which means purpose and not pleasure. he was soon near enough to see that she was marty south. click, click, click went the pattens; and she did not turn her head. she had, however, become aware before this that the driver of the approaching gig was giles. she had shrunk from being overtaken by him thus; but as it was inevitable, she had braced herself up for his inspection by closing her lips so as to make her mouth quite unemotional, and by throwing an additional firmness into her tread. "why do you wear pattens, marty? the turnpike is clean enough, although the lanes are muddy." "they save my boots." "but twelve miles in pattens--'twill twist your feet off. come, get up and ride with me." she hesitated, removed her pattens, knocked the gravel out of them against the wheel, and mounted in front of the nodding specimen apple-tree. she had so arranged her bonnet with a full border and trimmings that her lack of long hair did not much injure her appearance; though giles, of course, saw that it was gone, and may have guessed her motive in parting with it, such sales, though infrequent, being not unheard of in that locality. but nature's adornment was still hard by--in fact, within two feet of him, though he did not know it. in marty's basket was a brown paper packet, and in the packet the chestnut locks, which, by reason of the barber's request for secrecy, she had not ventured to intrust to other hands. giles asked, with some hesitation, how her father was getting on. he was better, she said; he would be able to work in a day or two; he would be quite well but for his craze about the tree falling on him. "you know why i don't ask for him so often as i might, i suppose?" said winterborne. "or don't you know?" "i think i do." "because of the houses?" she nodded. "yes. i am afraid it may seem that my anxiety is about those houses, which i should lose by his death, more than about him. marty, i do feel anxious about the houses, since half my income depends upon them; but i do likewise care for him; and it almost seems wrong that houses should be leased for lives, so as to lead to such mixed feelings." "after father's death they will be mrs. charmond's?" "they'll be hers." "they are going to keep company with my hair," she thought. thus talking, they reached the town. by no pressure would she ride up the street with him. "that's the right of another woman," she said, with playful malice, as she put on her pattens. "i wonder what you are thinking of! thank you for the lift in that handsome gig. good-by." he blushed a little, shook his head at her, and drove on ahead into the streets--the churches, the abbey, and other buildings on this clear bright morning having the liny distinctness of architectural drawings, as if the original dream and vision of the conceiving master-mason, some mediaeval vilars or other unknown to fame, were for a few minutes flashed down through the centuries to an unappreciative age. giles saw their eloquent look on this day of transparency, but could not construe it. he turned into the inn-yard. marty, following the same track, marched promptly to the hair-dresser's, mr. percombe's. percombe was the chief of his trade in sherton abbas. he had the patronage of such county offshoots as had been obliged to seek the shelter of small houses in that ancient town, of the local clergy, and so on, for some of whom he had made wigs, while others among them had compensated for neglecting him in their lifetime by patronizing him when they were dead, and letting him shave their corpses. on the strength of all this he had taken down his pole, and called himself "perruquier to the aristocracy." nevertheless, this sort of support did not quite fill his children's mouths, and they had to be filled. so, behind his house there was a little yard, reached by a passage from the back street, and in that yard was a pole, and under the pole a shop of quite another description than the ornamental one in the front street. here on saturday nights from seven till ten he took an almost innumerable succession of twopences from the farm laborers who flocked thither in crowds from the country. and thus he lived. marty, of course, went to the front shop, and handed her packet to him silently. "thank you," said the barber, quite joyfully. "i hardly expected it after what you said last night." she turned aside, while a tear welled up and stood in each eye at this reminder. "nothing of what i told you," he whispered, there being others in the shop. "but i can trust you, i see." she had now reached the end of this distressing business, and went listlessly along the street to attend to other errands. these occupied her till four o'clock, at which time she recrossed the market-place. it was impossible to avoid rediscovering winterborne every time she passed that way, for standing, as he always did at this season of the year, with his specimen apple-tree in the midst, the boughs rose above the heads of the crowd, and brought a delightful suggestion of orchards among the crowded buildings there. when her eye fell upon him for the last time he was standing somewhat apart, holding the tree like an ensign, and looking on the ground instead of pushing his produce as he ought to have been doing. he was, in fact, not a very successful seller either of his trees or of his cider, his habit of speaking his mind, when he spoke at all, militating against this branch of his business. while she regarded him he suddenly lifted his eyes in a direction away from marty, his face simultaneously kindling with recognition and surprise. she followed his gaze, and saw walking across to him a flexible young creature in whom she perceived the features of her she had known as miss grace melbury, but now looking glorified and refined above her former level. winterborne, being fixed to the spot by his apple-tree, could not advance to meet her; he held out his spare hand with his hat in it, and with some embarrassment beheld her coming on tiptoe through the mud to the middle of the square where he stood. miss melbury's arrival so early was, as marty could see, unexpected by giles, which accounted for his not being ready to receive her. indeed, her father had named five o'clock as her probable time, for which reason that hour had been looming out all the day in his forward perspective, like an important edifice on a plain. now here she was come, he knew not how, and his arranged welcome stultified. his face became gloomy at her necessity for stepping into the road, and more still at the little look of embarrassment which appeared on hers at having to perform the meeting with him under an apple-tree ten feet high in the middle of the market-place. having had occasion to take off the new gloves she had bought to come home in, she held out to him a hand graduating from pink at the tips of the fingers to white at the palm; and the reception formed a scene, with the tree over their heads, which was not by any means an ordinary one in sherton abbas streets. nevertheless, the greeting on her looks and lips was of a restrained type, which perhaps was not unnatural. for true it was that giles winterborne, well-attired and well-mannered as he was for a yeoman, looked rough beside her. it had sometimes dimly occurred to him, in his ruminating silence at little hintock, that external phenomena--such as the lowness or height or color of a hat, the fold of a coat, the make of a boot, or the chance attitude or occupation of a limb at the instant of view--may have a great influence upon feminine opinion of a man's worth--so frequently founded on non-essentials; but a certain causticity of mental tone towards himself and the world in general had prevented to-day, as always, any enthusiastic action on the strength of that reflection; and her momentary instinct of reserve at first sight of him was the penalty he paid for his laxness. he gave away the tree to a by-stander, as soon as he could find one who would accept the cumbersome gift, and the twain moved on towards the inn at which he had put up. marty made as if to step forward for the pleasure of being recognized by miss melbury; but abruptly checking herself, she glided behind a carrier's van, saying, dryly, "no; i baint wanted there," and critically regarded winterborne's companion. it would have been very difficult to describe grace melbury with precision, either now or at any time. nay, from the highest point of view, to precisely describe a human being, the focus of a universe--how impossible! but, apart from transcendentalism, there never probably lived a person who was in herself more completely a reductio ad absurdum of attempts to appraise a woman, even externally, by items of face and figure. speaking generally, it may be said that she was sometimes beautiful, at other times not beautiful, according to the state of her health and spirits. in simple corporeal presentment she was of a fair and clear complexion, rather pale than pink, slim in build and elastic in movement. her look expressed a tendency to wait for others' thoughts before uttering her own; possibly also to wait for others' deeds before her own doing. in her small, delicate mouth, which had perhaps hardly settled down to its matured curves, there was a gentleness that might hinder sufficient self-assertion for her own good. she had well-formed eyebrows which, had her portrait been painted, would probably have been done in prout's or vandyke brown. there was nothing remarkable in her dress just now, beyond a natural fitness and a style that was recent for the streets of sherton. but, indeed, had it been the reverse, and quite striking, it would have meant just as little. for there can be hardly anything less connected with a woman's personality than drapery which she has neither designed, manufactured, cut, sewed, or even seen, except by a glance of approval when told that such and such a shape and color must be had because it has been decided by others as imperative at that particular time. what people, therefore, saw of her in a cursory view was very little; in truth, mainly something that was not she. the woman herself was a shadowy, conjectural creature who had little to do with the outlines presented to sherton eyes; a shape in the gloom, whose true description could only be approximated by putting together a movement now and a glance then, in that patient and long-continued attentiveness which nothing but watchful loving-kindness ever troubles to give. there was a little delay in their setting out from the town, and marty south took advantage of it to hasten forward, with the view of escaping them on the way, lest they should feel compelled to spoil their tete-a-tete by asking her to ride. she walked fast, and one-third of the journey was done, and the evening rapidly darkening, before she perceived any sign of them behind her. then, while ascending a hill, she dimly saw their vehicle drawing near the lowest part of the incline, their heads slightly bent towards each other; drawn together, no doubt, by their souls, as the heads of a pair of horses well in hand are drawn in by the rein. she walked still faster. but between these and herself there was a carriage, apparently a brougham, coming in the same direction, with lighted lamps. when it overtook her--which was not soon, on account of her pace--the scene was much darker, and the lights glared in her eyes sufficiently to hide the details of the equipage. it occurred to marty that she might take hold behind this carriage and so keep along with it, to save herself the mortification of being overtaken and picked up for pity's sake by the coming pair. accordingly, as the carriage drew abreast of her in climbing the long ascent, she walked close to the wheels, the rays of the nearest lamp penetrating her very pores. she had only just dropped behind when the carriage stopped, and to her surprise the coachman asked her, over his shoulder, if she would ride. what made the question more surprising was that it came in obedience to an order from the interior of the vehicle. marty gladly assented, for she was weary, very weary, after working all night and keeping afoot all day. she mounted beside the coachman, wondering why this good-fortune had happened to her. he was rather a great man in aspect, and she did not like to inquire of him for some time. at last she said, "who has been so kind as to ask me to ride?" "mrs. charmond," replied her statuesque companion. marty was stirred at the name, so closely connected with her last night's experiences. "is this her carriage?" she whispered. "yes; she's inside." marty reflected, and perceived that mrs. charmond must have recognized her plodding up the hill under the blaze of the lamp; recognized, probably, her stubbly poll (since she had kept away her face), and thought that those stubbles were the result of her own desire. marty south was not so very far wrong. inside the carriage a pair of bright eyes looked from a ripely handsome face, and though behind those bright eyes was a mind of unfathomed mysteries, beneath them there beat a heart capable of quick extempore warmth--a heart which could, indeed, be passionately and imprudently warm on certain occasions. at present, after recognizing the girl, she had acted on a mere impulse, possibly feeling gratified at the denuded appearance which signified the success of her agent in obtaining what she had required. "'tis wonderful that she should ask ye," observed the magisterial coachman, presently. "i have never known her do it before, for as a rule she takes no interest in the village folk at all." marty said no more, but occasionally turned her head to see if she could get a glimpse of the olympian creature who as the coachman had truly observed, hardly ever descended from her clouds into the tempe of the parishioners. but she could discern nothing of the lady. she also looked for miss melbury and winterborne. the nose of their horse sometimes came quite near the back of mrs. charmond's carriage. but they never attempted to pass it till the latter conveyance turned towards the park gate, when they sped by. here the carriage drew up that the gate might be opened, and in the momentary silence marty heard a gentle oral sound, soft as a breeze. "what's that?" she whispered. "mis'ess yawning." "why should she yawn?" "oh, because she's been used to such wonderfully good life, and finds it dull here. she'll soon be off again on account of it." "so rich and so powerful, and yet to yawn!" the girl murmured. "then things don't fay with she any more than with we!" marty now alighted; the lamp again shone upon her, and as the carriage rolled on, a soft voice said to her from the interior, "good-night." "good-night, ma'am," said marty. but she had not been able to see the woman who began so greatly to interest her--the second person of her own sex who had operated strongly on her mind that day. chapter vi. meanwhile, winterborne and grace melbury had also undergone their little experiences of the same homeward journey. as he drove off with her out of the town the glances of people fell upon them, the younger thinking that mr. winterborne was in a pleasant place, and wondering in what relation he stood towards her. winterborne himself was unconscious of this. occupied solely with the idea of having her in charge, he did not notice much with outward eye, neither observing how she was dressed, nor the effect of the picture they together composed in the landscape. their conversation was in briefest phrase for some time, grace being somewhat disconcerted, through not having understood till they were about to start that giles was to be her sole conductor in place of her father. when they were in the open country he spoke. "don't brownley's farm-buildings look strange to you, now they have been moved bodily from the hollow where the old ones stood to the top of the hill?" she admitted that they did, though she should not have seen any difference in them if he had not pointed it out. "they had a good crop of bitter-sweets; they couldn't grind them all" (nodding towards an orchard where some heaps of apples had been left lying ever since the ingathering). she said "yes," but looking at another orchard. "why, you are looking at john-apple-trees! you know bitter-sweets--you used to well enough!" "i am afraid i have forgotten, and it is getting too dark to distinguish." winterborne did not continue. it seemed as if the knowledge and interest which had formerly moved grace's mind had quite died away from her. he wondered whether the special attributes of his image in the past had evaporated like these other things. however that might be, the fact at present was merely this, that where he was seeing john-apples and farm-buildings she was beholding a far remoter scene--a scene no less innocent and simple, indeed, but much contrasting--a broad lawn in the fashionable suburb of a fast city, the evergreen leaves shining in the evening sun, amid which bounding girls, gracefully clad in artistic arrangements of blue, brown, red, black, and white, were playing at games, with laughter and chat, in all the pride of life, the notes of piano and harp trembling in the air from the open windows adjoining. moreover, they were girls--and this was a fact which grace melbury's delicate femininity could not lose sight of--whose parents giles would have addressed with a deferential sir or madam. beside this visioned scene the homely farmsteads did not quite hold their own from her present twenty-year point of survey. for all his woodland sequestration, giles knew the primitive simplicity of the subject he had started, and now sounded a deeper note. "'twas very odd what we said to each other years ago; i often think of it. i mean our saying that if we still liked each other when you were twenty and i twenty-five, we'd--" "it was child's tattle." "h'm!" said giles, suddenly. "i mean we were young," said she, more considerately. that gruff manner of his in making inquiries reminded her that he was unaltered in much. "yes....i beg your pardon, miss melbury; your father sent me to meet you to-day." "i know it, and i am glad of it." he seemed satisfied with her tone and went on: "at that time you were sitting beside me at the back of your father's covered car, when we were coming home from gypsying, all the party being squeezed in together as tight as sheep in an auction-pen. it got darker and darker, and i said--i forget the exact words--but i put my arm round your waist and there you let it stay till your father, sitting in front suddenly stopped telling his story to farmer bollen, to light his pipe. the flash shone into the car, and showed us all up distinctly; my arm flew from your waist like lightning; yet not so quickly but that some of 'em had seen, and laughed at us. yet your father, to our amazement, instead of being angry, was mild as milk, and seemed quite pleased. have you forgot all that, or haven't you?" she owned that she remembered it very well, now that he mentioned the circumstances. "but, goodness! i must have been in short frocks," she said. "come now, miss melbury, that won't do! short frocks, indeed! you know better, as well as i." grace thereupon declared that she would not argue with an old friend she valued so highly as she valued him, saying the words with the easy elusiveness that will be polite at all costs. it might possibly be true, she added, that she was getting on in girlhood when that event took place; but if it were so, then she was virtually no less than an old woman now, so far did the time seem removed from her present. "do you ever look at things philosophically instead of personally?" she asked. "i can't say that i do," answered giles, his eyes lingering far ahead upon a dark spot, which proved to be a brougham. "i think you may, sometimes, with advantage," said she. "look at yourself as a pitcher drifting on the stream with other pitchers, and consider what contrivances are most desirable for avoiding cracks in general, and not only for saving your poor one. shall i tell you all about bath or cheltenham, or places on the continent that i visited last summer?" "with all my heart." she then described places and persons in such terms as might have been used for that purpose by any woman to any man within the four seas, so entirely absent from that description was everything specially appertaining to her own existence. when she had done she said, gayly, "now do you tell me in return what has happened in hintock since i have been away." "anything to keep the conversation away from her and me," said giles within him. it was true cultivation had so far advanced in the soil of miss melbury's mind as to lead her to talk by rote of anything save of that she knew well, and had the greatest interest in developing--that is to say, herself. he had not proceeded far with his somewhat bald narration when they drew near the carriage that had been preceding them for some time. miss melbury inquired if he knew whose carriage it was. winterborne, although he had seen it, had not taken it into account. on examination, he said it was mrs. charmond's. grace watched the vehicle and its easy roll, and seemed to feel more nearly akin to it than to the one she was in. "pooh! we can polish off the mileage as well as they, come to that," said winterborne, reading her mind; and rising to emulation at what it bespoke, he whipped on the horse. this it was which had brought the nose of mr. melbury's old gray close to the back of mrs. charmond's much-eclipsing vehicle. "there's marty south sitting up with the coachman," said he, discerning her by her dress. "ah, poor marty! i must ask her to come to see me this very evening. how does she happen to be riding there?" "i don't know. it is very singular." thus these people with converging destinies went along the road together, till winterborne, leaving the track of the carriage, turned into little hintock, where almost the first house was the timber-merchant's. pencils of dancing light streamed out of the windows sufficiently to show the white laurestinus flowers, and glance over the polished leaves of laurel. the interior of the rooms could be seen distinctly, warmed up by the fire-flames, which in the parlor were reflected from the glass of the pictures and bookcase, and in the kitchen from the utensils and ware. "let us look at the dear place for a moment before we call them," she said. in the kitchen dinner was preparing; for though melbury dined at one o'clock at other times, to-day the meal had been kept back for grace. a rickety old spit was in motion, its end being fixed in the fire-dog, and the whole kept going by means of a cord conveyed over pulleys along the ceiling to a large stone suspended in a corner of the room. old grammer oliver came and wound it up with a rattle like that of a mill. in the parlor a large shade of mrs. melbury's head fell on the wall and ceiling; but before the girl had regarded this room many moments their presence was discovered, and her father and stepmother came out to welcome her. the character of the melbury family was of that kind which evinces some shyness in showing strong emotion among each other: a trait frequent in rural households, and one which stands in curiously inverse relation to most of the peculiarities distinguishing villagers from the people of towns. thus hiding their warmer feelings under commonplace talk all round, grace's reception produced no extraordinary demonstrations. but that more was felt than was enacted appeared from the fact that her father, in taking her in-doors, quite forgot the presence of giles without, as did also grace herself. he said nothing, but took the gig round to the yard and called out from the spar-house the man who particularly attended to these matters when there was no conversation to draw him off among the copse-workers inside. winterborne then returned to the door with the intention of entering the house. the family had gone into the parlor, and were still absorbed in themselves. the fire was, as before, the only light, and it irradiated grace's face and hands so as to make them look wondrously smooth and fair beside those of the two elders; shining also through the loose hair about her temples as sunlight through a brake. her father was surveying her in a dazed conjecture, so much had she developed and progressed in manner and stature since he last had set eyes on her. observing these things, winterborne remained dubious by the door, mechanically tracing with his fingers certain time-worn letters carved in the jambs--initials of by-gone generations of householders who had lived and died there. no, he declared to himself, he would not enter and join the family; they had forgotten him, and it was enough for to-day that he had brought her home. still, he was a little surprised that her father's eagerness to send him for grace should have resulted in such an anticlimax as this. he walked softly away into the lane towards his own house, looking back when he reached the turning, from which he could get a last glimpse of the timber-merchant's roof. he hazarded guesses as to what grace was saying just at that moment, and murmured, with some self-derision, "nothing about me!" he looked also in the other direction, and saw against the sky the thatched hip and solitary chimney of marty's cottage, and thought of her too, struggling bravely along under that humble shelter, among her spar-gads and pots and skimmers. at the timber-merchant's, in the mean time, the conversation flowed; and, as giles winterborne had rightly enough deemed, on subjects in which he had no share. among the excluding matters there was, for one, the effect upon mr. melbury of the womanly mien and manners of his daughter, which took him so much unawares that, though it did not make him absolutely forget the existence of her conductor homeward, thrust giles's image back into quite the obscurest cellarage of his brain. another was his interview with mrs. charmond's agent that morning, at which the lady herself had been present for a few minutes. melbury had purchased some standing timber from her a long time before, and now that the date had come for felling it he was left to pursue almost his own course. this was what the household were actually talking of during giles's cogitation without; and melbury's satisfaction with the clear atmosphere that had arisen between himself and the deity of the groves which enclosed his residence was the cause of a counterbalancing mistiness on the side towards winterborne. "so thoroughly does she trust me," said melbury, "that i might fell, top, or lop, on my own judgment, any stick o' timber whatever in her wood, and fix the price o't, and settle the matter. but, name it all! i wouldn't do such a thing. however, it may be useful to have this good understanding with her....i wish she took more interest in the place, and stayed here all the year round." "i am afraid 'tis not her regard for you, but her dislike of hintock, that makes her so easy about the trees," said mrs. melbury. when dinner was over, grace took a candle and began to ramble pleasurably through the rooms of her old home, from which she had latterly become wellnigh an alien. each nook and each object revived a memory, and simultaneously modified it. the chambers seemed lower than they had appeared on any previous occasion of her return, the surfaces of both walls and ceilings standing in such relations to the eye that it could not avoid taking microscopic note of their irregularities and old fashion. her own bedroom wore at once a look more familiar than when she had left it, and yet a face estranged. the world of little things therein gazed at her in helpless stationariness, as though they had tried and been unable to make any progress without her presence. over the place where her candle had been accustomed to stand, when she had used to read in bed till the midnight hour, there was still the brown spot of smoke. she did not know that her father had taken especial care to keep it from being cleaned off. having concluded her perambulation of this now uselessly commodious edifice, grace began to feel that she had come a long journey since the morning; and when her father had been up himself, as well as his wife, to see that her room was comfortable and the fire burning, she prepared to retire for the night. no sooner, however, was she in bed than her momentary sleepiness took itself off, and she wished she had stayed up longer. she amused herself by listening to the old familiar noises that she could hear to be still going on down-stairs, and by looking towards the window as she lay. the blind had been drawn up, as she used to have it when a girl, and she could just discern the dim tree-tops against the sky on the neighboring hill. beneath this meeting-line of light and shade nothing was visible save one solitary point of light, which blinked as the tree-twigs waved to and fro before its beams. from its position it seemed to radiate from the window of a house on the hill-side. the house had been empty when she was last at home, and she wondered who inhabited the place now. her conjectures, however, were not intently carried on, and she was watching the light quite idly, when it gradually changed color, and at length shone blue as sapphire. thus it remained several minutes, and then it passed through violet to red. her curiosity was so widely awakened by the phenomenon that she sat up in bed, and stared steadily at the shine. an appearance of this sort, sufficient to excite attention anywhere, was no less than a marvel in hintock, as grace had known the hamlet. almost every diurnal and nocturnal effect in that woodland place had hitherto been the direct result of the regular terrestrial roll which produced the season's changes; but here was something dissociated from these normal sequences, and foreign to local habit and knowledge. it was about this moment that grace heard the household below preparing to retire, the most emphatic noise in the proceeding being that of her father bolting the doors. then the stairs creaked, and her father and mother passed her chamber. the last to come was grammer oliver. grace slid out of bed, ran across the room, and lifting the latch, said, "i am not asleep, grammer. come in and talk to me." before the old woman had entered, grace was again under the bedclothes. grammer set down her candlestick, and seated herself on the edge of miss melbury's coverlet. "i want you to tell me what light that is i see on the hill-side," said grace. mrs. oliver looked across. "oh, that," she said, "is from the doctor's. he's often doing things of that sort. perhaps you don't know that we've a doctor living here now--mr. fitzpiers by name?" grace admitted that she had not heard of him. "well, then, miss, he's come here to get up a practice. i know him very well, through going there to help 'em scrub sometimes, which your father said i might do, if i wanted to, in my spare time. being a bachelor-man, he've only a lad in the house. oh yes, i know him very well. sometimes he'll talk to me as if i were his own mother." "indeed." "yes. 'grammer,' he said one day, when i asked him why he came here where there's hardly anybody living, 'i'll tell you why i came here. i took a map, and i marked on it where dr. jones's practice ends to the north of this district, and where mr. taylor's ends on the south, and little jimmy green's on the east, and somebody else's to the west. then i took a pair of compasses, and found the exact middle of the country that was left between these bounds, and that middle was little hintock; so here i am....' but, lord, there: poor young man!" "why?" "he said, 'grammer oliver, i've been here three months, and although there are a good many people in the hintocks and the villages round, and a scattered practice is often a very good one, i don't seem to get many patients. and there's no society at all; and i'm pretty near melancholy mad,' he said, with a great yawn. 'i should be quite if it were not for my books, and my lab--laboratory, and what not. grammer, i was made for higher things.' and then he'd yawn and yawn again." "was he really made for higher things, do you think? i mean, is he clever?" "well, no. how can he be clever? he may be able to jine up a broken man or woman after a fashion, and put his finger upon an ache if you tell him nearly where 'tis; but these young men--they should live to my time of life, and then they'd see how clever they were at five-and-twenty! and yet he's a projick, a real projick, and says the oddest of rozums. 'ah, grammer,' he said, at another time, 'let me tell you that everything is nothing. there's only me and not me in the whole world.' and he told me that no man's hands could help what they did, any more than the hands of a clock....yes, he's a man of strange meditations, and his eyes seem to see as far as the north star." "he will soon go away, no doubt." "i don't think so." grace did not say "why?" and grammer hesitated. at last she went on: "don't tell your father or mother, miss, if i let you know a secret." grace gave the required promise. "well, he talks of buying me; so he won't go away just yet." "buying you!--how?" "not my soul--my body, when i'm dead. one day when i was there cleaning, he said, 'grammer, you've a large brain--a very large organ of brain,' he said. 'a woman's is usually four ounces less than a man's; but yours is man's size.' well, then--hee, hee!--after he'd flattered me a bit like that, he said he'd give me ten pounds to have me as a natomy after my death. well, knowing i'd no chick nor chiel left, and nobody with any interest in me, i thought, faith, if i can be of any use to my fellow-creatures after i'm gone they are welcome to my services; so i said i'd think it over, and would most likely agree and take the ten pounds. now this is a secret, miss, between us two. the money would be very useful to me; and i see no harm in it." "of course there's no harm. but oh, grammer, how can you think to do it? i wish you hadn't told me." "i wish i hadn't--if you don't like to know it, miss. but you needn't mind. lord--hee, hee!--i shall keep him waiting many a year yet, bless ye!" "i hope you will, i am sure." the girl thereupon fell into such deep reflection that conversation languished, and grammer oliver, taking her candle, wished miss melbury good-night. the latter's eyes rested on the distant glimmer, around which she allowed her reasoning fancy to play in vague eddies that shaped the doings of the philosopher behind that light on the lines of intelligence just received. it was strange to her to come back from the world to little hintock and find in one of its nooks, like a tropical plant in a hedgerow, a nucleus of advanced ideas and practices which had nothing in common with the life around. chemical experiments, anatomical projects, and metaphysical conceptions had found a strange home here. thus she remained thinking, the imagined pursuits of the man behind the light intermingling with conjectural sketches of his personality, till her eyes fell together with their own heaviness, and she slept. chapter vii. kaleidoscopic dreams of a weird alchemist-surgeon, grammer oliver's skeleton, and the face of giles winterborne, brought grace melbury to the morning of the next day. it was fine. a north wind was blowing--that not unacceptable compromise between the atmospheric cutlery of the eastern blast and the spongy gales of the west quarter. she looked from her window in the direction of the light of the previous evening, and could just discern through the trees the shape of the surgeon's house. somehow, in the broad, practical daylight, that unknown and lonely gentleman seemed to be shorn of much of the interest which had invested his personality and pursuits in the hours of darkness, and as grace's dressing proceeded he faded from her mind. meanwhile, winterborne, though half assured of her father's favor, was rendered a little restless by miss melbury's behavior. despite his dry self-control, he could not help looking continually from his own door towards the timber-merchant's, in the probability of somebody's emergence therefrom. his attention was at length justified by the appearance of two figures, that of mr. melbury himself, and grace beside him. they stepped out in a direction towards the densest quarter of the wood, and winterborne walked contemplatively behind them, till all three were soon under the trees. although the time of bare boughs had now set in, there were sheltered hollows amid the hintock plantations and copses in which a more tardy leave-taking than on windy summits was the rule with the foliage. this caused here and there an apparent mixture of the seasons; so that in some of the dells that they passed by holly-berries in full red were found growing beside oak and hazel whose leaves were as yet not far removed from green, and brambles whose verdure was rich and deep as in the month of august. to grace these well-known peculiarities were as an old painting restored. now could be beheld that change from the handsome to the curious which the features of a wood undergo at the ingress of the winter months. angles were taking the place of curves, and reticulations of surfaces--a change constituting a sudden lapse from the ornate to the primitive on nature's canvas, and comparable to a retrogressive step from the art of an advanced school of painting to that of the pacific islander. winterborne followed, and kept his eye upon the two figures as they threaded their way through these sylvan phenomena. mr. melbury's long legs, and gaiters drawn in to the bone at the ankles, his slight stoop, his habit of getting lost in thought and arousing himself with an exclamation of "hah!" accompanied with an upward jerk of the head, composed a personage recognizable by his neighbors as far as he could be seen. it seemed as if the squirrels and birds knew him. one of the former would occasionally run from the path to hide behind the arm of some tree, which the little animal carefully edged round pari passu with melbury and his daughters movement onward, assuming a mock manner, as though he were saying, "ho, ho; you are only a timber-merchant, and carry no gun!" they went noiselessly over mats of starry moss, rustled through interspersed tracts of leaves, skirted trunks with spreading roots, whose mossed rinds made them like hands wearing green gloves; elbowed old elms and ashes with great forks, in which stood pools of water that overflowed on rainy days, and ran down their stems in green cascades. on older trees still than these, huge lobes of fungi grew like lungs. here, as everywhere, the unfulfilled intention, which makes life what it is, was as obvious as it could be among the depraved crowds of a city slum. the leaf was deformed, the curve was crippled, the taper was interrupted; the lichen eat the vigor of the stalk, and the ivy slowly strangled to death the promising sapling. they dived amid beeches under which nothing grew, the younger boughs still retaining their hectic leaves, that rustled in the breeze with a sound almost metallic, like the sheet-iron foliage of the fabled jarnvid wood. some flecks of white in grace's drapery had enabled giles to keep her and her father in view till this time; but now he lost sight of them, and was obliged to follow by ear--no difficult matter, for on the line of their course every wood-pigeon rose from its perch with a continued clash, dashing its wings against the branches with wellnigh force enough to break every quill. by taking the track of this noise he soon came to a stile. was it worth while to go farther? he examined the doughy soil at the foot of the stile, and saw among the large sole-and-heel tracks an impression of a slighter kind from a boot that was obviously not local, for winterborne knew all the cobblers' patterns in that district, because they were very few to know. the mud-picture was enough to make him swing himself over and proceed. the character of the woodland now changed. the bases of the smaller trees were nibbled bare by rabbits, and at divers points heaps of fresh-made chips, and the newly-cut stool of a tree, stared white through the undergrowth. there had been a large fall of timber this year, which explained the meaning of some sounds that soon reached him. a voice was shouting intermittently in a sort of human bark, which reminded giles that there was a sale of trees and fagots that very day. melbury would naturally be present. thereupon winterborne remembered that he himself wanted a few fagots, and entered upon the scene. a large group of buyers stood round the auctioneer, or followed him when, between his pauses, he wandered on from one lot of plantation produce to another, like some philosopher of the peripatetic school delivering his lectures in the shady groves of the lyceum. his companions were timber-dealers, yeomen, farmers, villagers, and others; mostly woodland men, who on that account could afford to be curious in their walking-sticks, which consequently exhibited various monstrosities of vegetation, the chief being cork-screw shapes in black and white thorn, brought to that pattern by the slow torture of an encircling woodbine during their growth, as the chinese have been said to mould human beings into grotesque toys by continued compression in infancy. two women, wearing men's jackets on their gowns, conducted in the rear of the halting procession a pony-cart containing a tapped barrel of beer, from which they drew and replenished horns that were handed round, with bread-and-cheese from a basket. the auctioneer adjusted himself to circumstances by using his walking-stick as a hammer, and knocked down the lot on any convenient object that took his fancy, such as the crown of a little boy's head, or the shoulders of a by-stander who had no business there except to taste the brew; a proceeding which would have been deemed humorous but for the air of stern rigidity which that auctioneer's face preserved, tending to show that the eccentricity was a result of that absence of mind which is engendered by the press of affairs, and no freak of fancy at all. mr. melbury stood slightly apart from the rest of the peripatetics, and grace beside him, clinging closely to his arm, her modern attire looking almost odd where everything else was old-fashioned, and throwing over the familiar garniture of the trees a homeliness that seemed to demand improvement by the addition of a few contemporary novelties also. grace seemed to regard the selling with the interest which attaches to memories revived after an interval of obliviousness. winterborne went and stood close to them; the timber-merchant spoke, and continued his buying; grace merely smiled. to justify his presence there winterborne began bidding for timber and fagots that he did not want, pursuing the occupation in an abstracted mood, in which the auctioneer's voice seemed to become one of the natural sounds of the woodland. a few flakes of snow descended, at the sight of which a robin, alarmed at these signs of imminent winter, and seeing that no offence was meant by the human invasion, came and perched on the tip of the fagots that were being sold, and looked into the auctioneer's face, while waiting for some chance crumb from the bread-basket. standing a little behind grace, winterborne observed how one flake would sail downward and settle on a curl of her hair, and how another would choose her shoulder, and another the edge of her bonnet, which took up so much of his attention that his biddings proceeded incoherently; and when the auctioneer said, every now and then, with a nod towards him, "yours, mr. winterborne," he had no idea whether he had bought fagots, poles, or logwood. he regretted, with some causticity of humor, that her father should show such inequalities of temperament as to keep grace tightly on his arm to-day, when he had quite lately seemed anxious to recognize their betrothal as a fact. and thus musing, and joining in no conversation with other buyers except when directly addressed, he followed the assemblage hither and thither till the end of the auction, when giles for the first time realized what his purchases had been. hundreds of fagots, and divers lots of timber, had been set down to him, when all he had required had been a few bundles of spray for his odd man robert creedle's use in baking and lighting fires. business being over, he turned to speak to the timber merchant. but melbury's manner was short and distant; and grace, too, looked vexed and reproachful. winterborne then discovered that he had been unwittingly bidding against her father, and picking up his favorite lots in spite of him. with a very few words they left the spot and pursued their way homeward. giles was extremely sorry at what he had done, and remained standing under the trees, all the other men having strayed silently away. he saw melbury and his daughter pass down a glade without looking back. while they moved slowly through it a lady appeared on horseback in the middle distance, the line of her progress converging upon that of melbury's. they met, melbury took off his hat, and she reined in her horse. a conversation was evidently in progress between grace and her father and this equestrian, in whom he was almost sure that he recognized mrs. charmond, less by her outline than by the livery of the groom who had halted some yards off. the interlocutors did not part till after a prolonged pause, during which much seemed to be said. when melbury and grace resumed their walk it was with something of a lighter tread than before. winterborne then pursued his own course homeward. he was unwilling to let coldness grow up between himself and the melburys for any trivial reason, and in the evening he went to their house. on drawing near the gate his attention was attracted by the sight of one of the bedrooms blinking into a state of illumination. in it stood grace lighting several candles, her right hand elevating the taper, her left hand on her bosom, her face thoughtfully fixed on each wick as it kindled, as if she saw in every flame's growth the rise of a life to maturity. he wondered what such unusual brilliancy could mean to-night. on getting in-doors he found her father and step-mother in a state of suppressed excitement, which at first he could not comprehend. "i am sorry about my biddings to-day," said giles. "i don't know what i was doing. i have come to say that any of the lots you may require are yours." "oh, never mind--never mind," replied the timber-merchant, with a slight wave of his hand, "i have so much else to think of that i nearly had forgot it. just now, too, there are matters of a different kind from trade to attend to, so don't let it concern ye." as the timber-merchant spoke, as it were, down to him from a higher moral plane than his own, giles turned to mrs. melbury. "grace is going to the house to-morrow," she said, quietly. "she is looking out her things now. i dare say she is wanting me this minute to assist her." thereupon mrs. melbury left the room. nothing is more remarkable than the independent personality of the tongue now and then. mr. melbury knew that his words had been a sort of boast. he decried boasting, particularly to giles; yet whenever the subject was grace, his judgment resigned the ministry of speech in spite of him. winterborne felt surprise, pleasure, and also a little apprehension at the news. he repeated mrs. melbury's words. "yes," said paternal pride, not sorry to have dragged out of him what he could not in any circumstances have kept in. "coming home from the woods this afternoon we met mrs. charmond out for a ride. she spoke to me on a little matter of business, and then got acquainted with grace. 'twas wonderful how she took to grace in a few minutes; that freemasonry of education made 'em close at once. naturally enough she was amazed that such an article--ha, ha!--could come out of my house. at last it led on to mis'ess grace being asked to the house. so she's busy hunting up her frills and furbelows to go in." as giles remained in thought without responding, melbury continued: "but i'll call her down-stairs." "no, no; don't do that, since she's busy," said winterborne. melbury, feeling from the young man's manner that his own talk had been too much at giles and too little to him, repented at once. his face changed, and he said, in lower tones, with an effort, "she's yours, giles, as far as i am concerned." "thanks--my best thanks....but i think, since it is all right between us about the biddings, that i'll not interrupt her now. i'll step homeward, and call another time." on leaving the house he looked up at the bedroom again. grace, surrounded by a sufficient number of candles to answer all purposes of self-criticism, was standing before a cheval-glass that her father had lately bought expressly for her use; she was bonneted, cloaked, and gloved, and glanced over her shoulder into the mirror, estimating her aspect. her face was lit with the natural elation of a young girl hoping to inaugurate on the morrow an intimate acquaintance with a new, interesting, and powerful friend. chapter viii. the inspiriting appointment which had led grace melbury to indulge in a six-candle illumination for the arrangement of her attire, carried her over the ground the next morning with a springy tread. her sense of being properly appreciated on her own native soil seemed to brighten the atmosphere and herbage around her, as the glowworm's lamp irradiates the grass. thus she moved along, a vessel of emotion going to empty itself on she knew not what. twenty minutes' walking through copses, over a stile, and along an upland lawn brought her to the verge of a deep glen, at the bottom of which hintock house appeared immediately beneath her eye. to describe it as standing in a hollow would not express the situation of the manor-house; it stood in a hole, notwithstanding that the hole was full of beauty. from the spot which grace had reached a stone could easily have been thrown over or into, the birds'-nested chimneys of the mansion. its walls were surmounted by a battlemented parapet; but the gray lead roofs were quite visible behind it, with their gutters, laps, rolls, and skylights, together with incised letterings and shoe-patterns cut by idlers thereon. the front of the house exhibited an ordinary manorial presentation of elizabethan windows, mullioned and hooded, worked in rich snuff-colored freestone from local quarries. the ashlar of the walls, where not overgrown with ivy and other creepers, was coated with lichen of every shade, intensifying its luxuriance with its nearness to the ground, till, below the plinth, it merged in moss. above the house to the back was a dense plantation, the roots of whose trees were above the level of the chimneys. the corresponding high ground on which grace stood was richly grassed, with only an old tree here and there. a few sheep lay about, which, as they ruminated, looked quietly into the bedroom windows. the situation of the house, prejudicial to humanity, was a stimulus to vegetation, on which account an endless shearing of the heavy-armed ivy was necessary, and a continual lopping of trees and shrubs. it was an edifice built in times when human constitutions were damp-proof, when shelter from the boisterous was all that men thought of in choosing a dwelling-place, the insidious being beneath their notice; and its hollow site was an ocular reminder, by its unfitness for modern lives, of the fragility to which these have declined. the highest architectural cunning could have done nothing to make hintock house dry and salubrious; and ruthless ignorance could have done little to make it unpicturesque. it was vegetable nature's own home; a spot to inspire the painter and poet of still life--if they did not suffer too much from the relaxing atmosphere--and to draw groans from the gregariously disposed. grace descended the green escarpment by a zigzag path into the drive, which swept round beneath the slope. the exterior of the house had been familiar to her from her childhood, but she had never been inside, and the approach to knowing an old thing in a new way was a lively experience. it was with a little flutter that she was shown in; but she recollected that mrs. charmond would probably be alone. up to a few days before this time that lady had been accompanied in her comings, stayings, and goings by a relative believed to be her aunt; latterly, however, these two ladies had separated, owing, it was supposed, to a quarrel, and mrs. charmond had been left desolate. being presumably a woman who did not care for solitude, this deprivation might possibly account for her sudden interest in grace. mrs. charmond was at the end of a gallery opening from the hall when miss melbury was announced, and saw her through the glass doors between them. she came forward with a smile on her face, and told the young girl it was good of her to come. "ah! you have noticed those," she said, seeing that grace's eyes were attracted by some curious objects against the walls. "they are man-traps. my husband was a connoisseur in man-traps and spring-guns and such articles, collecting them from all his neighbors. he knew the histories of all these--which gin had broken a man's leg, which gun had killed a man. that one, i remember his saying, had been set by a game-keeper in the track of a notorious poacher; but the keeper, forgetting what he had done, went that way himself, received the charge in the lower part of his body, and died of the wound. i don't like them here, but i've never yet given directions for them to be taken away." she added, playfully, "man-traps are of rather ominous significance where a person of our sex lives, are they not?" grace was bound to smile; but that side of womanliness was one which her inexperience had no great zest in contemplating. "they are interesting, no doubt, as relics of a barbarous time happily past," she said, looking thoughtfully at the varied designs of these instruments of torture--some with semi-circular jaws, some with rectangular; most of them with long, sharp teeth, but a few with none, so that their jaws looked like the blank gums of old age. "well, we must not take them too seriously," said mrs. charmond, with an indolent turn of her head, and they moved on inward. when she had shown her visitor different articles in cabinets that she deemed likely to interest her, some tapestries, wood-carvings, ivories, miniatures, and so on--always with a mien of listlessness which might either have been constitutional, or partly owing to the situation of the place--they sat down to an early cup of tea. "will you pour it out, please? do," she said, leaning back in her chair, and placing her hand above her forehead, while her almond eyes--those long eyes so common to the angelic legions of early italian art--became longer, and her voice more languishing. she showed that oblique-mannered softness which is perhaps most frequent in women of darker complexion and more lymphatic temperament than mrs. charmond's was; who lingeringly smile their meanings to men rather than speak them, who inveigle rather than prompt, and take advantage of currents rather than steer. "i am the most inactive woman when i am here," she said. "i think sometimes i was born to live and do nothing, nothing, nothing but float about, as we fancy we do sometimes in dreams. but that cannot be really my destiny, and i must struggle against such fancies." "i am so sorry you do not enjoy exertion--it is quite sad! i wish i could tend you and make you very happy." there was something so sympathetic, so appreciative, in the sound of grace's voice, that it impelled people to play havoc with their customary reservations in talking to her. "it is tender and kind of you to feel that," said mrs. charmond. "perhaps i have given you the notion that my languor is more than it really is. but this place oppresses me, and i have a plan of going abroad a good deal. i used to go with a relative, but that arrangement has dropped through." regarding grace with a final glance of criticism, she seemed to make up her mind to consider the young girl satisfactory, and continued: "now i am often impelled to record my impressions of times and places. i have often thought of writing a 'new sentimental journey.' but i cannot find energy enough to do it alone. when i am at different places in the south of europe i feel a crowd of ideas and fancies thronging upon me continually, but to unfold writing-materials, take up a cold steel pen, and put these impressions down systematically on cold, smooth paper--that i cannot do. so i have thought that if i always could have somebody at my elbow with whom i am in sympathy, i might dictate any ideas that come into my head. and directly i had made your acquaintance the other day it struck me that you would suit me so well. would you like to undertake it? you might read to me, too, if desirable. will you think it over, and ask your parents if they are willing?" "oh yes," said grace. "i am almost sure they would be very glad." "you are so accomplished, i hear; i should be quite honored by such intellectual company." grace, modestly blushing, deprecated any such idea. "do you keep up your lucubrations at little hintock?" "oh no. lucubrations are not unknown at little hintock; but they are not carried on by me." "what--another student in that retreat?" "there is a surgeon lately come, and i have heard that he reads a great deal--i see his light sometimes through the trees late at night." "oh yes--a doctor--i believe i was told of him. it is a strange place for him to settle in." "it is a convenient centre for a practice, they say. but he does not confine his studies to medicine, it seems. he investigates theology and metaphysics and all sorts of subjects." "what is his name?" "fitzpiers. he represents a very old family, i believe, the fitzpierses of buckbury-fitzpiers--not a great many miles from here." "i am not sufficiently local to know the history of the family. i was never in the county till my husband brought me here." mrs. charmond did not care to pursue this line of investigation. whatever mysterious merit might attach to family antiquity, it was one which, though she herself could claim it, her adaptable, wandering weltburgerliche nature had grown tired of caring about--a peculiarity that made her a contrast to her neighbors. "it is of rather more importance to know what the man is himself than what his family is," she said, "if he is going to practise upon us as a surgeon. have you seen him?" grace had not. "i think he is not a very old man," she added. "has he a wife?" "i am not aware that he has." "well, i hope he will be useful here. i must get to know him when i come back. it will be very convenient to have a medical man--if he is clever--in one's own parish. i get dreadfully nervous sometimes, living in such an outlandish place; and sherton is so far to send to. no doubt you feel hintock to be a great change after watering-place life." "i do. but it is home. it has its advantages and its disadvantages." grace was thinking less of the solitude than of the attendant circumstances. they chatted on for some time, grace being set quite at her ease by her entertainer. mrs. charmond was far too well-practised a woman not to know that to show a marked patronage to a sensitive young girl who would probably be very quick to discern it, was to demolish her dignity rather than to establish it in that young girl's eyes. so, being violently possessed with her idea of making use of this gentle acquaintance, ready and waiting at her own door, she took great pains to win her confidence at starting. just before grace's departure the two chanced to pause before a mirror which reflected their faces in immediate juxtaposition, so as to bring into prominence their resemblances and their contrasts. both looked attractive as glassed back by the faithful reflector; but grace's countenance had the effect of making mrs. charmond appear more than her full age. there are complexions which set off each other to great advantage, and there are those which antagonize, the one killing or damaging its neighbor unmercifully. this was unhappily the case here. mrs. charmond fell into a meditation, and replied abstractedly to a cursory remark of her companion's. however, she parted from her young friend in the kindliest tones, promising to send and let her know as soon as her mind was made up on the arrangement she had suggested. when grace had ascended nearly to the top of the adjoining slope she looked back, and saw that mrs. charmond still stood at the door, meditatively regarding her. often during the previous night, after his call on the melburys, winterborne's thoughts ran upon grace's announced visit to hintock house. why could he not have proposed to walk with her part of the way? something told him that she might not, on such an occasion, care for his company. he was still more of that opinion when, standing in his garden next day, he saw her go past on the journey with such a pretty pride in the event. he wondered if her father's ambition, which had purchased for her the means of intellectual light and culture far beyond those of any other native of the village, would conduce to the flight of her future interests above and away from the local life which was once to her the movement of the world. nevertheless, he had her father's permission to win her if he could; and to this end it became desirable to bring matters soon to a crisis, if he ever hoped to do so. if she should think herself too good for him, he could let her go and make the best of his loss; but until he had really tested her he could not say that she despised his suit. the question was how to quicken events towards an issue. he thought and thought, and at last decided that as good a way as any would be to give a christmas party, and ask grace and her parents to come as chief guests. these ruminations were occupying him when there became audible a slight knocking at his front door. he descended the path and looked out, and beheld marty south, dressed for out-door work. "why didn't you come, mr. winterborne?" she said. "i've been waiting there hours and hours, and at last i thought i must try to find you." "bless my soul, i'd quite forgot," said giles. what he had forgotten was that there was a thousand young fir-trees to be planted in a neighboring spot which had been cleared by the wood-cutters, and that he had arranged to plant them with his own hands. he had a marvellous power of making trees grow. although he would seem to shovel in the earth quite carelessly, there was a sort of sympathy between himself and the fir, oak, or beech that he was operating on, so that the roots took hold of the soil in a few days. when, on the other hand, any of the journeymen planted, although they seemed to go through an identically similar process, one quarter of the trees would die away during the ensuing august. hence winterborne found delight in the work even when, as at present, he contracted to do it on portions of the woodland in which he had no personal interest. marty, who turned her hand to anything, was usually the one who performed the part of keeping the trees in a perpendicular position while he threw in the mould. he accompanied her towards the spot, being stimulated yet further to proceed with the work by the knowledge that the ground was close to the way-side along which grace must pass on her return from hintock house. "you've a cold in the head, marty," he said, as they walked. "that comes of cutting off your hair." "i suppose it do. yes; i've three headaches going on in my head at the same time." "three headaches!" "yes, a rheumatic headache in my poll, a sick headache over my eyes, and a misery headache in the middle of my brain. however, i came out, for i thought you might be waiting and grumbling like anything if i was not there." the holes were already dug, and they set to work. winterborne's fingers were endowed with a gentle conjuror's touch in spreading the roots of each little tree, resulting in a sort of caress, under which the delicate fibres all laid themselves out in their proper directions for growth. he put most of these roots towards the south-west; for, he said, in forty years' time, when some great gale is blowing from that quarter, the trees will require the strongest holdfast on that side to stand against it and not fall. "how they sigh directly we put 'em upright, though while they are lying down they don't sigh at all," said marty. "do they?" said giles. "i've never noticed it." she erected one of the young pines into its hole, and held up her finger; the soft musical breathing instantly set in, which was not to cease night or day till the grown tree should be felled--probably long after the two planters should be felled themselves. "it seems to me," the girl continued, "as if they sigh because they are very sorry to begin life in earnest--just as we be." "just as we be?" he looked critically at her. "you ought not to feel like that, marty." her only reply was turning to take up the next tree; and they planted on through a great part of the day, almost without another word. winterborne's mind ran on his contemplated evening-party, his abstraction being such that he hardly was conscious of marty's presence beside him. from the nature of their employment, in which he handled the spade and she merely held the tree, it followed that he got good exercise and she got none. but she was an heroic girl, and though her out-stretched hand was chill as a stone, and her cheeks blue, and her cold worse than ever, she would not complain while he was disposed to continue work. but when he paused she said, "mr. winterborne, can i run down the lane and back to warm my feet?" "why, yes, of course," he said, awakening anew to her existence. "though i was just thinking what a mild day it is for the season. now i warrant that cold of yours is twice as bad as it was. you had no business to chop that hair off, marty; it serves you almost right. look here, cut off home at once." "a run down the lane will be quite enough." "no, it won't. you ought not to have come out to-day at all." "but i should like to finish the--" "marty, i tell you to go home," said he, peremptorily. "i can manage to keep the rest of them upright with a stick or something." she went away without saying any more. when she had gone down the orchard a little distance she looked back. giles suddenly went after her. "marty, it was for your good that i was rough, you know. but warm yourself in your own way, i don't care." when she had run off he fancied he discerned a woman's dress through the holly-bushes which divided the coppice from the road. it was grace at last, on her way back from the interview with mrs. charmond. he threw down the tree he was planting, and was about to break through the belt of holly when he suddenly became aware of the presence of another man, who was looking over the hedge on the opposite side of the way upon the figure of the unconscious grace. he appeared as a handsome and gentlemanly personage of six or eight and twenty, and was quizzing her through an eye-glass. seeing that winterborne was noticing him, he let his glass drop with a click upon the rail which protected the hedge, and walked away in the opposite direction. giles knew in a moment that this must be mr. fitzpiers. when he was gone, winterborne pushed through the hollies, and emerged close beside the interesting object of their contemplation. chapter ix. "i heard the bushes move long before i saw you," she began. "i said first, 'it is some terrible beast;' next, 'it is a poacher;' next, 'it is a friend!'" he regarded her with a slight smile, weighing, not her speech, but the question whether he should tell her that she had been watched. he decided in the negative. "you have been to the house?" he said. "but i need not ask." the fact was that there shone upon miss melbury's face a species of exaltation, which saw no environing details nor his own occupation; nothing more than his bare presence. "why need you not ask?" "your face is like the face of moses when he came down from the mount." she reddened a little and said, "how can you be so profane, giles winterborne?" "how can you think so much of that class of people? well, i beg pardon; i didn't mean to speak so freely. how do you like her house and her?" "exceedingly. i had not been inside the walls since i was a child, when it used to be let to strangers, before mrs. charmond's late husband bought the property. she is so nice!" and grace fell into such an abstracted gaze at the imaginary image of mrs. charmond and her niceness that it almost conjured up a vision of that lady in mid-air before them. "she has only been here a month or two, it seems, and cannot stay much longer, because she finds it so lonely and damp in winter. she is going abroad. only think, she would like me to go with her." giles's features stiffened a little at the news. "indeed; what for? but i won't keep you standing here. hoi, robert!" he cried to a swaying collection of clothes in the distance, which was the figure of creedle his man. "go on filling in there till i come back." "i'm a-coming, sir; i'm a-coming." "well, the reason is this," continued she, as they went on together--"mrs. charmond has a delightful side to her character--a desire to record her impressions of travel, like alexandre dumas, and mery, and sterne, and others. but she cannot find energy enough to do it herself." and grace proceeded to explain mrs. charmond's proposal at large. "my notion is that mery's style will suit her best, because he writes in that soft, emotional, luxurious way she has," grace said, musingly. "indeed!" said winterborne, with mock awe. "suppose you talk over my head a little longer, miss grace melbury?" "oh, i didn't mean it!" she said, repentantly, looking into his eyes. "and as for myself, i hate french books. and i love dear old hintock, and the people in it, fifty times better than all the continent. but the scheme; i think it an enchanting notion, don't you, giles?" "it is well enough in one sense, but it will take you away," said he, mollified. "only for a short time. we should return in may." "well, miss melbury, it is a question for your father." winterborne walked with her nearly to her house. he had awaited her coming, mainly with the view of mentioning to her his proposal to have a christmas party; but homely christmas gatherings in the venerable and jovial hintock style seemed so primitive and uncouth beside the lofty matters of her converse and thought that he refrained. as soon as she was gone he turned back towards the scene of his planting, and could not help saying to himself as he walked, that this engagement of his was a very unpromising business. her outing to-day had not improved it. a woman who could go to hintock house and be friendly with its mistress, enter into the views of its mistress, talk like her, and dress not much unlike her, why, she would hardly be contented with him, a yeoman, now immersed in tree-planting, even though he planted them well. "and yet she's a true-hearted girl," he said, thinking of her words about hintock. "i must bring matters to a point, and there's an end of it." when he reached the plantation he found that marty had come back, and dismissing creedle, he went on planting silently with the girl as before. "suppose, marty," he said, after a while, looking at her extended arm, upon which old scratches from briers showed themselves purple in the cold wind--"suppose you know a person, and want to bring that person to a good understanding with you, do you think a christmas party of some sort is a warming-up thing, and likely to be useful in hastening on the matter?" "is there to be dancing?" "there might be, certainly." "will he dance with she?" "well, yes." "then it might bring things to a head, one way or the other; i won't be the one to say which." "it shall be done," said winterborne, not to her, though he spoke the words quite loudly. and as the day was nearly ended, he added, "here, marty, i'll send up a man to plant the rest to-morrow. i've other things to think of just now." she did not inquire what other things, for she had seen him walking with grace melbury. she looked towards the western sky, which was now aglow like some vast foundery wherein new worlds were being cast. across it the bare bough of a tree stretched horizontally, revealing every twig against the red, and showing in dark profile every beck and movement of three pheasants that were settling themselves down on it in a row to roost. "it will be fine to-morrow," said marty, observing them with the vermilion light of the sun in the pupils of her eyes, "for they are a-croupied down nearly at the end of the bough. if it were going to be stormy they'd squeeze close to the trunk. the weather is almost all they have to think of, isn't it, mr. winterborne? and so they must be lighter-hearted than we." "i dare say they are," said winterborne. before taking a single step in the preparations, winterborne, with no great hopes, went across that evening to the timber-merchant's to ascertain if grace and her parents would honor him with their presence. having first to set his nightly gins in the garden, to catch the rabbits that ate his winter-greens, his call was delayed till just after the rising of the moon, whose rays reached the hintock houses but fitfully as yet, on account of the trees. melbury was crossing his yard on his way to call on some one at the larger village, but he readily turned and walked up and down the path with the young man. giles, in his self-deprecatory sense of living on a much smaller scale than the melburys did, would not for the world imply that his invitation was to a gathering of any importance. so he put it in the mild form of "can you come in for an hour, when you have done business, the day after to-morrow; and mrs. and miss melbury, if they have nothing more pressing to do?" melbury would give no answer at once. "no, i can't tell you to-day," he said. "i must talk it over with the women. as far as i am concerned, my dear giles, you know i'll come with pleasure. but how do i know what grace's notions may be? you see, she has been away among cultivated folks a good while; and now this acquaintance with mrs. charmond--well, i'll ask her. i can say no more." when winterborne was gone the timber-merchant went on his way. he knew very well that grace, whatever her own feelings, would either go or not go, according as he suggested; and his instinct was, for the moment, to suggest the negative. his errand took him past the church, and the way to his destination was either across the church-yard or along-side it, the distances being the same. for some reason or other he chose the former way. the moon was faintly lighting up the gravestones, and the path, and the front of the building. suddenly mr. melbury paused, turned ill upon the grass, and approached a particular headstone, where he read, "in memory of john winterborne," with the subjoined date and age. it was the grave of giles's father. the timber-merchant laid his hand upon the stone, and was humanized. "jack, my wronged friend!" he said. "i'll be faithful to my plan of making amends to 'ee." when he reached home that evening, he said to grace and mrs. melbury, who were working at a little table by the fire, "giles wants us to go down and spend an hour with him the day after to-morrow; and i'm thinking, that as 'tis giles who asks us, we'll go." they assented without demur, and accordingly the timber-merchant sent giles the next morning an answer in the affirmative. winterborne, in his modesty, or indifference, had mentioned no particular hour in his invitation; and accordingly mr. melbury and his family, expecting no other guests, chose their own time, which chanced to be rather early in the afternoon, by reason of the somewhat quicker despatch than usual of the timber-merchant's business that day. to show their sense of the unimportance of the occasion, they walked quite slowly to the house, as if they were merely out for a ramble, and going to nothing special at all; or at most intending to pay a casual call and take a cup of tea. at this hour stir and bustle pervaded the interior of winterborne's domicile from cellar to apple-loft. he had planned an elaborate high tea for six o'clock or thereabouts, and a good roaring supper to come on about eleven. being a bachelor of rather retiring habits, the whole of the preparations devolved upon himself and his trusty man and familiar, robert creedle, who did everything that required doing, from making giles's bed to catching moles in his field. he was a survival from the days when giles's father held the homestead, and giles was a playing boy. these two, with a certain dilatoriousness which appertained to both, were now in the heat of preparation in the bake-house, expecting nobody before six o'clock. winterborne was standing before the brick oven in his shirt-sleeves, tossing in thorn sprays, and stirring about the blazing mass with a long-handled, three-pronged beelzebub kind of fork, the heat shining out upon his streaming face and making his eyes like furnaces, the thorns crackling and sputtering; while creedle, having ranged the pastry dishes in a row on the table till the oven should be ready, was pressing out the crust of a final apple-pie with a rolling-pin. a great pot boiled on the fire, and through the open door of the back kitchen a boy was seen seated on the fender, emptying the snuffers and scouring the candlesticks, a row of the latter standing upside down on the hob to melt out the grease. looking up from the rolling-pin, creedle saw passing the window first the timber-merchant, in his second-best suit, mrs. melbury in her best silk, and grace in the fashionable attire which, in part brought home with her from the continent, she had worn on her visit to mrs. charmond's. the eyes of the three had been attracted to the proceedings within by the fierce illumination which the oven threw out upon the operators and their utensils. "lord, lord! if they baint come a'ready!" said creedle. "no--hey?" said giles, looking round aghast; while the boy in the background waved a reeking candlestick in his delight. as there was no help for it, winterborne went to meet them in the door-way. "my dear giles, i see we have made a mistake in the time," said the timber-merchant's wife, her face lengthening with concern. "oh, it is not much difference. i hope you'll come in." "but this means a regular randyvoo!" said mr. melbury, accusingly, glancing round and pointing towards the bake-house with his stick. "well, yes," said giles. "and--not great hintock band, and dancing, surely?" "i told three of 'em they might drop in if they'd nothing else to do," giles mildly admitted. "now, why the name didn't ye tell us 'twas going to be a serious kind of thing before? how should i know what folk mean if they don't say? now, shall we come in, or shall we go home and come back along in a couple of hours?" "i hope you'll stay, if you'll be so good as not to mind, now you are here. i shall have it all right and tidy in a very little time. i ought not to have been so backward." giles spoke quite anxiously for one of his undemonstrative temperament; for he feared that if the melburys once were back in their own house they would not be disposed to turn out again. "'tis we ought not to have been so forward; that's what 'tis," said mr. melbury, testily. "don't keep us here in the sitting-room; lead on to the bakehouse, man. now we are here we'll help ye get ready for the rest. here, mis'ess, take off your things, and help him out in his baking, or he won't get done to-night. i'll finish heating the oven, and set you free to go and skiver up them ducks." his eye had passed with pitiless directness of criticism into yet remote recesses of winterborne's awkwardly built premises, where the aforesaid birds were hanging. "and i'll help finish the tarts," said grace, cheerfully. "i don't know about that," said her father. "'tisn't quite so much in your line as it is in your mother-law's and mine." "of course i couldn't let you, grace!" said giles, with some distress. "i'll do it, of course," said mrs. melbury, taking off her silk train, hanging it up to a nail, carefully rolling back her sleeves, pinning them to her shoulders, and stripping giles of his apron for her own use. so grace pottered idly about, while her father and his wife helped on the preparations. a kindly pity of his household management, which winterborne saw in her eyes whenever he caught them, depressed him much more than her contempt would have done. creedle met giles at the pump after a while, when each of the others was absorbed in the difficulties of a cuisine based on utensils, cupboards, and provisions that were strange to them. he groaned to the young man in a whisper, "this is a bruckle het, maister, i'm much afeared! who'd ha' thought they'd ha' come so soon?" the bitter placidity of winterborne's look adumbrated the misgivings he did not care to express. "have you got the celery ready?" he asked, quickly. "now that's a thing i never could mind; no, not if you'd paid me in silver and gold. and i don't care who the man is, i says that a stick of celery that isn't scrubbed with the scrubbing-brush is not clean." "very well, very well! i'll attend to it. you go and get 'em comfortable in-doors." he hastened to the garden, and soon returned, tossing the stalks to creedle, who was still in a tragic mood. "if ye'd ha' married, d'ye see, maister," he said, "this caddle couldn't have happened to us." everything being at last under way, the oven set, and all done that could insure the supper turning up ready at some time or other, giles and his friends entered the parlor, where the melburys again dropped into position as guests, though the room was not nearly so warm and cheerful as the blazing bakehouse. others now arrived, among them farmer bawtree and the hollow-turner, and tea went off very well. grace's disposition to make the best of everything, and to wink at deficiencies in winterborne's menage, was so uniform and persistent that he suspected her of seeing even more deficiencies than he was aware of. that suppressed sympathy which had showed in her face ever since her arrival told him as much too plainly. "this muddling style of house-keeping is what you've not lately been used to, i suppose?" he said, when they were a little apart. "no; but i like it; it reminds me so pleasantly that everything here in dear old hintock is just as it used to be. the oil is--not quite nice; but everything else is." "the oil?" "on the chairs, i mean; because it gets on one's dress. still, mine is not a new one." giles found that creedle, in his zeal to make things look bright, had smeared the chairs with some greasy kind of furniture-polish, and refrained from rubbing it dry in order not to diminish the mirror-like effect that the mixture produced as laid on. giles apologized and called creedle; but he felt that the fates were against him. chapter x. supper-time came, and with it the hot-baked meats from the oven, laid on a snowy cloth fresh from the press, and reticulated with folds, as in flemish "last suppers." creedle and the boy fetched and carried with amazing alacrity, the latter, to mollify his superior and make things pleasant, expressing his admiration of creedle's cleverness when they were alone. "i s'pose the time when you learned all these knowing things, mr. creedle, was when you was in the militia?" "well, yes. i seed the world at that time somewhat, certainly, and many ways of strange dashing life. not but that giles has worked hard in helping me to bring things to such perfection to-day. 'giles,' says i, though he's maister. not that i should call'n maister by rights, for his father growed up side by side with me, as if one mother had twinned us and been our nourishing." "i s'pose your memory can reach a long way back into history, mr. creedle?" "oh yes. ancient days, when there was battles and famines and hang-fairs and other pomps, seem to me as yesterday. ah, many's the patriarch i've seed come and go in this parish! there, he's calling for more plates. lord, why can't 'em turn their plates bottom upward for pudding, as they used to do in former days?" meanwhile, in the adjoining room giles was presiding in a half-unconscious state. he could not get over the initial failures in his scheme for advancing his suit, and hence he did not know that he was eating mouthfuls of bread and nothing else, and continually snuffing the two candles next him till he had reduced them to mere glimmers drowned in their own grease. creedle now appeared with a specially prepared dish, which he served by elevating the little three-legged pot that contained it, and tilting the contents into a dish, exclaiming, simultaneously, "draw back, gentlemen and ladies, please!" a splash followed. grace gave a quick, involuntary nod and blink, and put her handkerchief to her face. "good heavens! what did you do that for, creedle?" said giles, sternly, and jumping up. "'tis how i do it when they baint here, maister," mildly expostulated creedle, in an aside audible to all the company. "well, yes--but--" replied giles. he went over to grace, and hoped none of it had gone into her eye. "oh no," she said. "only a sprinkle on my face. it was nothing." "kiss it and make it well," gallantly observed mr. bawtree. miss melbury blushed. the timber-merchant said, quickly, "oh, it is nothing! she must bear these little mishaps." but there could be discerned in his face something which said "i ought to have foreseen this." giles himself, since the untoward beginning of the feast, had not quite liked to see grace present. he wished he had not asked such people as bawtree and the hollow-turner. he had done it, in dearth of other friends, that the room might not appear empty. in his mind's eye, before the event, they had been the mere background or padding of the scene, but somehow in reality they were the most prominent personages there. after supper they played cards, bawtree and the hollow-turner monopolizing the new packs for an interminable game, in which a lump of chalk was incessantly used--a game those two always played wherever they were, taking a solitary candle and going to a private table in a corner with the mien of persons bent on weighty matters. the rest of the company on this account were obliged to put up with old packs for their round game, that had been lying by in a drawer ever since the time that giles's grandmother was alive. each card had a great stain in the middle of its back, produced by the touch of generations of damp and excited thumbs now fleshless in the grave; and the kings and queens wore a decayed expression of feature, as if they were rather an impecunious dethroned race of monarchs hiding in obscure slums than real regal characters. every now and then the comparatively few remarks of the players at the round game were harshly intruded on by the measured jingle of farmer bawtree and the hollow-turner from the back of the room: "and i' will hold' a wa'-ger with you' that all' these marks' are thirt'-y two!" accompanied by rapping strokes with the chalk on the table; then an exclamation, an argument, a dealing of the cards; then the commencement of the rhymes anew. the timber-merchant showed his feelings by talking with a satisfied sense of weight in his words, and by praising the party in a patronizing tone, when winterborne expressed his fear that he and his were not enjoying themselves. "oh yes, yes; pretty much. what handsome glasses those are! i didn't know you had such glasses in the house. now, lucy" (to his wife), "you ought to get some like them for ourselves." and when they had abandoned cards, and winterborne was talking to melbury by the fire, it was the timber-merchant who stood with his back to the mantle in a proprietary attitude, from which post of vantage he critically regarded giles's person, rather as a superficies than as a solid with ideas and feelings inside it, saying, "what a splendid coat that one is you have on, giles! i can't get such coats. you dress better than i." after supper there was a dance, the bandsmen from great hintock having arrived some time before. grace had been away from home so long that she had forgotten the old figures, and hence did not join in the movement. then giles felt that all was over. as for her, she was thinking, as she watched the gyrations, of a very different measure that she had been accustomed to tread with a bevy of sylph-like creatures in muslin, in the music-room of a large house, most of whom were now moving in scenes widely removed from this, both as regarded place and character. a woman she did not know came and offered to tell her fortune with the abandoned cards. grace assented to the proposal, and the woman told her tale unskilfully, for want of practice, as she declared. mr. melbury was standing by, and exclaimed, contemptuously, "tell her fortune, indeed! her fortune has been told by men of science--what do you call 'em? phrenologists. you can't teach her anything new. she's been too far among the wise ones to be astonished at anything she can hear among us folks in hintock." at last the time came for breaking up, melbury and his family being the earliest to leave, the two card-players still pursuing their game doggedly in the corner, where they had completely covered giles's mahogany table with chalk scratches. the three walked home, the distance being short and the night clear. "well, giles is a very good fellow," said mr. melbury, as they struck down the lane under boughs which formed a black filigree in which the stars seemed set. "certainly he is," said grace, quickly, and in such a tone as to show that he stood no lower, if no higher, in her regard than he had stood before. when they were opposite an opening through which, by day, the doctor's house could be seen, they observed a light in one of his rooms, although it was now about two o'clock. "the doctor is not abed yet," said mrs. melbury. "hard study, no doubt," said her husband. "one would think that, as he seems to have nothing to do about here by day, he could at least afford to go to bed early at night. 'tis astonishing how little we see of him." melbury's mind seemed to turn with much relief to the contemplation of mr. fitzpiers after the scenes of the evening. "it is natural enough," he replied. "what can a man of that sort find to interest him in hintock? i don't expect he'll stay here long." his mind reverted to giles's party, and when they were nearly home he spoke again, his daughter being a few steps in advance: "it is hardly the line of life for a girl like grace, after what she's been accustomed to. i didn't foresee that in sending her to boarding-school and letting her travel, and what not, to make her a good bargain for giles, i should be really spoiling her for him. ah, 'tis a thousand pities! but he ought to have her--he ought!" at this moment the two exclusive, chalk-mark men, having at last really finished their play, could be heard coming along in the rear, vociferously singing a song to march-time, and keeping vigorous step to the same in far-reaching strides-- "she may go, oh! she may go, oh! she may go to the d---- for me!" the timber-merchant turned indignantly to mrs. melbury. "that's the sort of society we've been asked to meet," he said. "for us old folk it didn't matter; but for grace--giles should have known better!" meanwhile, in the empty house from which the guests had just cleared out, the subject of their discourse was walking from room to room surveying the general displacement of furniture with no ecstatic feeling; rather the reverse, indeed. at last he entered the bakehouse, and found there robert creedle sitting over the embers, also lost in contemplation. winterborne sat down beside him. "well, robert, you must be tired. you'd better get on to bed." "ay, ay, giles--what do i call ye? maister, i would say. but 'tis well to think the day is done, when 'tis done." winterborne had abstractedly taken the poker, and with a wrinkled forehead was ploughing abroad the wood-embers on the broad hearth, till it was like a vast scorching sahara, with red-hot bowlders lying about everywhere. "do you think it went off well, creedle?" he asked. "the victuals did; that i know. and the drink did; that i steadfastly believe, from the holler sound of the barrels. good, honest drink 'twere, the headiest mead i ever brewed; and the best wine that berries could rise to; and the briskest horner-and-cleeves cider ever wrung down, leaving out the spice and sperrits i put into it, while that egg-flip would ha' passed through muslin, so little curdled 'twere. 'twas good enough to make any king's heart merry--ay, to make his whole carcass smile. still, i don't deny i'm afeared some things didn't go well with he and his." creedle nodded in a direction which signified where the melburys lived. "i'm afraid, too, that it was a failure there!" "if so, 'twere doomed to be so. not but what that snail might as well have come upon anybody else's plate as hers." "what snail?" "well, maister, there was a little one upon the edge of her plate when i brought it out; and so it must have been in her few leaves of wintergreen." "how the deuce did a snail get there?" "that i don't know no more than the dead; but there my gentleman was." "but, robert, of all places, that was where he shouldn't have been!" "well, 'twas his native home, come to that; and where else could we expect him to be? i don't care who the man is, snails and caterpillars always will lurk in close to the stump of cabbages in that tantalizing way." "he wasn't alive, i suppose?" said giles, with a shudder on grace's account. "oh no. he was well boiled. i warrant him well boiled. god forbid that a live snail should be seed on any plate of victuals that's served by robert creedle....but lord, there; i don't mind 'em myself--them small ones, for they were born on cabbage, and they've lived on cabbage, so they must be made of cabbage. but she, the close-mouthed little lady, she didn't say a word about it; though 'twould have made good small conversation as to the nater of such creatures; especially as wit ran short among us sometimes." "oh yes--'tis all over!" murmured giles to himself, shaking his head over the glooming plain of embers, and lining his forehead more than ever. "do you know, robert," he said, "that she's been accustomed to servants and everything superfine these many years? how, then, could she stand our ways?" "well, all i can say is, then, that she ought to hob-and-nob elsewhere. they shouldn't have schooled her so monstrous high, or else bachelor men shouldn't give randys, or if they do give 'em, only to their own race." "perhaps that's true," said winterborne, rising and yawning a sigh. chapter xi. "'tis a pity--a thousand pities!" her father kept saying next morning at breakfast, grace being still in her bedroom. but how could he, with any self-respect, obstruct winterborne's suit at this stage, and nullify a scheme he had labored to promote--was, indeed, mechanically promoting at this moment? a crisis was approaching, mainly as a result of his contrivances, and it would have to be met. but here was the fact, which could not be disguised: since seeing what an immense change her last twelve months of absence had produced in his daughter, after the heavy sum per annum that he had been spending for several years upon her education, he was reluctant to let her marry giles winterborne, indefinitely occupied as woodsman, cider-merchant, apple-farmer, and what not, even were she willing to marry him herself. "she will be his wife if you don't upset her notion that she's bound to accept him as an understood thing," said mrs. melbury. "bless ye, she'll soon shake down here in hintock, and be content with giles's way of living, which he'll improve with what money she'll have from you. 'tis the strangeness after her genteel life that makes her feel uncomfortable at first. why, when i saw hintock the first time i thought i never could like it. but things gradually get familiar, and stone floors seem not so very cold and hard, and the hooting of the owls not so very dreadful, and loneliness not so very lonely, after a while." "yes, i believe ye. that's just it. i know grace will gradually sink down to our level again, and catch our manners and way of speaking, and feel a drowsy content in being giles's wife. but i can't bear the thought of dragging down to that old level as promising a piece of maidenhood as ever lived--fit to ornament a palace wi'--that i've taken so much trouble to lift up. fancy her white hands getting redder every day, and her tongue losing its pretty up-country curl in talking, and her bounding walk becoming the regular hintock shail and wamble!" "she may shail, but she'll never wamble," replied his wife, decisively. when grace came down-stairs he complained of her lying in bed so late; not so much moved by a particular objection to that form of indulgence as discomposed by these other reflections. the corners of her pretty mouth dropped a little down. "you used to complain with justice when i was a girl," she said. "but i am a woman now, and can judge for myself....but it is not that; it is something else!" instead of sitting down she went outside the door. he was sorry. the petulance that relatives show towards each other is in truth directed against that intangible causality which has shaped the situation no less for the offenders than the offended, but is too elusive to be discerned and cornered by poor humanity in irritated mood. melbury followed her. she had rambled on to the paddock, where the white frost lay, and where starlings in flocks of twenties and thirties were walking about, watched by a comfortable family of sparrows perched in a line along the string-course of the chimney, preening themselves in the rays of the sun. "come in to breakfast, my girl," he said. "and as to giles, use your own mind. whatever pleases you will please me." "i am promised to him, father; and i cannot help thinking that in honor i ought to marry him, whenever i do marry." he had a strong suspicion that somewhere in the bottom of her heart there pulsed an old simple indigenous feeling favorable to giles, though it had become overlaid with implanted tastes. but he would not distinctly express his views on the promise. "very well," he said. "but i hope i sha'n't lose you yet. come in to breakfast. what did you think of the inside of hintock house the other day?" "i liked it much." "different from friend winterborne's?" she said nothing; but he who knew her was aware that she meant by her silence to reproach him with drawing cruel comparisons. "mrs. charmond has asked you to come again--when, did you say?" "she thought tuesday, but would send the day before to let me know if it suited her." and with this subject upon their lips they entered to breakfast. tuesday came, but no message from mrs. charmond. nor was there any on wednesday. in brief, a fortnight slipped by without a sign, and it looked suspiciously as if mrs. charmond were not going further in the direction of "taking up" grace at present. her father reasoned thereon. immediately after his daughter's two indubitable successes with mrs. charmond--the interview in the wood and a visit to the house--she had attended winterborne's party. no doubt the out-and-out joviality of that gathering had made it a topic in the neighborhood, and that every one present as guests had been widely spoken of--grace, with her exceptional qualities, above all. what, then, so natural as that mrs. charmond should have heard the village news, and become quite disappointed in her expectations of grace at finding she kept such company? full of this post hoc argument, mr. melbury overlooked the infinite throng of other possible reasons and unreasons for a woman changing her mind. for instance, while knowing that his grace was attractive, he quite forgot that mrs. charmond had also great pretensions to beauty. in his simple estimate, an attractive woman attracted all around. so it was settled in his mind that her sudden mingling with the villagers at the unlucky winterborne's was the cause of her most grievous loss, as he deemed it, in the direction of hintock house. "'tis a thousand pities!" he would repeat to himself. "i am ruining her for conscience' sake!" it was one morning later on, while these things were agitating his mind, that, curiously enough, something darkened the window just as they finished breakfast. looking up, they saw giles in person mounted on horseback, and straining his neck forward, as he had been doing for some time, to catch their attention through the window. grace had been the first to see him, and involuntarily exclaimed, "there he is--and a new horse!" on their faces as they regarded giles were written their suspended thoughts and compound feelings concerning him, could he have read them through those old panes. but he saw nothing: his features just now were, for a wonder, lit up with a red smile at some other idea. so they rose from breakfast and went to the door, grace with an anxious, wistful manner, her father in a reverie, mrs. melbury placid and inquiring. "we have come out to look at your horse," she said. it could be seen that he was pleased at their attention, and explained that he had ridden a mile or two to try the animal's paces. "i bought her," he added, with warmth so severely repressed as to seem indifference, "because she has been used to carry a lady." still mr. melbury did not brighten. mrs. melbury said, "and is she quiet?" winterborne assured her that there was no doubt of it. "i took care of that. she's five-and-twenty, and very clever for her age." "well, get off and come in," said melbury, brusquely; and giles dismounted accordingly. this event was the concrete result of winterborne's thoughts during the past week or two. the want of success with his evening party he had accepted in as philosophic a mood as he was capable of; but there had been enthusiasm enough left in him one day at sherton abbas market to purchase this old mare, which had belonged to a neighboring parson with several daughters, and was offered him to carry either a gentleman or a lady, and to do odd jobs of carting and agriculture at a pinch. this obliging quadruped seemed to furnish giles with a means of reinstating himself in melbury's good opinion as a man of considerateness by throwing out future possibilities to grace. the latter looked at him with intensified interest this morning, in the mood which is altogether peculiar to woman's nature, and which, when reduced into plain words, seems as impossible as the penetrability of matter--that of entertaining a tender pity for the object of her own unnecessary coldness. the imperturbable poise which marked winterborne in general was enlivened now by a freshness and animation that set a brightness in his eye and on his cheek. mrs. melbury asked him to have some breakfast, and he pleasurably replied that he would join them, with his usual lack of tactical observation, not perceiving that they had all finished the meal, that the hour was inconveniently late, and that the note piped by the kettle denoted it to be nearly empty; so that fresh water had to be brought in, trouble taken to make it boil, and a general renovation of the table carried out. neither did he know, so full was he of his tender ulterior object in buying that horse, how many cups of tea he was gulping down one after another, nor how the morning was slipping, nor how he was keeping the family from dispersing about their duties. then he told throughout the humorous story of the horse's purchase, looking particularly grim at some fixed object in the room, a way he always looked when he narrated anything that amused him. while he was still thinking of the scene he had described, grace rose and said, "i have to go and help my mother now, mr. winterborne." "h'm!" he ejaculated, turning his eyes suddenly upon her. she repeated her words with a slight blush of awkwardness; whereupon giles, becoming suddenly conscious, too conscious, jumped up, saying, "to be sure, to be sure!" wished them quickly good-morning, and bolted out of the house. nevertheless he had, upon the whole, strengthened his position, with her at least. time, too, was on his side, for (as her father saw with some regret) already the homeliness of hintock life was fast becoming effaced from her observation as a singularity; just as the first strangeness of a face from which we have for years been separated insensibly passes off with renewed intercourse, and tones itself down into simple identity with the lineaments of the past. thus mr. melbury went out of the house still unreconciled to the sacrifice of the gem he had been at such pains in mounting. he fain could hope, in the secret nether chamber of his mind, that something would happen, before the balance of her feeling had quite turned in winterborne's favor, to relieve his conscience and preserve her on her elevated plane. he could not forget that mrs. charmond had apparently abandoned all interest in his daughter as suddenly as she had conceived it, and was as firmly convinced as ever that the comradeship which grace had shown with giles and his crew by attending his party had been the cause. matters lingered on thus. and then, as a hoop by gentle knocks on this side and on that is made to travel in specific directions, the little touches of circumstance in the life of this young girl shaped the curves of her career. chapter xii. it was a day of rather bright weather for the season. miss melbury went out for a morning walk, and her ever-regardful father, having an hour's leisure, offered to walk with her. the breeze was fresh and quite steady, filtering itself through the denuded mass of twigs without swaying them, but making the point of each ivy-leaf on the trunks scratch its underlying neighbor restlessly. grace's lips sucked in this native air of hers like milk. they soon reached a place where the wood ran down into a corner, and went outside it towards comparatively open ground. having looked round about, they were intending to re-enter the copse when a fox quietly emerged with a dragging brush, trotted past them tamely as a domestic cat, and disappeared amid some dead fern. they walked on, her father merely observing, after watching the animal, "they are hunting somewhere near." farther up they saw in the mid-distance the hounds running hither and thither, as if there were little or no scent that day. soon divers members of the hunt appeared on the scene, and it was evident from their movements that the chase had been stultified by general puzzle-headedness as to the whereabouts of the intended victim. in a minute a farmer rode up to the two pedestrians, panting with acteonic excitement, and grace being a few steps in advance, he addressed her, asking if she had seen the fox. "yes," said she. "we saw him some time ago--just out there." "did you cry halloo?" "we said nothing." "then why the d---- didn't you, or get the old buffer to do it for you?" said the man, as he cantered away. she looked rather disconcerted at this reply, and observing her father's face, saw that it was quite red. "he ought not to have spoken to ye like that!" said the old man, in the tone of one whose heart was bruised, though it was not by the epithet applied to himself. "and he wouldn't if he had been a gentleman. 'twas not the language to use to a woman of any niceness. you, so well read and cultivated--how could he expect ye to know what tom-boy field-folk are in the habit of doing? if so be you had just come from trimming swedes or mangolds--joking with the rough work-folk and all that--i could have stood it. but hasn't it cost me near a hundred a year to lift you out of all that, so as to show an example to the neighborhood of what a woman can be? grace, shall i tell you the secret of it? 'twas because i was in your company. if a black-coated squire or pa'son had been walking with you instead of me he wouldn't have spoken so." "no, no, father; there's nothing in you rough or ill-mannered!" "i tell you it is that! i've noticed, and i've noticed it many times, that a woman takes her color from the man she's walking with. the woman who looks an unquestionable lady when she's with a polished-up fellow, looks a mere tawdry imitation article when she's hobbing and nobbing with a homely blade. you sha'n't be treated like that for long, or at least your children sha'n't. you shall have somebody to walk with you who looks more of a dandy than i--please god you shall!" "but, my dear father," she said, much distressed, "i don't mind at all. i don't wish for more honor than i already have!" "a perplexing and ticklish possession is a daughter," according to menander or some old greek poet, and to nobody was one ever more so than to melbury, by reason of her very dearness to him. as for grace, she began to feel troubled; she did not perhaps wish there and then to unambitiously devote her life to giles winterborne, but she was conscious of more and more uneasiness at the possibility of being the social hope of the family. "you would like to have more honor, if it pleases me?" asked her father, in continuation of the subject. despite her feeling she assented to this. his reasoning had not been without its weight upon her. "grace," he said, just before they had reached the house, "if it costs me my life you shall marry well! to-day has shown me that whatever a young woman's niceness, she stands for nothing alone. you shall marry well." he breathed heavily, and his breathing was caught up by the breeze, which seemed to sigh a soft remonstrance. she looked calmly at him. "and how about mr. winterborne?" she asked. "i mention it, father, not as a matter of sentiment, but as a question of keeping faith." the timber-merchant's eyes fell for a moment. "i don't know--i don't know," he said. "'tis a trying strait. well, well; there's no hurry. we'll wait and see how he gets on." that evening he called her into his room, a snug little apartment behind the large parlor. it had at one time been part of the bakehouse, with the ordinary oval brick oven in the wall; but mr. melbury, in turning it into an office, had built into the cavity an iron safe, which he used for holding his private papers. the door of the safe was now open, and his keys were hanging from it. "sit down, grace, and keep me company," he said. "you may amuse yourself by looking over these." he threw out a heap of papers before her. "what are they?" she asked. "securities of various sorts." he unfolded them one by one. "papers worth so much money each. now here's a lot of turnpike bonds for one thing. would you think that each of these pieces of paper is worth two hundred pounds?" "no, indeed, if you didn't say so." "'tis so, then. now here are papers of another sort. they are for different sums in the three-per-cents. now these are port breedy harbor bonds. we have a great stake in that harbor, you know, because i send off timber there. open the rest at your pleasure. they'll interest ye." "yes, i will, some day," said she, rising. "nonsense, open them now. you ought to learn a little of such matters. a young lady of education should not be ignorant of money affairs altogether. suppose you should be left a widow some day, with your husband's title-deeds and investments thrown upon your hands--" "don't say that, father--title-deeds; it sounds so vain!" "it does not. come to that, i have title-deeds myself. there, that piece of parchment represents houses in sherton abbas." "yes, but--" she hesitated, looked at the fire, and went on in a low voice: "if what has been arranged about me should come to anything, my sphere will be quite a middling one." "your sphere ought not to be middling," he exclaimed, not in passion, but in earnest conviction. "you said you never felt more at home, more in your element, anywhere than you did that afternoon with mrs. charmond, when she showed you her house and all her knick-knacks, and made you stay to tea so nicely in her drawing-room--surely you did!" "yes, i did say so," admitted grace. "was it true?" "yes, i felt so at the time. the feeling is less strong now, perhaps." "ah! now, though you don't see it, your feeling at the time was the right one, because your mind and body were just in full and fresh cultivation, so that going there with her was like meeting like. since then you've been biding with us, and have fallen back a little, and so you don't feel your place so strongly. now, do as i tell ye, and look over these papers and see what you'll be worth some day. for they'll all be yours, you know; who have i got to leave 'em to but you? perhaps when your education is backed up by what these papers represent, and that backed up by another such a set and their owner, men such as that fellow was this morning may think you a little more than a buffer's girl." so she did as commanded, and opened each of the folded representatives of hard cash that her father put before her. to sow in her heart cravings for social position was obviously his strong desire, though in direct antagonism to a better feeling which had hitherto prevailed with him, and had, indeed, only succumbed that morning during the ramble. she wished that she was not his worldly hope; the responsibility of such a position was too great. she had made it for herself mainly by her appearance and attractive behavior to him since her return. "if i had only come home in a shabby dress, and tried to speak roughly, this might not have happened," she thought. she deplored less the fact than the sad possibilities that might lie hidden therein. her father then insisted upon her looking over his checkbook and reading the counterfoils. this, also, she obediently did, and at last came to two or three which had been drawn to defray some of the late expenses of her clothes, board, and education. "i, too, cost a good deal, like the horses and wagons and corn," she said, looking up sorrily. "i didn't want you to look at those; i merely meant to give you an idea of my investment transactions. but if you do cost as much as they, never mind. you'll yield a better return." "don't think of me like that!" she begged. "a mere chattel." "a what? oh, a dictionary word. well, as that's in your line i don't forbid it, even if it tells against me," he said, good-humoredly. and he looked her proudly up and down. a few minutes later grammer oliver came to tell them that supper was ready, and in giving the information she added, incidentally, "so we shall soon lose the mistress of hintock house for some time, i hear, maister melbury. yes, she's going off to foreign parts to-morrow, for the rest of the winter months; and be-chok'd if i don't wish i could do the same, for my wynd-pipe is furred like a flue." when the old woman had left the room, melbury turned to his daughter and said, "so, grace, you've lost your new friend, and your chance of keeping her company and writing her travels is quite gone from ye!" grace said nothing. "now," he went on, emphatically, "'tis winterborne's affair has done this. oh yes, 'tis. so let me say one word. promise me that you will not meet him again without my knowledge." "i never do meet him, father, either without your knowledge or with it." "so much the better. i don't like the look of this at all. and i say it not out of harshness to him, poor fellow, but out of tenderness to you. for how could a woman, brought up delicately as you have been, bear the roughness of a life with him?" she sighed; it was a sigh of sympathy with giles, complicated by a sense of the intractability of circumstances. at that same hour, and almost at that same minute, there was a conversation about winterborne in progress in the village street, opposite mr. melbury's gates, where timothy tangs the elder and robert creedle had accidentally met. the sawyer was asking creedle if he had heard what was all over the parish, the skin of his face being drawn two ways on the matter--towards brightness in respect of it as news, and towards concern in respect of it as circumstance. "why, that poor little lonesome thing, marty south, is likely to lose her father. he was almost well, but is much worse again. a man all skin and grief he ever were, and if he leave little hintock for a better land, won't it make some difference to your maister winterborne, neighbor creedle?" "can i be a prophet in israel?" said creedle. "won't it! i was only shaping of such a thing yesterday in my poor, long-seeing way, and all the work of the house upon my one shoulders! you know what it means? it is upon john south's life that all mr. winterborne's houses hang. if so be south die, and so make his decease, thereupon the law is that the houses fall without the least chance of absolution into her hands at the house. i told him so; but the words of the faithful be only as wind!" chapter xiii. the news was true. the life--the one fragile life--that had been used as a measuring-tape of time by law, was in danger of being frayed away. it was the last of a group of lives which had served this purpose, at the end of whose breathings the small homestead occupied by south himself, the larger one of giles winterborne, and half a dozen others that had been in the possession of various hintock village families for the previous hundred years, and were now winterborne's, would fall in and become part of the encompassing estate. yet a short two months earlier marty's father, aged fifty-five years, though something of a fidgety, anxious being, would have been looked on as a man whose existence was so far removed from hazardous as any in the parish, and as bidding fair to be prolonged for another quarter of a century. winterborne walked up and down his garden next day thinking of the contingency. the sense that the paths he was pacing, the cabbage-plots, the apple-trees, his dwelling, cider-cellar, wring-house, stables, and weathercock, were all slipping away over his head and beneath his feet, as if they were painted on a magic-lantern slide, was curious. in spite of john south's late indisposition he had not anticipated danger. to inquire concerning his health had been to show less sympathy than to remain silent, considering the material interest he possessed in the woodman's life, and he had, accordingly, made a point of avoiding marty's house. while he was here in the garden somebody came to fetch him. it was marty herself, and she showed her distress by her unconsciousness of a cropped poll. "father is still so much troubled in his mind about that tree," she said. "you know the tree i mean, mr. winterborne? the tall one in front of the house, that he thinks will blow down and kill us. can you come and see if you can persuade him out of his notion? i can do nothing." he accompanied her to the cottage, and she conducted him upstairs. john south was pillowed up in a chair between the bed and the window exactly opposite the latter, towards which his face was turned. "ah, neighbor winterborne," he said. "i wouldn't have minded if my life had only been my own to lose; i don't vallie it in much of itself, and can let it go if 'tis required of me. but to think what 'tis worth to you, a young man rising in life, that do trouble me! it seems a trick of dishonesty towards ye to go off at fifty-five! i could bear up, i know i could, if it were not for the tree--yes, the tree, 'tis that's killing me. there he stands, threatening my life every minute that the wind do blow. he'll come down upon us and squat us dead; and what will ye do when the life on your property is taken away?" "never you mind me--that's of no consequence," said giles. "think of yourself alone." he looked out of the window in the direction of the woodman's gaze. the tree was a tall elm, familiar to him from childhood, which stood at a distance of two-thirds its own height from the front of south's dwelling. whenever the wind blew, as it did now, the tree rocked, naturally enough; and the sight of its motion and sound of its sighs had gradually bred the terrifying illusion in the woodman's mind that it would descend and kill him. thus he would sit all day, in spite of persuasion, watching its every sway, and listening to the melancholy gregorian melodies which the air wrung out of it. this fear it apparently was, rather than any organic disease which was eating away the health of john south. as the tree waved, south waved his head, making it his flugel-man with abject obedience. "ah, when it was quite a small tree," he said, "and i was a little boy, i thought one day of chopping it off with my hook to make a clothes-line prop with. but i put off doing it, and then i again thought that i would; but i forgot it, and didn't. and at last it got too big, and now 'tis my enemy, and will be the death o' me. little did i think, when i let that sapling stay, that a time would come when it would torment me, and dash me into my grave." "no, no," said winterborne and marty, soothingly. but they thought it possible that it might hasten him into his grave, though in another way than by falling. "i tell you what," added winterborne, "i'll climb up this afternoon and shroud off the lower boughs, and then it won't be so heavy, and the wind won't affect it so." "she won't allow it--a strange woman come from nobody knows where--she won't have it done." "you mean mrs. charmond? oh, she doesn't know there's such a tree on her estate. besides, shrouding is not felling, and i'll risk that much." he went out, and when afternoon came he returned, took a billhook from the woodman's shed, and with a ladder climbed into the lower part of the tree, where he began lopping off--"shrouding," as they called it at hintock--the lowest boughs. each of these quivered under his attack, bent, cracked, and fell into the hedge. having cut away the lowest tier, he stepped off the ladder, climbed a few steps higher, and attacked those at the next level. thus he ascended with the progress of his work far above the top of the ladder, cutting away his perches as he went, and leaving nothing but a bare stem below him. the work was troublesome, for the tree was large. the afternoon wore on, turning dark and misty about four o'clock. from time to time giles cast his eyes across towards the bedroom window of south, where, by the flickering fire in the chamber, he could see the old man watching him, sitting motionless with a hand upon each arm of the chair. beside him sat marty, also straining her eyes towards the skyey field of his operations. a curious question suddenly occurred to winterborne, and he stopped his chopping. he was operating on another person's property to prolong the years of a lease by whose termination that person would considerably benefit. in that aspect of the case he doubted if he ought to go on. on the other hand he was working to save a man's life, and this seemed to empower him to adopt arbitrary measures. the wind had died down to a calm, and while he was weighing the circumstances he saw coming along the road through the increasing mist a figure which, indistinct as it was, he knew well. it was grace melbury, on her way out from the house, probably for a short evening walk before dark. he arranged himself for a greeting from her, since she could hardly avoid passing immediately beneath the tree. but grace, though she looked up and saw him, was just at that time too full of the words of her father to give him any encouragement. the years-long regard that she had had for him was not kindled by her return into a flame of sufficient brilliancy to make her rebellious. thinking that she might not see him, he cried, "miss melbury, here i am." she looked up again. she was near enough to see the expression of his face, and the nails in his soles, silver-bright with constant walking. but she did not reply; and dropping her glance again, went on. winterborne's face grew strange; he mused, and proceeded automatically with his work. grace meanwhile had not gone far. she had reached a gate, whereon she had leaned sadly, and whispered to herself, "what shall i do?" a sudden fog came on, and she curtailed her walk, passing under the tree again on her return. again he addressed her. "grace," he said, when she was close to the trunk, "speak to me." she shook her head without stopping, and went on to a little distance, where she stood observing him from behind the hedge. her coldness had been kindly meant. if it was to be done, she had said to herself, it should be begun at once. while she stood out of observation giles seemed to recognize her meaning; with a sudden start he worked on, climbing higher, and cutting himself off more and more from all intercourse with the sublunary world. at last he had worked himself so high up the elm, and the mist had so thickened, that he could only just be discerned as a dark-gray spot on the light-gray sky: he would have been altogether out of notice but for the stroke of his billhook and the flight of a bough downward, and its crash upon the hedge at intervals. it was not to be done thus, after all: plainness and candor were best. she went back a third time; he did not see her now, and she lingeringly gazed up at his unconscious figure, loath to put an end to any kind of hope that might live on in him still. "giles-- mr. winterborne," she said. he was so high amid the fog that he did not hear. "mr. winterborne!" she cried again, and this time he stopped, looked down, and replied. "my silence just now was not accident," she said, in an unequal voice. "my father says it is best not to think too much of that--engagement, or understanding between us, that you know of. i, too, think that upon the whole he is right. but we are friends, you know, giles, and almost relations." "very well," he answered, as if without surprise, in a voice which barely reached down the tree. "i have nothing to say in objection--i cannot say anything till i've thought a while." she added, with emotion in her tone, "for myself, i would have married you--some day--i think. but i give way, for i see it would be unwise." he made no reply, but sat back upon a bough, placed his elbow in a fork, and rested his head upon his hand. thus he remained till the fog and the night had completely enclosed him from her view. grace heaved a divided sigh, with a tense pause between, and moved onward, her heart feeling uncomfortably big and heavy, and her eyes wet. had giles, instead of remaining still, immediately come down from the tree to her, would she have continued in that filial acquiescent frame of mind which she had announced to him as final? if it be true, as women themselves have declared, that one of their sex is never so much inclined to throw in her lot with a man for good and all as five minutes after she has told him such a thing cannot be, the probabilities are that something might have been done by the appearance of winterborne on the ground beside grace. but he continued motionless and silent in that gloomy niflheim or fog-land which involved him, and she proceeded on her way. the spot seemed now to be quite deserted. the light from south's window made rays on the fog, but did not reach the tree. a quarter of an hour passed, and all was blackness overhead. giles had not yet come down. then the tree seemed to shiver, then to heave a sigh; a movement was audible, and winterborne dropped almost noiselessly to the ground. he had thought the matter out, and having returned the ladder and billhook to their places, pursued his way homeward. he would not allow this incident to affect his outer conduct any more than the danger to his leaseholds had done, and went to bed as usual. two simultaneous troubles do not always make a double trouble; and thus it came to pass that giles's practical anxiety about his houses, which would have been enough to keep him awake half the night at any other time, was displaced and not reinforced by his sentimental trouble about grace melbury. this severance was in truth more like a burial of her than a rupture with her; but he did not realize so much at present; even when he arose in the morning he felt quite moody and stern: as yet the second note in the gamut of such emotions, a tender regret for his loss, had not made itself heard. a load of oak timber was to be sent away that morning to a builder whose works were in a town many miles off. the proud trunks were taken up from the silent spot which had known them through the buddings and sheddings of their growth for the foregoing hundred years; chained down like slaves to a heavy timber carriage with enormous red wheels, and four of the most powerful of melbury's horses were harnessed in front to draw them. the horses wore their bells that day. there were sixteen to the team, carried on a frame above each animal's shoulders, and tuned to scale, so as to form two octaves, running from the highest note on the right or off-side of the leader to the lowest on the left or near-side of the shaft-horse. melbury was among the last to retain horse-bells in that neighborhood; for, living at little hintock, where the lanes yet remained as narrow as before the days of turnpike roads, these sound-signals were still as useful to him and his neighbors as they had ever been in former times. much backing was saved in the course of a year by the warning notes they cast ahead; moreover, the tones of all the teams in the district being known to the carters of each, they could tell a long way off on a dark night whether they were about to encounter friends or strangers. the fog of the previous evening still lingered so heavily over the woods that the morning could not penetrate the trees till long after its time. the load being a ponderous one, the lane crooked, and the air so thick, winterborne set out, as he often did, to accompany the team as far as the corner, where it would turn into a wider road. so they rumbled on, shaking the foundations of the roadside cottages by the weight of their progress, the sixteen bells chiming harmoniously over all, till they had risen out of the valley and were descending towards the more open route, the sparks rising from their creaking skid and nearly setting fire to the dead leaves alongside. then occurred one of the very incidents against which the bells were an endeavor to guard. suddenly there beamed into their eyes, quite close to them, the two lamps of a carriage, shorn of rays by the fog. its approach had been quite unheard, by reason of their own noise. the carriage was a covered one, while behind it could be discerned another vehicle laden with luggage. winterborne went to the head of the team, and heard the coachman telling the carter that he must turn back. the carter declared that this was impossible. "you can turn if you unhitch your string-horses," said the coachman. "it is much easier for you to turn than for us," said winterborne. "we've five tons of timber on these wheels if we've an ounce." "but i've another carriage with luggage at my back." winterborne admitted the strength of the argument. "but even with that," he said, "you can back better than we. and you ought to, for you could hear our bells half a mile off." "and you could see our lights." "we couldn't, because of the fog." "well, our time's precious," said the coachman, haughtily. "you are only going to some trumpery little village or other in the neighborhood, while we are going straight to italy." "driving all the way, i suppose," said winterborne, sarcastically. the argument continued in these terms till a voice from the interior of the carriage inquired what was the matter. it was a lady's. she was briefly informed of the timber people's obstinacy; and then giles could hear her telling the footman to direct the timber people to turn their horses' heads. the message was brought, and winterborne sent the bearer back to say that he begged the lady's pardon, but that he could not do as she requested; that though he would not assert it to be impossible, it was impossible by comparison with the slight difficulty to her party to back their light carriages. as fate would have it, the incident with grace melbury on the previous day made giles less gentle than he might otherwise have shown himself, his confidence in the sex being rudely shaken. in fine, nothing could move him, and the carriages were compelled to back till they reached one of the sidings or turnouts constructed in the bank for the purpose. then the team came on ponderously, and the clanging of its sixteen bells as it passed the discomfited carriages, tilted up against the bank, lent a particularly triumphant tone to the team's progress--a tone which, in point of fact, did not at all attach to its conductor's feelings. giles walked behind the timber, and just as he had got past the yet stationary carriages he heard a soft voice say, "who is that rude man? not melbury?" the sex of the speaker was so prominent in the voice that winterborne felt a pang of regret. "no, ma'am. a younger man, in a smaller way of business in little hintock. winterborne is his name." thus they parted company. "why, mr. winterborne," said the wagoner, when they were out of hearing, "that was she--mrs. charmond! who'd ha' thought it? what in the world can a woman that does nothing be cock-watching out here at this time o' day for? oh, going to italy--yes to be sure, i heard she was going abroad, she can't endure the winter here." winterborne was vexed at the incident; the more so that he knew mr. melbury, in his adoration of hintock house, would be the first to blame him if it became known. but saying no more, he accompanied the load to the end of the lane, and then turned back with an intention to call at south's to learn the result of the experiment of the preceding evening. it chanced that a few minutes before this time grace melbury, who now rose soon enough to breakfast with her father, in spite of the unwontedness of the hour, had been commissioned by him to make the same inquiry at south's. marty had been standing at the door when miss melbury arrived. almost before the latter had spoken, mrs. charmond's carriages, released from the obstruction up the lane, came bowling along, and the two girls turned to regard the spectacle. mrs. charmond did not see them, but there was sufficient light for them to discern her outline between the carriage windows. a noticeable feature in her tournure was a magnificent mass of braided locks. "how well she looks this morning!" said grace, forgetting mrs. charmond's slight in her generous admiration. "her hair so becomes her worn that way. i have never seen any more beautiful!" "nor have i, miss," said marty, dryly, unconsciously stroking her crown. grace watched the carriages with lingering regret till they were out of sight. she then learned of marty that south was no better. before she had come away winterborne approached the house, but seeing that one of the two girls standing on the door-step was grace, he suddenly turned back again and sought the shelter of his own home till she should have gone away. chapter xiv. the encounter with the carriages having sprung upon winterborne's mind the image of mrs. charmond, his thoughts by a natural channel went from her to the fact that several cottages and other houses in the two hintocks, now his own, would fall into her possession in the event of south's death. he marvelled what people could have been thinking about in the past to invent such precarious tenures as these; still more, what could have induced his ancestors at hintock, and other village people, to exchange their old copyholds for life-leases. but having naturally succeeded to these properties through his father, he had done his best to keep them in order, though he was much struck with his father's negligence in not insuring south's life. after breakfast, still musing on the circumstances, he went upstairs, turned over his bed, and drew out a flat canvas bag which lay between the mattress and the sacking. in this he kept his leases, which had remained there unopened ever since his father's death. it was the usual hiding-place among rural lifeholders for such documents. winterborne sat down on the bed and looked them over. they were ordinary leases for three lives, which a member of the south family, some fifty years before this time, had accepted of the lord of the manor in lieu of certain copyholds and other rights, in consideration of having the dilapidated houses rebuilt by said lord. they had come into his father's possession chiefly through his mother, who was a south. pinned to the parchment of one of the indentures was a letter, which winterborne had never seen before. it bore a remote date, the handwriting being that of some solicitor or agent, and the signature the landholder's. it was to the effect that at any time before the last of the stated lives should drop, mr. giles winterborne, senior, or his representative, should have the privilege of adding his own and his son's life to the life remaining on payment of a merely nominal sum; the concession being in consequence of the elder winterborne's consent to demolish one of the houses and relinquish its site, which stood at an awkward corner of the lane and impeded the way. the house had been pulled down years before. why giles's father had not taken advantage of his privilege to insert his own and his son's lives it was impossible to say. the likelihood was that death alone had hindered him in the execution of his project, as it surely was, the elder winterborne having been a man who took much pleasure in dealing with house property in his small way. since one of the souths still survived, there was not much doubt that giles could do what his father had left undone, as far as his own life was concerned. this possibility cheered him much, for by those houses hung many things. melbury's doubt of the young man's fitness to be the husband of grace had been based not a little on the precariousness of his holdings in little and great hintock. he resolved to attend to the business at once, the fine for renewal being a sum that he could easily muster. his scheme, however, could not be carried out in a day; and meanwhile he would run up to south's, as he had intended to do, to learn the result of the experiment with the tree. marty met him at the door. "well, marty," he said; and was surprised to read in her face that the case was not so hopeful as he had imagined. "i am sorry for your labor," she said. "it is all lost. he says the tree seems taller than ever." winterborne looked round at it. taller the tree certainly did seem, the gauntness of its now naked stem being more marked than before. "it quite terrified him when he first saw what you had done to it this morning," she added. "he declares it will come down upon us and cleave us, like 'the sword of the lord and of gideon.'" "well; can i do anything else?" asked he. "the doctor says the tree ought to be cut down." "oh--you've had the doctor?" "i didn't send for him. mrs. charmond, before she left, heard that father was ill, and told him to attend him at her expense." "that was very good of her. and he says it ought to be cut down. we mustn't cut it down without her knowledge, i suppose." he went up-stairs. there the old man sat, staring at the now gaunt tree as if his gaze were frozen on to its trunk. unluckily the tree waved afresh by this time, a wind having sprung up and blown the fog away, and his eyes turned with its wavings. they heard footsteps--a man's, but of a lighter type than usual. "there is doctor fitzpiers again," she said, and descended. presently his tread was heard on the naked stairs. mr. fitzpiers entered the sick-chamber just as a doctor is more or less wont to do on such occasions, and pre-eminently when the room is that of a humble cottager, looking round towards the patient with that preoccupied gaze which so plainly reveals that he has wellnigh forgotten all about the case and the whole circumstances since he dismissed them from his mind at his last exit from the same apartment. he nodded to winterborne, with whom he was already a little acquainted, recalled the case to his thoughts, and went leisurely on to where south sat. fitzpiers was, on the whole, a finely formed, handsome man. his eyes were dark and impressive, and beamed with the light either of energy or of susceptivity--it was difficult to say which; it might have been a little of both. that quick, glittering, practical eye, sharp for the surface of things and for nothing beneath it, he had not. but whether his apparent depth of vision was real, or only an artistic accident of his corporeal moulding, nothing but his deeds could reveal. his face was rather soft than stern, charming than grand, pale than flushed; his nose--if a sketch of his features be de rigueur for a person of his pretensions--was artistically beautiful enough to have been worth doing in marble by any sculptor not over-busy, and was hence devoid of those knotty irregularities which often mean power; while the double-cyma or classical curve of his mouth was not without a looseness in its close. nevertheless, either from his readily appreciative mien, or his reflective manner, or the instinct towards profound things which was said to possess him, his presence bespoke the philosopher rather than the dandy or macaroni--an effect which was helped by the absence of trinkets or other trivialities from his attire, though this was more finished and up to date than is usually the case among rural practitioners. strict people of the highly respectable class, knowing a little about him by report, might have said that he seemed likely to err rather in the possession of too many ideas than too few; to be a dreamy 'ist of some sort, or too deeply steeped in some false kind of 'ism. however this may be, it will be seen that he was undoubtedly a somewhat rare kind of gentleman and doctor to have descended, as from the clouds, upon little hintock. "this is an extraordinary case," he said at last to winterborne, after examining south by conversation, look, and touch, and learning that the craze about the elm was stronger than ever. "come down-stairs, and i'll tell you what i think." they accordingly descended, and the doctor continued, "the tree must be cut down, or i won't answer for his life." "'tis mrs. charmond's tree, and i suppose we must get permission?" said giles. "if so, as she is gone away, i must speak to her agent." "oh--never mind whose tree it is--what's a tree beside a life! cut it down. i have not the honor of knowing mrs. charmond as yet, but i am disposed to risk that much with her." "'tis timber," rejoined giles, more scrupulous than he would have been had not his own interests stood so closely involved. "they'll never fell a stick about here without it being marked first, either by her or the agent." "then we'll inaugurate a new era forthwith. how long has he complained of the tree?" asked the doctor of marty. "weeks and weeks, sir. the shape of it seems to haunt him like an evil spirit. he says that it is exactly his own age, that it has got human sense, and sprouted up when he was born on purpose to rule him, and keep him as its slave. others have been like it afore in hintock." they could hear south's voice up-stairs "oh, he's rocking this way; he must come! and then my poor life, that's worth houses upon houses, will be squashed out o' me. oh! oh!" "that's how he goes on," she added. "and he'll never look anywhere else but out of the window, and scarcely have the curtains drawn." "down with it, then, and hang mrs. charmond," said mr. fitzpiers. "the best plan will be to wait till the evening, when it is dark, or early in the morning before he is awake, so that he doesn't see it fall, for that would terrify him worse than ever. keep the blind down till i come, and then i'll assure him, and show him that his trouble is over." the doctor then departed, and they waited till the evening. when it was dusk, and the curtains drawn, winterborne directed a couple of woodmen to bring a crosscut-saw, and the tall, threatening tree was soon nearly off at its base. he would not fell it completely then, on account of the possible crash, but next morning, before south was awake, they went and lowered it cautiously, in a direction away from the cottage. it was a business difficult to do quite silently; but it was done at last, and the elm of the same birth-year as the woodman's lay stretched upon the ground. the weakest idler that passed could now set foot on marks formerly made in the upper forks by the shoes of adventurous climbers only; once inaccessible nests could be examined microscopically; and on swaying extremities where birds alone had perched, the by-standers sat down. as soon as it was broad daylight the doctor came, and winterborne entered the house with him. marty said that her father was wrapped up and ready, as usual, to be put into his chair. they ascended the stairs, and soon seated him. he began at once to complain of the tree, and the danger to his life and winterborne's house-property in consequence. the doctor signalled to giles, who went and drew back the printed cotton curtains. "'tis gone, see," said mr. fitzpiers. as soon as the old man saw the vacant patch of sky in place of the branched column so familiar to his gaze, he sprang up, speechless, his eyes rose from their hollows till the whites showed all round; he fell back, and a bluish whiteness overspread him. greatly alarmed, they put him on the bed. as soon as he came a little out of his fit, he gasped, "oh, it is gone!--where?--where?" his whole system seemed paralyzed by amazement. they were thunder-struck at the result of the experiment, and did all they could. nothing seemed to avail. giles and fitzpiers went and came, but uselessly. he lingered through the day, and died that evening as the sun went down. "d--d if my remedy hasn't killed him!" murmured the doctor. chapter xv. when melbury heard what had happened he seemed much moved, and walked thoughtfully about the premises. on south's own account he was genuinely sorry; and on winterborne's he was the more grieved in that this catastrophe had so closely followed the somewhat harsh dismissal of giles as the betrothed of his daughter. he was quite angry with circumstances for so heedlessly inflicting on giles a second trouble when the needful one inflicted by himself was all that the proper order of events demanded. "i told giles's father when he came into those houses not to spend too much money on lifehold property held neither for his own life nor his son's," he exclaimed. "but he wouldn't listen to me. and now giles has to suffer for it." "poor giles!" murmured grace. "now, grace, between us two, it is very, very remarkable. it is almost as if i had foreseen this; and i am thankful for your escape, though i am sincerely sorry for giles. had we not dismissed him already, we could hardly have found it in our hearts to dismiss him now. so i say, be thankful. i'll do all i can for him as a friend; but as a pretender to the position of my son-in law, that can never be thought of more." and yet at that very moment the impracticability to which poor winterborne's suit had been reduced was touching grace's heart to a warmer sentiment on his behalf than she had felt for years concerning him. he, meanwhile, was sitting down alone in the old familiar house which had ceased to be his, taking a calm if somewhat dismal survey of affairs. the pendulum of the clock bumped every now and then against one side of the case in which it swung, as the muffled drum to his worldly march. looking out of the window he could perceive that a paralysis had come over creedle's occupation of manuring the garden, owing, obviously, to a conviction that they might not be living there long enough to profit by next season's crop. he looked at the leases again and the letter attached. there was no doubt that he had lost his houses by an accident which might easily have been circumvented if he had known the true conditions of his holding. the time for performance had now lapsed in strict law; but might not the intention be considered by the landholder when she became aware of the circumstances, and his moral right to retain the holdings for the term of his life be conceded? his heart sank within him when he perceived that despite all the legal reciprocities and safeguards prepared and written, the upshot of the matter amounted to this, that it depended upon the mere caprice--good or ill--of the woman he had met the day before in such an unfortunate way, whether he was to possess his houses for life or no. while he was sitting and thinking a step came to the door, and melbury appeared, looking very sorry for his position. winterborne welcomed him by a word and a look, and went on with his examination of the parchments. his visitor sat down. "giles," he said, "this is very awkward, and i am sorry for it. what are you going to do?" giles informed him of the real state of affairs, and how barely he had missed availing himself of his chance of renewal. "what a misfortune! why was this neglected? well, the best thing you can do is to write and tell her all about it, and throw yourself upon her generosity." "i would rather not," murmured giles. "but you must," said melbury. in short, he argued so cogently that giles allowed himself to be persuaded, and the letter to mrs. charmond was written and sent to hintock house, whence, as he knew, it would at once be forwarded to her. melbury feeling that he had done so good an action in coming as almost to extenuate his previous arbitrary conduct to nothing, went home; and giles was left alone to the suspense of waiting for a reply from the divinity who shaped the ends of the hintock population. by this time all the villagers knew of the circumstances, and being wellnigh like one family, a keen interest was the result all round. everybody thought of giles; nobody thought of marty. had any of them looked in upon her during those moonlight nights which preceded the burial of her father, they would have seen the girl absolutely alone in the house with the dead man. her own chamber being nearest the stairs, the coffin had been placed there for convenience; and at a certain hour of the night, when the moon arrived opposite the window, its beams streamed across the still profile of south, sublimed by the august presence of death, and onward a few feet farther upon the face of his daughter, lying in her little bed in the stillness of a repose almost as dignified as that of her companion--the repose of a guileless soul that had nothing more left on earth to lose, except a life which she did not overvalue. south was buried, and a week passed, and winterborne watched for a reply from mrs. charmond. melbury was very sanguine as to its tenor; but winterborne had not told him of the encounter with her carriage, when, if ever he had heard an affronted tone on a woman's lips, he had heard it on hers. the postman's time for passing was just after melbury's men had assembled in the spar-house; and winterborne, who when not busy on his own account would lend assistance there, used to go out into the lane every morning and meet the post-man at the end of one of the green rides through the hazel copse, in the straight stretch of which his laden figure could be seen a long way off. grace also was very anxious; more anxious than her father; more, perhaps, than winterborne himself. this anxiety led her into the spar-house on some pretext or other almost every morning while they were awaiting the reply. fitzpiers too, though he did not personally appear, was much interested, and not altogether easy in his mind; for he had been informed by an authority of what he had himself conjectured, that if the tree had been allowed to stand, the old man would have gone on complaining, but might have lived for twenty years. eleven times had winterborne gone to that corner of the ride, and looked up its long straight slope through the wet grays of winter dawn. but though the postman's bowed figure loomed in view pretty regularly, he brought nothing for giles. on the twelfth day the man of missives, while yet in the extreme distance, held up his hand, and winterborne saw a letter in it. he took it into the spar-house before he broke the seal, and those who were there gathered round him while he read, grace looking in at the door. the letter was not from mrs. charmond herself, but her agent at sherton. winterborne glanced it over and looked up. "it's all over," he said. "ah!" said they altogether. "her lawyer is instructed to say that mrs. charmond sees no reason for disturbing the natural course of things, particularly as she contemplates pulling the houses down," he said, quietly. "only think of that!" said several. winterborne had turned away, and said vehemently to himself, "then let her pull 'em down, and be d--d to her!" creedle looked at him with a face of seven sorrows, saying, "ah, 'twas that sperrit that lost 'em for ye, maister!" winterborne subdued his feelings, and from that hour, whatever they were, kept them entirely to himself. there could be no doubt that, up to this last moment, he had nourished a feeble hope of regaining grace in the event of this negotiation turning out a success. not being aware of the fact that her father could have settled upon her a fortune sufficient to enable both to live in comfort, he deemed it now an absurdity to dream any longer of such a vanity as making her his wife, and sank into silence forthwith. yet whatever the value of taciturnity to a man among strangers, it is apt to express more than talkativeness when he dwells among friends. the countryman who is obliged to judge the time of day from changes in external nature sees a thousand successive tints and traits in the landscape which are never discerned by him who hears the regular chime of a clock, because they are never in request. in like manner do we use our eyes on our taciturn comrade. the infinitesimal movement of muscle, curve, hair, and wrinkle, which when accompanied by a voice goes unregarded, is watched and translated in the lack of it, till virtually the whole surrounding circle of familiars is charged with the reserved one's moods and meanings. this was the condition of affairs between winterborne and his neighbors after his stroke of ill-luck. he held his tongue; and they observed him, and knew that he was discomposed. mr. melbury, in his compunction, thought more of the matter than any one else, except his daughter. had winterborne been going on in the old fashion, grace's father could have alluded to his disapproval of the alliance every day with the greatest frankness; but to speak any further on the subject he could not find it in his heart to do now. he hoped that giles would of his own accord make some final announcement that he entirely withdrew his pretensions to grace, and so get the thing past and done with. for though giles had in a measure acquiesced in the wish of her family, he could make matters unpleasant if he chose to work upon grace; and hence, when melbury saw the young man approaching along the road one day, he kept friendliness and frigidity exactly balanced in his eye till he could see whether giles's manner was presumptive or not. his manner was that of a man who abandoned all claims. "i am glad to meet ye, mr. melbury," he said, in a low voice, whose quality he endeavored to make as practical as possible. "i am afraid i shall not be able to keep that mare i bought, and as i don't care to sell her, i should like--if you don't object--to give her to miss melbury. the horse is very quiet, and would be quite safe for her." mr. melbury was rather affected at this. "you sha'n't hurt your pocket like that on our account, giles. grace shall have the horse, but i'll pay you what you gave for her, and any expense you may have been put to for her keep." he would not hear of any other terms, and thus it was arranged. they were now opposite melbury's house, and the timber-merchant pressed winterborne to enter, grace being out of the way. "pull round the settle, giles," said the timber-merchant, as soon as they were within. "i should like to have a serious talk with you." thereupon he put the case to winterborne frankly, and in quite a friendly way. he declared that he did not like to be hard on a man when he was in difficulty; but he really did not see how winterborne could marry his daughter now, without even a house to take her to. giles quite acquiesced in the awkwardness of his situation. but from a momentary feeling that he would like to know grace's mind from her own lips, he did not speak out positively there and then. he accordingly departed somewhat abruptly, and went home to consider whether he would seek to bring about a meeting with her. in the evening, while he sat quietly pondering, he fancied that he heard a scraping on the wall outside his house. the boughs of a monthly rose which grew there made such a noise sometimes, but as no wind was stirring he knew that it could not be the rose-tree. he took up the candle and went out. nobody was near. as he turned, the light flickered on the whitewashed rough case of the front, and he saw words written thereon in charcoal, which he read as follows: "o giles, you've lost your dwelling-place, and therefore, giles, you'll lose your grace." giles went in-doors. he had his suspicions as to the scrawler of those lines, but he could not be sure. what suddenly filled his heart far more than curiosity about their authorship was a terrible belief that they were turning out to be true, try to see grace as he might. they decided the question for him. he sat down and wrote a formal note to melbury, in which he briefly stated that he was placed in such a position as to make him share to the full melbury's view of his own and his daughter's promise, made some years before; to wish that it should be considered as cancelled, and they themselves quite released from any obligation on account of it. having fastened up this their plenary absolution, he determined to get it out of his hands and have done with it; to which end he went off to melbury's at once. it was now so late that the family had all retired; he crept up to the house, thrust the note under the door, and stole away as silently as he had come. melbury himself was the first to rise the next morning, and when he had read the letter his relief was great. "very honorable of giles, very honorable," he kept saying to himself. "i shall not forget him. now to keep her up to her own true level." it happened that grace went out for an early ramble that morning, passing through the door and gate while her father was in the spar-house. to go in her customary direction she could not avoid passing winterborne's house. the morning sun was shining flat upon its white surface, and the words, which still remained, were immediately visible to her. she read them. her face flushed to crimson. she could see giles and creedle talking together at the back; the charred spar-gad with which the lines had been written lay on the ground beneath the wall. feeling pretty sure that winterborne would observe her action, she quickly went up to the wall, rubbed out "lose" and inserted "keep" in its stead. then she made the best of her way home without looking behind her. giles could draw an inference now if he chose. there could not be the least doubt that gentle grace was warming to more sympathy with, and interest in, giles winterborne than ever she had done while he was her promised lover; that since his misfortune those social shortcomings of his, which contrasted so awkwardly with her later experiences of life, had become obscured by the generous revival of an old romantic attachment to him. though mentally trained and tilled into foreignness of view, as compared with her youthful time, grace was not an ambitious girl, and might, if left to herself, have declined winterborne without much discontent or unhappiness. her feelings just now were so far from latent that the writing on the wall had thus quickened her to an unusual rashness. having returned from her walk she sat at breakfast silently. when her step-mother had left the room she said to her father, "i have made up my mind that i should like my engagement to giles to continue, for the present at any rate, till i can see further what i ought to do." melbury looked much surprised. "nonsense," he said, sharply. "you don't know what you are talking about. look here." he handed across to her the letter received from giles. she read it, and said no more. could he have seen her write on the wall? she did not know. fate, it seemed, would have it this way, and there was nothing to do but to acquiesce. it was a few hours after this that winterborne, who, curiously enough, had not perceived grace writing, was clearing away the tree from the front of south's late dwelling. he saw marty standing in her door-way, a slim figure in meagre black, almost without womanly contours as yet. he went up to her and said, "marty, why did you write that on my wall last night? it was you, you know." "because it was the truth. i didn't mean to let it stay, mr. winterborne; but when i was going to rub it out you came, and i was obliged to run off." "having prophesied one thing, why did you alter it to another? your predictions can't be worth much." "i have not altered it." "but you have." "no." "it is altered. go and see." she went, and read that, in spite of losing his dwelling-place, he would keep his grace. marty came back surprised. "well, i never," she said. "who can have made such nonsense of it?" "who, indeed?" said he. "i have rubbed it all out, as the point of it is quite gone." "you'd no business to rub it out. i didn't tell you to. i meant to let it stay a little longer." "some idle boy did it, no doubt," she murmured. as this seemed very probable, and the actual perpetrator was unsuspected, winterborne said no more, and dismissed the matter from his mind. from this day of his life onward for a considerable time, winterborne, though not absolutely out of his house as yet, retired into the background of human life and action thereabout--a feat not particularly difficult of performance anywhere when the doer has the assistance of a lost prestige. grace, thinking that winterborne saw her write, made no further sign, and the frail bark of fidelity that she had thus timidly launched was stranded and lost. chapter xvi. dr. fitzpiers lived on the slope of the hill, in a house of much less pretension, both as to architecture and as to magnitude, than the timber-merchant's. the latter had, without doubt, been once the manorial residence appertaining to the snug and modest domain of little hintock, of which the boundaries were now lost by its absorption with others of its kind into the adjoining estate of mrs. charmond. though the melburys themselves were unaware of the fact, there was every reason to believe--at least so the parson said--that the owners of that little manor had been melbury's own ancestors, the family name occurring in numerous documents relating to transfers of land about the time of the civil wars. mr. fitzpiers's dwelling, on the contrary, was small, cottage-like, and comparatively modern. it had been occupied, and was in part occupied still, by a retired farmer and his wife, who, on the surgeon's arrival in quest of a home, had accommodated him by receding from their front rooms into the kitchen quarter, whence they administered to his wants, and emerged at regular intervals to receive from him a not unwelcome addition to their income. the cottage and its garden were so regular in their arrangement that they might have been laid out by a dutch designer of the time of william and mary. in a low, dense hedge, cut to wedge-shape, was a door over which the hedge formed an arch, and from the inside of the door a straight path, bordered with clipped box, ran up the slope of the garden to the porch, which was exactly in the middle of the house front, with two windows on each side. right and left of the path were first a bed of gooseberry bushes; next of currant; next of raspberry; next of strawberry; next of old-fashioned flowers; at the corners opposite the porch being spheres of box resembling a pair of school globes. over the roof of the house could be seen the orchard, on yet higher ground, and behind the orchard the forest-trees, reaching up to the crest of the hill. opposite the garden door and visible from the parlor window was a swing-gate leading into a field, across which there ran a footpath. the swing-gate had just been repainted, and on one fine afternoon, before the paint was dry, and while gnats were still dying thereon, the surgeon was standing in his sitting-room abstractedly looking out at the different pedestrians who passed and repassed along that route. being of a philosophical stamp, he perceived that the character of each of these travellers exhibited itself in a somewhat amusing manner by his or her method of handling the gate. as regarded the men, there was not much variety: they gave the gate a kick and passed through. the women were more contrasting. to them the sticky wood-work was a barricade, a disgust, a menace, a treachery, as the case might be. the first that he noticed was a bouncing woman with her skirts tucked up and her hair uncombed. she grasped the gate without looking, giving it a supplementary push with her shoulder, when the white imprint drew from her an exclamation in language not too refined. she went to the green bank, sat down and rubbed herself in the grass, cursing the while. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the doctor. the next was a girl, with her hair cropped short, in whom the surgeon recognized the daughter of his late patient, the woodman south. moreover, a black bonnet that she wore by way of mourning unpleasantly reminded him that he had ordered the felling of a tree which had caused her parent's death and winterborne's losses. she walked and thought, and not recklessly; but her preoccupation led her to grasp unsuspectingly the bar of the gate, and touch it with her arm. fitzpiers felt sorry that she should have soiled that new black frock, poor as it was, for it was probably her only one. she looked at her hand and arm, seemed but little surprised, wiped off the disfigurement with an almost unmoved face, and as if without abandoning her original thoughts. thus she went on her way. then there came over the green quite a different sort of personage. she walked as delicately as if she had been bred in town, and as firmly as if she had been bred in the country; she seemed one who dimly knew her appearance to be attractive, but who retained some of the charm of being ignorant of that fact by forgetting it in a general pensiveness. she approached the gate. to let such a creature touch it even with a tip of her glove was to fitzpiers almost like letting her proceed to tragical self-destruction. he jumped up and looked for his hat, but was unable to find the right one; glancing again out of the window he saw that he was too late. having come up, she stopped, looked at the gate, picked up a little stick, and using it as a bayonet, pushed open the obstacle without touching it at all. he steadily watched her till she had passed out of sight, recognizing her as the very young lady whom he had seen once before and been unable to identify. whose could that emotional face be? all the others he had seen in hintock as yet oppressed him with their crude rusticity; the contrast offered by this suggested that she hailed from elsewhere. precisely these thoughts had occurred to him at the first time of seeing her; but he now went a little further with them, and considered that as there had been no carriage seen or heard lately in that spot she could not have come a very long distance. she must be somebody staying at hintock house? possibly mrs. charmond, of whom he had heard so much--at any rate an inmate, and this probability was sufficient to set a mild radiance in the surgeon's somewhat dull sky. fitzpiers sat down to the book he had been perusing. it happened to be that of a german metaphysician, for the doctor was not a practical man, except by fits, and much preferred the ideal world to the real, and the discovery of principles to their application. the young lady remained in his thoughts. he might have followed her; but he was not constitutionally active, and preferred a conjectural pursuit. however, when he went out for a ramble just before dusk he insensibly took the direction of hintock house, which was the way that grace had been walking, it having happened that her mind had run on mrs. charmond that day, and she had walked to the brow of a hill whence the house could be seen, returning by another route. fitzpiers in his turn reached the edge of the glen, overlooking the manor-house. the shutters were shut, and only one chimney smoked. the mere aspect of the place was enough to inform him that mrs. charmond had gone away and that nobody else was staying there. fitzpiers felt a vague disappointment that the young lady was not mrs. charmond, of whom he had heard so much; and without pausing longer to gaze at a carcass from which the spirit had flown, he bent his steps homeward. later in the evening fitzpiers was summoned to visit a cottage patient about two miles distant. like the majority of young practitioners in his position he was far from having assumed the dignity of being driven his rounds by a servant in a brougham that flashed the sunlight like a mirror; his way of getting about was by means of a gig which he drove himself, hitching the rein of the horse to the gate post, shutter hook, or garden paling of the domicile under visitation, or giving pennies to little boys to hold the animal during his stay--pennies which were well earned when the cases to be attended were of a certain cheerful kind that wore out the patience of the little boys. on this account of travelling alone, the night journeys which fitzpiers had frequently to take were dismal enough, a serious apparent perversity in nature ruling that whenever there was to be a birth in a particularly inaccessible and lonely place, that event should occur in the night. the surgeon, having been of late years a town man, hated the solitary midnight woodland. he was not altogether skilful with the reins, and it often occurred to his mind that if in some remote depths of the trees an accident were to happen, the fact of his being alone might be the death of him. hence he made a practice of picking up any countryman or lad whom he chanced to pass by, and under the disguise of treating him to a nice drive, obtained his companionship on the journey, and his convenient assistance in opening gates. the doctor had started on his way out of the village on the night in question when the light of his lamps fell upon the musing form of winterborne, walking leisurely along, as if he had no object in life. winterborne was a better class of companion than the doctor usually could get, and he at once pulled up and asked him if he would like a drive through the wood that fine night. giles seemed rather surprised at the doctor's friendliness, but said that he had no objection, and accordingly mounted beside mr. fitzpiers. they drove along under the black boughs which formed a network upon the stars, all the trees of a species alike in one respect, and no two of them alike in another. looking up as they passed under a horizontal bough they sometimes saw objects like large tadpoles lodged diametrically across it, which giles explained to be pheasants there at roost; and they sometimes heard the report of a gun, which reminded him that others knew what those tadpole shapes represented as well as he. presently the doctor said what he had been going to say for some time: "is there a young lady staying in this neighborhood--a very attractive girl--with a little white boa round her neck, and white fur round her gloves?" winterborne of course knew in a moment that grace, whom he had caught the doctor peering at, was represented by these accessaries. with a wary grimness, partly in his character, partly induced by the circumstances, he evaded an answer by saying, "i saw a young lady talking to mrs. charmond the other day; perhaps it was she." fitzpiers concluded from this that winterborne had not seen him looking over the hedge. "it might have been," he said. "she is quite a gentlewoman--the one i mean. she cannot be a permanent resident in hintock or i should have seen her before. nor does she look like one." "she is not staying at hintock house?" "no; it is closed." "then perhaps she is staying at one of the cottages, or farmhouses?" "oh no--you mistake. she was a different sort of girl altogether." as giles was nobody, fitzpiers treated him accordingly, and apostrophized the night in continuation: "'she moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, a power, that from its objects scarcely drew one impulse of her being--in her lightness most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue, to nourish some far desert: she did seem beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, like the bright shade of some immortal dream which walks, when tempests sleep, the wave of life's dark stream.'" the consummate charm of the lines seemed to winterborne, though he divined that they were a quotation, to be somehow the result of his lost love's charms upon fitzpiers. "you seem to be mightily in love with her, sir," he said, with a sensation of heart-sickness, and more than ever resolved not to mention grace by name. "oh no--i am not that, winterborne; people living insulated, as i do by the solitude of this place, get charged with emotive fluid like a leyden-jar with electric, for want of some conductor at hand to disperse it. human love is a subjective thing--the essence itself of man, as that great thinker spinoza the philosopher says--ipsa hominis essentia--it is joy accompanied by an idea which we project against any suitable object in the line of our vision, just as the rainbow iris is projected against an oak, ash, or elm tree indifferently. so that if any other young lady had appeared instead of the one who did appear, i should have felt just the same interest in her, and have quoted precisely the same lines from shelley about her, as about this one i saw. such miserable creatures of circumstance are we all!" "well, it is what we call being in love down in these parts, whether or no," said winterborne. "you are right enough if you admit that i am in love with something in my own head, and no thing in itself outside it at all." "is it part of a country doctor's duties to learn that view of things, may i ask, sir?" said winterborne, adopting the socratic {greek word: irony} with such well-assumed simplicity that fitzpiers answered, readily, "oh no. the real truth is, winterborne, that medical practice in places like this is a very rule-of-thumb matter; a bottle of bitter stuff for this and that old woman--the bitterer the better--compounded from a few simple stereotyped prescriptions; occasional attendance at births, where mere presence is almost sufficient, so healthy and strong are the people; and a lance for an abscess now and then. investigation and experiment cannot be carried on without more appliances than one has here--though i have attempted it a little." giles did not enter into this view of the case; what he had been struck with was the curious parallelism between mr. fitzpiers's manner and grace's, as shown by the fact of both of them straying into a subject of discourse so engrossing to themselves that it made them forget it was foreign to him. nothing further passed between himself and the doctor in relation to grace till they were on their way back. they had stopped at a way-side inn for a glass of brandy and cider hot, and when they were again in motion, fitzpiers, possibly a little warmed by the liquor, resumed the subject by saying, "i should like very much to know who that young lady was." "what difference can it make, if she's only the tree your rainbow falls on?" "ha! ha! true." "you have no wife, sir?" "i have no wife, and no idea of one. i hope to do better things than marry and settle in hintock. not but that it is well for a medical man to be married, and sometimes, begad, 'twould be pleasant enough in this place, with the wind roaring round the house, and the rain and the boughs beating against it. i hear that you lost your life-holds by the death of south?" "i did. i lost in more ways than one." they had reached the top of hintock lane or street, if it could be called such where three-quarters of the road-side consisted of copse and orchard. one of the first houses to be passed was melbury's. a light was shining from a bedroom window facing lengthwise of the lane. winterborne glanced at it, and saw what was coming. he had withheld an answer to the doctor's inquiry to hinder his knowledge of grace; but, as he thought to himself, "who hath gathered the wind in his fists? who hath bound the waters in a garment?" he could not hinder what was doomed to arrive, and might just as well have been outspoken. as they came up to the house, grace's figure was distinctly visible, drawing the two white curtains together which were used here instead of blinds. "why, there she is!" said fitzpiers. "how does she come there?" "in the most natural way in the world. it is her home. mr. melbury is her father." "oh, indeed--indeed--indeed! how comes he to have a daughter of that stamp?" winterborne laughed coldly. "won't money do anything," he said, "if you've promising material to work upon? why shouldn't a hintock girl, taken early from home, and put under proper instruction, become as finished as any other young lady, if she's got brains and good looks to begin with?" "no reason at all why she shouldn't," murmured the surgeon, with reflective disappointment. "only i didn't anticipate quite that kind of origin for her." "and you think an inch or two less of her now." there was a little tremor in winterborne's voice as he spoke. "well," said the doctor, with recovered warmth, "i am not so sure that i think less of her. at first it was a sort of blow; but, dammy! i'll stick up for her. she's charming, every inch of her!" "so she is," said winterborne, "but not to me." from this ambiguous expression of the reticent woodlander's, dr. fitzpiers inferred that giles disliked miss melbury because of some haughtiness in her bearing towards him, and had, on that account, withheld her name. the supposition did not tend to diminish his admiration for her. chapter xvii. grace's exhibition of herself, in the act of pulling-to the window-curtains, had been the result of an unfortunate incident in the house that day--nothing less than the illness of grammer oliver, a woman who had never till now lain down for such a reason in her life. like others to whom unbroken years of health has made the idea of keeping their bed almost as repugnant as death itself, she had continued on foot till she literally fell on the floor; and though she had, as yet, been scarcely a day off duty, she had sickened into quite a different personage from the independent grammer of the yard and spar-house. ill as she was, on one point she was firm. on no account would she see a doctor; in other words, fitzpiers. the room in which grace had been discerned was not her own, but the old woman's. on the girl's way to bed she had received a message from grammer, to the effect that she would much like to speak to her that night. grace entered, and set the candle on a low chair beside the bed, so that the profile of grammer as she lay cast itself in a keen shadow upon the whitened wall, her large head being still further magnified by an enormous turban, which was, really, her petticoat wound in a wreath round her temples. grace put the room a little in order, and approaching the sick woman, said, "i am come, grammer, as you wish. do let us send for the doctor before it gets later." "i will not have him," said grammer oliver, decisively. "then somebody to sit up with you." "can't abear it! no; i wanted to see you, miss grace, because 'ch have something on my mind. dear miss grace, i took that money of the doctor, after all!" "what money?" "the ten pounds." grace did not quite understand. "the ten pounds he offered me for my head, because i've a large brain. i signed a paper when i took the money, not feeling concerned about it at all. i have not liked to tell ye that it was really settled with him, because you showed such horror at the notion. well, having thought it over more at length, i wish i hadn't done it; and it weighs upon my mind. john south's death of fear about the tree makes me think that i shall die of this....'ch have been going to ask him again to let me off, but i hadn't the face." "why?" "i've spent some of the money--more'n two pounds o't. it do wherrit me terribly; and i shall die o' the thought of that paper i signed with my holy cross, as south died of his trouble." "if you ask him to burn the paper he will, i'm sure, and think no more of it." "'ch have done it once already, miss. but he laughed cruel like. 'yours is such a fine brain, grammer,' 'er said, 'that science couldn't afford to lose you. besides, you've taken my money.'...don't let your father know of this, please, on no account whatever!" "no, no. i will let you have the money to return to him." grammer rolled her head negatively upon the pillow. "even if i should be well enough to take it to him, he won't like it. though why he should so particular want to look into the works of a poor old woman's head-piece like mine when there's so many other folks about, i don't know. i know how he'll answer me: 'a lonely person like you, grammer,' er woll say. 'what difference is it to you what becomes of ye when the breath's out of your body?' oh, it do trouble me! if you only knew how he do chevy me round the chimmer in my dreams, you'd pity me. how i could do it i can't think! but 'ch was always so rackless!...if i only had anybody to plead for me!" "mrs. melbury would, i am sure." "ay; but he wouldn't hearken to she! it wants a younger face than hers to work upon such as he." grace started with comprehension. "you don't think he would do it for me?" she said. "oh, wouldn't he!" "i couldn't go to him, grammer, on any account. i don't know him at all." "ah, if i were a young lady," said the artful grammer, "and could save a poor old woman's skellington from a heathen doctor instead of a christian grave, i would do it, and be glad to. but nobody will do anything for a poor old familiar friend but push her out of the way." "you are very ungrateful, grammer, to say that. but you are ill, i know, and that's why you speak so. now believe me, you are not going to die yet. remember you told me yourself that you meant to keep him waiting many a year." "ay, one can joke when one is well, even in old age; but in sickness one's gayety falters to grief; and that which seemed small looks large; and the grim far-off seems near." grace's eyes had tears in them. "i don't like to go to him on such an errand, grammer," she said, brokenly. "but i will, to ease your mind." it was with extreme reluctance that grace cloaked herself next morning for the undertaking. she was all the more indisposed to the journey by reason of grammer's allusion to the effect of a pretty face upon dr. fitzpiers; and hence she most illogically did that which, had the doctor never seen her, would have operated to stultify the sole motive of her journey; that is to say, she put on a woollen veil, which hid all her face except an occasional spark of her eyes. her own wish that nothing should be known of this strange and grewsome proceeding, no less than grammer oliver's own desire, led grace to take every precaution against being discovered. she went out by the garden door as the safest way, all the household having occupations at the other side. the morning looked forbidding enough when she stealthily opened it. the battle between frost and thaw was continuing in mid-air: the trees dripped on the garden-plots, where no vegetables would grow for the dripping, though they were planted year after year with that curious mechanical regularity of country people in the face of hopelessness; the moss which covered the once broad gravel terrace was swamped; and grace stood irresolute. then she thought of poor grammer, and her dreams of the doctor running after her, scalpel in hand, and the possibility of a case so curiously similar to south's ending in the same way; thereupon she stepped out into the drizzle. the nature of her errand, and grammer oliver's account of the compact she had made, lent a fascinating horror to grace's conception of fitzpiers. she knew that he was a young man; but her single object in seeking an interview with him put all considerations of his age and social aspect from her mind. standing as she stood, in grammer oliver's shoes, he was simply a remorseless jove of the sciences, who would not have mercy, and would have sacrifice; a man whom, save for this, she would have preferred to avoid knowing. but since, in such a small village, it was improbable that any long time could pass without their meeting, there was not much to deplore in her having to meet him now. but, as need hardly be said, miss melbury's view of the doctor as a merciless, unwavering, irresistible scientist was not quite in accordance with fact. the real dr. fitzpiers was a man of too many hobbies to show likelihood of rising to any great eminence in the profession he had chosen, or even to acquire any wide practice in the rural district he had marked out as his field of survey for the present. in the course of a year his mind was accustomed to pass in a grand solar sweep through all the zodiacal signs of the intellectual heaven. sometimes it was in the ram, sometimes in the bull; one month he would be immersed in alchemy, another in poesy; one month in the twins of astrology and astronomy; then in the crab of german literature and metaphysics. in justice to him it must be stated that he took such studies as were immediately related to his own profession in turn with the rest, and it had been in a month of anatomical ardor without the possibility of a subject that he had proposed to grammer oliver the terms she had mentioned to her mistress. as may be inferred from the tone of his conversation with winterborne, he had lately plunged into abstract philosophy with much zest; perhaps his keenly appreciative, modern, unpractical mind found this a realm more to his taste than any other. though his aims were desultory, fitzpiers's mental constitution was not without its admirable side; a keen inquirer he honestly was, even if the midnight rays of his lamp, visible so far through the trees of hintock, lighted rank literatures of emotion and passion as often as, or oftener than, the books and materiel of science. but whether he meditated the muses or the philosophers, the loneliness of hintock life was beginning to tell upon his impressionable nature. winter in a solitary house in the country, without society, is tolerable, nay, even enjoyable and delightful, given certain conditions, but these are not the conditions which attach to the life of a professional man who drops down into such a place by mere accident. they were present to the lives of winterborne, melbury, and grace; but not to the doctor's. they are old association--an almost exhaustive biographical or historical acquaintance with every object, animate and inanimate, within the observer's horizon. he must know all about those invisible ones of the days gone by, whose feet have traversed the fields which look so gray from his windows; recall whose creaking plough has turned those sods from time to time; whose hands planted the trees that form a crest to the opposite hill; whose horses and hounds have torn through that underwood; what birds affect that particular brake; what domestic dramas of love, jealousy, revenge, or disappointment have been enacted in the cottages, the mansion, the street, or on the green. the spot may have beauty, grandeur, salubrity, convenience; but if it lack memories it will ultimately pall upon him who settles there without opportunity of intercourse with his kind. in such circumstances, maybe, an old man dreams of an ideal friend, till he throws himself into the arms of any impostor who chooses to wear that title on his face. a young man may dream of an ideal friend likewise, but some humor of the blood will probably lead him to think rather of an ideal mistress, and at length the rustle of a woman's dress, the sound of her voice, or the transit of her form across the field of his vision, will enkindle his soul with a flame that blinds his eyes. the discovery of the attractive grace's name and family would have been enough in other circumstances to lead the doctor, if not to put her personality out of his head, to change the character of his interest in her. instead of treasuring her image as a rarity, he would at most have played with it as a toy. he was that kind of a man. but situated here he could not go so far as amative cruelty. he dismissed all reverential thought about her, but he could not help taking her seriously. he went on to imagine the impossible. so far, indeed, did he go in this futile direction that, as others are wont to do, he constructed dialogues and scenes in which grace had turned out to be the mistress of hintock manor-house, the mysterious mrs. charmond, particularly ready and willing to be wooed by himself and nobody else. "well, she isn't that," he said, finally. "but she's a very sweet, nice, exceptional girl." the next morning he breakfasted alone, as usual. it was snowing with a fine-flaked desultoriness just sufficient to make the woodland gray, without ever achieving whiteness. there was not a single letter for fitzpiers, only a medical circular and a weekly newspaper. to sit before a large fire on such mornings, and read, and gradually acquire energy till the evening came, and then, with lamp alight, and feeling full of vigor, to pursue some engrossing subject or other till the small hours, had hitherto been his practice. but to-day he could not settle into his chair. that self-contained position he had lately occupied, in which the only attention demanded was the concentration of the inner eye, all outer regard being quite gratuitous, seemed to have been taken by insidious stratagem, and for the first time he had an interest outside the house. he walked from one window to another, and became aware that the most irksome of solitudes is not the solitude of remoteness, but that which is just outside desirable company. the breakfast hour went by heavily enough, and the next followed, in the same half-snowy, half-rainy style, the weather now being the inevitable relapse which sooner or later succeeds a time too radiant for the season, such as they had enjoyed in the late midwinter at hintock. to people at home there these changeful tricks had their interests; the strange mistakes that some of the more sanguine trees had made in budding before their month, to be incontinently glued up by frozen thawings now; the similar sanguine errors of impulsive birds in framing nests that were now swamped by snow-water, and other such incidents, prevented any sense of wearisomeness in the minds of the natives. but these were features of a world not familiar to fitzpiers, and the inner visions to which he had almost exclusively attended having suddenly failed in their power to absorb him, he felt unutterably dreary. he wondered how long miss melbury was going to stay in hintock. the season was unpropitious for accidental encounters with her out-of-doors, and except by accident he saw not how they were to become acquainted. one thing was clear--any acquaintance with her could only, with a due regard to his future, be casual, at most of the nature of a flirtation; for he had high aims, and they would some day lead him into other spheres than this. thus desultorily thinking he flung himself down upon the couch, which, as in many draughty old country houses, was constructed with a hood, being in fact a legitimate development from the settle. he tried to read as he reclined, but having sat up till three o'clock that morning, the book slipped from his hand and he fell asleep. chapter xviii. it was at this time that grace approached the house. her knock, always soft in virtue of her nature, was softer to-day by reason of her strange errand. however, it was heard by the farmer's wife who kept the house, and grace was admitted. opening the door of the doctor's room the housewife glanced in, and imagining fitzpiers absent, asked miss melbury to enter and wait a few minutes while she should go and find him, believing him to be somewhere on the premises. grace acquiesced, went in, and sat down close to the door. as soon as the door was shut upon her she looked round the room, and started at perceiving a handsome man snugly ensconced in the couch, like the recumbent figure within some canopied mural tomb of the fifteenth century, except that his hands were by no means clasped in prayer. she had no doubt that this was the doctor. awaken him herself she could not, and her immediate impulse was to go and pull the broad ribbon with a brass rosette which hung at one side of the fireplace. but expecting the landlady to re-enter in a moment she abandoned this intention, and stood gazing in great embarrassment at the reclining philosopher. the windows of fitzpiers's soul being at present shuttered, he probably appeared less impressive than in his hours of animation; but the light abstracted from his material presence by sleep was more than counterbalanced by the mysterious influence of that state, in a stranger, upon the consciousness of a beholder so sensitive. so far as she could criticise at all, she became aware that she had encountered a specimen of creation altogether unusual in that locality. the occasions on which grace had observed men of this stamp were when she had been far removed away from hintock, and even then such examples as had met her eye were at a distance, and mainly of coarser fibre than the one who now confronted her. she nervously wondered why the woman had not discovered her mistake and returned, and went again towards the bell-pull. approaching the chimney her back was to fitzpiers, but she could see him in the glass. an indescribable thrill passed through her as she perceived that the eyes of the reflected image were open, gazing wonderingly at her, and under the curious unexpectedness of the sight she became as if spellbound, almost powerless to turn her head and regard the original. however, by an effort she did turn, when there he lay asleep the same as before. her startled perplexity as to what he could be meaning was sufficient to lead her to precipitately abandon her errand. she crossed quickly to the door, opened and closed it noiselessly, and went out of the house unobserved. by the time that she had gone down the path and through the garden door into the lane she had recovered her equanimity. here, screened by the hedge, she stood and considered a while. drip, drip, drip, fell the rain upon her umbrella and around; she had come out on such a morning because of the seriousness of the matter in hand; yet now she had allowed her mission to be stultified by a momentary tremulousness concerning an incident which perhaps had meant nothing after all. in the mean time her departure from the room, stealthy as it had been, had roused fitzpiers, and he sat up. in the reflection from the mirror which grace had beheld there was no mystery; he had opened his eyes for a few moments, but had immediately relapsed into unconsciousness, if, indeed, he had ever been positively awake. that somebody had just left the room he was certain, and that the lovely form which seemed to have visited him in a dream was no less than the real presentation of the person departed he could hardly doubt. looking out of the window a few minutes later, down the box-edged gravel-path which led to the bottom, he saw the garden door gently open, and through it enter the young girl of his thoughts, grace having just at this juncture determined to return and attempt the interview a second time. that he saw her coming instead of going made him ask himself if his first impression of her were not a dream indeed. she came hesitatingly along, carrying her umbrella so low over her head that he could hardly see her face. when she reached the point where the raspberry bushes ended and the strawberry bed began, she made a little pause. fitzpiers feared that she might not be coming to him even now, and hastily quitting the room, he ran down the path to meet her. the nature of her errand he could not divine, but he was prepared to give her any amount of encouragement. "i beg pardon, miss melbury," he said. "i saw you from the window, and fancied you might imagine that i was not at home--if it is i you were coming for." "i was coming to speak one word to you, nothing more," she replied. "and i can say it here." "no, no. please do come in. well, then, if you will not come into the house, come as far as the porch." thus pressed she went on to the porch, and they stood together inside it, fitzpiers closing her umbrella for her. "i have merely a request or petition to make," she said. "my father's servant is ill--a woman you know--and her illness is serious." "i am sorry to hear it. you wish me to come and see her at once?" "no; i particularly wish you not to come." "oh, indeed." "yes; and she wishes the same. it would make her seriously worse if you were to come. it would almost kill her....my errand is of a peculiar and awkward nature. it is concerning a subject which weighs on her mind--that unfortunate arrangement she made with you, that you might have her body--after death." "oh! grammer oliver, the old woman with the fine head. seriously ill, is she!" "and so disturbed by her rash compact! i have brought the money back--will you please return to her the agreement she signed?" grace held out to him a couple of five-pound notes which she had kept ready tucked in her glove. without replying or considering the notes, fitzpiers allowed his thoughts to follow his eyes, and dwell upon grace's personality, and the sudden close relation in which he stood to her. the porch was narrow; the rain increased. it ran off the porch and dripped on the creepers, and from the creepers upon the edge of grace's cloak and skirts. "the rain is wetting your dress; please do come in," he said. "it really makes my heart ache to let you stay here." immediately inside the front door was the door of his sitting-room; he flung it open, and stood in a coaxing attitude. try how she would, grace could not resist the supplicatory mandate written in the face and manner of this man, and distressful resignation sat on her as she glided past him into the room--brushing his coat with her elbow by reason of the narrowness. he followed her, shut the door--which she somehow had hoped he would leave open--and placing a chair for her, sat down. the concern which grace felt at the development of these commonplace incidents was, of course, mainly owing to the strange effect upon her nerves of that view of him in the mirror gazing at her with open eyes when she had thought him sleeping, which made her fancy that his slumber might have been a feint based on inexplicable reasons. she again proffered the notes; he awoke from looking at her as at a piece of live statuary, and listened deferentially as she said, "will you then reconsider, and cancel the bond which poor grammer oliver so foolishly gave?" "i'll cancel it without reconsideration. though you will allow me to have my own opinion about her foolishness. grammer is a very wise woman, and she was as wise in that as in other things. you think there was something very fiendish in the compact, do you not, miss melbury? but remember that the most eminent of our surgeons in past times have entered into such agreements." "not fiendish--strange." "yes, that may be, since strangeness is not in the nature of a thing, but in its relation to something extrinsic--in this case an unessential observer." he went to his desk, and searching a while found a paper, which be unfolded and brought to her. a thick cross appeared in ink at the bottom--evidently from the hand of grammer. grace put the paper in her pocket with a look of much relief. as fitzpiers did not take up the money (half of which had come from grace's own purse), she pushed it a little nearer to him. "no, no. i shall not take it from the old woman," he said. "it is more strange than the fact of a surgeon arranging to obtain a subject for dissection that our acquaintance should be formed out of it." "i am afraid you think me uncivil in showing my dislike to the notion. but i did not mean to be." "oh no, no." he looked at her, as he had done before, with puzzled interest. "i cannot think, i cannot think," he murmured. "something bewilders me greatly." he still reflected and hesitated. "last night i sat up very late," he at last went on, "and on that account i fell into a little nap on that couch about half an hour ago. and during my few minutes of unconsciousness i dreamed--what do you think?--that you stood in the room." should she tell? she merely blushed. "you may imagine," fitzpiers continued, now persuaded that it had, indeed, been a dream, "that i should not have dreamed of you without considerable thinking about you first." he could not be acting; of that she felt assured. "i fancied in my vision that you stood there," he said, pointing to where she had paused. "i did not see you directly, but reflected in the glass. i thought, what a lovely creature! the design is for once carried out. nature has at last recovered her lost union with the idea! my thoughts ran in that direction because i had been reading the work of a transcendental philosopher last night; and i dare say it was the dose of idealism that i received from it that made me scarcely able to distinguish between reality and fancy. i almost wept when i awoke, and found that you had appeared to me in time, but not in space, alas!" at moments there was something theatrical in the delivery of fitzpiers's effusion; yet it would have been inexact to say that it was intrinsically theatrical. it often happens that in situations of unrestraint, where there is no thought of the eye of criticism, real feeling glides into a mode of manifestation not easily distinguishable from rodomontade. a veneer of affectation overlies a bulk of truth, with the evil consequence, if perceived, that the substance is estimated by the superficies, and the whole rejected. grace, however, was no specialist in men's manners, and she admired the sentiment without thinking of the form. and she was embarrassed: "lovely creature" made explanation awkward to her gentle modesty. "but can it be," said he, suddenly, "that you really were here?" "i have to confess that i have been in the room once before," faltered she. "the woman showed me in, and went away to fetch you; but as she did not return, i left." "and you saw me asleep," he murmured, with the faintest show of humiliation. "yes--if you were asleep, and did not deceive me." "why do you say if?" "i saw your eyes open in the glass, but as they were closed when i looked round upon you, i thought you were perhaps deceiving me. "never," said fitzpiers, fervently--"never could i deceive you." foreknowledge to the distance of a year or so in either of them might have spoiled the effect of that pretty speech. never deceive her! but they knew nothing, and the phrase had its day. grace began now to be anxious to terminate the interview, but the compelling power of fitzpiers's atmosphere still held her there. she was like an inexperienced actress who, having at last taken up her position on the boards, and spoken her speeches, does not know how to move off. the thought of grammer occurred to her. "i'll go at once and tell poor grammer of your generosity," she said. "it will relieve her at once." "grammer's a nervous disease, too--how singular!" he answered, accompanying her to the door. "one moment; look at this--it is something which may interest you." he had thrown open the door on the other side of the passage, and she saw a microscope on the table of the confronting room. "look into it, please; you'll be interested," he repeated. she applied her eye, and saw the usual circle of light patterned all over with a cellular tissue of some indescribable sort. "what do you think that is?" said fitzpiers. she did not know. "that's a fragment of old john south's brain, which i am investigating." she started back, not with aversion, but with wonder as to how it should have got there. fitzpiers laughed. "here am i," he said, "endeavoring to carry on simultaneously the study of physiology and transcendental philosophy, the material world and the ideal, so as to discover if possible a point of contrast between them; and your finer sense is quite offended!" "oh no, mr. fitzpiers," said grace, earnestly. "it is not so at all. i know from seeing your light at night how deeply you meditate and work. instead of condemning you for your studies, i admire you very much!" her face, upturned from the microscope, was so sweet, sincere, and self-forgetful in its aspect that the susceptible fitzpiers more than wished to annihilate the lineal yard which separated it from his own. whether anything of the kind showed in his eyes or not, grace remained no longer at the microscope, but quickly went her way into the rain. chapter xix. instead of resuming his investigation of south's brain, which perhaps was not so interesting under the microscope as might have been expected from the importance of that organ in life, fitzpiers reclined and ruminated on the interview. grace's curious susceptibility to his presence, though it was as if the currents of her life were disturbed rather than attracted by him, added a special interest to her general charm. fitzpiers was in a distinct degree scientific, being ready and zealous to interrogate all physical manifestations, but primarily he was an idealist. he believed that behind the imperfect lay the perfect; that rare things were to be discovered amid a bulk of commonplace; that results in a new and untried case might be different from those in other cases where the conditions had been precisely similar. regarding his own personality as one of unbounded possibilities, because it was his own--notwithstanding that the factors of his life had worked out a sorry product for thousands--he saw nothing but what was regular in his discovery at hintock of an altogether exceptional being of the other sex, who for nobody else would have had any existence. one habit of fitzpiers's--commoner in dreamers of more advanced age than in men of his years--was that of talking to himself. he paced round his room with a selective tread upon the more prominent blooms of the carpet, and murmured, "this phenomenal girl will be the light of my life while i am at hintock; and the special beauty of the situation is that our attitude and relations to each other will be purely spiritual. socially we can never be intimate. anything like matrimonial intentions towards her, charming as she is, would be absurd. they would spoil the ethereal character of my regard. and, indeed, i have other aims on the practical side of my life." fitzpiers bestowed a regulation thought on the advantageous marriage he was bound to make with a woman of family as good as his own, and of purse much longer. but as an object of contemplation for the present, as objective spirit rather than corporeal presence, grace melbury would serve to keep his soul alive, and to relieve the monotony of his days. his first notion--acquired from the mere sight of her without converse--that of an idle and vulgar flirtation with a timber-merchant's pretty daughter, grated painfully upon him now that he had found what grace intrinsically was. personal intercourse with such as she could take no lower form than intellectual communion, and mutual explorations of the world of thought. since he could not call at her father's, having no practical views, cursory encounters in the lane, in the wood, coming and going to and from church, or in passing her dwelling, were what the acquaintance would have to feed on. such anticipated glimpses of her now and then realized themselves in the event. rencounters of not more than a minute's duration, frequently repeated, will build up mutual interest, even an intimacy, in a lonely place. theirs grew as imperceptibly as the tree-twigs budded. there never was a particular moment at which it could be said they became friends; yet a delicate understanding now existed between two who in the winter had been strangers. spring weather came on rather suddenly, the unsealing of buds that had long been swollen accomplishing itself in the space of one warm night. the rush of sap in the veins of the trees could almost be heard. the flowers of late april took up a position unseen, and looked as if they had been blooming a long while, though there had been no trace of them the day before yesterday; birds began not to mind getting wet. in-door people said they had heard the nightingale, to which out-door people replied contemptuously that they had heard him a fortnight before. the young doctor's practice being scarcely so large as a london surgeon's, he frequently walked in the wood. indeed such practice as he had he did not follow up with the assiduity that would have been necessary for developing it to exceptional proportions. one day, book in hand, he walked in a part of the wood where the trees were mainly oaks. it was a calm afternoon, and there was everywhere around that sign of great undertakings on the part of vegetable nature which is apt to fill reflective human beings who are not undertaking much themselves with a sudden uneasiness at the contrast. he heard in the distance a curious sound, something like the quack of a duck, which, though it was common enough here about this time, was not common to him. looking through the trees fitzpiers soon perceived the origin of the noise. the barking season had just commenced, and what he had heard was the tear of the ripping tool as it ploughed its way along the sticky parting between the trunk and the rind. melbury did a large business in bark, and as he was grace's father, and possibly might be found on the spot, fitzpiers was attracted to the scene even more than he might have been by its intrinsic interest. when he got nearer he recognized among the workmen the two timothys, and robert creedle, who probably had been "lent" by winterborne; marty south also assisted. each tree doomed to this flaying process was first attacked by creedle. with a small billhook he carefully freed the collar of the tree from twigs and patches of moss which incrusted it to a height of a foot or two above the ground, an operation comparable to the "little toilet" of the executioner's victim. after this it was barked in its erect position to a point as high as a man could reach. if a fine product of vegetable nature could ever be said to look ridiculous it was the case now, when the oak stood naked-legged, and as if ashamed, till the axe-man came and cut a ring round it, and the two timothys finished the work with the crosscut-saw. as soon as it had fallen the barkers attacked it like locusts, and in a short time not a particle of rind was left on the trunk and larger limbs. marty south was an adept at peeling the upper parts, and there she stood encaged amid the mass of twigs and buds like a great bird, running her tool into the smallest branches, beyond the farthest points to which the skill and patience of the men enabled them to proceed--branches which, in their lifetime, had swayed high above the bulk of the wood, and caught the latest and earliest rays of the sun and moon while the lower part of the forest was still in darkness. "you seem to have a better instrument than they, marty," said fitzpiers. "no, sir," she said, holding up the tool--a horse's leg-bone fitted into a handle and filed to an edge--"'tis only that they've less patience with the twigs, because their time is worth more than mine." a little shed had been constructed on the spot, of thatched hurdles and boughs, and in front of it was a fire, over which a kettle sung. fitzpiers sat down inside the shelter, and went on with his reading, except when he looked up to observe the scene and the actors. the thought that he might settle here and become welded in with this sylvan life by marrying grace melbury crossed his mind for a moment. why should he go farther into the world than where he was? the secret of quiet happiness lay in limiting the ideas and aspirations; these men's thoughts were conterminous with the margin of the hintock woodlands, and why should not his be likewise limited--a small practice among the people around him being the bound of his desires? presently marty south discontinued her operations upon the quivering boughs, came out from the reclining oak, and prepared tea. when it was ready the men were called; and fitzpiers being in a mood to join, sat down with them. the latent reason of his lingering here so long revealed itself when the faint creaking of the joints of a vehicle became audible, and one of the men said, "here's he." turning their heads they saw melbury's gig approaching, the wheels muffled by the yielding moss. the timber-merchant was on foot leading the horse, looking back at every few steps to caution his daughter, who kept her seat, where and how to duck her head so as to avoid the overhanging branches. they stopped at the spot where the bark-ripping had been temporarily suspended; melbury cursorily examined the heaps of bark, and drawing near to where the workmen were sitting down, accepted their shouted invitation to have a dish of tea, for which purpose he hitched the horse to a bough. grace declined to take any of their beverage, and remained in her place in the vehicle, looking dreamily at the sunlight that came in thin threads through the hollies with which the oaks were interspersed. when melbury stepped up close to the shelter, he for the first time perceived that the doctor was present, and warmly appreciated fitzpiers's invitation to sit down on the log beside him. "bless my heart, who would have thought of finding you here," he said, obviously much pleased at the circumstance. "i wonder now if my daughter knows you are so nigh at hand. i don't expect she do." he looked out towards the gig wherein grace sat, her face still turned in the opposite direction. "she doesn't see us. well, never mind: let her be." grace was indeed quite unconscious of fitzpiers's propinquity. she was thinking of something which had little connection with the scene before her--thinking of her friend, lost as soon as found, mrs. charmond; of her capricious conduct, and of the contrasting scenes she was possibly enjoying at that very moment in other climes, to which grace herself had hoped to be introduced by her friend's means. she wondered if this patronizing lady would return to hintock during the summer, and whether the acquaintance which had been nipped on the last occasion of her residence there would develop on the next. melbury told ancient timber-stories as he sat, relating them directly to fitzpiers, and obliquely to the men, who had heard them often before. marty, who poured out tea, was just saying, "i think i'll take out a cup to miss grace," when they heard a clashing of the gig-harness, and turning round melbury saw that the horse had become restless, and was jerking about the vehicle in a way which alarmed its occupant, though she refrained from screaming. melbury jumped up immediately, but not more quickly than fitzpiers; and while her father ran to the horse's head and speedily began to control him, fitzpiers was alongside the gig assisting grace to descend. her surprise at his appearance was so great that, far from making a calm and independent descent, she was very nearly lifted down in his arms. he relinquished her when she touched ground, and hoped she was not frightened. "oh no, not much," she managed to say. "there was no danger--unless he had run under the trees where the boughs are low enough to hit my head." "which was by no means an impossibility, and justifies any amount of alarm." he referred to what he thought he saw written in her face, and she could not tell him that this had little to do with the horse, but much with himself. his contiguity had, in fact, the same effect upon her as on those former occasions when he had come closer to her than usual--that of producing in her an unaccountable tendency to tearfulness. melbury soon put the horse to rights, and seeing that grace was safe, turned again to the work-people. his daughter's nervous distress had passed off in a few moments, and she said quite gayly to fitzpiers as she walked with him towards the group, "there's destiny in it, you see. i was doomed to join in your picnic, although i did not intend to do so." marty prepared her a comfortable place, and she sat down in the circle, and listened to fitzpiers while he drew from her father and the bark-rippers sundry narratives of their fathers', their grandfathers', and their own adventures in these woods; of the mysterious sights they had seen--only to be accounted for by supernatural agency; of white witches and black witches; and the standard story of the spirits of the two brothers who had fought and fallen, and had haunted hintock house till they were exorcised by the priest, and compelled to retreat to a swamp in this very wood, whence they were returning to their old quarters at the rate of a cock's stride every new-year's day, old style; hence the local saying, "on new-year's tide, a cock's stride." it was a pleasant time. the smoke from the little fire of peeled sticks rose between the sitters and the sunlight, and behind its blue veil stretched the naked arms of the prostrate trees. the smell of the uncovered sap mingled with the smell of the burning wood, and the sticky inner surface of the scattered bark glistened as it revealed its pale madder hues to the eye. melbury was so highly satisfied at having fitzpiers as a sort of guest that he would have sat on for any length of time, but grace, on whom fitzpiers's eyes only too frequently alighted, seemed to think it incumbent upon her to make a show of going; and her father thereupon accompanied her to the vehicle. as the doctor had helped her out of it he appeared to think that he had excellent reasons for helping her in, and performed the attention lingeringly enough. "what were you almost in tears about just now?" he asked, softly. "i don't know," she said: and the words were strictly true. melbury mounted on the other side, and they drove on out of the grove, their wheels silently crushing delicate-patterned mosses, hyacinths, primroses, lords-and-ladies, and other strange and ordinary plants, and cracking up little sticks that lay across the track. their way homeward ran along the crest of a lofty hill, whence on the right they beheld a wide valley, differing both in feature and atmosphere from that of the hintock precincts. it was the cider country, which met the woodland district on the axis of this hill. over the vale the air was blue as sapphire--such a blue as outside that apple-valley was never seen. under the blue the orchards were in a blaze of bloom, some of the richly flowered trees running almost up to where they drove along. over a gate which opened down the incline a man leaned on his arms, regarding this fair promise so intently that he did not observe their passing. "that was giles," said melbury, when they had gone by. "was it? poor giles," said she. "all that blooth means heavy autumn work for him and his hands. if no blight happens before the setting the apple yield will be such as we have not had for years." meanwhile, in the wood they had come from, the men had sat on so long that they were indisposed to begin work again that evening; they were paid by the ton, and their time for labor was as they chose. they placed the last gatherings of bark in rows for the curers, which led them farther and farther away from the shed; and thus they gradually withdrew as the sun went down. fitzpiers lingered yet. he had opened his book again, though he could hardly see a word in it, and sat before the dying fire, scarcely knowing of the men's departure. he dreamed and mused till his consciousness seemed to occupy the whole space of the woodland around, so little was there of jarring sight or sound to hinder perfect unity with the sentiment of the place. the idea returned upon him of sacrificing all practical aims to live in calm contentment here, and instead of going on elaborating new conceptions with infinite pains, to accept quiet domesticity according to oldest and homeliest notions. these reflections detained him till the wood was embrowned with the coming night, and the shy little bird of this dusky time had begun to pour out all the intensity of his eloquence from a bush not very far off. fitzpiers's eyes commanded as much of the ground in front as was open. entering upon this he saw a figure, whose direction of movement was towards the spot where he sat. the surgeon was quite shrouded from observation by the recessed shadow of the hut, and there was no reason why he should move till the stranger had passed by. the shape resolved itself into a woman's; she was looking on the ground, and walking slowly as if searching for something that had been lost, her course being precisely that of mr. melbury's gig. fitzpiers by a sort of divination jumped to the idea that the figure was grace's; her nearer approach made the guess a certainty. yes, she was looking for something; and she came round by the prostrate trees that would have been invisible but for the white nakedness which enabled her to avoid them easily. thus she approached the heap of ashes, and acting upon what was suggested by a still shining ember or two, she took a stick and stirred the heap, which thereupon burst into a flame. on looking around by the light thus obtained she for the first time saw the illumined face of fitzpiers, precisely in the spot where she had left him. grace gave a start and a scream: the place had been associated with him in her thoughts, but she had not expected to find him there still. fitzpiers lost not a moment in rising and going to her side. "i frightened you dreadfully, i know," he said. "i ought to have spoken; but i did not at first expect it to be you. i have been sitting here ever since." he was actually supporting her with his arm, as though under the impression that she was quite overcome, and in danger of falling. as soon as she could collect her ideas she gently withdrew from his grasp, and explained what she had returned for: in getting up or down from the gig, or when sitting by the hut fire, she had dropped her purse. "now we will find it," said fitzpiers. he threw an armful of last year's leaves on to the fire, which made the flame leap higher, and the encompassing shades to weave themselves into a denser contrast, turning eve into night in a moment. by this radiance they groped about on their hands and knees, till fitzpiers rested on his elbow, and looked at grace. "we must always meet in odd circumstances," he said; "and this is one of the oddest. i wonder if it means anything?" "oh no, i am sure it doesn't," said grace in haste, quickly assuming an erect posture. "pray don't say it any more." "i hope there was not much money in the purse," said fitzpiers, rising to his feet more slowly, and brushing the leaves from his trousers. "scarcely any. i cared most about the purse itself, because it was given me. indeed, money is of little more use at hintock than on crusoe's island; there's hardly any way of spending it." they had given up the search when fitzpiers discerned something by his foot. "here it is," he said, "so that your father, mother, friend, or admirer will not have his or her feelings hurt by a sense of your negligence after all." "oh, he knows nothing of what i do now." "the admirer?" said fitzpiers, slyly. "i don't know if you would call him that," said grace, with simplicity. "the admirer is a superficial, conditional creature, and this person is quite different." "he has all the cardinal virtues." "perhaps--though i don't know them precisely." "you unconsciously practise them, miss melbury, which is better. according to schleiermacher they are self-control, perseverance, wisdom, and love; and his is the best list that i know." "i am afraid poor--" she was going to say that she feared winterborne--the giver of the purse years before--had not much perseverance, though he had all the other three; but she determined to go no further in this direction, and was silent. these half-revelations made a perceptible difference in fitzpiers. his sense of personal superiority wasted away, and grace assumed in his eyes the true aspect of a mistress in her lover's regard. "miss melbury," he said, suddenly, "i divine that this virtuous man you mention has been refused by you?" she could do no otherwise than admit it. "i do not inquire without good reason. god forbid that i should kneel in another's place at any shrine unfairly. but, my dear miss melbury, now that he is gone, may i draw near?" "i--i can't say anything about that!" she cried, quickly. "because when a man has been refused you feel pity for him, and like him more than you did before." this increasing complication added still more value to grace in the surgeon's eyes: it rendered her adorable. "but cannot you say?" he pleaded, distractedly. "i'd rather not--i think i must go home at once." "oh yes," said fitzpiers. but as he did not move she felt it awkward to walk straight away from him; and so they stood silently together. a diversion was created by the accident of two birds, that had either been roosting above their heads or nesting there, tumbling one over the other into the hot ashes at their feet, apparently engrossed in a desperate quarrel that prevented the use of their wings. they speedily parted, however, and flew up, and were seen no more. "that's the end of what is called love!" said some one. the speaker was neither grace nor fitzpiers, but marty south, who approached with her face turned up to the sky in her endeavor to trace the birds. suddenly perceiving grace, she exclaimed, "oh, miss melbury! i have been following they pigeons, and didn't see you. and here's mr. winterborne!" she continued, shyly, as she looked towards fitzpiers, who stood in the background. "marty," grace interrupted. "i want you to walk home with me--will you? come along." and without lingering longer she took hold of marty's arm and led her away. they went between the spectral arms of the peeled trees as they lay, and onward among the growing trees, by a path where there were no oaks, and no barking, and no fitzpiers--nothing but copse-wood, between which the primroses could be discerned in pale bunches. "i didn't know mr. winterborne was there," said marty, breaking the silence when they had nearly reached grace's door. "nor was he," said grace. "but, miss melbury, i saw him." "no," said grace. "it was somebody else. giles winterborne is nothing to me." chapter xx. the leaves over hintock grew denser in their substance, and the woodland seemed to change from an open filigree to a solid opaque body of infinitely larger shape and importance. the boughs cast green shades, which hurt the complexion of the girls who walked there; and a fringe of them which overhung mr. melbury's garden dripped on his seed-plots when it rained, pitting their surface all over as with pock-marks, till melbury declared that gardens in such a place were no good at all. the two trees that had creaked all the winter left off creaking, the whir of the night-jar, however, forming a very satisfactory continuation of uncanny music from that quarter. except at mid-day the sun was not seen complete by the hintock people, but rather in the form of numerous little stars staring through the leaves. such an appearance it had on midsummer eve of this year, and as the hour grew later, and nine o'clock drew on, the irradiation of the daytime became broken up by weird shadows and ghostly nooks of indistinctness. imagination could trace upon the trunks and boughs strange faces and figures shaped by the dying lights; the surfaces of the holly-leaves would here and there shine like peeping eyes, while such fragments of the sky as were visible between the trunks assumed the aspect of sheeted forms and cloven tongues. this was before the moonrise. later on, when that planet was getting command of the upper heaven, and consequently shining with an unbroken face into such open glades as there were in the neighborhood of the hamlet, it became apparent that the margin of the wood which approached the timber-merchant's premises was not to be left to the customary stillness of that reposeful time. fitzpiers having heard a voice or voices, was looking over his garden gate--where he now looked more frequently than into his books--fancying that grace might be abroad with some friends. he was now irretrievably committed in heart to grace melbury, though he was by no means sure that she was so far committed to him. that the idea had for once completely fulfilled itself in the objective substance--which he had hitherto deemed an impossibility--he was enchanted enough to fancy must be the case at last. it was not grace who had passed, however, but several of the ordinary village girls in a group--some steadily walking, some in a mood of wild gayety. he quietly asked his landlady, who was also in the garden, what these girls were intending, and she informed him that it being old midsummer eve, they were about to attempt some spell or enchantment which would afford them a glimpse of their future partners for life. she declared it to be an ungodly performance, and one which she for her part would never countenance; saying which, she entered her house and retired to bed. the young man lit a cigar and followed the bevy of maidens slowly up the road. they had turned into the wood at an opening between melbury's and marty south's; but fitzpiers could easily track them by their voices, low as they endeavored to keep their tones. in the mean time other inhabitants of little hintock had become aware of the nocturnal experiment about to be tried, and were also sauntering stealthily after the frisky maidens. miss melbury had been informed by marty south during the day of the proposed peep into futurity, and, being only a girl like the rest, she was sufficiently interested to wish to see the issue. the moon was so bright and the night so calm that she had no difficulty in persuading mrs. melbury to accompany her; and thus, joined by marty, these went onward in the same direction. passing winterborne's house, they heard a noise of hammering. marty explained it. this was the last night on which his paternal roof would shelter him, the days of grace since it fell into hand having expired; and giles was taking down his cupboards and bedsteads with a view to an early exit next morning. his encounter with mrs. charmond had cost him dearly. when they had proceeded a little farther marty was joined by grammer oliver (who was as young as the youngest in such matters), and grace and mrs. melbury went on by themselves till they had arrived at the spot chosen by the village daughters, whose primary intention of keeping their expedition a secret had been quite defeated. grace and her step-mother paused by a holly-tree; and at a little distance stood fitzpiers under the shade of a young oak, intently observing grace, who was in the full rays of the moon. he watched her without speaking, and unperceived by any but marty and grammer, who had drawn up on the dark side of the same holly which sheltered mrs. and miss melbury on its bright side. the two former conversed in low tones. "if they two come up in wood next midsummer night they'll come as one," said grammer, signifying fitzpiers and grace. "instead of my skellington he'll carry home her living carcass before long. but though she's a lady in herself, and worthy of any such as he, it do seem to me that he ought to marry somebody more of the sort of mrs. charmond, and that miss grace should make the best of winterborne." marty returned no comment; and at that minute the girls, some of whom were from great hintock, were seen advancing to work the incantation, it being now about midnight. "directly we see anything we'll run home as fast as we can," said one, whose courage had begun to fail her. to this the rest assented, not knowing that a dozen neighbors lurked in the bushes around. "i wish we had not thought of trying this," said another, "but had contented ourselves with the hole-digging to-morrow at twelve, and hearing our husbands' trades. it is too much like having dealings with the evil one to try to raise their forms." however, they had gone too far to recede, and slowly began to march forward in a skirmishing line through the trees towards the deeper recesses of the wood. as far as the listeners could gather, the particular form of black-art to be practised on this occasion was one connected with the sowing of hemp-seed, a handful of which was carried by each girl. at the moment of their advance they looked back, and discerned the figure of miss melbury, who, alone of all the observers, stood in the full face of the moonlight, deeply engrossed in the proceedings. by contrast with her life of late years they made her feel as if she had receded a couple of centuries in the world's history. she was rendered doubly conspicuous by her light dress, and after a few whispered words, one of the girls--a bouncing maiden, plighted to young timothy tangs--asked her if she would join in. grace, with some excitement, said that she would, and moved on a little in the rear of the rest. soon the listeners could hear nothing of their proceedings beyond the faintest occasional rustle of leaves. grammer whispered again to marty: "why didn't ye go and try your luck with the rest of the maids?" "i don't believe in it," said marty, shortly. "why, half the parish is here--the silly hussies should have kept it quiet. i see mr. winterborne through the leaves, just come up with robert creedle. marty, we ought to act the part o' providence sometimes. do go and tell him that if he stands just behind the bush at the bottom of the slope, miss grace must pass down it when she comes back, and she will most likely rush into his arms; for as soon as the clock strikes, they'll bundle back home--along like hares. i've seen such larries before." "do you think i'd better?" said marty, reluctantly. "oh yes, he'll bless ye for it." "i don't want that kind of blessing." but after a moment's thought she went and delivered the information; and grammer had the satisfaction of seeing giles walk slowly to the bend in the leafy defile along which grace would have to return. meanwhile mrs. melbury, deserted by grace, had perceived fitzpiers and winterborne, and also the move of the latter. an improvement on grammer's idea entered the mind of mrs. melbury, for she had lately discerned what her husband had not--that grace was rapidly fascinating the surgeon. she therefore drew near to fitzpiers. "you should be where mr. winterborne is standing," she said to him, significantly. "she will run down through that opening much faster than she went up it, if she is like the rest of the girls." fitzpiers did not require to be told twice. he went across to winterborne and stood beside him. each knew the probable purpose of the other in standing there, and neither spoke, fitzpiers scorning to look upon winterborne as a rival, and winterborne adhering to the off-hand manner of indifference which had grown upon him since his dismissal. neither grammer nor marty south had seen the surgeon's manoeuvre, and, still to help winterborne, as she supposed, the old woman suggested to the wood-girl that she should walk forward at the heels of grace, and "tole" her down the required way if she showed a tendency to run in another direction. poor marty, always doomed to sacrifice desire to obligation, walked forward accordingly, and waited as a beacon, still and silent, for the retreat of grace and her giddy companions, now quite out of hearing. the first sound to break the silence was the distant note of great hintock clock striking the significant hour. about a minute later that quarter of the wood to which the girls had wandered resounded with the flapping of disturbed birds; then two or three hares and rabbits bounded down the glade from the same direction, and after these the rustling and crackling of leaves and dead twigs denoted the hurried approach of the adventurers, whose fluttering gowns soon became visible. miss melbury, having gone forward quite in the rear of the rest, was one of the first to return, and the excitement being contagious, she ran laughing towards marty, who still stood as a hand-post to guide her; then, passing on, she flew round the fatal bush where the undergrowth narrowed to a gorge. marty arrived at her heels just in time to see the result. fitzpiers had quickly stepped forward in front of winterborne, who, disdaining to shift his position, had turned on his heel, and then the surgeon did what he would not have thought of doing but for mrs. melbury's encouragement and the sentiment of an eve which effaced conventionality. stretching out his arms as the white figure burst upon him, he captured her in a moment, as if she had been a bird. "oh!" cried grace, in her fright. "you are in my arms, dearest," said fitzpiers, "and i am going to claim you, and keep you there all our two lives!" she rested on him like one utterly mastered, and it was several seconds before she recovered from this helplessness. subdued screams and struggles, audible from neighboring brakes, revealed that there had been other lurkers thereabout for a similar purpose. grace, unlike most of these companions of hers, instead of gasping and writhing, said in a trembling voice, "mr. fitzpiers, will you let me go?" "certainly," he said, laughing; "as soon as you have recovered." she waited another few moments, then quietly and firmly pushed him aside, and glided on her path, the moon whitening her hot blush away. but it had been enough--new relations between them had begun. the case of the other girls was different, as has been said. they wrestled and tittered, only escaping after a desperate struggle. fitzpiers could hear these enactments still going on after grace had left him, and he remained on the spot where he had caught her, winterborne having gone away. on a sudden another girl came bounding down the same descent that had been followed by grace--a fine-framed young woman with naked arms. seeing fitzpiers standing there, she said, with playful effrontery, "may'st kiss me if 'canst catch me, tim!" fitzpiers recognized her as suke damson, a hoydenish damsel of the hamlet, who was plainly mistaking him for her lover. he was impulsively disposed to profit by her error, and as soon as she began racing away he started in pursuit. on she went under the boughs, now in light, now in shade, looking over her shoulder at him every few moments and kissing her hand; but so cunningly dodging about among the trees and moon-shades that she never allowed him to get dangerously near her. thus they ran and doubled, fitzpiers warming with the chase, till the sound of their companions had quite died away. he began to lose hope of ever overtaking her, when all at once, by way of encouragement, she turned to a fence in which there was a stile and leaped over it. outside the scene was a changed one--a meadow, where the half-made hay lay about in heaps, in the uninterrupted shine of the now high moon. fitzpiers saw in a moment that, having taken to open ground, she had placed herself at his mercy, and he promptly vaulted over after her. she flitted a little way down the mead, when all at once her light form disappeared as if it had sunk into the earth. she had buried herself in one of the hay-cocks. fitzpiers, now thoroughly excited, was not going to let her escape him thus. he approached, and set about turning over the heaps one by one. as soon as he paused, tantalized and puzzled, he was directed anew by an imitative kiss which came from her hiding-place, and by snatches of a local ballad in the smallest voice she could assume: "o come in from the foggy, foggy dew." in a minute or two he uncovered her. "oh, 'tis not tim!" said she, burying her face. fitzpiers, however, disregarded her resistance by reason of its mildness, stooped and imprinted the purposed kiss, then sunk down on the next hay-cock, panting with his race. "whom do you mean by tim?" he asked, presently. "my young man, tim tangs," said she. "now, honor bright, did you really think it was he?" "i did at first." "but you didn't at last?" "i didn't at last." "do you much mind that it was not?" "no," she answered, slyly. fitzpiers did not pursue his questioning. in the moonlight suke looked very beautiful, the scratches and blemishes incidental to her out-door occupation being invisible under these pale rays. while they remain silent the coarse whir of the eternal night-jar burst sarcastically from the top of a tree at the nearest corner of the wood. besides this not a sound of any kind reached their ears, the time of nightingales being now past, and hintock lying at a distance of two miles at least. in the opposite direction the hay-field stretched away into remoteness till it was lost to the eye in a soft mist. chapter xxi. when the general stampede occurred winterborne had also been looking on, and encountering one of the girls, had asked her what caused them all to fly. she said with solemn breathlessness that they had seen something very different from what they had hoped to see, and that she for one would never attempt such unholy ceremonies again. "we saw satan pursuing us with his hour-glass. it was terrible!" this account being a little incoherent, giles went forward towards the spot from which the girls had retreated. after listening there a few minutes he heard slow footsteps rustling over the leaves, and looking through a tangled screen of honeysuckle which hung from a bough, he saw in the open space beyond a short stout man in evening-dress, carrying on one arm a light overcoat and also his hat, so awkwardly arranged as possibly to have suggested the "hour-glass" to his timid observers--if this were the person whom the girls had seen. with the other hand he silently gesticulated and the moonlight falling upon his bare brow showed him to have dark hair and a high forehead of the shape seen oftener in old prints and paintings than in real life. his curious and altogether alien aspect, his strange gestures, like those of one who is rehearsing a scene to himself, and the unusual place and hour, were sufficient to account for any trepidation among the hintock daughters at encountering him. he paused, and looked round, as if he had forgotten where he was; not observing giles, who was of the color of his environment. the latter advanced into the light. the gentleman held up his hand and came towards giles, the two meeting half-way. "i have lost my way," said the stranger. "perhaps you can put me in the path again." he wiped his forehead with the air of one suffering under an agitation more than that of simple fatigue. "the turnpike-road is over there," said giles "i don't want the turnpike-road," said the gentleman, impatiently. "i came from that. i want hintock house. is there not a path to it across here?" "well, yes, a sort of path. but it is hard to find from this point. i'll show you the way, sir, with great pleasure." "thanks, my good friend. the truth is that i decided to walk across the country after dinner from the hotel at sherton, where i am staying for a day or two. but i did not know it was so far." "it is about a mile to the house from here." they walked on together. as there was no path, giles occasionally stepped in front and bent aside the underboughs of the trees to give his companion a passage, saying every now and then when the twigs, on being released, flew back like whips, "mind your eyes, sir." to which the stranger replied, "yes, yes," in a preoccupied tone. so they went on, the leaf-shadows running in their usual quick succession over the forms of the pedestrians, till the stranger said, "is it far?" "not much farther," said winterborne. "the plantation runs up into a corner here, close behind the house." he added with hesitation, "you know, i suppose, sir, that mrs. charmond is not at home?" "you mistake," said the other, quickly. "mrs. charmond has been away for some time, but she's at home now." giles did not contradict him, though he felt sure that the gentleman was wrong. "you are a native of this place?" the stranger said. "yes." "well, you are happy in having a home. it is what i don't possess." "you come from far, seemingly?" "i come now from the south of europe." "oh, indeed, sir. you are an italian, or spanish, or french gentleman, perhaps?" "i am not either." giles did not fill the pause which ensued, and the gentleman, who seemed of an emotional nature, unable to resist friendship, at length answered the question. "i am an italianized american, a south carolinian by birth," he said. "i left my native country on the failure of the southern cause, and have never returned to it since." he spoke no more about himself, and they came to the verge of the wood. here, striding over the fence out upon the upland sward, they could at once see the chimneys of the house in the gorge immediately beneath their position, silent, still, and pale. "can you tell me the time?" the gentleman asked. "my watch has stopped." "it is between twelve and one," said giles. his companion expressed his astonishment. "i thought it between nine and ten at latest! dear me--dear me!" he now begged giles to return, and offered him a gold coin, which looked like a sovereign, for the assistance rendered. giles declined to accept anything, to the surprise of the stranger, who, on putting the money back into his pocket, said, awkwardly, "i offered it because i want you to utter no word about this meeting with me. will you promise?" winterborne promised readily. he thereupon stood still while the other ascended the slope. at the bottom he looked back dubiously. giles would no longer remain when he was so evidently desired to leave, and returned through the boughs to hintock. he suspected that this man, who seemed so distressed and melancholy, might be that lover and persistent wooer of mrs. charmond whom he had heard so frequently spoken of, and whom it was said she had treated cavalierly. but he received no confirmation of his suspicion beyond a report which reached him a few days later that a gentleman had called up the servants who were taking care of hintock house at an hour past midnight; and on learning that mrs. charmond, though returned from abroad, was as yet in london, he had sworn bitterly, and gone away without leaving a card or any trace of himself. the girls who related the story added that he sighed three times before he swore, but this part of the narrative was not corroborated. anyhow, such a gentleman had driven away from the hotel at sherton next day in a carriage hired at that inn. chapter xxii. the sunny, leafy week which followed the tender doings of midsummer eve brought a visitor to fitzpiers's door; a voice that he knew sounded in the passage. mr. melbury had called. at first he had a particular objection to enter the parlor, because his boots were dusty, but as the surgeon insisted he waived the point and came in. looking neither to the right nor to the left, hardly at fitzpiers himself, he put his hat under his chair, and with a preoccupied gaze at the floor, he said, "i've called to ask you, doctor, quite privately, a question that troubles me. i've a daughter, grace, an only daughter, as you may have heard. well, she's been out in the dew--on midsummer eve in particular she went out in thin slippers to watch some vagary of the hintock maids--and she's got a cough, a distinct hemming and hacking, that makes me uneasy. now, i have decided to send her away to some seaside place for a change--" "send her away!" fitzpiers's countenance had fallen. "yes. and the question is, where would you advise me to send her?" the timber-merchant had happened to call at a moment when fitzpiers was at the spring-tide of a sentiment that grace was a necessity of his existence. the sudden pressure of her form upon his breast as she came headlong round the bush had never ceased to linger with him, ever since he adopted the manoeuvre for which the hour and the moonlight and the occasion had been the only excuse. now she was to be sent away. ambition? it could be postponed. family? culture and reciprocity of tastes had taken the place of family nowadays. he allowed himself to be carried forward on the wave of his desire. "how strange, how very strange it is," he said, "that you should have come to me about her just now. i have been thinking every day of coming to you on the very same errand." "ah!--you have noticed, too, that her health----" "i have noticed nothing the matter with her health, because there is nothing. but, mr. melbury, i have seen your daughter several times by accident. i have admired her infinitely, and i was coming to ask you if i may become better acquainted with her--pay my addresses to her?" melbury was looking down as he listened, and did not see the air of half-misgiving at his own rashness that spread over fitzpiers's face as he made this declaration. "you have--got to know her?" said melbury, a spell of dead silence having preceded his utterance, during which his emotion rose with almost visible effect. "yes," said fitzpiers. "and you wish to become better acquainted with her? you mean with a view to marriage--of course that is what you mean?" "yes," said the young man. "i mean, get acquainted with her, with a view to being her accepted lover; and if we suited each other, what would naturally follow." the timber-merchant was much surprised, and fairly agitated; his hand trembled as he laid by his walking-stick. "this takes me unawares," said he, his voice wellnigh breaking down. "i don't mean that there is anything unexpected in a gentleman being attracted by her; but it did not occur to me that it would be you. i always said," continued he, with a lump in his throat, "that my grace would make a mark at her own level some day. that was why i educated her. i said to myself, 'i'll do it, cost what it may;' though her mother-law was pretty frightened at my paying out so much money year after year. i knew it would tell in the end. 'where you've not good material to work on, such doings would be waste and vanity,' i said. 'but where you have that material it is sure to be worth while.'" "i am glad you don't object," said fitzpiers, almost wishing that grace had not been quite so cheap for him. "if she is willing i don't object, certainly. indeed," added the honest man, "it would be deceit if i were to pretend to feel anything else than highly honored personally; and it is a great credit to her to have drawn to her a man of such good professional station and venerable old family. that huntsman-fellow little thought how wrong he was about her! take her and welcome, sir." "i'll endeavor to ascertain her mind." "yes, yes. but she will be agreeable, i should think. she ought to be." "i hope she may. well, now you'll expect to see me frequently." "oh yes. but, name it all--about her cough, and her going away. i had quite forgot that that was what i came about." "i assure you," said the surgeon, "that her cough can only be the result of a slight cold, and it is not necessary to banish her to any seaside place at all." melbury looked unconvinced, doubting whether he ought to take fitzpiers's professional opinion in circumstances which naturally led him to wish to keep her there. the doctor saw this, and honestly dreading to lose sight of her, he said, eagerly, "between ourselves, if i am successful with her i will take her away myself for a month or two, as soon as we are married, which i hope will be before the chilly weather comes on. this will be so very much better than letting her go now." the proposal pleased melbury much. there could be hardly any danger in postponing any desirable change of air as long as the warm weather lasted, and for such a reason. suddenly recollecting himself, he said, "your time must be precious, doctor. i'll get home-along. i am much obliged to ye. as you will see her often, you'll discover for yourself if anything serious is the matter." "i can assure you it is nothing," said fitzpiers, who had seen grace much oftener already than her father knew of. when he was gone fitzpiers paused, silent, registering his sensations, like a man who has made a plunge for a pearl into a medium of which he knows not the density or temperature. but he had done it, and grace was the sweetest girl alive. as for the departed visitor, his own last words lingered in melbury's ears as he walked homeward; he felt that what he had said in the emotion of the moment was very stupid, ungenteel, and unsuited to a dialogue with an educated gentleman, the smallness of whose practice was more than compensated by the former greatness of his family. he had uttered thoughts before they were weighed, and almost before they were shaped. they had expressed in a certain sense his feeling at fitzpiers's news, but yet they were not right. looking on the ground, and planting his stick at each tread as if it were a flag-staff, he reached his own precincts, where, as he passed through the court, he automatically stopped to look at the men working in the shed and around. one of them asked him a question about wagon-spokes. "hey?" said melbury, looking hard at him. the man repeated the words. melbury stood; then turning suddenly away without answering, he went up the court and entered the house. as time was no object with the journeymen, except as a thing to get past, they leisurely surveyed the door through which he had disappeared. "what maggot has the gaffer got in his head now?" said tangs the elder. "sommit to do with that chiel of his! when you've got a maid of yer own, john upjohn, that costs ye what she costs him, that will take the squeak out of your sunday shoes, john! but you'll never be tall enough to accomplish such as she; and 'tis a lucky thing for ye, john, as things be. well, he ought to have a dozen--that would bring him to reason. i see 'em walking together last sunday, and when they came to a puddle he lifted her over like a halfpenny doll. he ought to have a dozen; he'd let 'em walk through puddles for themselves then." meanwhile melbury had entered the house with the look of a man who sees a vision before him. his wife was in the room. without taking off his hat he sat down at random. "luce--we've done it!" he said. "yes--the thing is as i expected. the spell, that i foresaw might be worked, has worked. she's done it, and done it well. where is she--grace, i mean?" "up in her room--what has happened!" mr. melbury explained the circumstances as coherently as he could. "i told you so," he said. "a maid like her couldn't stay hid long, even in a place like this. but where is grace? let's have her down. here--gra-a-ace!" she appeared after a reasonable interval, for she was sufficiently spoiled by this father of hers not to put herself in a hurry, however impatient his tones. "what is it, father?" said she, with a smile. "why, you scamp, what's this you've been doing? not home here more than six months, yet, instead of confining yourself to your father's rank, making havoc in the educated classes." though accustomed to show herself instantly appreciative of her father's meanings, grace was fairly unable to look anyhow but at a loss now. "no, no--of course you don't know what i mean, or you pretend you don't; though, for my part, i believe women can see these things through a double hedge. but i suppose i must tell ye. why, you've flung your grapnel over the doctor, and he's coming courting forthwith." "only think of that, my dear! don't you feel it a triumph?" said mrs. melbury. "coming courting! i've done nothing to make him," grace exclaimed. "'twasn't necessary that you should, 'tis voluntary that rules in these things....well, he has behaved very honorably, and asked my consent. you'll know what to do when he gets here, i dare say. i needn't tell you to make it all smooth for him." "you mean, to lead him on to marry me?" "i do. haven't i educated you for it?" grace looked out of the window and at the fireplace with no animation in her face. "why is it settled off-hand in this way?" said she, coquettishly. "you'll wait till you hear what i think of him, i suppose?" "oh yes, of course. but you see what a good thing it will be." she weighed the statement without speaking. "you will be restored to the society you've been taken away from," continued her father; "for i don't suppose he'll stay here long." she admitted the advantage; but it was plain that though fitzpiers exercised a certain fascination over her when he was present, or even more, an almost psychic influence, and though his impulsive act in the wood had stirred her feelings indescribably, she had never regarded him in the light of a destined husband. "i don't know what to answer," she said. "i have learned that he is very clever." "he's all right, and he's coming here to see you." a premonition that she could not resist him if he came strangely moved her. "of course, father, you remember that it is only lately that giles--" "you know that you can't think of him. he has given up all claim to you." she could not explain the subtleties of her feeling as he could state his opinion, even though she had skill in speech, and her father had none. that fitzpiers acted upon her like a dram, exciting her, throwing her into a novel atmosphere which biassed her doings until the influence was over, when she felt something of the nature of regret for the mood she had experienced--still more if she reflected on the silent, almost sarcastic, criticism apparent in winterborne's air towards her--could not be told to this worthy couple in words. it so happened that on this very day fitzpiers was called away from hintock by an engagement to attend some medical meetings, and his visits, therefore, did not begin at once. a note, however, arrived from him addressed to grace, deploring his enforced absence. as a material object this note was pretty and superfine, a note of a sort that she had been unaccustomed to see since her return to hintock, except when a school friend wrote to her--a rare instance, for the girls were respecters of persons, and many cooled down towards the timber-dealer's daughter when she was out of sight. thus the receipt of it pleased her, and she afterwards walked about with a reflective air. in the evening her father, who knew that the note had come, said, "why be ye not sitting down to answer your letter? that's what young folks did in my time." she replied that it did not require an answer. "oh, you know best," he said. nevertheless, he went about his business doubting if she were right in not replying; possibly she might be so mismanaging matters as to risk the loss of an alliance which would bring her much happiness. melbury's respect for fitzpiers was based less on his professional position, which was not much, than on the standing of his family in the county in by-gone days. that implicit faith in members of long-established families, as such, irrespective of their personal condition or character, which is still found among old-fashioned people in the rural districts reached its full intensity in melbury. his daughter's suitor was descended from a family he had heard of in his grandfather's time as being once great, a family which had conferred its name upon a neighboring village; how, then, could anything be amiss in this betrothal? "i must keep her up to this," he said to his wife. "she sees it is for her happiness; but still she's young, and may want a little prompting from an older tongue." chapter xxiii. with this in view he took her out for a walk, a custom of his when he wished to say anything specially impressive. their way was over the top of that lofty ridge dividing their woodland from the cider district, whence they had in the spring beheld the miles of apple-trees in bloom. all was now deep green. the spot recalled to grace's mind the last occasion of her presence there, and she said, "the promise of an enormous apple-crop is fulfilling itself, is it not? i suppose giles is getting his mills and presses ready." this was just what her father had not come there to talk about. without replying he raised his arm, and moved his finger till he fixed it at a point. "there," he said, "you see that plantation reaching over the hill like a great slug, and just behind the hill a particularly green sheltered bottom? that's where mr. fitzpiers's family were lords of the manor for i don't know how many hundred years, and there stands the village of buckbury fitzpiers. a wonderful property 'twas--wonderful!" "but they are not lords of the manor there now." "why, no. but good and great things die as well as little and foolish. the only ones representing the family now, i believe, are our doctor and a maiden lady living i don't know where. you can't help being happy, grace, in allying yourself with such a romantical family. you'll feel as if you've stepped into history." "we've been at hintock as long as they've been at buckbury; is it not so? you say our name occurs in old deeds continually." "oh yes--as yeomen, copyholders, and such like. but think how much better this will be for 'ee. you'll be living a high intellectual life, such as has now become natural to you; and though the doctor's practice is small here, he'll no doubt go to a dashing town when he's got his hand in, and keep a stylish carriage, and you'll be brought to know a good many ladies of excellent society. if you should ever meet me then, grace, you can drive past me, looking the other way. i shouldn't expect you to speak to me, or wish such a thing, unless it happened to be in some lonely, private place where 'twouldn't lower ye at all. don't think such men as neighbor giles your equal. he and i shall be good friends enough, but he's not for the like of you. he's lived our rough and homely life here, and his wife's life must be rough and homely likewise." so much pressure could not but produce some displacement. as grace was left very much to herself, she took advantage of one fine day before fitzpiers's return to drive into the aforesaid vale where stood the village of buckbury fitzpiers. leaving her father's man at the inn with the horse and gig, she rambled onward to the ruins of a castle, which stood in a field hard by. she had no doubt that it represented the ancient stronghold of the fitzpiers family. the remains were few, and consisted mostly of remnants of the lower vaulting, supported on low stout columns surmounted by the crochet capital of the period. the two or three arches of these vaults that were still in position were utilized by the adjoining farmer as shelter for his calves, the floor being spread with straw, amid which the young creatures rustled, cooling their thirsty tongues by licking the quaint norman carving, which glistened with the moisture. it was a degradation of even such a rude form of art as this to be treatad so grossly, she thought, and for the first time the family of fitzpiers assumed in her imagination the hues of a melancholy romanticism. it was soon time to drive home, and she traversed the distance with a preoccupied mind. the idea of so modern a man in science and aesthetics as the young surgeon springing out of relics so ancient was a kind of novelty she had never before experienced. the combination lent him a social and intellectual interest which she dreaded, so much weight did it add to the strange influence he exercised upon her whenever he came near her. in an excitement which was not love, not ambition, rather a fearful consciousness of hazard in the air, she awaited his return. meanwhile her father was awaiting him also. in his house there was an old work on medicine, published towards the end of the last century, and to put himself in harmony with events melbury spread this work on his knees when he had done his day's business, and read about galen, hippocrates, and herophilus--of the dogmatic, the empiric, the hermetical, and other sects of practitioners that have arisen in history; and thence proceeded to the classification of maladies and the rules for their treatment, as laid down in this valuable book with absolute precision. melbury regretted that the treatise was so old, fearing that he might in consequence be unable to hold as complete a conversation as he could wish with mr. fitzpiers, primed, no doubt, with more recent discoveries. the day of fitzpiers's return arrived, and he sent to say that he would call immediately. in the little time that was afforded for putting the house in order the sweeping of melbury's parlor was as the sweeping of the parlor at the interpreter's which wellnigh choked the pilgrim. at the end of it mrs. melbury sat down, folded her hands and lips, and waited. her husband restlessly walked in and out from the timber-yard, stared at the interior of the room, jerked out "ay, ay," and retreated again. between four and five fitzpiers arrived, hitching his horse to the hook outside the door. as soon as he had walked in and perceived that grace was not in the room, he seemed to have a misgiving. nothing less than her actual presence could long keep him to the level of this impassioned enterprise, and that lacking he appeared as one who wished to retrace his steps. he mechanically talked at what he considered a woodland matron's level of thought till a rustling was heard on the stairs, and grace came in. fitzpiers was for once as agitated as she. over and above the genuine emotion which she raised in his heart there hung the sense that he was casting a die by impulse which he might not have thrown by judgment. mr. melbury was not in the room. having to attend to matters in the yard, he had delayed putting on his afternoon coat and waistcoat till the doctor's appearance, when, not wishing to be backward in receiving him, he entered the parlor hastily buttoning up those garments. grace's fastidiousness was a little distressed that fitzpiers should see by this action the strain his visit was putting upon her father; and to make matters worse for her just then, old grammer seemed to have a passion for incessantly pumping in the back kitchen, leaving the doors open so that the banging and splashing were distinct above the parlor conversation. whenever the chat over the tea sank into pleasant desultoriness mr. melbury broke in with speeches of labored precision on very remote topics, as if he feared to let fitzpiers's mind dwell critically on the subject nearest the hearts of all. in truth a constrained manner was natural enough in melbury just now, for the greatest interest of his life was reaching its crisis. could the real have been beheld instead of the corporeal merely, the corner of the room in which he sat would have been filled with a form typical of anxious suspense, large-eyed, tight-lipped, awaiting the issue. that paternal hopes and fears so intense should be bound up in the person of one child so peculiarly circumstanced, and not have dispersed themselves over the larger field of a whole family, involved dangerous risks to future happiness. fitzpiers did not stay more than an hour, but that time had apparently advanced his sentiments towards grace, once and for all, from a vaguely liquescent to an organic shape. she would not have accompanied him to the door in response to his whispered "come!" if her mother had not said in a matter-of-fact way, "of course, grace; go to the door with mr. fitzpiers." accordingly grace went, both her parents remaining in the room. when the young pair were in the great brick-floored hall the lover took the girl's hand in his, drew it under his arm, and thus led her on to the door, where he stealthily kissed her. she broke from him trembling, blushed and turned aside, hardly knowing how things had advanced to this. fitzpiers drove off, kissing his hand to her, and waving it to melbury who was visible through the window. her father returned the surgeon's action with a great flourish of his own hand and a satisfied smile. the intoxication that fitzpiers had, as usual, produced in grace's brain during the visit passed off somewhat with his withdrawal. she felt like a woman who did not know what she had been doing for the previous hour, but supposed with trepidation that the afternoon's proceedings, though vague, had amounted to an engagement between herself and the handsome, coercive, irresistible fitzpiers. this visit was a type of many which followed it during the long summer days of that year. grace was borne along upon a stream of reasonings, arguments, and persuasions, supplemented, it must be added, by inclinations of her own at times. no woman is without aspirations, which may be innocent enough within certain limits; and grace had been so trained socially, and educated intellectually, as to see clearly enough a pleasure in the position of wife to such a man as fitzpiers. his material standing of itself, either present or future, had little in it to give her ambition, but the possibilities of a refined and cultivated inner life, of subtle psychological intercourse, had their charm. it was this rather than any vulgar idea of marrying well which caused her to float with the current, and to yield to the immense influence which fitzpiers exercised over her whenever she shared his society. any observer would shrewdly have prophesied that whether or not she loved him as yet in the ordinary sense, she was pretty sure to do so in time. one evening just before dusk they had taken a rather long walk together, and for a short cut homeward passed through the shrubberies of hintock house--still deserted, and still blankly confronting with its sightless shuttered windows the surrounding foliage and slopes. grace was tired, and they approached the wall, and sat together on one of the stone sills--still warm with the sun that had been pouring its rays upon them all the afternoon. "this place would just do for us, would it not, dearest," said her betrothed, as they sat, turning and looking idly at the old facade. "oh yes," said grace, plainly showing that no such fancy had ever crossed her mind. "she is away from home still," grace added in a minute, rather sadly, for she could not forget that she had somehow lost the valuable friendship of the lady of this bower. "who is?--oh, you mean mrs. charmond. do you know, dear, that at one time i thought you lived here." "indeed!" said grace. "how was that?" he explained, as far as he could do so without mentioning his disappointment at finding it was otherwise; and then went on: "well, never mind that. now i want to ask you something. there is one detail of our wedding which i am sure you will leave to me. my inclination is not to be married at the horrid little church here, with all the yokels staring round at us, and a droning parson reading." "where, then, can it be? at a church in town?" "no. not at a church at all. at a registry office. it is a quieter, snugger, and more convenient place in every way." "oh," said she, with real distress. "how can i be married except at church, and with all my dear friends round me?" "yeoman winterborne among them." "yes--why not? you know there was nothing serious between him and me." "you see, dear, a noisy bell-ringing marriage at church has this objection in our case: it would be a thing of report a long way round. now i would gently, as gently as possible, indicate to you how inadvisable such publicity would be if we leave hintock, and i purchase the practice that i contemplate purchasing at budmouth--hardly more than twenty miles off. forgive my saying that it will be far better if nobody there knows where you come from, nor anything about your parents. your beauty and knowledge and manners will carry you anywhere if you are not hampered by such retrospective criticism." "but could it not be a quiet ceremony, even at church?" she pleaded. "i don't see the necessity of going there!" he said, a trifle impatiently. "marriage is a civil contract, and the shorter and simpler it is made the better. people don't go to church when they take a house, or even when they make a will." "oh, edgar--i don't like to hear you speak like that." "well, well--i didn't mean to. but i have mentioned as much to your father, who has made no objection; and why should you?" she gave way, deeming the point one on which she ought to allow sentiment to give way to policy--if there were indeed policy in his plan. but she was indefinably depressed as they walked homeward. chapter xxiv. he left her at the door of her father's house. as he receded, and was clasped out of sight by the filmy shades, he impressed grace as a man who hardly appertained to her existence at all. cleverer, greater than herself, one outside her mental orbit, as she considered him, he seemed to be her ruler rather than her equal, protector, and dear familiar friend. the disappointment she had experienced at his wish, the shock given to her girlish sensibilities by his irreverent views of marriage, together with the sure and near approach of the day fixed for committing her future to his keeping, made her so restless that she could scarcely sleep at all that night. she rose when the sparrows began to walk out of the roof-holes, sat on the floor of her room in the dim light, and by-and-by peeped out behind the window-curtains. it was even now day out-of-doors, though the tones of morning were feeble and wan, and it was long before the sun would be perceptible in this overshadowed vale. not a sound came from any of the out-houses as yet. the tree-trunks, the road, the out-buildings, the garden, every object wore that aspect of mesmeric fixity which the suspensive quietude of daybreak lends to such scenes. outside her window helpless immobility seemed to be combined with intense consciousness; a meditative inertness possessed all things, oppressively contrasting with her own active emotions. beyond the road were some cottage roofs and orchards; over these roofs and over the apple-trees behind, high up the slope, and backed by the plantation on the crest, was the house yet occupied by her future husband, the rough-cast front showing whitely through its creepers. the window-shutters were closed, the bedroom curtains closely drawn, and not the thinnest coil of smoke rose from the rugged chimneys. something broke the stillness. the front door of the house she was gazing at opened softly, and there came out into the porch a female figure, wrapped in a large shawl, beneath which was visible the white skirt of a long loose garment. a gray arm, stretching from within the porch, adjusted the shawl over the woman's shoulders; it was withdrawn and disappeared, the door closing behind her. the woman went quickly down the box-edged path between the raspberries and currants, and as she walked her well-developed form and gait betrayed her individuality. it was suke damson, the affianced one of simple young tim tangs. at the bottom of the garden she entered the shelter of the tall hedge, and only the top of her head could be seen hastening in the direction of her own dwelling. grace had recognized, or thought she recognized, in the gray arm stretching from the porch, the sleeve of a dressing-gown which mr. fitzpiers had been wearing on her own memorable visit to him. her face fired red. she had just before thought of dressing herself and taking a lonely walk under the trees, so coolly green this early morning; but she now sat down on her bed and fell into reverie. it seemed as if hardly any time had passed when she heard the household moving briskly about, and breakfast preparing down-stairs; though, on rousing herself to robe and descend, she found that the sun was throwing his rays completely over the tree-tops, a progress of natural phenomena denoting that at least three hours had elapsed since she last looked out of the window. when attired she searched about the house for her father; she found him at last in the garden, stooping to examine the potatoes for signs of disease. hearing her rustle, he stood up and stretched his back and arms, saying, "morning t'ye, gracie. i congratulate ye. it is only a month to-day to the time!" she did not answer, but, without lifting her dress, waded between the dewy rows of tall potato-green into the middle of the plot where he was. "i have been thinking very much about my position this morning--ever since it was light," she began, excitedly, and trembling so that she could hardly stand. "and i feel it is a false one. i wish not to marry mr. fitzpiers. i wish not to marry anybody; but i'll marry giles winterborne if you say i must as an alternative." her father's face settled into rigidity, he turned pale, and came deliberately out of the plot before he answered her. she had never seen him look so incensed before. "now, hearken to me," he said. "there's a time for a woman to alter her mind; and there's a time when she can no longer alter it, if she has any right eye to her parents' honor and the seemliness of things. that time has come. i won't say to ye, you shall marry him. but i will say that if you refuse, i shall forever be ashamed and a-weary of ye as a daughter, and shall look upon you as the hope of my life no more. what do you know about life and what it can bring forth, and how you ought to act to lead up to best ends? oh, you are an ungrateful maid, grace; you've seen that fellow giles, and he has got over ye; that's where the secret lies, i'll warrant me!" "no, father, no! it is not giles--it is something i cannot tell you of--" "well, make fools of us all; make us laughing-stocks; break it off; have your own way." "but who knows of the engagement as yet? how can breaking it disgrace you?" melbury then by degrees admitted that he had mentioned the engagement to this acquaintance and to that, till she perceived that in his restlessness and pride he had published it everywhere. she went dismally away to a bower of laurel at the top of the garden. her father followed her. "it is that giles winterborne!" he said, with an upbraiding gaze at her. "no, it is not; though for that matter you encouraged him once," she said, troubled to the verge of despair. "it is not giles, it is mr. fitzpiers." "you've had a tiff--a lovers' tiff--that's all, i suppose!" "it is some woman--" "ay, ay; you are jealous. the old story. don't tell me. now do you bide here. i'll send fitzpiers to you. i saw him smoking in front of his house but a minute by-gone." he went off hastily out of the garden-gate and down the lane. but she would not stay where she was; and edging through a slit in the garden-fence, walked away into the wood. just about here the trees were large and wide apart, and there was no undergrowth, so that she could be seen to some distance; a sylph-like, greenish-white creature, as toned by the sunlight and leafage. she heard a foot-fall crushing dead leaves behind her, and found herself reconnoitered by fitzpiers himself, approaching gay and fresh as the morning around them. his remote gaze at her had been one of mild interest rather than of rapture. but she looked so lovely in the green world about her, her pink cheeks, her simple light dress, and the delicate flexibility of her movement acquired such rarity from their wild-wood setting, that his eyes kindled as he drew near. "my darling, what is it? your father says you are in the pouts, and jealous, and i don't know what. ha! ha! ha! as if there were any rival to you, except vegetable nature, in this home of recluses! we know better." "jealous; oh no, it is not so," said she, gravely. "that's a mistake of his and yours, sir. i spoke to him so closely about the question of marriage with you that he did not apprehend my state of mind." "but there's something wrong--eh?" he asked, eying her narrowly, and bending to kiss her. she shrank away, and his purposed kiss miscarried. "what is it?" he said, more seriously for this little defeat. she made no answer beyond, "mr. fitzpiers, i have had no breakfast, i must go in." "come," he insisted, fixing his eyes upon her. "tell me at once, i say." it was the greater strength against the smaller; but she was mastered less by his manner than by her own sense of the unfairness of silence. "i looked out of the window," she said, with hesitation. "i'll tell you by-and-by. i must go in-doors. i have had no breakfast." by a sort of divination his conjecture went straight to the fact. "nor i," said he, lightly. "indeed, i rose late to-day. i have had a broken night, or rather morning. a girl of the village--i don't know her name--came and rang at my bell as soon as it was light--between four and five, i should think it was--perfectly maddened with an aching tooth. as no-body heard her ring, she threw some gravel at my window, till at last i heard her and slipped on my dressing-gown and went down. the poor thing begged me with tears in her eyes to take out her tormentor, if i dragged her head off. down she sat and out it came--a lovely molar, not a speck upon it; and off she went with it in her handkerchief, much contented, though it would have done good work for her for fifty years to come." it was all so plausible--so completely explained. knowing nothing of the incident in the wood on old midsummer-eve, grace felt that her suspicions were unworthy and absurd, and with the readiness of an honest heart she jumped at the opportunity of honoring his word. at the moment of her mental liberation the bushes about the garden had moved, and her father emerged into the shady glade. "well, i hope it is made up?" he said, cheerily. "oh yes," said fitzpiers, with his eyes fixed on grace, whose eyes were shyly bent downward. "now," said her father, "tell me, the pair of ye, that you still mean to take one another for good and all; and on the strength o't you shall have another couple of hundred paid down. i swear it by the name." fitzpiers took her hand. "we declare it, do we not, my dear grace?" said he. relieved of her doubt, somewhat overawed, and ever anxious to please, she was disposed to settle the matter; yet, womanlike, she would not relinquish her opportunity of asking a concession of some sort. "if our wedding can be at church, i say yes," she answered, in a measured voice. "if not, i say no." fitzpiers was generous in his turn. "it shall be so," he rejoined, gracefully. "to holy church we'll go, and much good may it do us." they returned through the bushes indoors, grace walking, full of thought between the other two, somewhat comforted, both by fitzpiers's ingenious explanation and by the sense that she was not to be deprived of a religious ceremony. "so let it be," she said to herself. "pray god it is for the best." from this hour there was no serious attempt at recalcitration on her part. fitzpiers kept himself continually near her, dominating any rebellious impulse, and shaping her will into passive concurrence with all his desires. apart from his lover-like anxiety to possess her, the few golden hundreds of the timber-dealer, ready to hand, formed a warm background to grace's lovely face, and went some way to remove his uneasiness at the prospect of endangering his professional and social chances by an alliance with the family of a simple countryman. the interim closed up its perspective surely and silently. whenever grace had any doubts of her position, the sense of contracting time was like a shortening chamber: at other moments she was comparatively blithe. day after day waxed and waned; the one or two woodmen who sawed, shaped, spokeshaved on her father's premises at this inactive season of the year, regularly came and unlocked the doors in the morning, locked them in the evening, supped, leaned over their garden-gates for a whiff of evening air, and to catch any last and farthest throb of news from the outer world, which entered and expired at little hintock like the exhausted swell of a wave in some innermost cavern of some innermost creek of an embayed sea; yet no news interfered with the nuptial purpose at their neighbor's house. the sappy green twig-tips of the season's growth would not, she thought, be appreciably woodier on the day she became a wife, so near was the time; the tints of the foliage would hardly have changed. everything was so much as usual that no itinerant stranger would have supposed a woman's fate to be hanging in the balance at that summer's decline. but there were preparations, imaginable readily enough by those who had special knowledge. in the remote and fashionable town of sandbourne something was growing up under the hands of several persons who had never seen grace melbury, never would see her, or care anything about her at all, though their creation had such interesting relation to her life that it would enclose her very heart at a moment when that heart would beat, if not with more emotional ardor, at least with more emotional turbulence than at any previous time. why did mrs. dollery's van, instead of passing along at the end of the smaller village to great hintock direct, turn one saturday night into little hintock lane, and never pull up till it reached mr. melbury's gates? the gilding shine of evening fell upon a large, flat box not less than a yard square, and safely tied with cord, as it was handed out from under the tilt with a great deal of care. but it was not heavy for its size; mrs. dollery herself carried it into the house. tim tangs, the hollow-turner, bawtree, suke damson, and others, looked knowing, and made remarks to each other as they watched its entrance. melbury stood at the door of the timber-shed in the attitude of a man to whom such an arrival was a trifling domestic detail with which he did not condescend to be concerned. yet he well divined the contents of that box, and was in truth all the while in a pleasant exaltation at the proof that thus far, at any rate, no disappointment had supervened. while mrs. dollery remained--which was rather long, from her sense of the importance of her errand--he went into the out-house; but as soon as she had had her say, been paid, and had rumbled away, he entered the dwelling, to find there what he knew he should find--his wife and daughter in a flutter of excitement over the wedding-gown, just arrived from the leading dress-maker of sandbourne watering-place aforesaid. during these weeks giles winterborne was nowhere to be seen or heard of. at the close of his tenure in hintock he had sold some of his furniture, packed up the rest--a few pieces endeared by associations, or necessary to his occupation--in the house of a friendly neighbor, and gone away. people said that a certain laxity had crept into his life; that he had never gone near a church latterly, and had been sometimes seen on sundays with unblacked boots, lying on his elbow under a tree, with a cynical gaze at surrounding objects. he was likely to return to hintock when the cider-making season came round, his apparatus being stored there, and travel with his mill and press from village to village. the narrow interval that stood before the day diminished yet. there was in grace's mind sometimes a certain anticipative satisfaction, the satisfaction of feeling that she would be the heroine of an hour; moreover, she was proud, as a cultivated woman, to be the wife of a cultivated man. it was an opportunity denied very frequently to young women in her position, nowadays not a few; those in whom parental discovery of the value of education has implanted tastes which parental circles fail to gratify. but what an attenuation was this cold pride of the dream of her youth, in which she had pictured herself walking in state towards the altar, flushed by the purple light and bloom of her own passion, without a single misgiving as to the sealing of the bond, and fervently receiving as her due "the homage of a thousand hearts; the fond, deep love of one." everything had been clear then, in imagination; now something was undefined. she had little carking anxieties; a curious fatefulness seemed to rule her, and she experienced a mournful want of some one to confide in. the day loomed so big and nigh that her prophetic ear could, in fancy, catch the noise of it, hear the murmur of the villagers as she came out of church, imagine the jangle of the three thin-toned hintock bells. the dialogues seemed to grow louder, and the ding-ding-dong of those three crazed bells more persistent. she awoke: the morning had come. five hours later she was the wife of fitzpiers. chapter xxv. the chief hotel at sherton-abbas was an old stone-fronted inn with a yawning arch, under which vehicles were driven by stooping coachmen to back premises of wonderful commodiousness. the windows to the street were mullioned into narrow lights, and only commanded a view of the opposite houses; hence, perhaps, it arose that the best and most luxurious private sitting-room that the inn could afford over-looked the nether parts of the establishment, where beyond the yard were to be seen gardens and orchards, now bossed, nay incrusted, with scarlet and gold fruit, stretching to infinite distance under a luminous lavender mist. the time was early autumn, "when the fair apples, red as evening sky, do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground, when juicy pears, and berries of black dye, do dance in air, and call the eyes around." the landscape confronting the window might, indeed, have been part of the identical stretch of country which the youthful chatterton had in his mind. in this room sat she who had been the maiden grace melbury till the finger of fate touched her and turned her to a wife. it was two months after the wedding, and she was alone. fitzpiers had walked out to see the abbey by the light of sunset, but she had been too fatigued to accompany him. they had reached the last stage of a long eight-weeks' tour, and were going on to hintock that night. in the yard, between grace and the orchards, there progressed a scene natural to the locality at this time of the year. an apple-mill and press had been erected on the spot, to which some men were bringing fruit from divers points in mawn-baskets, while others were grinding them, and others wringing down the pomace, whose sweet juice gushed forth into tubs and pails. the superintendent of these proceedings, to whom the others spoke as master, was a young yeoman of prepossessing manner and aspect, whose form she recognized in a moment. he had hung his coat to a nail of the out-house wall, and wore his shirt-sleeves rolled up beyond his elbows, to keep them unstained while he rammed the pomace into the bags of horse-hair. fragments of apple-rind had alighted upon the brim of his hat--probably from the bursting of a bag--while brown pips of the same fruit were sticking among the down upon his fine, round arms. she realized in a moment how he had come there. down in the heart of the apple country nearly every farmer kept up a cider-making apparatus and wring-house for his own use, building up the pomace in great straw "cheeses," as they were called; but here, on the margin of pomona's plain, was a debatable land neither orchard nor sylvan exclusively, where the apple produce was hardly sufficient to warrant each proprietor in keeping a mill of his own. this was the field of the travelling cider-maker. his press and mill were fixed to wheels instead of being set up in a cider-house; and with a couple of horses, buckets, tubs, strainers, and an assistant or two, he wandered from place to place, deriving very satisfactory returns for his trouble in such a prolific season as the present. the back parts of the town were just now abounding with apple-gatherings. they stood in the yards in carts, baskets, and loose heaps; and the blue, stagnant air of autumn which hung over everything was heavy with a sweet cidery smell. cakes of pomace lay against the walls in the yellow sun, where they were drying to be used as fuel. yet it was not the great make of the year as yet; before the standard crop came in there accumulated, in abundant times like this, a large superfluity of early apples, and windfalls from the trees of later harvest, which would not keep long. thus, in the baskets, and quivering in the hopper of the mill, she saw specimens of mixed dates, including the mellow countenances of streaked-jacks, codlins, costards, stubbards, ratheripes, and other well-known friends of her ravenous youth. grace watched the head-man with interest. the slightest sigh escaped her. perhaps she thought of the day--not so far distant--when that friend of her childhood had met her by her father's arrangement in this same town, warm with hope, though diffident, and trusting in a promise rather implied than given. or she might have thought of days earlier yet--days of childhood--when her mouth was somewhat more ready to receive a kiss from his than was his to bestow one. however, all that was over. she had felt superior to him then, and she felt superior to him now. she wondered why he never looked towards her open window. she did not know that in the slight commotion caused by their arrival at the inn that afternoon winterborne had caught sight of her through the archway, had turned red, and was continuing his work with more concentrated attention on the very account of his discovery. robert creedle, too, who travelled with giles, had been incidentally informed by the hostler that dr. fitzpiers and his young wife were in the hotel, after which news creedle kept shaking his head and saying to himself, "ah!" very audibly, between his thrusts at the screw of the cider-press. "why the deuce do you sigh like that, robert?" asked winterborne, at last. "ah, maister--'tis my thoughts--'tis my thoughts!...yes, ye've lost a hundred load o' timber well seasoned; ye've lost five hundred pound in good money; ye've lost the stone-windered house that's big enough to hold a dozen families; ye've lost your share of half a dozen good wagons and their horses--all lost!--through your letting slip she that was once yer own!" "good god, creedle, you'll drive me mad!" said giles, sternly. "don't speak of that any more!" thus the subject had ended in the yard. meanwhile, the passive cause of all this loss still regarded the scene. she was beautifully dressed; she was seated in the most comfortable room that the inn afforded; her long journey had been full of variety, and almost luxuriously performed--for fitzpiers did not study economy where pleasure was in question. hence it perhaps arose that giles and all his belongings seemed sorry and common to her for the moment--moving in a plane so far removed from her own of late that she could scarcely believe she had ever found congruity therein. "no--i could never have married him!" she said, gently shaking her head. "dear father was right. it would have been too coarse a life for me." and she looked at the rings of sapphire and opal upon her white and slender fingers that had been gifts from fitzpiers. seeing that giles still kept his back turned, and with a little of the above-described pride of life--easily to be understood, and possibly excused, in a young, inexperienced woman who thought she had married well--she said at last, with a smile on her lips, "mr. winterborne!" he appeared to take no heed, and she said a second time, "mr. winterborne!" even now he seemed not to hear, though a person close enough to him to see the expression of his face might have doubted it; and she said a third time, with a timid loudness, "mr. winterborne! what, have you forgotten my voice?" she remained with her lips parted in a welcoming smile. he turned without surprise, and came deliberately towards the window. "why do you call me?" he said, with a sternness that took her completely unawares, his face being now pale. "is it not enough that you see me here moiling and muddling for my daily bread while you are sitting there in your success, that you can't refrain from opening old wounds by calling out my name?" she flushed, and was struck dumb for some moments; but she forgave his unreasoning anger, knowing so well in what it had its root. "i am sorry i offended you by speaking," she replied, meekly. "believe me, i did not intend to do that. i could hardly sit here so near you without a word of recognition." winterborne's heart had swollen big, and his eyes grown moist by this time, so much had the gentle answer of that familiar voice moved him. he assured her hurriedly, and without looking at her, that he was not angry. he then managed to ask her, in a clumsy, constrained way, if she had had a pleasant journey, and seen many interesting sights. she spoke of a few places that she had visited, and so the time passed till he withdrew to take his place at one of the levers which pulled round the screw. forgotten her voice! indeed, he had not forgotten her voice, as his bitterness showed. but though in the heat of the moment he had reproached her keenly, his second mood was a far more tender one--that which could regard her renunciation of such as he as her glory and her privilege, his own fidelity notwithstanding. he could have declared with a contemporary poet-- "if i forget, the salt creek may forget the ocean; if i forget the heart whence flows my heart's bright motion, may i sink meanlier than the worst abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, if i forget. "though you forget, no word of mine shall mar your pleasure; though you forget, you filled my barren life with treasure, you may withdraw the gift you gave; you still are queen, i still am slave, though you forget." she had tears in her eyes at the thought that she could not remind him of what he ought to have remembered; that not herself but the pressure of events had dissipated the dreams of their early youth. grace was thus unexpectedly worsted in her encounter with her old friend. she had opened the window with a faint sense of triumph, but he had turned it into sadness; she did not quite comprehend the reason why. in truth it was because she was not cruel enough in her cruelty. if you have to use the knife, use it, say the great surgeons; and for her own peace grace should have contemned winterborne thoroughly or not at all. as it was, on closing the window an indescribable, some might have said dangerous, pity quavered in her bosom for him. presently her husband entered the room, and told her what a wonderful sunset there was to be seen. "i have not noticed it. but i have seen somebody out there that we know," she replied, looking into the court. fitzpiers followed the direction of her eyes, and said he did not recognize anybody. "why, mr. winterborne--there he is, cider-making. he combines that with his other business, you know." "oh--that fellow," said fitzpiers, his curiosity becoming extinct. she, reproachfully: "what, call mr. winterborne a fellow, edgar? it is true i was just saying to myself that i never could have married him; but i have much regard for him, and always shall." "well, do by all means, my dear one. i dare say i am inhuman, and supercilious, and contemptibly proud of my poor old ramshackle family; but i do honestly confess to you that i feel as if i belonged to a different species from the people who are working in that yard." "and from me too, then. for my blood is no better than theirs." he looked at her with a droll sort of awakening. it was, indeed, a startling anomaly that this woman of the tribe without should be standing there beside him as his wife, if his sentiments were as he had said. in their travels together she had ranged so unerringly at his level in ideas, tastes, and habits that he had almost forgotten how his heart had played havoc with his principles in taking her to him. "ah you--you are refined and educated into something quite different," he said, self-assuringly. "i don't quite like to think that," she murmured with soft regret. "and i think you underestimate giles winterborne. remember, i was brought up with him till i was sent away to school, so i cannot be radically different. at any rate, i don't feel so. that is, no doubt, my fault, and a great blemish in me. but i hope you will put up with it, edgar." fitzpiers said that he would endeavor to do so; and as it was now getting on for dusk, they prepared to perform the last stage of their journey, so as to arrive at hintock before it grew very late. in less than half an hour they started, the cider-makers in the yard having ceased their labors and gone away, so that the only sounds audible there now were the trickling of the juice from the tightly screwed press, and the buzz of a single wasp, which had drunk itself so tipsy that it was unconscious of nightfall. grace was very cheerful at the thought of being soon in her sylvan home, but fitzpiers sat beside her almost silent. an indescribable oppressiveness had overtaken him with the near approach of the journey's end and the realities of life that lay there. "you don't say a word, edgar," she observed. "aren't you glad to get back? i am." "you have friends here. i have none." "but my friends are yours." "oh yes--in that sense." the conversation languished, and they drew near the end of hintock lane. it had been decided that they should, at least for a time, take up their abode in her father's roomy house, one wing of which was quite at their service, being almost disused by the melburys. workmen had been painting, papering, and whitewashing this set of rooms in the wedded pair's absence; and so scrupulous had been the timber-dealer that there should occur no hitch or disappointment on their arrival, that not the smallest detail remained undone. to make it all complete a ground-floor room had been fitted up as a surgery, with an independent outer door, to which fitzpiers's brass plate was screwed--for mere ornament, such a sign being quite superfluous where everybody knew the latitude and longitude of his neighbors for miles round. melbury and his wife welcomed the twain with affection, and all the house with deference. they went up to explore their rooms, that opened from a passage on the left hand of the staircase, the entrance to which could be shut off on the landing by a door that melbury had hung for the purpose. a friendly fire was burning in the grate, although it was not cold. fitzpiers said it was too soon for any sort of meal, they only having dined shortly before leaving sherton-abbas. he would walk across to his old lodging, to learn how his locum tenens had got on in his absence. in leaving melbury's door he looked back at the house. there was economy in living under that roof, and economy was desirable, but in some way he was dissatisfied with the arrangement; it immersed him so deeply in son-in-lawship to melbury. he went on to his former residence. his deputy was out, and fitzpiers fell into conversation with his former landlady. "well, mrs. cox, what's the best news?" he asked of her, with cheery weariness. she was a little soured at losing by his marriage so profitable a tenant as the surgeon had proved to be during his residence under her roof; and the more so in there being hardly the remotest chance of her getting such another settler in the hintock solitudes. "'tis what i don't wish to repeat, sir; least of all to you," she mumbled. "never mind me, mrs. cox; go ahead." "it is what people say about your hasty marrying, dr. fitzpiers. whereas they won't believe you know such clever doctrines in physic as they once supposed of ye, seeing as you could marry into mr. melbury's family, which is only hintock-born, such as me." "they are kindly welcome to their opinion," said fitzpiers, not allowing himself to recognize that he winced. "anything else?" "yes; she's come home at last." "who's she?" "mrs. charmond." "oh, indeed!" said fitzpiers, with but slight interest. "i've never seen her." "she has seen you, sir, whether or no." "never." "yes; she saw you in some hotel or street for a minute or two while you were away travelling, and accidentally heard your name; and when she made some remark about you, miss ellis--that's her maid--told her you was on your wedding-tower with mr. melbury's daughter; and she said, 'he ought to have done better than that. i fear he has spoiled his chances,' she says." fitzpiers did not talk much longer to this cheering housewife, and walked home with no very brisk step. he entered the door quietly, and went straight up-stairs to the drawing-room extemporized for their use by melbury in his and his bride's absence, expecting to find her there as he had left her. the fire was burning still, but there were no lights. he looked into the next apartment, fitted up as a little dining-room, but no supper was laid. he went to the top of the stairs, and heard a chorus of voices in the timber-merchant's parlor below, grace's being occasionally intermingled. descending, and looking into the room from the door-way, he found quite a large gathering of neighbors and other acquaintances, praising and congratulating mrs. fitzpiers on her return, among them being the dairyman, farmer bawtree, and the master-blacksmith from great hintock; also the cooper, the hollow-turner, the exciseman, and some others, with their wives, who lived hard by. grace, girl that she was, had quite forgotten her new dignity and her husband's; she was in the midst of them, blushing, and receiving their compliments with all the pleasure of old-comradeship. fitzpiers experienced a profound distaste for the situation. melbury was nowhere in the room, but melbury's wife, perceiving the doctor, came to him. "we thought, grace and i," she said, "that as they have called, hearing you were come, we could do no less than ask them to supper; and then grace proposed that we should all sup together, as it is the first night of your return." by this time grace had come round to him. "is it not good of them to welcome me so warmly?" she exclaimed, with tears of friendship in her eyes. "after so much good feeling i could not think of our shutting ourselves up away from them in our own dining-room." "certainly not--certainly not," said fitzpiers; and he entered the room with the heroic smile of a martyr. as soon as they sat down to table melbury came in, and seemed to see at once that fitzpiers would much rather have received no such demonstrative reception. he thereupon privately chid his wife for her forwardness in the matter. mrs. melbury declared that it was as much grace's doing as hers, after which there was no more to be said by that young woman's tender father. by this time fitzpiers was making the best of his position among the wide-elbowed and genial company who sat eating and drinking and laughing and joking around him; and getting warmed himself by the good cheer, was obliged to admit that, after all, the supper was not the least enjoyable he had ever known. at times, however, the words about his having spoiled his opportunities, repeated to him as those of mrs. charmond, haunted him like a handwriting on the wall. then his manner would become suddenly abstracted. at one moment he would mentally put an indignant query why mrs. charmond or any other woman should make it her business to have opinions about his opportunities; at another he thought that he could hardly be angry with her for taking an interest in the doctor of her own parish. then he would drink a glass of grog and so get rid of the misgiving. these hitches and quaffings were soon perceived by grace as well as by her father; and hence both of them were much relieved when the first of the guests to discover that the hour was growing late rose and declared that he must think of moving homeward. at the words melbury rose as alertly as if lifted by a spring, and in ten minutes they were gone. "now, grace," said her husband as soon as he found himself alone with her in their private apartments, "we've had a very pleasant evening, and everybody has been very kind. but we must come to an understanding about our way of living here. if we continue in these rooms there must be no mixing in with your people below. i can't stand it, and that's the truth." she had been sadly surprised at the suddenness of his distaste for those old-fashioned woodland forms of life which in his courtship he had professed to regard with so much interest. but she assented in a moment. "we must be simply your father's tenants," he continued, "and our goings and comings must be as independent as if we lived elsewhere." "certainly, edgar--i quite see that it must be so." "but you joined in with all those people in my absence, without knowing whether i should approve or disapprove. when i came i couldn't help myself at all." she, sighing: "yes--i see i ought to have waited; though they came unexpectedly, and i thought i had acted for the best." thus the discussion ended, and the next day fitzpiers went on his old rounds as usual. but it was easy for so super-subtle an eye as his to discern, or to think he discerned, that he was no longer regarded as an extrinsic, unfathomed gentleman of limitless potentiality, scientific and social; but as mr. melbury's compeer, and therefore in a degree only one of themselves. the hintock woodlandlers held with all the strength of inherited conviction to the aristocratic principle, and as soon as they had discovered that fitzpiers was one of the old buckbury fitzpierses they had accorded to him for nothing a touching of hat-brims, promptness of service, and deference of approach, which melbury had to do without, though he paid for it over and over. but now, having proved a traitor to his own cause by this marriage, fitzpiers was believed in no more as a superior hedged by his own divinity; while as doctor he began to be rated no higher than old jones, whom they had so long despised. his few patients seemed in his two months' absence to have dwindled considerably in number, and no sooner had he returned than there came to him from the board of guardians a complaint that a pauper had been neglected by his substitute. in a fit of pride fitzpiers resigned his appointment as one of the surgeons to the union, which had been the nucleus of his practice here. at the end of a fortnight he came in-doors one evening to grace more briskly than usual. "they have written to me again about that practice in budmouth that i once negotiated for," he said to her. "the premium asked is eight hundred pounds, and i think that between your father and myself it ought to be raised. then we can get away from this place forever." the question had been mooted between them before, and she was not unprepared to consider it. they had not proceeded far with the discussion when a knock came to the door, and in a minute grammer ran up to say that a message had arrived from hintock house requesting dr. fitzpiers to attend there at once. mrs. charmond had met with a slight accident through the overturning of her carriage. "this is something, anyhow," said fitzpiers, rising with an interest which he could not have defined. "i have had a presentiment that this mysterious woman and i were to be better acquainted." the latter words were murmured to himself alone. "good-night," said grace, as soon as he was ready. "i shall be asleep, probably, when you return." "good-night," he replied, inattentively, and went down-stairs. it was the first time since their marriage that he had left her without a kiss. chapter xxvi. winterborne's house had been pulled down. on this account his face had been seen but fitfully in hintock; and he would probably have disappeared from the place altogether but for his slight business connection with melbury, on whose premises giles kept his cider-making apparatus, now that he had no place of his own to stow it in. coming here one evening on his way to a hut beyond the wood where he now slept, he noticed that the familiar brown-thatched pinion of his paternal roof had vanished from its site, and that the walls were levelled. in present circumstances he had a feeling for the spot that might have been called morbid, and when he had supped in the hut aforesaid he made use of the spare hour before bedtime to return to little hintock in the twilight and ramble over the patch of ground on which he had first seen the day. he repeated this evening visit on several like occasions. even in the gloom he could trace where the different rooms had stood; could mark the shape of the kitchen chimney-corner, in which he had roasted apples and potatoes in his boyhood, cast his bullets, and burned his initials on articles that did and did not belong to him. the apple-trees still remained to show where the garden had been, the oldest of them even now retaining the crippled slant to north-east given them by the great november gale of , which carried a brig bodily over the chesil bank. they were at present bent to still greater obliquity by the heaviness of their produce. apples bobbed against his head, and in the grass beneath he crunched scores of them as he walked. there was nobody to gather them now. it was on the evening under notice that, half sitting, half leaning against one of these inclined trunks, winterborne had become lost in his thoughts, as usual, till one little star after another had taken up a position in the piece of sky which now confronted him where his walls and chimneys had formerly raised their outlines. the house had jutted awkwardly into the road, and the opening caused by its absence was very distinct. in the silence the trot of horses and the spin of carriage-wheels became audible; and the vehicle soon shaped itself against the blank sky, bearing down upon him with the bend in the lane which here occurred, and of which the house had been the cause. he could discern the figure of a woman high up on the driving-seat of a phaeton, a groom being just visible behind. presently there was a slight scrape, then a scream. winterborne went across to the spot, and found the phaeton half overturned, its driver sitting on the heap of rubbish which had once been his dwelling, and the man seizing the horses' heads. the equipage was mrs. charmond's, and the unseated charioteer that lady herself. to his inquiry if she were hurt she made some incoherent reply to the effect that she did not know. the damage in other respects was little or none: the phaeton was righted, mrs. charmond placed in it, and the reins given to the servant. it appeared that she had been deceived by the removal of the house, imagining the gap caused by the demolition to be the opening of the road, so that she turned in upon the ruins instead of at the bend a few yards farther on. "drive home--drive home!" cried the lady, impatiently; and they started on their way. they had not, however, gone many paces when, the air being still, winterborne heard her say "stop; tell that man to call the doctor--mr. fitzpiers--and send him on to the house. i find i am hurt more seriously than i thought." winterborne took the message from the groom and proceeded to the doctor's at once. having delivered it, he stepped back into the darkness, and waited till he had seen fitzpiers leave the door. he stood for a few minutes looking at the window which by its light revealed the room where grace was sitting, and went away under the gloomy trees. fitzpiers duly arrived at hintock house, whose doors he now saw open for the first time. contrary to his expectation there was visible no sign of that confusion or alarm which a serious accident to the mistress of the abode would have occasioned. he was shown into a room at the top of the staircase, cosily and femininely draped, where, by the light of the shaded lamp, he saw a woman of full round figure reclining upon a couch in such a position as not to disturb a pile of magnificent hair on the crown of her head. a deep purple dressing-gown formed an admirable foil to the peculiarly rich brown of her hair-plaits; her left arm, which was naked nearly up to the shoulder, was thrown upward, and between the fingers of her right hand she held a cigarette, while she idly breathed from her plump lips a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. the doctor's first feeling was a sense of his exaggerated prevision in having brought appliances for a serious case; the next, something more curious. while the scene and the moment were new to him and unanticipated, the sentiment and essence of the moment were indescribably familiar. what could be the cause of it? probably a dream. mrs. charmond did not move more than to raise her eyes to him, and he came and stood by her. she glanced up at his face across her brows and forehead, and then he observed a blush creep slowly over her decidedly handsome cheeks. her eyes, which had lingered upon him with an inquiring, conscious expression, were hastily withdrawn, and she mechanically applied the cigarette again to her lips. for a moment he forgot his errand, till suddenly arousing himself he addressed her, formally condoled with her, and made the usual professional inquiries about what had happened to her, and where she was hurt. "that's what i want you to tell me," she murmured, in tones of indefinable reserve. "i quite believe in you, for i know you are very accomplished, because you study so hard." "i'll do my best to justify your good opinion," said the young man, bowing. "and none the less that i am happy to find the accident has not been serious." "i am very much shaken," she said. "oh yes," he replied; and completed his examination, which convinced him that there was really nothing the matter with her, and more than ever puzzled him as to why he had been fetched, since she did not appear to be a timid woman. "you must rest a while, and i'll send something," he said. "oh, i forgot," she returned. "look here." and she showed him a little scrape on her arm--the full round arm that was exposed. "put some court-plaster on that, please." he obeyed. "and now," she said, "before you go i want to put a question to you. sit round there in front of me, on that low chair, and bring the candles, or one, to the little table. do you smoke? yes? that's right--i am learning. take one of these; and here's a light." she threw a matchbox across. fitzpiers caught it, and having lit up, regarded her from his new position, which, with the shifting of the candles, for the first time afforded him a full view of her face. "how many years have passed since first we met!" she resumed, in a voice which she mainly endeavored to maintain at its former pitch of composure, and eying him with daring bashfulness. "we met, do you say?" she nodded. "i saw you recently at an hotel in london, when you were passing through, i suppose, with your bride, and i recognized you as one i had met in my girlhood. do you remember, when you were studying at heidelberg, an english family that was staying there, who used to walk--" "and the young lady who wore a long tail of rare-colored hair--ah, i see it before my eyes!--who lost her gloves on the great terrace--who was going back in the dusk to find them--to whom i said, 'i'll go for them,' and you said, 'oh, they are not worth coming all the way up again for.' i do remember, and how very long we stayed talking there! i went next morning while the dew was on the grass: there they lay--the little fingers sticking out damp and thin. i see them now! i picked them up, and then--" "well?" "i kissed them," he rejoined, rather shamefacedly. "but you had hardly ever seen me except in the dusk?" "never mind. i was young then, and i kissed them. i wondered how i could make the most of my trouvaille, and decided that i would call at your hotel with them that afternoon. it rained, and i waited till next day. i called, and you were gone." "yes," answered she, with dry melancholy. "my mother, knowing my disposition, said she had no wish for such a chit as me to go falling in love with an impecunious student, and spirited me away to baden. as it is all over and past i'll tell you one thing: i should have sent you a line passing warm had i known your name. that name i never knew till my maid said, as you passed up the hotel stairs a month ago, 'there's dr. fitzpiers.'" "good heaven!" said fitzpiers, musingly. "how the time comes back to me! the evening, the morning, the dew, the spot. when i found that you really were gone it was as if a cold iron had been passed down my back. i went up to where you had stood when i last saw you--i flung myself on the grass, and--being not much more than a boy--my eyes were literally blinded with tears. nameless, unknown to me as you were, i couldn't forget your voice." "for how long?" "oh--ever so long. days and days." "days and days! only days and days? oh, the heart of a man! days and days!" "but, my dear madam, i had not known you more than a day or two. it was not a full-blown love--it was the merest bud--red, fresh, vivid, but small. it was a colossal passion in posse, a giant in embryo. it never matured." "so much the better, perhaps." "perhaps. but see how powerless is the human will against predestination. we were prevented meeting; we have met. one feature of the case remains the same amid many changes. you are still rich, and i am still poor. better than that, you have (judging by your last remark) outgrown the foolish, impulsive passions of your early girl-hood. i have not outgrown mine." "i beg your pardon," said she, with vibrations of strong feeling in her words. "i have been placed in a position which hinders such outgrowings. besides, i don't believe that the genuine subjects of emotion do outgrow them; i believe that the older such people get the worse they are. possibly at ninety or a hundred they may feel they are cured; but a mere threescore and ten won't do it--at least for me." he gazed at her in undisguised admiration. here was a soul of souls! "mrs. charmond, you speak truly," he exclaimed. "but you speak sadly as well. why is that?" "i always am sad when i come here," she said, dropping to a low tone with a sense of having been too demonstrative. "then may i inquire why you came?" "a man brought me. women are always carried about like corks upon the waves of masculine desires....i hope i have not alarmed you; but hintock has the curious effect of bottling up the emotions till one can no longer hold them; i am often obliged to fly away and discharge my sentiments somewhere, or i should die outright." "there is very good society in the county for those who have the privilege of entering it." "perhaps so. but the misery of remote country life is that your neighbors have no toleration for difference of opinion and habit. my neighbors think i am an atheist, except those who think i am a roman catholic; and when i speak disrespectfully of the weather or the crops they think i am a blasphemer." she broke into a low musical laugh at the idea. "you don't wish me to stay any longer?" he inquired, when he found that she remained musing. "no--i think not." "then tell me that i am to be gone." "why? cannot you go without?" "i may consult my own feelings only, if left to myself." "well, if you do, what then? do you suppose you'll be in my way?" "i feared it might be so." "then fear no more. but good-night. come to-morrow and see if i am going on right. this renewal of acquaintance touches me. i have already a friendship for you." "if it depends upon myself it shall last forever." "my best hopes that it may. good-by." fitzpiers went down the stairs absolutely unable to decide whether she had sent for him in the natural alarm which might have followed her mishap, or with the single view of making herself known to him as she had done, for which the capsize had afforded excellent opportunity. outside the house he mused over the spot under the light of the stars. it seemed very strange that he should have come there more than once when its inhabitant was absent, and observed the house with a nameless interest; that he should have assumed off-hand before he knew grace that it was here she lived; that, in short, at sundry times and seasons the individuality of hintock house should have forced itself upon him as appertaining to some existence with which he was concerned. the intersection of his temporal orbit with mrs. charmond's for a day or two in the past had created a sentimental interest in her at the time, but it had been so evanescent that in the ordinary onward roll of affairs he would scarce ever have recalled it again. to find her here, however, in these somewhat romantic circumstances, magnified that by-gone and transitory tenderness to indescribable proportions. on entering little hintock he found himself regarding it in a new way--from the hintock house point of view rather than from his own and the melburys'. the household had all gone to bed, and as he went up-stairs he heard the snore of the timber-merchant from his quarter of the building, and turned into the passage communicating with his own rooms in a strange access of sadness. a light was burning for him in the chamber; but grace, though in bed, was not asleep. in a moment her sympathetic voice came from behind the curtains. "edgar, is she very seriously hurt?" fitzpiers had so entirely lost sight of mrs. charmond as a patient that he was not on the instant ready with a reply. "oh no," he said. "there are no bones broken, but she is shaken. i am going again to-morrow." another inquiry or two, and grace said, "did she ask for me?" "well--i think she did--i don't quite remember; but i am under the impression that she spoke of you." "cannot you recollect at all what she said?" "i cannot, just this minute." "at any rate she did not talk much about me?" said grace with disappointment. "oh no." "but you did, perhaps," she added, innocently fishing for a compliment. "oh yes--you may depend upon that!" replied he, warmly, though scarcely thinking of what he was saying, so vividly was there present to his mind the personality of mrs. charmond. chapter xxvii. the doctor's professional visit to hintock house was promptly repeated the next day and the next. he always found mrs. charmond reclining on a sofa, and behaving generally as became a patient who was in no great hurry to lose that title. on each occasion he looked gravely at the little scratch on her arm, as if it had been a serious wound. he had also, to his further satisfaction, found a slight scar on her temple, and it was very convenient to put a piece of black plaster on this conspicuous part of her person in preference to gold-beater's skin, so that it might catch the eyes of the servants, and make his presence appear decidedly necessary, in case there should be any doubt of the fact. "oh--you hurt me!" she exclaimed one day. he was peeling off the bit of plaster on her arm, under which the scrape had turned the color of an unripe blackberry previous to vanishing altogether. "wait a moment, then--i'll damp it," said fitzpiers. he put his lips to the place and kept them there till the plaster came off easily. "it was at your request i put it on," said he. "i know it," she replied. "is that blue vein still in my temple that used to show there? the scar must be just upon it. if the cut had been a little deeper it would have spilt my hot blood indeed!" fitzpiers examined so closely that his breath touched her tenderly, at which their eyes rose to an encounter--hers showing themselves as deep and mysterious as interstellar space. she turned her face away suddenly. "ah! none of that! none of that--i cannot coquet with you!" she cried. "don't suppose i consent to for one moment. our poor, brief, youthful hour of love-making was too long ago to bear continuing now. it is as well that we should understand each other on that point before we go further." "coquet! nor i with you. as it was when i found the historic gloves, so it is now. i might have been and may be foolish; but i am no trifler. i naturally cannot forget that little space in which i flitted across the field of your vision in those days of the past, and the recollection opens up all sorts of imaginings." "suppose my mother had not taken me away?" she murmured, her dreamy eyes resting on the swaying tip of a distant tree. "i should have seen you again." "and then?" "then the fire would have burned higher and higher. what would have immediately followed i know not; but sorrow and sickness of heart at last." "why?" "well--that's the end of all love, according to nature's law. i can give no other reason." "oh, don't speak like that," she exclaimed. "since we are only picturing the possibilities of that time, don't, for pity's sake, spoil the picture." her voice sank almost to a whisper as she added, with an incipient pout upon her full lips, "let me think at least that if you had really loved me at all seriously, you would have loved me for ever and ever!" "you are right--think it with all your heart," said he. "it is a pleasant thought, and costs nothing." she weighed that remark in silence a while. "did you ever hear anything of me from then till now?" she inquired. "not a word." "so much the better. i had to fight the battle of life as well as you. i may tell you about it some day. but don't ever ask me to do it, and particularly do not press me to tell you now." thus the two or three days that they had spent in tender acquaintance on the romantic slopes above the neckar were stretched out in retrospect to the length and importance of years; made to form a canvas for infinite fancies, idle dreams, luxurious melancholies, and sweet, alluring assertions which could neither be proved nor disproved. grace was never mentioned between them, but a rumor of his proposed domestic changes somehow reached her ears. "doctor, you are going away," she exclaimed, confronting him with accusatory reproach in her large dark eyes no less than in her rich cooing voice. "oh yes, you are," she went on, springing to her feet with an air which might almost have been called passionate. "it is no use denying it. you have bought a practice at budmouth. i don't blame you. nobody can live at hintock--least of all a professional man who wants to keep abreast of recent discovery. and there is nobody here to induce such a one to stay for other reasons. that's right, that's right--go away!" "but no, i have not actually bought the practice as yet, though i am indeed in treaty for it. and, my dear friend, if i continue to feel about the business as i feel at this moment--perhaps i may conclude never to go at all." "but you hate hintock, and everybody and everything in it that you don't mean to take away with you?" fitzpiers contradicted this idea in his most vibratory tones, and she lapsed into the frivolous archness under which she hid passions of no mean strength--strange, smouldering, erratic passions, kept down like a stifled conflagration, but bursting out now here, now there--the only certain element in their direction being its unexpectedness. if one word could have expressed her it would have been inconsequence. she was a woman of perversities, delighting in frequent contrasts. she liked mystery, in her life, in her love, in her history. to be fair to her, there was nothing in the latter which she had any great reason to be ashamed of, and many things of which she might have been proud; but it had never been fathomed by the honest minds of hintock, and she rarely volunteered her experiences. as for her capricious nature, the people on her estates grew accustomed to it, and with that marvellous subtlety of contrivance in steering round odd tempers, that is found in sons of the soil and dependants generally, they managed to get along under her government rather better than they would have done beneath a more equable rule. now, with regard to the doctor's notion of leaving hintock, he had advanced further towards completing the purchase of the budmouth surgeon's good-will than he had admitted to mrs. charmond. the whole matter hung upon what he might do in the ensuing twenty-four hours. the evening after leaving her he went out into the lane, and walked and pondered between the high hedges, now greenish-white with wild clematis--here called "old-man's beard," from its aspect later in the year. the letter of acceptance was to be written that night, after which his departure from hintock would be irrevocable. but could he go away, remembering what had just passed? the trees, the hills, the leaves, the grass--each had been endowed and quickened with a subtle charm since he had discovered the person and history, and, above all, mood of their owner. there was every temporal reason for leaving; it would be entering again into a world which he had only quitted in a passion for isolation, induced by a fit of achillean moodiness after an imagined slight. his wife herself saw the awkwardness of their position here, and cheerfully welcomed the purposed change, towards which every step had been taken but the last. but could he find it in his heart--as he found it clearly enough in his conscience--to go away? he drew a troubled breath, and went in-doors. here he rapidly penned a letter, wherein he withdrew once for all from the treaty for the budmouth practice. as the postman had already left little hintock for that night, he sent one of melbury's men to intercept a mail-cart on another turnpike-road, and so got the letter off. the man returned, met fitzpiers in the lane, and told him the thing was done. fitzpiers went back to his house musing. why had he carried out this impulse--taken such wild trouble to effect a probable injury to his own and his young wife's prospects? his motive was fantastic, glowing, shapeless as the fiery scenery about the western sky. mrs. charmond could overtly be nothing more to him than a patient now, and to his wife, at the outside, a patron. in the unattached bachelor days of his first sojourning here how highly proper an emotional reason for lingering on would have appeared to troublesome dubiousness. matrimonial ambition is such an honorable thing. "my father has told me that you have sent off one of the men with a late letter to budmouth," cried grace, coming out vivaciously to meet him under the declining light of the sky, wherein hung, solitary, the folding star. "i said at once that you had finally agreed to pay the premium they ask, and that the tedious question had been settled. when do we go, edgar?" "i have altered my mind," said he. "they want too much--seven hundred and fifty is too large a sum--and in short, i have declined to go further. we must wait for another opportunity. i fear i am not a good business-man." he spoke the last words with a momentary faltering at the great foolishness of his act; for, as he looked in her fair and honorable face, his heart reproached him for what he had done. her manner that evening showed her disappointment. personally she liked the home of her childhood much, and she was not ambitious. but her husband had seemed so dissatisfied with the circumstances hereabout since their marriage that she had sincerely hoped to go for his sake. it was two or three days before he visited mrs. charmond again. the morning had been windy, and little showers had sowed themselves like grain against the walls and window-panes of the hintock cottages. he went on foot across the wilder recesses of the park, where slimy streams of green moisture, exuding from decayed holes caused by old amputations, ran down the bark of the oaks and elms, the rind below being coated with a lichenous wash as green as emerald. they were stout-trunked trees, that never rocked their stems in the fiercest gale, responding to it entirely by crooking their limbs. wrinkled like an old crone's face, and antlered with dead branches that rose above the foliage of their summits, they were nevertheless still green--though yellow had invaded the leaves of other trees. she was in a little boudoir or writing-room on the first floor, and fitzpiers was much surprised to find that the window-curtains were closed and a red-shaded lamp and candles burning, though out-of-doors it was broad daylight. moreover, a large fire was burning in the grate, though it was not cold. "what does it all mean?" he asked. she sat in an easy-chair, her face being turned away. "oh," she murmured, "it is because the world is so dreary outside. sorrow and bitterness in the sky, and floods of agonized tears beating against the panes. i lay awake last night, and i could hear the scrape of snails creeping up the window-glass; it was so sad! my eyes were so heavy this morning that i could have wept my life away. i cannot bear you to see my face; i keep it away from you purposely. oh! why were we given hungry hearts and wild desires if we have to live in a world like this? why should death only lend what life is compelled to borrow--rest? answer that, dr. fitzpiers." "you must eat of a second tree of knowledge before you can do it, felice charmond." "then, when my emotions have exhausted themselves, i become full of fears, till i think i shall die for very fear. the terrible insistencies of society--how severe they are, and cold and inexorable--ghastly towards those who are made of wax and not of stone. oh, i am afraid of them; a stab for this error, and a stab for that--correctives and regulations framed that society may tend to perfection--an end which i don't care for in the least. yet for this, all i do care for has to be stunted and starved." fitzpiers had seated himself near her. "what sets you in this mournful mood?" he asked, gently. (in reality he knew that it was the result of a loss of tone from staying in-doors so much, but he did not say so.) "my reflections. doctor, you must not come here any more. they begin to think it a farce already. i say you must come no more. there--don't be angry with me;" and she jumped up, pressed his hand, and looked anxiously at him. "it is necessary. it is best for both you and me." "but," said fitzpiers, gloomily, "what have we done?" "done--we have done nothing. perhaps we have thought the more. however, it is all vexation. i am going away to middleton abbey, near shottsford, where a relative of my late husband lives, who is confined to her bed. the engagement was made in london, and i can't get out of it. perhaps it is for the best that i go there till all this is past. when are you going to enter on your new practice, and leave hintock behind forever, with your pretty wife on your arm?" "i have refused the opportunity. i love this place too well to depart." "you have?" she said, regarding him with wild uncertainty. "why do you ruin yourself in that way? great heaven, what have i done!" "nothing. besides, you are going away." "oh yes; but only to middleton abbey for a month or two. yet perhaps i shall gain strength there--particularly strength of mind--i require it. and when i come back i shall be a new woman; and you can come and see me safely then, and bring your wife with you, and we'll be friends--she and i. oh, how this shutting up of one's self does lead to indulgence in idle sentiments. i shall not wish you to give your attendance to me after to-day. but i am glad that you are not going away--if your remaining does not injure your prospects at all." as soon as he had left the room the mild friendliness she had preserved in her tone at parting, the playful sadness with which she had conversed with him, equally departed from her. she became as heavy as lead--just as she had been before he arrived. her whole being seemed to dissolve in a sad powerlessness to do anything, and the sense of it made her lips tremulous and her closed eyes wet. his footsteps again startled her, and she turned round. "i returned for a moment to tell you that the evening is going to be fine. the sun is shining; so do open your curtains and put out those lights. shall i do it for you?" "please--if you don't mind." he drew back the window-curtains, whereupon the red glow of the lamp and the two candle-flames became almost invisible with the flood of late autumn sunlight that poured in. "shall i come round to you?" he asked, her back being towards him. "no," she replied. "why not?" "because i am crying, and i don't want to see you." he stood a moment irresolute, and regretted that he had killed the rosy, passionate lamplight by opening the curtains and letting in garish day. "then i am going," he said. "very well," she answered, stretching one hand round to him, and patting her eyes with a handkerchief held in the other. "shall i write a line to you at--" "no, no." a gentle reasonableness came into her tone as she added, "it must not be, you know. it won't do." "very well. good-by." the next moment he was gone. in the evening, with listless adroitness, she encouraged the maid who dressed her for dinner to speak of dr. fitzpiers's marriage. "mrs. fitzpiers was once supposed to favor mr. winterborne," said the young woman. "and why didn't she marry him?" said mrs. charmond. "because, you see, ma'am, he lost his houses." "lost his houses? how came he to do that?" "the houses were held on lives, and the lives dropped, and your agent wouldn't renew them, though it is said that mr. winterborne had a very good claim. that's as i've heard it, ma'am, and it was through it that the match was broke off." being just then distracted by a dozen emotions, mrs. charmond sunk into a mood of dismal self-reproach. "in refusing that poor man his reasonable request," she said to herself, "i foredoomed my rejuvenated girlhood's romance. who would have thought such a business matter could have nettled my own heart like this? now for a winter of regrets and agonies and useless wishes, till i forget him in the spring. oh! i am glad i am going away." she left her chamber and went down to dine with a sigh. on the stairs she stood opposite the large window for a moment, and looked out upon the lawn. it was not yet quite dark. half-way up the steep green slope confronting her stood old timothy tangs, who was shortening his way homeward by clambering here where there was no road, and in opposition to express orders that no path was to be made there. tangs had momentarily stopped to take a pinch of snuff; but observing mrs. charmond gazing at him, he hastened to get over the top out of hail. his precipitancy made him miss his footing, and he rolled like a barrel to the bottom, his snuffbox rolling in front of him. her indefinite, idle, impossible passion for fitzpiers; her constitutional cloud of misery; the sorrowful drops that still hung upon her eyelashes, all made way for the incursive mood started by the spectacle. she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, her very gloom of the previous hour seeming to render it the more uncontrollable. it had not died out of her when she reached the dining-room; and even here, before the servants, her shoulders suddenly shook as the scene returned upon her; and the tears of her hilarity mingled with the remnants of those engendered by her grief. she resolved to be sad no more. she drank two glasses of champagne, and a little more still after those, and amused herself in the evening with singing little amatory songs. "i must do something for that poor man winterborne, however," she said. chapter xxviii. a week had passed, and mrs. charmond had left hintock house. middleton abbey, the place of her sojourn, was about twenty miles distant by road, eighteen by bridle-paths and footways. grace observed, for the first time, that her husband was restless, that at moments he even was disposed to avoid her. the scrupulous civility of mere acquaintanceship crept into his manner; yet, when sitting at meals, he seemed hardly to hear her remarks. her little doings interested him no longer, while towards her father his bearing was not far from supercilious. it was plain that his mind was entirely outside her life, whereabouts outside it she could not tell; in some region of science, possibly, or of psychological literature. but her hope that he was again immersing himself in those lucubrations which before her marriage had made his light a landmark in hintock, was founded simply on the slender fact that he often sat up late. one evening she discovered him leaning over a gate on rub-down hill, the gate at which winterborne had once been standing, and which opened on the brink of a steep, slanting down directly into blackmoor vale, or the vale of the white hart, extending beneath the eye at this point to a distance of many miles. his attention was fixed on the landscape far away, and grace's approach was so noiseless that he did not hear her. when she came close she could see his lips moving unconsciously, as to some impassioned visionary theme. she spoke, and fitzpiers started. "what are you looking at?" she asked. "oh! i was contemplating our old place of buckbury, in my idle way," he said. it had seemed to her that he was looking much to the right of that cradle and tomb of his ancestral dignity; but she made no further observation, and taking his arm walked home beside him almost in silence. she did not know that middleton abbey lay in the direction of his gaze. "are you going to have out darling this afternoon?" she asked, presently. darling being the light-gray mare which winterborne had bought for grace, and which fitzpiers now constantly used, the animal having turned out a wonderful bargain, in combining a perfect docility with an almost human intelligence; moreover, she was not too young. fitzpiers was unfamiliar with horses, and he valued these qualities. "yes," he replied, "but not to drive. i am riding her. i practise crossing a horse as often as i can now, for i find that i can take much shorter cuts on horseback." he had, in fact, taken these riding exercises for about a week, only since mrs. charmond's absence, his universal practice hitherto having been to drive. some few days later, fitzpiers started on the back of this horse to see a patient in the aforesaid vale. it was about five o'clock in the evening when he went away, and at bedtime he had not reached home. there was nothing very singular in this, though she was not aware that he had any patient more than five or six miles distant in that direction. the clock had struck one before fitzpiers entered the house, and he came to his room softly, as if anxious not to disturb her. the next morning she was stirring considerably earlier than he. in the yard there was a conversation going on about the mare; the man who attended to the horses, darling included, insisted that the latter was "hag-rid;" for when he had arrived at the stable that morning she was in such a state as no horse could be in by honest riding. it was true that the doctor had stabled her himself when he got home, so that she was not looked after as she would have been if he had groomed and fed her; but that did not account for the appearance she presented, if mr. fitzpiers's journey had been only where he had stated. the phenomenal exhaustion of darling, as thus related, was sufficient to develop a whole series of tales about riding witches and demons, the narration of which occupied a considerable time. grace returned in-doors. in passing through the outer room she picked up her husband's overcoat which he had carelessly flung down across a chair. a turnpike ticket fell out of the breast-pocket, and she saw that it had been issued at middleton gate. he had therefore visited middleton the previous night, a distance of at least five-and-thirty miles on horseback, there and back. during the day she made some inquiries, and learned for the first time that mrs. charmond was staying at middleton abbey. she could not resist an inference--strange as that inference was. a few days later he prepared to start again, at the same time and in the same direction. she knew that the state of the cottager who lived that way was a mere pretext; she was quite sure he was going to mrs. charmond. grace was amazed at the mildness of the passion which the suspicion engendered in her. she was but little excited, and her jealousy was languid even to death. it told tales of the nature of her affection for him. in truth, her antenuptial regard for fitzpiers had been rather of the quality of awe towards a superior being than of tender solicitude for a lover. it had been based upon mystery and strangeness--the mystery of his past, of his knowledge, of his professional skill, of his beliefs. when this structure of ideals was demolished by the intimacy of common life, and she found him as merely human as the hintock people themselves, a new foundation was in demand for an enduring and stanch affection--a sympathetic interdependence, wherein mutual weaknesses were made the grounds of a defensive alliance. fitzpiers had furnished none of that single-minded confidence and truth out of which alone such a second union could spring; hence it was with a controllable emotion that she now watched the mare brought round. "i'll walk with you to the hill if you are not in a great hurry," she said, rather loath, after all, to let him go. "do; there's plenty of time," replied her husband. accordingly he led along the horse, and walked beside her, impatient enough nevertheless. thus they proceeded to the turnpike road, and ascended rub-down hill to the gate he had been leaning over when she surprised him ten days before. this was the end of her excursion. fitzpiers bade her adieu with affection, even with tenderness, and she observed that he looked weary-eyed. "why do you go to-night?" she said. "you have been called up two nights in succession already." "i must go," he answered, almost gloomily. "don't wait up for me." with these words he mounted his horse, passed through the gate which grace held open for him, and ambled down the steep bridle-track to the valley. she closed the gate and watched his descent, and then his journey onward. his way was east, the evening sun which stood behind her back beaming full upon him as soon as he got out from the shade of the hill. notwithstanding this untoward proceeding she was determined to be loyal if he proved true; and the determination to love one's best will carry a heart a long way towards making that best an ever-growing thing. the conspicuous coat of the active though blanching mare made horse and rider easy objects for the vision. though darling had been chosen with such pains by winterborne for grace, she had never ridden the sleek creature; but her husband had found the animal exceedingly convenient, particularly now that he had taken to the saddle, plenty of staying power being left in darling yet. fitzpiers, like others of his character, while despising melbury and his station, did not at all disdain to spend melbury's money, or appropriate to his own use the horse which belonged to melbury's daughter. and so the infatuated young surgeon went along through the gorgeous autumn landscape of white hart vale, surrounded by orchards lustrous with the reds of apple-crops, berries, and foliage, the whole intensified by the gilding of the declining sun. the earth this year had been prodigally bountiful, and now was the supreme moment of her bounty. in the poorest spots the hedges were bowed with haws and blackberries; acorns cracked underfoot, and the burst husks of chestnuts lay exposing their auburn contents as if arranged by anxious sellers in a fruit-market. in all this proud show some kernels were unsound as her own situation, and she wondered if there were one world in the universe where the fruit had no worm, and marriage no sorrow. herr tannhauser still moved on, his plodding steed rendering him distinctly visible yet. could she have heard fitzpiers's voice at that moment she would have found him murmuring-- "...towards the loadstar of my one desire i flitted, even as a dizzy moth in the owlet light." but he was a silent spectacle to her now. soon he rose out of the valley, and skirted a high plateau of the chalk formation on his right, which rested abruptly upon the fruity district of loamy clay, the character and herbage of the two formations being so distinct that the calcareous upland appeared but as a deposit of a few years' antiquity upon the level vale. he kept along the edge of this high, unenclosed country, and the sky behind him being deep violet, she could still see white darling in relief upon it--a mere speck now--a wouvermans eccentricity reduced to microscopic dimensions. upon this high ground he gradually disappeared. thus she had beheld the pet animal purchased for her own use, in pure love of her, by one who had always been true, impressed to convey her husband away from her to the side of a new-found idol. while she was musing on the vicissitudes of horses and wives, she discerned shapes moving up the valley towards her, quite near at hand, though till now hidden by the hedges. surely they were giles winterborne, with his two horses and cider-apparatus, conducted by robert creedle. up, upward they crept, a stray beam of the sun alighting every now and then like a star on the blades of the pomace-shovels, which had been converted to steel mirrors by the action of the malic acid. she opened the gate when he came close, and the panting horses rested as they achieved the ascent. "how do you do, giles?" said she, under a sudden impulse to be familiar with him. he replied with much more reserve. "you are going for a walk, mrs. fitzpiers?" he added. "it is pleasant just now." "no, i am returning," said she. the vehicles passed through, the gate slammed, and winterborne walked by her side in the rear of the apple-mill. he looked and smelt like autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat-color, his eyes blue as corn-flowers, his boots and leggings dyed with fruit-stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him that atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable fascination for those who have been born and bred among the orchards. her heart rose from its late sadness like a released spring; her senses revelled in the sudden lapse back to nature unadorned. the consciousness of having to be genteel because of her husband's profession, the veneer of artificiality which she had acquired at the fashionable schools, were thrown off, and she became the crude, country girl of her latent, earliest instincts. nature was bountiful, she thought. no sooner had she been starved off by edgar fitzpiers than another being, impersonating bare and undiluted manliness, had arisen out of the earth, ready to hand. this was an excursion of the imagination which she did not encourage, and she said suddenly, to disguise the confused regard which had followed her thoughts, "did you meet my husband?" winterborne, with some hesitation, "yes." "where did you meet him?" "at calfhay cross. i come from middleton abbey; i have been making there for the last week." "haven't they a mill of their own?" "yes, but it's out of repair." "i think--i heard that mrs. charmond had gone there to stay?" "yes. i have seen her at the windows once or twice." grace waited an interval before she went on: "did mr. fitzpiers take the way to middleton?" "yes...i met him on darling." as she did not reply, he added, with a gentler inflection, "you know why the mare was called that?" "oh yes--of course," she answered, quickly. they had risen so far over the crest of the hill that the whole west sky was revealed. between the broken clouds they could see far into the recesses of heaven, the eye journeying on under a species of golden arcades, and past fiery obstructions, fancied cairns, logan-stones, stalactites and stalagmite of topaz. deeper than this their gaze passed thin flakes of incandescence, till it plunged into a bottomless medium of soft green fire. her abandonment to the luscious time after her sense of ill-usage, her revolt for the nonce against social law, her passionate desire for primitive life, may have showed in her face. winterborne was looking at her, his eyes lingering on a flower that she wore in her bosom. almost with the abstraction of a somnambulist he stretched out his hand and gently caressed the flower. she drew back. "what are you doing, giles winterborne!" she exclaimed, with a look of severe surprise. the evident absence of all premeditation from the act, however, speedily led her to think that it was not necessary to stand upon her dignity here and now. "you must bear in mind, giles," she said, kindly, "that we are not as we were; and some people might have said that what you did was taking a liberty." it was more than she need have told him; his action of forgetfulness had made him so angry with himself that he flushed through his tan. "i don't know what i am coming to!" he exclaimed, savagely. "ah--i was not once like this!" tears of vexation were in his eyes. "no, now--it was nothing. i was too reproachful." "it would not have occurred to me if i had not seen something like it done elsewhere--at middleton lately," he said, thoughtfully, after a while. "by whom?" "don't ask it." she scanned him narrowly. "i know quite well enough," she returned, indifferently. "it was by my husband, and the woman was mrs. charmond. association of ideas reminded you when you saw me....giles--tell me all you know about that--please do, giles! but no--i won't hear it. let the subject cease. and as you are my friend, say nothing to my father." they reached a place where their ways divided. winterborne continued along the highway which kept outside the copse, and grace opened a gate that entered it. chapter xxix. she walked up the soft grassy ride, screened on either hand by nut-bushes, just now heavy with clusters of twos and threes and fours. a little way on, the track she pursued was crossed by a similar one at right angles. here grace stopped; some few yards up the transverse ride the buxom suke damson was visible--her gown tucked up high through her pocket-hole, and no bonnet on her head--in the act of pulling down boughs from which she was gathering and eating nuts with great rapidity, her lover tim tangs standing near her engaged in the same pleasant meal. crack, crack went suke's jaws every second or two. by an automatic chain of thought grace's mind reverted to the tooth-drawing scene described by her husband; and for the first time she wondered if that narrative were really true, susan's jaws being so obviously sound and strong. grace turned up towards the nut-gatherers, and conquered her reluctance to speak to the girl who was a little in advance of tim. "good-evening, susan," she said. "good-evening, miss melbury" (crack). "mrs. fitzpiers." "oh yes, ma'am--mrs. fitzpiers," said suke, with a peculiar smile. grace, not to be daunted, continued: "take care of your teeth, suke. that accounts for the toothache." "i don't know what an ache is, either in tooth, ear, or head, thank the lord" (crack). "nor the loss of one, either?" "see for yourself, ma'am." she parted her red lips, and exhibited the whole double row, full up and unimpaired. "you have never had one drawn?" "never." "so much the better for your stomach," said mrs. fitzpiers, in an altered voice. and turning away quickly, she went on. as her husband's character thus shaped itself under the touch of time, grace was almost startled to find how little she suffered from that jealous excitement which is conventionally attributed to all wives in such circumstances. but though possessed by none of that feline wildness which it was her moral duty to experience, she did not fail to know that she had made a frightful mistake in her marriage. acquiescence in her father's wishes had been degradation to herself. people are not given premonitions for nothing; she should have obeyed her impulse on that early morning, and steadfastly refused her hand. oh, that plausible tale which her then betrothed had told her about suke--the dramatic account of her entreaties to him to draw the aching enemy, and the fine artistic touch he had given to the story by explaining that it was a lovely molar without a flaw! she traced the remainder of the woodland track dazed by the complications of her position. if his protestations to her before their marriage could be believed, her husband had felt affection of some sort for herself and this woman simultaneously; and was now again spreading the same emotion over mrs. charmond and herself conjointly, his manner being still kind and fond at times. but surely, rather than that, he must have played the hypocrite towards her in each case with elaborate completeness; and the thought of this sickened her, for it involved the conjecture that if he had not loved her, his only motive for making her his wife must have been her little fortune. yet here grace made a mistake, for the love of men like fitzpiers is unquestionably of such quality as to bear division and transference. he had indeed, once declared, though not to her, that on one occasion he had noticed himself to be possessed by five distinct infatuations at the same time. therein it differed from the highest affection as the lower orders of the animal world differ from advanced organisms, partition causing, not death, but a multiplied existence. he had loved her sincerely, and had by no means ceased to love her now. but such double and treble barrelled hearts were naturally beyond her conception. of poor suke damson, grace thought no more. she had had her day. "if he does not love me i will not love him!" said grace, proudly. and though these were mere words, it was a somewhat formidable thing for fitzpiers that her heart was approximating to a state in which it might be possible to carry them out. that very absence of hot jealousy which made his courses so easy, and on which, indeed, he congratulated himself, meant, unknown to either wife or husband, more mischief than the inconvenient watchfulness of a jaundiced eye. her sleep that night was nervous. the wing allotted to her and her husband had never seemed so lonely. at last she got up, put on her dressing-gown, and went down-stairs. her father, who slept lightly, heard her descend, and came to the stair-head. "is that you, grace? what's the matter?" he said. "nothing more than that i am restless. edgar is detained by a case at owlscombe in white hart vale." "but how's that? i saw the woman's husband at great hintock just afore bedtime; and she was going on well, and the doctor gone then." "then he's detained somewhere else," said grace. "never mind me; he will soon be home. i expect him about one." she went back to her room, and dozed and woke several times. one o'clock had been the hour of his return on the last occasion; but it passed now by a long way, and fitzpiers did not come. just before dawn she heard the men stirring in the yard; and the flashes of their lanterns spread every now and then through her window-blind. she remembered that her father had told her not to be disturbed if she noticed them, as they would be rising early to send off four loads of hurdles to a distant sheep-fair. peeping out, she saw them bustling about, the hollow-turner among the rest; he was loading his wares--wooden-bowls, dishes, spigots, spoons, cheese-vats, funnels, and so on--upon one of her father's wagons, who carried them to the fair for him every year out of neighborly kindness. the scene and the occasion would have enlivened her but that her husband was still absent; though it was now five o'clock. she could hardly suppose him, whatever his infatuation, to have prolonged to a later hour than ten an ostensibly professional call on mrs. charmond at middleton; and he could have ridden home in two hours and a half. what, then, had become of him? that he had been out the greater part of the two preceding nights added to her uneasiness. she dressed herself, descended, and went out, the weird twilight of advancing day chilling the rays from the lanterns, and making the men's faces wan. as soon as melbury saw her he came round, showing his alarm. "edgar is not come," she said. "and i have reason to know that he's not attending anybody. he has had no rest for two nights before this. i was going to the top of the hill to look for him." "i'll come with you," said melbury. she begged him not to hinder himself; but he insisted, for he saw a peculiar and rigid gloom in her face over and above her uneasiness, and did not like the look of it. telling the men he would be with them again soon, he walked beside her into the turnpike-road, and partly up the hill whence she had watched fitzpiers the night before across the great white hart or blackmoor valley. they halted beneath a half-dead oak, hollow, and disfigured with white tumors, its roots spreading out like accipitrine claws grasping the ground. a chilly wind circled round them, upon whose currents the seeds of a neighboring lime-tree, supported parachute-wise by the wing attached, flew out of the boughs downward like fledglings from their nest. the vale was wrapped in a dim atmosphere of unnaturalness, and the east was like a livid curtain edged with pink. there was no sign nor sound of fitzpiers. "it is no use standing here," said her father. "he may come home fifty ways...why, look here!--here be darling's tracks--turned homeward and nearly blown dry and hard! he must have come in hours ago without your seeing him." "he has not done that," said she. they went back hastily. on entering their own gates they perceived that the men had left the wagons, and were standing round the door of the stable which had been appropriated to the doctor's use. "is there anything the matter?" cried grace. "oh no, ma'am. all's well that ends well," said old timothy tangs. "i've heard of such things before--among workfolk, though not among your gentle people--that's true." they entered the stable, and saw the pale shape of darling standing in the middle of her stall, with fitzpiers on her back, sound asleep. darling was munching hay as well as she could with the bit in her month, and the reins, which had fallen from fitzpiers's hand, hung upon her neck. grace went and touched his hand; shook it before she could arouse him. he moved, started, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, "ah, felice!...oh, it's grace. i could not see in the gloom. what--am i in the saddle?" "yes," said she. "how do you come here?" he collected his thoughts, and in a few minutes stammered, "i was riding along homeward through the vale, very, very sleepy, having been up so much of late. when i came opposite holywell spring the mare turned her head that way, as if she wanted to drink. i let her go in, and she drank; i thought she would never finish. while she was drinking, the clock of owlscombe church struck twelve. i distinctly remember counting the strokes. from that moment i positively recollect nothing till i saw you here by my side." "the name! if it had been any other horse he'd have had a broken neck!" murmured melbury. "'tis wonderful, sure, how a quiet hoss will bring a man home at such times!" said john upjohn. "and what's more wonderful than keeping your seat in a deep, slumbering sleep? i've knowed men drowze off walking home from randies where the mead and other liquors have gone round well, and keep walking for more than a mile on end without waking. well, doctor, i don't care who the man is, 'tis a mercy you wasn't a drownded, or a splintered, or a hanged up to a tree like absalom--also a handsome gentleman like yerself, as the prophets say." "true," murmured old timothy. "from the soul of his foot to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him." "or leastwise you might ha' been a-wownded into tatters a'most, and no doctor to jine your few limbs together within seven mile!" while this grim address was proceeding, fitzpiers had dismounted, and taking grace's arm walked stiffly in-doors with her. melbury stood staring at the horse, which, in addition to being very weary, was spattered with mud. there was no mud to speak of about the hintocks just now--only in the clammy hollows of the vale beyond owlscombe, the stiff soil of which retained moisture for weeks after the uplands were dry. while they were rubbing down the mare, melbury's mind coupled with the foreign quality of the mud the name he had heard unconsciously muttered by the surgeon when grace took his hand--"felice." who was felice? why, mrs. charmond; and she, as he knew, was staying at middleton. melbury had indeed pounced upon the image that filled fitzpiers's half-awakened soul--wherein there had been a picture of a recent interview on a lawn with a capriciously passionate woman who had begged him not to come again in tones whose vibration incited him to disobey. "what are you doing here? why do you pursue me? another belongs to you. if they were to see you they would seize you as a thief!" and she had turbulently admitted to his wringing questions that her visit to middleton had been undertaken less because of the invalid relative than in shamefaced fear of her own weakness if she remained near his home. a triumph then it was to fitzpiers, poor and hampered as he had become, to recognize his real conquest of this beauty, delayed so many years. his was the selfish passion of congreve's millamont, to whom love's supreme delight lay in "that heart which others bleed for, bleed for me." when the horse had been attended to melbury stood uneasily here and there about his premises; he was rudely disturbed in the comfortable views which had lately possessed him on his domestic concerns. it is true that he had for some days discerned that grace more and more sought his company, preferred supervising his kitchen and bakehouse with her step-mother to occupying herself with the lighter details of her own apartments. she seemed no longer able to find in her own hearth an adequate focus for her life, and hence, like a weak queen-bee after leading off to an independent home, had hovered again into the parent hive. but he had not construed these and other incidents of the kind till now. something was wrong in the dove-cot. a ghastly sense that he alone would be responsible for whatever unhappiness should be brought upon her for whom he almost solely lived, whom to retain under his roof he had faced the numerous inconveniences involved in giving up the best part of his house to fitzpiers. there was no room for doubt that, had he allowed events to take their natural course, she would have accepted winterborne, and realized his old dream of restitution to that young man's family. that fitzpiers could allow himself to look on any other creature for a moment than grace filled melbury with grief and astonishment. in the pure and simple life he had led it had scarcely occurred to him that after marriage a man might be faithless. that he could sweep to the heights of mrs. charmond's position, lift the veil of isis, so to speak, would have amazed melbury by its audacity if he had not suspected encouragement from that quarter. what could he and his simple grace do to countervail the passions of such as those two sophisticated beings--versed in the world's ways, armed with every apparatus for victory? in such an encounter the homely timber-dealer felt as inferior as a bow-and-arrow savage before the precise weapons of modern warfare. grace came out of the house as the morning drew on. the village was silent, most of the folk having gone to the fair. fitzpiers had retired to bed, and was sleeping off his fatigue. she went to the stable and looked at poor darling: in all probability giles winterborne, by obtaining for her a horse of such intelligence and docility, had been the means of saving her husband's life. she paused over the strange thought; and then there appeared her father behind her. she saw that he knew things were not as they ought to be, from the troubled dulness of his eye, and from his face, different points of which had independent motions, twitchings, and tremblings, unknown to himself, and involuntary. "he was detained, i suppose, last night?" said melbury. "oh yes; a bad case in the vale," she replied, calmly. "nevertheless, he should have stayed at home." "but he couldn't, father." her father turned away. he could hardly bear to see his whilom truthful girl brought to the humiliation of having to talk like that. that night carking care sat beside melbury's pillow, and his stiff limbs tossed at its presence. "i can't lie here any longer," he muttered. striking a light, he wandered about the room. "what have i done--what have i done for her?" he said to his wife, who had anxiously awakened. "i had long planned that she should marry the son of the man i wanted to make amends to; do ye mind how i told you all about it, lucy, the night before she came home? ah! but i was not content with doing right, i wanted to do more!" "don't raft yourself without good need, george," she replied. "i won't quite believe that things are so much amiss. i won't believe that mrs. charmond has encouraged him. even supposing she has encouraged a great many, she can have no motive to do it now. what so likely as that she is not yet quite well, and doesn't care to let another doctor come near her?" he did not heed. "grace used to be so busy every day, with fixing a curtain here and driving a tin-tack there; but she cares for no employment now!" "do you know anything of mrs. charmond's past history? perhaps that would throw some light upon things. before she came here as the wife of old charmond four or five years ago, not a soul seems to have heard aught of her. why not make inquiries? and then do ye wait and see more; there'll be plenty of opportunity. time enough to cry when you know 'tis a crying matter; and 'tis bad to meet troubles half-way." there was some good-sense in the notion of seeing further. melbury resolved to inquire and wait, hoping still, but oppressed between-whiles with much fear. chapter xxx. examine grace as her father might, she would admit nothing. for the present, therefore, he simply watched. the suspicion that his darling child was being slighted wrought almost a miraculous change in melbury's nature. no man so furtive for the time as the ingenuous countryman who finds that his ingenuousness has been abused. melbury's heretofore confidential candor towards his gentlemanly son-in-law was displaced by a feline stealth that did injury to his every action, thought, and mood. he knew that a woman once given to a man for life took, as a rule, her lot as it came and made the best of it, without external interference; but for the first time he asked himself why this so generally should be so. moreover, this case was not, he argued, like ordinary cases. leaving out the question of grace being anything but an ordinary woman, her peculiar situation, as it were in mid-air between two planes of society, together with the loneliness of hintock, made a husband's neglect a far more tragical matter to her than it would be to one who had a large circle of friends to fall back upon. wisely or unwisely, and whatever other fathers did, he resolved to fight his daughter's battle still. mrs. charmond had returned. but hintock house scarcely gave forth signs of life, so quietly had she reentered it. he went to church at great hintock one afternoon as usual, there being no service at the smaller village. a few minutes before his departure, he had casually heard fitzpiers, who was no church-goer, tell his wife that he was going to walk in the wood. melbury entered the building and sat down in his pew; the parson came in, then mrs. charmond, then mr. fitzpiers. the service proceeded, and the jealous father was quite sure that a mutual consciousness was uninterruptedly maintained between those two; he fancied that more than once their eyes met. at the end, fitzpiers so timed his movement into the aisle that it exactly coincided with felice charmond's from the opposite side, and they walked out with their garments in contact, the surgeon being just that two or three inches in her rear which made it convenient for his eyes to rest upon her cheek. the cheek warmed up to a richer tone. this was a worse feature in the flirtation than he had expected. if she had been playing with him in an idle freak the game might soon have wearied her; but the smallest germ of passion--and women of the world do not change color for nothing--was a threatening development. the mere presence of fitzpiers in the building, after his statement, was wellnigh conclusive as far as he was concerned; but melbury resolved yet to watch. he had to wait long. autumn drew shiveringly to its end. one day something seemed to be gone from the gardens; the tenderer leaves of vegetables had shrunk under the first smart frost, and hung like faded linen rags; then the forest leaves, which had been descending at leisure, descended in haste and in multitudes, and all the golden colors that had hung overhead were now crowded together in a degraded mass underfoot, where the fallen myriads got redder and hornier, and curled themselves up to rot. the only suspicious features in mrs. charmond's existence at this season were two: the first, that she lived with no companion or relative about her, which, considering her age and attractions, was somewhat unusual conduct for a young widow in a lonely country-house; the other, that she did not, as in previous years, start from hintock to winter abroad. in fitzpiers, the only change from his last autumn's habits lay in his abandonment of night study--his lamp never shone from his new dwelling as from his old. if the suspected ones met, it was by such adroit contrivances that even melbury's vigilance could not encounter them together. a simple call at her house by the doctor had nothing irregular about it, and that he had paid two or three such calls was certain. what had passed at those interviews was known only to the parties themselves; but that felice charmond was under some one's influence melbury soon had opportunity of perceiving. winter had come on. owls began to be noisy in the mornings and evenings, and flocks of wood-pigeons made themselves prominent again. one day in february, about six months after the marriage of fitzpiers, melbury was returning from great hintock on foot through the lane, when he saw before him the surgeon also walking. melbury would have overtaken him, but at that moment fitzpiers turned in through a gate to one of the rambling drives among the trees at this side of the wood, which led to nowhere in particular, and the beauty of whose serpentine curves was the only justification of their existence. felice almost simultaneously trotted down the lane towards the timber-dealer, in a little basket-carriage which she sometimes drove about the estate, unaccompanied by a servant. she turned in at the same place without having seen either melbury or apparently fitzpiers. melbury was soon at the spot, despite his aches and his sixty years. mrs. charmond had come up with the doctor, who was standing immediately behind the carriage. she had turned to him, her arm being thrown carelessly over the back of the seat. they looked in each other's faces without uttering a word, an arch yet gloomy smile wreathing her lips. fitzpiers clasped her hanging hand, and, while she still remained in the same listless attitude, looking volumes into his eyes, he stealthily unbuttoned her glove, and stripped her hand of it by rolling back the gauntlet over the fingers, so that it came off inside out. he then raised her hand to his month, she still reclining passively, watching him as she might have watched a fly upon her dress. at last she said, "well, sir, what excuse for this disobedience?" "i make none." "then go your way, and let me go mine." she snatched away her hand, touched the pony with the whip, and left him standing there, holding the reversed glove. melbury's first impulse was to reveal his presence to fitzpiers, and upbraid him bitterly. but a moment's thought was sufficient to show him the futility of any such simple proceeding. there was not, after all, so much in what he had witnessed as in what that scene might be the surface and froth of--probably a state of mind on which censure operates as an aggravation rather than as a cure. moreover, he said to himself that the point of attack should be the woman, if either. he therefore kept out of sight, and musing sadly, even tearfully--for he was meek as a child in matters concerning his daughter--continued his way towards hintock. the insight which is bred of deep sympathy was never more finely exemplified than in this instance. through her guarded manner, her dignified speech, her placid countenance, he discerned the interior of grace's life only too truly, hidden as were its incidents from every outer eye. these incidents had become painful enough. fitzpiers had latterly developed an irritable discontent which vented itself in monologues when grace was present to hear them. the early morning of this day had been dull, after a night of wind, and on looking out of the window fitzpiers had observed some of melbury's men dragging away a large limb which had been snapped off a beech-tree. everything was cold and colorless. "my good heaven!" he said, as he stood in his dressing-gown. "this is life!" he did not know whether grace was awake or not, and he would not turn his head to ascertain. "ah, fool," he went on to himself, "to clip your own wings when you were free to soar!...but i could not rest till i had done it. why do i never recognize an opportunity till i have missed it, nor the good or ill of a step till it is irrevocable!...i fell in love....love, indeed!-- "'love's but the frailty of the mind when 'tis not with ambition joined; a sickly flame which if not fed, expires, and feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires!' ah, old author of 'the way of the world,' you knew--you knew!" grace moved. he thought she had heard some part of his soliloquy. he was sorry--though he had not taken any precaution to prevent her. he expected a scene at breakfast, but she only exhibited an extreme reserve. it was enough, however, to make him repent that he should have done anything to produce discomfort; for he attributed her manner entirely to what he had said. but grace's manner had not its cause either in his sayings or in his doings. she had not heard a single word of his regrets. something even nearer home than her husband's blighted prospects--if blighted they were--was the origin of her mood, a mood that was the mere continuation of what her father had noticed when he would have preferred a passionate jealousy in her, as the more natural. she had made a discovery--one which to a girl of honest nature was almost appalling. she had looked into her heart, and found that her early interest in giles winterborne had become revitalized into luxuriant growth by her widening perceptions of what was great and little in life. his homeliness no longer offended her acquired tastes; his comparative want of so-called culture did not now jar on her intellect; his country dress even pleased her eye; his exterior roughness fascinated her. having discovered by marriage how much that was humanly not great could co-exist with attainments of an exceptional order, there was a revulsion in her sentiments from all that she had formerly clung to in this kind: honesty, goodness, manliness, tenderness, devotion, for her only existed in their purity now in the breasts of unvarnished men; and here was one who had manifested them towards her from his youth up. there was, further, that never-ceasing pity in her soul for giles as a man whom she had wronged--a man who had been unfortunate in his worldly transactions; while, not without a touch of sublimity, he had, like horatio, borne himself throughout his scathing "as one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing." it was these perceptions, and no subtle catching of her husband's murmurs, that had bred the abstraction visible in her. when her father approached the house after witnessing the interview between fitzpiers and mrs. charmond, grace was looking out of her sitting-room window, as if she had nothing to do, or think of, or care for. he stood still. "ah, grace," he said, regarding her fixedly. "yes, father," she murmured. "waiting for your dear husband?" he inquired, speaking with the sarcasm of pitiful affection. "oh no--not especially. he has a great many patients to see this afternoon." melbury came quite close. "grace, what's the use of talking like that, when you know--here, come down and walk with me out in the garden, child." he unfastened the door in the ivy-laced wall, and waited. this apparent indifference alarmed him. he would far rather that she had rushed in all the fire of jealousy to hintock house, regardless of conventionality, confronted and attacked felice charmond _unguibus et rostro_, and accused her even in exaggerated shape of stealing away her husband. such a storm might have cleared the air. she emerged in a minute or two, and they went inside together. "you know as well as i do," he resumed, "that there is something threatening mischief to your life; and yet you pretend you do not. do you suppose i don't see the trouble in your face every day? i am very sure that this quietude is wrong conduct in you. you should look more into matters." "i am quiet because my sadness is not of a nature to stir me to action." melbury wanted to ask her a dozen questions--did she not feel jealous? was she not indignant? but a natural delicacy restrained him. "you are very tame and let-alone, i am bound to say," he remarked, pointedly. "i am what i feel, father," she repeated. he glanced at her, and there returned upon his mind the scene of her offering to wed winterborne instead of fitzpiers in the last days before her marriage; and he asked himself if it could be the fact that she loved winterborne, now that she had lost him, more than she had ever done when she was comparatively free to choose him. "what would you have me do?" she asked, in a low voice. he recalled his mind from the retrospective pain to the practical matter before them. "i would have you go to mrs. charmond," he said. "go to mrs. charmond--what for?" said she. "well--if i must speak plain, dear grace--to ask her, appeal to her in the name of your common womanhood, and your many like sentiments on things, not to make unhappiness between you and your husband. it lies with her entirely to do one or the other--that i can see." grace's face had heated at her father's words, and the very rustle of her skirts upon the box-edging bespoke hauteur. "i shall not think of going to her, father--of course i could not!" she answered. "why--don't 'ee want to be happier than you be at present?" said melbury, more moved on her account than she was herself. "i don't wish to be more humiliated. if i have anything to bear i can bear it in silence." "but, my dear maid, you are too young--you don't know what the present state of things may lead to. just see the harm done a'ready! your husband would have gone away to budmouth to a bigger practice if it had not been for this. although it has gone such a little way, it is poisoning your future even now. mrs. charmond is thoughtlessly bad, not bad by calculation; and just a word to her now might save 'ee a peck of woes." "ah, i loved her once," said grace, with a broken articulation, "and she would not care for me then! now i no longer love her. let her do her worst: i don't care." "you ought to care. you have got into a very good position to start with. you have been well educated, well tended, and you have become the wife of a professional man of unusually good family. surely you ought to make the best of your position." "i don't see that i ought. i wish i had never got into it. i wish you had never, never thought of educating me. i wish i worked in the woods like marty south. i hate genteel life, and i want to be no better than she." "why?" said her amazed father. "because cultivation has only brought me inconveniences and troubles. i say again, i wish you had never sent me to those fashionable schools you set your mind on. it all arose out of that, father. if i had stayed at home i should have married--" she closed up her mouth suddenly and was silent; and he saw that she was not far from crying. melbury was much grieved. "what, and would you like to have grown up as we be here in hintock--knowing no more, and with no more chance of seeing good life than we have here?" "yes. i have never got any happiness outside hintock that i know of, and i have suffered many a heartache at being sent away. oh, the misery of those january days when i had got back to school, and left you all here in the wood so happy. i used to wonder why i had to bear it. and i was always a little despised by the other girls at school, because they knew where i came from, and that my parents were not in so good a station as theirs." her poor father was much hurt at what he thought her ingratitude and intractability. he had admitted to himself bitterly enough that he should have let young hearts have their way, or rather should have helped on her affection for winterborne, and given her to him according to his original plan; but he was not prepared for her deprecation of those attainments whose completion had been a labor of years, and a severe tax upon his purse. "very well," he said, with much heaviness of spirit. "if you don't like to go to her i don't wish to force you." and so the question remained for him still: how should he remedy this perilous state of things? for days he sat in a moody attitude over the fire, a pitcher of cider standing on the hearth beside him, and his drinking-horn inverted upon the top of it. he spent a week and more thus composing a letter to the chief offender, which he would every now and then attempt to complete, and suddenly crumple up in his hand. chapter xxxi. as february merged in march, and lighter evenings broke the gloom of the woodmen's homeward journey, the hintocks great and little began to have ears for a rumor of the events out of which had grown the timber-dealer's troubles. it took the form of a wide sprinkling of conjecture, wherein no man knew the exact truth. tantalizing phenomena, at once showing and concealing the real relationship of the persons concerned, caused a diffusion of excited surprise. honest people as the woodlanders were, it was hardly to be expected that they could remain immersed in the study of their trees and gardens amid such circumstances, or sit with their backs turned like the good burghers of coventry at the passage of the beautiful lady. rumor, for a wonder, exaggerated little. there were, in fact, in this case as in thousands, the well-worn incidents, old as the hills, which, with individual variations, made a mourner of ariadne, a by-word of vashti, and a corpse of the countess amy. there were rencounters accidental and contrived, stealthy correspondence, sudden misgivings on one side, sudden self-reproaches on the other. the inner state of the twain was one as of confused noise that would not allow the accents of calmer reason to be heard. determinations to go in this direction, and headlong plunges in that; dignified safeguards, undignified collapses; not a single rash step by deliberate intention, and all against judgment. it was all that melbury had expected and feared. it was more, for he had overlooked the publicity that would be likely to result, as it now had done. what should he do--appeal to mrs. charmond himself, since grace would not? he bethought himself of winterborne, and resolved to consult him, feeling the strong need of some friend of his own sex to whom he might unburden his mind. he had entirely lost faith in his own judgment. that judgment on which he had relied for so many years seemed recently, like a false companion unmasked, to have disclosed unexpected depths of hypocrisy and speciousness where all had seemed solidity. he felt almost afraid to form a conjecture on the weather, or the time, or the fruit-promise, so great was his self-abasement. it was a rimy evening when he set out to look for giles. the woods seemed to be in a cold sweat; beads of perspiration hung from every bare twig; the sky had no color, and the trees rose before him as haggard, gray phantoms, whose days of substantiality were passed. melbury seldom saw winterborne now, but he believed him to be occupying a lonely hut just beyond the boundary of mrs. charmond's estate, though still within the circuit of the woodland. the timber-merchant's thin legs stalked on through the pale, damp scenery, his eyes on the dead leaves of last year; while every now and then a hasty "ay?" escaped his lips in reply to some bitter proposition. his notice was attracted by a thin blue haze of smoke, behind which arose sounds of voices and chopping: bending his steps that way, he saw winterborne just in front of him. it just now happened that giles, after being for a long time apathetic and unemployed, had become one of the busiest men in the neighborhood. it is often thus; fallen friends, lost sight of, we expect to find starving; we discover them going on fairly well. without any solicitation, or desire for profit on his part, he had been asked to execute during that winter a very large order for hurdles and other copse-ware, for which purpose he had been obliged to buy several acres of brushwood standing. he was now engaged in the cutting and manufacture of the same, proceeding with the work daily like an automaton. the hazel-tree did not belie its name to-day. the whole of the copse-wood where the mist had cleared returned purest tints of that hue, amid which winterborne himself was in the act of making a hurdle, the stakes being driven firmly into the ground in a row, over which he bent and wove the twigs. beside him was a square, compact pile like the altar of cain, formed of hurdles already finished, which bristled on all sides with the sharp points of their stakes. at a little distance the men in his employ were assisting him to carry out his contract. rows of copse-wood lay on the ground as it had fallen under the axe; and a shelter had been constructed near at hand, in front of which burned the fire whose smoke had attracted him. the air was so dank that the smoke hung heavy, and crept away amid the bushes without rising from the ground. after wistfully regarding winterborne a while, melbury drew nearer, and briefly inquired of giles how he came to be so busily engaged, with an undertone of slight surprise that winterborne could seem so thriving after being deprived of grace. melbury was not without emotion at the meeting; for grace's affairs had divided them, and ended their intimacy of old times. winterborne explained just as briefly, without raising his eyes from his occupation of chopping a bough that he held in front of him. "'twill be up in april before you get it all cleared," said melbury. "yes, there or thereabouts," said winterborne, a chop of the billhook jerking the last word into two pieces. there was another interval; melbury still looked on, a chip from winterborne's hook occasionally flying against the waistcoat and legs of his visitor, who took no heed. "ah, giles--you should have been my partner. you should have been my son-in-law," the old man said at last. "it would have been far better for her and for me." winterborne saw that something had gone wrong with his former friend, and throwing down the switch he was about to interweave, he responded only too readily to the mood of the timber-dealer. "is she ill?" he said, hurriedly. "no, no." melbury stood without speaking for some minutes, and then, as though he could not bring himself to proceed, turned to go away. winterborne told one of his men to pack up the tools for the night and walked after melbury. "heaven forbid that i should seem too inquisitive, sir," he said, "especially since we don't stand as we used to stand to one another; but i hope it is well with them all over your way?" "no," said melbury--"no." he stopped, and struck the smooth trunk of a young ash-tree with the flat of his hand. "i would that his ear had been where that rind is!" he exclaimed; "i should have treated him to little compared wi what he deserves." "now," said winterborne, "don't be in a hurry to go home. i've put some cider down to warm in my shelter here, and we'll sit and drink it and talk this over." melbury turned unresistingly as giles took his arm, and they went back to where the fire was, and sat down under the screen, the other woodmen having gone. he drew out the cider-mug from the ashes and they drank together. "giles, you ought to have had her, as i said just now," repeated melbury. "i'll tell you why for the first time." he thereupon told winterborne, as with great relief, the story of how he won away giles's father's chosen one--by nothing worse than a lover's cajoleries, it is true, but by means which, except in love, would certainly have been pronounced cruel and unfair. he explained how he had always intended to make reparation to winterborne the father by giving grace to winterborne the son, till the devil tempted him in the person of fitzpiers, and he broke his virtuous vow. "how highly i thought of that man, to be sure! who'd have supposed he'd have been so weak and wrong-headed as this! you ought to have had her, giles, and there's an end on't." winterborne knew how to preserve his calm under this unconsciously cruel tearing of a healing wound to which melbury's concentration on the more vital subject had blinded him. the young man endeavored to make the best of the case for grace's sake. "she would hardly have been happy with me," he said, in the dry, unimpassioned voice under which he hid his feelings. "i was not well enough educated: too rough, in short. i couldn't have surrounded her with the refinements she looked for, anyhow, at all." "nonsense--you are quite wrong there," said the unwise old man, doggedly. "she told me only this day that she hates refinements and such like. all that my trouble and money bought for her in that way is thrown away upon her quite. she'd fain be like marty south--think o' that! that's the top of her ambition! perhaps she's right. giles, she loved you--under the rind; and, what's more, she loves ye still--worse luck for the poor maid!" if melbury only had known what fires he was recklessly stirring up he might have held his peace. winterborne was silent a long time. the darkness had closed in round them, and the monotonous drip of the fog from the branches quickened as it turned to fine rain. "oh, she never cared much for me," giles managed to say, as he stirred the embers with a brand. "she did, and does, i tell ye," said the other, obstinately. "however, all that's vain talking now. what i come to ask you about is a more practical matter--how to make the best of things as they are. i am thinking of a desperate step--of calling on the woman charmond. i am going to appeal to her, since grace will not. 'tis she who holds the balance in her hands--not he. while she's got the will to lead him astray he will follow--poor, unpractical, lofty-notioned dreamer--and how long she'll do it depends upon her whim. did ye ever hear anything about her character before she came to hintock?" "she's been a bit of a charmer in her time, i believe," replied giles, with the same level quietude, as he regarded the red coals. "one who has smiled where she has not loved and loved where she has not married. before mr. charmond made her his wife she was a play-actress." "hey? but how close you have kept all this, giles! what besides?" "mr. charmond was a rich man, engaged in the iron trade in the north, twenty or thirty years older than she. he married her and retired, and came down here and bought this property, as they do nowadays." "yes, yes--i know all about that; but the other i did not know. i fear it bodes no good. for how can i go and appeal to the forbearance of a woman in this matter who has made cross-loves and crooked entanglements her trade for years? i thank ye, giles, for finding it out; but it makes my plan the harder that she should have belonged to that unstable tribe." another pause ensued, and they looked gloomily at the smoke that beat about the hurdles which sheltered them, through whose weavings a large drop of rain fell at intervals and spat smartly into the fire. mrs. charmond had been no friend to winterborne, but he was manly, and it was not in his heart to let her be condemned without a trial. "she is said to be generous," he answered. "you might not appeal to her in vain." "it shall be done," said melbury, rising. "for good or for evil, to mrs. charmond i'll go." chapter xxxii. at nine o'clock the next morning melbury dressed himself up in shining broadcloth, creased with folding and smelling of camphor, and started for hintock house. he was the more impelled to go at once by the absence of his son-in-law in london for a few days, to attend, really or ostensibly, some professional meetings. he said nothing of his destination either to his wife or to grace, fearing that they might entreat him to abandon so risky a project, and went out unobserved. he had chosen his time with a view, as he supposed, of conveniently catching mrs. charmond when she had just finished her breakfast, before any other business people should be about, if any came. plodding thoughtfully onward, he crossed a glade lying between little hintock woods and the plantation which abutted on the park; and the spot being open, he was discerned there by winterborne from the copse on the next hill, where he and his men were working. knowing his mission, the younger man hastened down from the copse and managed to intercept the timber-merchant. "i have been thinking of this, sir," he said, "and i am of opinion that it would be best to put off your visit for the present." but melbury would not even stop to hear him. his mind was made up, the appeal was to be made; and winterborne stood and watched him sadly till he entered the second plantation and disappeared. melbury rang at the tradesmen's door of the manor-house, and was at once informed that the lady was not yet visible, as indeed he might have guessed had he been anybody but the man he was. melbury said he would wait, whereupon the young man informed him in a neighborly way that, between themselves, she was in bed and asleep. "never mind," said melbury, retreating into the court, "i'll stand about here." charged so fully with his mission, he shrank from contact with anybody. but he walked about the paved court till he was tired, and still nobody came to him. at last he entered the house and sat down in a small waiting-room, from which he got glimpses of the kitchen corridor, and of the white-capped maids flitting jauntily hither and thither. they had heard of his arrival, but had not seen him enter, and, imagining him still in the court, discussed freely the possible reason of his calling. they marvelled at his temerity; for though most of the tongues which had been let loose attributed the chief blame-worthiness to fitzpiers, these of her household preferred to regard their mistress as the deeper sinner. melbury sat with his hands resting on the familiar knobbed thorn walking-stick, whose growing he had seen before he enjoyed its use. the scene to him was not the material environment of his person, but a tragic vision that travelled with him like an envelope. through this vision the incidents of the moment but gleamed confusedly here and there, as an outer landscape through the high-colored scenes of a stained window. he waited thus an hour, an hour and a half, two hours. he began to look pale and ill, whereupon the butler, who came in, asked him to have a glass of wine. melbury roused himself and said, "no, no. is she almost ready?" "she is just finishing breakfast," said the butler. "she will soon see you now. i am just going up to tell her you are here." "what! haven't you told her before?" said melbury. "oh no," said the other. "you see you came so very early." at last the bell rang: mrs. charmond could see him. she was not in her private sitting-room when he reached it, but in a minute he heard her coming from the front staircase, and she entered where he stood. at this time of the morning mrs. charmond looked her full age and more. she might almost have been taken for the typical femme de trente ans, though she was really not more than seven or eight and twenty. there being no fire in the room, she came in with a shawl thrown loosely round her shoulders, and obviously without the least suspicion that melbury had called upon any other errand than timber. felice was, indeed, the only woman in the parish who had not heard the rumor of her own weaknesses; she was at this moment living in a fool's paradise in respect of that rumor, though not in respect of the weaknesses themselves, which, if the truth be told, caused her grave misgivings. "do sit down, mr. melbury. you have felled all the trees that were to be purchased by you this season, except the oaks, i believe." "yes," said melbury. "how very nice! it must be so charming to work in the woods just now!" she was too careless to affect an interest in an extraneous person's affairs so consummately as to deceive in the manner of the perfect social machine. hence her words "very nice," "so charming," were uttered with a perfunctoriness that made them sound absurdly unreal. "yes, yes," said melbury, in a reverie. he did not take a chair, and she also remained standing. resting upon his stick, he began: "mrs. charmond, i have called upon a more serious matter--at least to me--than tree-throwing. and whatever mistakes i make in my manner of speaking upon it to you, madam, do me the justice to set 'em down to my want of practice, and not to my want of care." mrs. charmond looked ill at ease. she might have begun to guess his meaning; but apart from that, she had such dread of contact with anything painful, harsh, or even earnest, that his preliminaries alone were enough to distress her. "yes, what is it?" she said. "i am an old man," said melbury, "whom, somewhat late in life, god thought fit to bless with one child, and she a daughter. her mother was a very dear wife to me, but she was taken away from us when the child was young, and the child became precious as the apple of my eye to me, for she was all i had left to love. for her sake entirely i married as second wife a homespun woman who had been kind as a mother to her. in due time the question of her education came on, and i said, 'i will educate the maid well, if i live upon bread to do it.' of her possible marriage i could not bear to think, for it seemed like a death that she should cleave to another man, and grow to think his house her home rather than mine. but i saw it was the law of nature that this should be, and that it was for the maid's happiness that she should have a home when i was gone; and i made up my mind without a murmur to help it on for her sake. in my youth i had wronged my dead friend, and to make amends i determined to give her, my most precious possession, to my friend's son, seeing that they liked each other well. things came about which made me doubt if it would be for my daughter's happiness to do this, inasmuch as the young man was poor, and she was delicately reared. another man came and paid court to her--one her equal in breeding and accomplishments; in every way it seemed to me that he only could give her the home which her training had made a necessity almost. i urged her on, and she married him. but, ma'am, a fatal mistake was at the root of my reckoning. i found that this well-born gentleman i had calculated on so surely was not stanch of heart, and that therein lay a danger of great sorrow for my daughter. madam, he saw you, and you know the rest....i have come to make no demands--to utter no threats; i have come simply as a father in great grief about this only child, and i beseech you to deal kindly with my daughter, and to do nothing which can turn her husband's heart away from her forever. forbid him your presence, ma'am, and speak to him on his duty as one with your power over him well can do, and i am hopeful that the rent between them may be patched up. for it is not as if you would lose by so doing; your course is far higher than the courses of a simple professional man, and the gratitude you would win from me and mine by your kindness is more than i can say." mrs. charmond had first rushed into a mood of indignation on comprehending melbury's story; hot and cold by turns, she had murmured, "leave me, leave me!" but as he seemed to take no notice of this, his words began to influence her, and when he ceased speaking she said, with hurried, hot breath, "what has led you to think this of me? who says i have won your daughter's husband away from her? some monstrous calumnies are afloat--of which i have known nothing until now!" melbury started, and looked at her simply. "but surely, ma'am, you know the truth better than i?" her features became a little pinched, and the touches of powder on her handsome face for the first time showed themselves as an extrinsic film. "will you leave me to myself?" she said, with a faintness which suggested a guilty conscience. "this is so utterly unexpected--you obtain admission to my presence by misrepresentation--" "as god's in heaven, ma'am, that's not true. i made no pretence; and i thought in reason you would know why i had come. this gossip--" "i have heard nothing of it. tell me of it, i say." "tell you, ma'am--not i. what the gossip is, no matter. what really is, you know. set facts right, and the scandal will right of itself. but pardon me--i speak roughly; and i came to speak gently, to coax you, beg you to be my daughter's friend. she loved you once, ma'am; you began by liking her. then you dropped her without a reason, and it hurt her warm heart more than i can tell ye. but you were within your right as the superior, no doubt. but if you would consider her position now--surely, surely, you would do her no harm!" "certainly i would do her no harm--i--" melbury's eye met hers. it was curious, but the allusion to grace's former love for her seemed to touch her more than all melbury's other arguments. "oh, melbury," she burst out, "you have made me so unhappy! how could you come to me like this! it is too dreadful! now go away--go, go!" "i will," he said, in a husky tone. as soon as he was out of the room she went to a corner and there sat and writhed under an emotion in which hurt pride and vexation mingled with better sentiments. mrs. charmond's mobile spirit was subject to these fierce periods of stress and storm. she had never so clearly perceived till now that her soul was being slowly invaded by a delirium which had brought about all this; that she was losing judgment and dignity under it, becoming an animated impulse only, a passion incarnate. a fascination had led her on; it was as if she had been seized by a hand of velvet; and this was where she found herself--overshadowed with sudden night, as if a tornado had passed by. while she sat, or rather crouched, unhinged by the interview, lunch-time came, and then the early afternoon, almost without her consciousness. then "a strange gentleman who says it is not necessary to give his name," was suddenly announced. "i cannot see him, whoever he may be. i am not at home to anybody." she heard no more of her visitor; and shortly after, in an attempt to recover some mental serenity by violent physical exercise, she put on her hat and cloak and went out-of-doors, taking a path which led her up the slopes to the nearest spur of the wood. she disliked the woods, but they had the advantage of being a place in which she could walk comparatively unobserved. chapter xxxiii. there was agitation to-day in the lives of all whom these matters concerned. it was not till the hintock dinner-time--one o'clock--that grace discovered her father's absence from the house after a departure in the morning under somewhat unusual conditions. by a little reasoning and inquiry she was able to come to a conclusion on his destination, and to divine his errand. her husband was absent, and her father did not return. he had, in truth, gone on to sherton after the interview, but this grace did not know. in an indefinite dread that something serious would arise out of melbury's visit by reason of the inequalities of temper and nervous irritation to which he was subject, something possibly that would bring her much more misery than accompanied her present negative state of mind, she left the house about three o'clock, and took a loitering walk in the woodland track by which she imagined he would come home. this track under the bare trees and over the cracking sticks, screened and roofed in from the outer world of wind and cloud by a net-work of boughs, led her slowly on till in time she had left the larger trees behind her and swept round into the coppice where winterborne and his men were clearing the undergrowth. had giles's attention been concentrated on his hurdles he would not have seen her; but ever since melbury's passage across the opposite glade in the morning he had been as uneasy and unsettled as grace herself; and her advent now was the one appearance which, since her father's avowal, could arrest him more than melbury's return with his tidings. fearing that something might be the matter, he hastened up to her. she had not seen her old lover for a long time, and, too conscious of the late pranks of her heart, she could not behold him calmly. "i am only looking for my father," she said, in an unnecessarily apologetic intonation. "i was looking for him too," said giles. "i think he may perhaps have gone on farther." "then you knew he was going to the house, giles?" she said, turning her large tender eyes anxiously upon him. "did he tell you what for?" winterborne glanced doubtingly at her, and then softly hinted that her father had visited him the evening before, and that their old friendship was quite restored, on which she guessed the rest. "oh, i am glad, indeed, that you two are friends again!" she cried. and then they stood facing each other, fearing each other, troubling each other's souls. grace experienced acute misery at the sight of these wood-cutting scenes, because she had estranged herself from them, craving, even to its defects and inconveniences, that homely sylvan life of her father which in the best probable succession of events would shortly be denied her. at a little distance, on the edge of the clearing, marty south was shaping spar-gads to take home for manufacture during the evenings. while winterborne and mrs. fitzpiers stood looking at her in their mutual embarrassment at each other's presence, they beheld approaching the girl a lady in a dark fur mantle and a black hat, having a white veil tied picturesquely round it. she spoke to marty, who turned and courtesied, and the lady fell into conversation with her. it was mrs. charmond. on leaving her house, mrs. charmond had walked on and onward under the fret and fever of her mind with more vigor than she was accustomed to show in her normal moods--a fever which the solace of a cigarette did not entirely allay. reaching the coppice, she listlessly observed marty at work, threw away her cigarette, and came near. chop, chop, chop, went marty's little billhook with never more assiduity, till mrs. charmond spoke. "who is that young lady i see talking to the woodman yonder?" she asked. "mrs. fitzpiers, ma'am," said marty. "oh," said mrs. charmond, with something like a start; for she had not recognized grace at that distance. "and the man she is talking to?" "that's mr. winterborne." a redness stole into marty's face as she mentioned giles's name, which mrs. charmond did not fail to notice informed her of the state of the girl's heart. "are you engaged to him?" she asked, softly. "no, ma'am," said marty. "she was once; and i think--" but marty could not possibly explain the complications of her thoughts on this matter--which were nothing less than one of extraordinary acuteness for a girl so young and inexperienced--namely, that she saw danger to two hearts naturally honest in grace being thrown back into winterborne's society by the neglect of her husband. mrs. charmond, however, with the almost supersensory means to knowledge which women have on such occasions, quite understood what marty had intended to convey, and the picture thus exhibited to her of lives drifting away, involving the wreck of poor marty's hopes, prompted her to more generous resolves than all melbury's remonstrances had been able to stimulate. full of the new feeling, she bade the girl good-afternoon, and went on over the stumps of hazel to where grace and winterborne were standing. they saw her approach, and winterborne said, "she is coming to you; it is a good omen. she dislikes me, so i'll go away." he accordingly retreated to where he had been working before grace came, and grace's formidable rival approached her, each woman taking the other's measure as she came near. "dear--mrs. fitzpiers," said felice charmond, with some inward turmoil which stopped her speech. "i have not seen you for a long time." she held out her hand tentatively, while grace stood like a wild animal on first confronting a mirror or other puzzling product of civilization. was it really mrs. charmond speaking to her thus? if it was, she could no longer form any guess as to what it signified. "i want to talk with you," said mrs. charmond, imploringly, for the gaze of the young woman had chilled her through. "can you walk on with me till we are quite alone?" sick with distaste, grace nevertheless complied, as by clockwork and they moved evenly side by side into the deeper recesses of the woods. they went farther, much farther than mrs. charmond had meant to go; but she could not begin her conversation, and in default of it kept walking. "i have seen your father," she at length resumed. "and--i am much troubled by what he told me." "what did he tell you? i have not been admitted to his confidence on anything he may have said to you." "nevertheless, why should i repeat to you what you can easily divine?" "true--true," returned grace, mournfully. "why should you repeat what we both know to be in our minds already?" "mrs. fitzpiers, your husband--" the moment that the speaker's tongue touched the dangerous subject a vivid look of self-consciousness flashed over her, in which her heart revealed, as by a lightning gleam, what filled it to overflowing. so transitory was the expression that none but a sensitive woman, and she in grace's position, would have had the power to catch its meaning. upon her the phase was not lost. "then you do love him!" she exclaimed, in a tone of much surprise. "what do you mean, my young friend?" "why," cried grace, "i thought till now that you had only been cruelly flirting with my husband, to amuse your idle moments--a rich lady with a poor professional gentleman whom in her heart she despised not much less than her who belongs to him. but i guess from your manner that you love him desperately, and i don't hate you as i did before." "yes, indeed," continued mrs. fitzpiers, with a trembling tongue, "since it is not playing in your case at all, but real. oh, i do pity you, more than i despise you, for you will s-s-suffer most!" mrs. charmond was now as much agitated as grace. "i ought not to allow myself to argue with you," she exclaimed. "i demean myself by doing it. but i liked you once, and for the sake of that time i try to tell you how mistaken you are!" much of her confusion resulted from her wonder and alarm at finding herself in a sense dominated mentally and emotionally by this simple school-girl. "i do not love him," she went on, with desperate untruth. "it was a kindness--my making somewhat more of him than one usually does of one's doctor. i was lonely; i talked--well, i trifled with him. i am very sorry if such child's playing out of pure friendship has been a serious matter to you. who could have expected it? but the world is so simple here." "oh, that's affectation," said grace, shaking her head. "it is no use--you love him. i can see in your face that in this matter of my husband you have not let your acts belie your feelings. during these last four or six months you have been terribly indiscreet; but you have not been insincere, and that almost disarms me." "i have been insincere--if you will have the word--i mean i have coquetted, and do not love him!" but grace clung to her position like a limpet. "you may have trifled with others, but him you love as you never loved another man." "oh, well--i won't argue," said mrs. charmond, laughing faintly. "and you come to reproach me for it, child." "no," said grace, magnanimously. "you may go on loving him if you like--i don't mind at all. you'll find it, let me tell you, a bitterer business for yourself than for me in the end. he'll get tired of you soon, as tired as can be--you don't know him so well as i--and then you may wish you had never seen him!" mrs. charmond had grown quite pale and weak under this prophecy. it was extraordinary that grace, whom almost every one would have characterized as a gentle girl, should be of stronger fibre than her interlocutor. "you exaggerate--cruel, silly young woman," she reiterated, writhing with little agonies. "it is nothing but playful friendship--nothing! it will be proved by my future conduct. i shall at once refuse to see him more--since it will make no difference to my heart, and much to my name." "i question if you will refuse to see him again," said grace, dryly, as with eyes askance she bent a sapling down. "but i am not incensed against you as you are against me," she added, abandoning the tree to its natural perpendicular. "before i came i had been despising you for wanton cruelty; now i only pity you for misplaced affection. when edgar has gone out of the house in hope of seeing you, at seasonable hours and unseasonable; when i have found him riding miles and miles across the country at midnight, and risking his life, and getting covered with mud, to get a glimpse of you, i have called him a foolish man--the plaything of a finished coquette. i thought that what was getting to be a tragedy to me was a comedy to you. but now i see that tragedy lies on your side of the situation no less than on mine, and more; that if i have felt trouble at my position, you have felt anguish at yours; that if i have had disappointments, you have had despairs. heaven may fortify me--god help you!" "i cannot attempt to reply to your raving eloquence," returned the other, struggling to restore a dignity which had completely collapsed. "my acts will be my proofs. in the world which you have seen nothing of, friendships between men and women are not unknown, and it would have been better both for you and your father if you had each judged me more respectfully, and left me alone. as it is i wish never to see or speak to you, madam, any more." grace bowed, and mrs. charmond turned away. the two went apart in directly opposite courses, and were soon hidden from each other by their umbrageous surroundings and by the shadows of eve. in the excitement of their long argument they had walked onward and zigzagged about without regarding direction or distance. all sound of the woodcutters had long since faded into remoteness, and even had not the interval been too great for hearing them they would have been silent and homeward bound at this twilight hour. but grace went on her course without any misgiving, though there was much underwood here, with only the narrowest passages for walking, across which brambles hung. she had not, however, traversed this the wildest part of the wood since her childhood, and the transformation of outlines had been great; old trees which once were landmarks had been felled or blown down, and the bushes which then had been small and scrubby were now large and overhanging. she soon found that her ideas as to direction were vague--that she had indeed no ideas as to direction at all. if the evening had not been growing so dark, and the wind had not put on its night moan so distinctly, grace would not have minded; but she was rather frightened now, and began to strike across hither and thither in random courses. denser grew the darkness, more developed the wind-voices, and still no recognizable spot or outlet of any kind appeared, nor any sound of the hintocks floated near, though she had wandered probably between one and two hours, and began to be weary. she was vexed at her foolishness, since the ground she had covered, if in a straight line, must inevitably have taken her out of the wood to some remote village or other; but she had wasted her forces in countermarches; and now, in much alarm, wondered if she would have to pass the night here. she stood still to meditate, and fancied that between the soughing of the wind she heard shuffling footsteps on the leaves heavier than those of rabbits or hares. though fearing at first to meet anybody on the chance of his being a friend, she decided that the fellow night-rambler, even if a poacher, would not injure her, and that he might possibly be some one sent to search for her. she accordingly shouted a rather timid "hoi!" the cry was immediately returned by the other person; and grace running at once in the direction whence it came beheld an indistinct figure hastening up to her as rapidly. they were almost in each other's arms when she recognized in her vis-a-vis the outline and white veil of her whom she had parted from an hour and a half before--mrs. charmond. "i have lost my way, i have lost my way," cried that lady. "oh--is it indeed you? i am so glad to meet you or anybody. i have been wandering up and down ever since we parted, and am nearly dead with terror and misery and fatigue!" "so am i," said grace. "what shall we, shall we do?" "you won't go away from me?" asked her companion, anxiously. "no, indeed. are you very tired?" "i can scarcely move, and i am scratched dreadfully about the ankles." grace reflected. "perhaps, as it is dry under foot, the best thing for us to do would be to sit down for half an hour, and then start again when we have thoroughly rested. by walking straight we must come to a track leading somewhere before the morning." they found a clump of bushy hollies which afforded a shelter from the wind, and sat down under it, some tufts of dead fern, crisp and dry, that remained from the previous season forming a sort of nest for them. but it was cold, nevertheless, on this march night, particularly for grace, who with the sanguine prematureness of youth in matters of dress, had considered it spring-time, and hence was not so warmly clad as mrs. charmond, who still wore her winter fur. but after sitting a while the latter lady shivered no less than grace as the warmth imparted by her hasty walking began to go off, and they felt the cold air drawing through the holly leaves which scratched their backs and shoulders. moreover, they could hear some drops of rain falling on the trees, though none reached the nook in which they had ensconced themselves. "if we were to cling close together," said mrs. charmond, "we should keep each other warm. but," she added, in an uneven voice, "i suppose you won't come near me for the world!" "why not?" "because--well, you know." "yes. i will--i don't hate you at all." they consequently crept up to one another, and being in the dark, lonely and weary, did what neither had dreamed of doing beforehand, clasped each other closely, mrs. charmond's furs consoling grace's cold face, and each one's body as she breathed alternately heaving against that of her companion. when a few minutes had been spent thus, mrs. charmond said, "i am so wretched!" in a heavy, emotional whisper. "you are frightened," said grace, kindly. "but there is nothing to fear; i know these woods well." "i am not at all frightened at the wood, but i am at other things." mrs. charmond embraced grace more and more tightly, and the younger woman could feel her neighbor's breathings grow deeper and more spasmodic, as though uncontrollable feelings were germinating. "after i had left you," she went on, "i regretted something i had said. i have to make a confession--i must make it!" she whispered, brokenly, the instinct to indulge in warmth of sentiment which had led this woman of passions to respond to fitzpiers in the first place leading her now to find luxurious comfort in opening her heart to his wife. "i said to you i could give him up without pain or deprivation--that he had only been my pastime. that was untrue--it was said to deceive you. i could not do it without much pain; and, what is more dreadful, i cannot give him up--even if i would--of myself alone." "why? because you love him, you mean." felice charmond denoted assent by a movement. "i knew i was right!" said grace, exaltedly. "but that should not deter you," she presently added, in a moral tone. "oh, do struggle against it, and you will conquer!" "you are so simple, so simple!" cried felice. "you think, because you guessed my assumed indifference to him to be a sham, that you know the extremes that people are capable of going to! but a good deal more may have been going on than you have fathomed with all your insight. i cannot give him up until he chooses to give up me." "but surely you are the superior in station and in every way, and the cut must come from you." "tchut! must i tell verbatim, you simple child? oh, i suppose i must! i shall eat away my heart if i do not let out all, after meeting you like this and finding how guileless you are." she thereupon whispered a few words in the girl's ear, and burst into a violent fit of sobbing. grace started roughly away from the shelter of the fur, and sprang to her feet. "oh, my god!" she exclaimed, thunderstruck at a revelation transcending her utmost suspicion. "can it be--can it be!" she turned as if to hasten away. but felice charmond's sobs came to her ear: deep darkness circled her about, the funereal trees rocked and chanted their diriges and placebos around her, and she did not know which way to go. after a moment of energy she felt mild again, and turned to the motionless woman at her feet. "are you rested?" she asked, in what seemed something like her own voice grown ten years older. without an answer mrs. charmond slowly rose. "you mean to betray me!" she said from the bitterest depths of her soul. "oh fool, fool i!" "no," said grace, shortly. "i mean no such thing. but let us be quick now. we have a serious undertaking before us. think of nothing but going straight on." they walked on in profound silence, pulling back boughs now growing wet, and treading down woodbine, but still keeping a pretty straight course. grace began to be thoroughly worn out, and her companion too, when, on a sudden, they broke into the deserted highway at the hill-top on which the sherton man had waited for mrs. dollery's van. grace recognized the spot as soon as she looked around her. "how we have got here i cannot tell," she said, with cold civility. "we have made a complete circuit of little hintock. the hazel copse is quite on the other side. now we have only to follow the road." they dragged themselves onward, turned into the lane, passed the track to little hintock, and so reached the park. "here i turn back," said grace, in the same passionless voice. "you are quite near home." mrs. charmond stood inert, seeming appalled by her late admission. "i have told you something in a moment of irresistible desire to unburden my soul which all but a fool would have kept silent as the grave," she said. "i cannot help it now. is it to be a secret--or do you mean war?" "a secret, certainly," said grace, mournfully. "how can you expect war from such a helpless, wretched being as i!" "and i'll do my best not to see him. i am his slave; but i'll try." grace was naturally kind; but she could not help using a small dagger now. "pray don't distress yourself," she said, with exquisitely fine scorn. "you may keep him--for me." had she been wounded instead of mortified she could not have used the words; but fitzpiers's hold upon her heart was slight. they parted thus and there, and grace went moodily homeward. passing marty's cottage she observed through the window that the girl was writing instead of chopping as usual, and wondered what her correspondence could be. directly afterwards she met people in search of her, and reached the house to find all in serious alarm. she soon explained that she had lost her way, and her general depression was attributed to exhaustion on that account. could she have known what marty was writing she would have been surprised. the rumor which agitated the other folk of hintock had reached the young girl, and she was penning a letter to fitzpiers, to tell him that mrs. charmond wore her hair. it was poor marty's only card, and she played it, knowing nothing of fashion, and thinking her revelation a fatal one for a lover. chapter xxxiv. it was at the beginning of april, a few days after the meeting between grace and mrs. charmond in the wood, that fitzpiers, just returned from london, was travelling from sherton-abbas to hintock in a hired carriage. in his eye there was a doubtful light, and the lines of his refined face showed a vague disquietude. he appeared now like one of those who impress the beholder as having suffered wrong in being born. his position was in truth gloomy, and to his appreciative mind it seemed even gloomier than it was. his practice had been slowly dwindling of late, and now threatened to die out altogether, the irrepressible old dr. jones capturing patients up to fitzpiers's very door. fitzpiers knew only too well the latest and greatest cause of his unpopularity; and yet, so illogical is man, the second branch of his sadness grew out of a remedial measure proposed for the first--a letter from felice charmond imploring him not to see her again. to bring about their severance still more effectually, she added, she had decided during his absence upon almost immediate departure for the continent. the time was that dull interval in a woodlander's life which coincides with great activity in the life of the woodland itself--a period following the close of the winter tree-cutting, and preceding the barking season, when the saps are just beginning to heave with the force of hydraulic lifts inside all the trunks of the forest. winterborne's contract was completed, and the plantations were deserted. it was dusk; there were no leaves as yet; the nightingales would not begin to sing for a fortnight; and "the mother of the months" was in her most attenuated phase--starved and bent to a mere bowed skeleton, which glided along behind the bare twigs in fitzpiers's company. when he reached home he went straight up to his wife's sitting-room. he found it deserted, and without a fire. he had mentioned no day for his return; nevertheless, he wondered why she was not there waiting to receive him. on descending to the other wing of the house and inquiring of mrs. melbury, he learned with much surprise that grace had gone on a visit to an acquaintance at shottsford-forum three days earlier; that tidings had on this morning reached her father of her being very unwell there, in consequence of which he had ridden over to see her. fitzpiers went up-stairs again, and the little drawing-room, now lighted by a solitary candle, was not rendered more cheerful by the entrance of grammer oliver with an apronful of wood, which she threw on the hearth while she raked out the grate and rattled about the fire-irons, with a view to making things comfortable. fitzpiers considered that grace ought to have let him know her plans more accurately before leaving home in a freak like this. he went desultorily to the window, the blind of which had not been pulled down, and looked out at the thin, fast-sinking moon, and at the tall stalk of smoke rising from the top of suke damson's chimney, signifying that the young woman had just lit her fire to prepare supper. he became conscious of a discussion in progress on the opposite side of the court. somebody had looked over the wall to talk to the sawyers, and was telling them in a loud voice news in which the name of mrs. charmond soon arrested his ears. "grammer, don't make so much noise with that grate," said the surgeon; at which grammer reared herself upon her knees and held the fuel suspended in her hand, while fitzpiers half opened the casement. "she is off to foreign lands again at last--hev made up her mind quite sudden-like--and it is thoughted she'll leave in a day or two. she's been all as if her mind were low for some days past--with a sort of sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own soul. she's the wrong sort of woman for hintock--hardly knowing a beech from a woak--that i own. but i don't care who the man is, she's been a very kind friend to me. "well, the day after to-morrow is the sabbath day, and without charity we are but tinkling simples; but this i do say, that her going will be a blessed thing for a certain married couple who remain." the fire was lighted, and fitzpiers sat down in front of it, restless as the last leaf upon a tree. "a sort of sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own soul." poor felice. how felice's frame must be pulsing under the conditions of which he had just heard the caricature; how her fair temples must ache; what a mood of wretchedness she must be in! but for the mixing up of his name with hers, and her determination to sunder their too close acquaintance on that account, she would probably have sent for him professionally. she was now sitting alone, suffering, perhaps wishing that she had not forbidden him to come again. unable to remain in this lonely room any longer, or to wait for the meal which was in course of preparation, he made himself ready for riding, descended to the yard, stood by the stable-door while darling was being saddled, and rode off down the lane. he would have preferred walking, but was weary with his day's travel. as he approached the door of marty south's cottage, which it was necessary to pass on his way, she came from the porch as if she had been awaiting him, and met him in the middle of the road, holding up a letter. fitzpiers took it without stopping, and asked over his shoulder from whom it came. marty hesitated. "from me," she said, shyly, though with noticeable firmness. this letter contained, in fact, marty's declaration that she was the original owner of mrs. charmond's supplementary locks, and enclosed a sample from the native stock, which had grown considerably by this time. it was her long contemplated apple of discord, and much her hand trembled as she handed the document up to him. but it was impossible on account of the gloom for fitzpiers to read it then, while he had the curiosity to do so, and he put it in his pocket. his imagination having already centred itself on hintock house, in his pocket the letter remained unopened and forgotten, all the while that marty was hopefully picturing its excellent weaning effect upon him. he was not long in reaching the precincts of the manor house. he drew rein under a group of dark oaks commanding a view of the front, and reflected a while. his entry would not be altogether unnatural in the circumstances of her possible indisposition; but upon the whole he thought it best to avoid riding up to the door. by silently approaching he could retreat unobserved in the event of her not being alone. thereupon he dismounted, hitched darling to a stray bough hanging a little below the general browsing line of the trees, and proceeded to the door on foot. in the mean time melbury had returned from shottsford-forum. the great court or quadrangle of the timber-merchant's house, divided from the shady lane by an ivy-covered wall, was entered by two white gates, one standing near each extremity of the wall. it so happened that at the moment when fitzpiers was riding out at the lower gate on his way to the manor house, melbury was approaching the upper gate to enter it. fitzpiers being in front of melbury was seen by the latter, but the surgeon, never turning his head, did not observe his father-in-law, ambling slowly and silently along under the trees, though his horse too was a gray one. "how is grace?" said his wife, as soon as he entered. melbury looked gloomy. "she is not at all well," he said. "i don't like the looks of her at all. i couldn't bear the notion of her biding away in a strange place any longer, and i begged her to let me get her home. at last she agreed to it, but not till after much persuading. i was then sorry that i rode over instead of driving; but i have hired a nice comfortable carriage--the easiest-going i could get--and she'll be here in a couple of hours or less. i rode on ahead to tell you to get her room ready; but i see her husband has come back." "yes," said mrs. melbury. she expressed her concern that her husband had hired a carriage all the way from shottsford. "what it will cost!" she said. "i don't care what it costs!" he exclaimed, testily. "i was determined to get her home. why she went away i can't think! she acts in a way that is not at all likely to mend matters as far as i can see." (grace had not told her father of her interview with mrs. charmond, and the disclosure that had been whispered in her startled ear.) "since edgar is come," he continued, "he might have waited in till i got home, to ask me how she was, if only for a compliment. i saw him go out; where is he gone?" mrs. melbury did not know positively; but she told her husband that there was not much doubt about the place of his first visit after an absence. she had, in fact, seen fitzpiers take the direction of the manor house. melbury said no more. it was exasperating to him that just at this moment, when there was every reason for fitzpiers to stay indoors, or at any rate to ride along the shottsford road to meet his ailing wife, he should be doing despite to her by going elsewhere. the old man went out-of-doors again; and his horse being hardly unsaddled as yet, he told upjohn to retighten the girths, when he again mounted, and rode off at the heels of the surgeon. by the time that melbury reached the park, he was prepared to go any lengths in combating this rank and reckless errantry of his daughter's husband. he would fetch home edgar fitzpiers to-night by some means, rough or fair: in his view there could come of his interference nothing worse than what existed at present. and yet to every bad there is a worse. he had entered by the bridle-gate which admitted to the park on this side, and cantered over the soft turf almost in the tracks of fitzpiers's horse, till he reached the clump of trees under which his precursor had halted. the whitish object that was indistinctly visible here in the gloom of the boughs he found to be darling, as left by fitzpiers. "d--n him! why did he not ride up to the house in an honest way?" said melbury. he profited by fitzpiers's example; dismounting, he tied his horse under an adjoining tree, and went on to the house on foot, as the other had done. he was no longer disposed to stick at trifles in his investigation, and did not hesitate to gently open the front door without ringing. the large square hall, with its oak floor, staircase, and wainscot, was lighted by a dim lamp hanging from a beam. not a soul was visible. he went into the corridor and listened at a door which he knew to be that of the drawing-room; there was no sound, and on turning the handle he found the room empty. a fire burning low in the grate was the sole light of the apartment; its beams flashed mockingly on the somewhat showy versaillese furniture and gilding here, in style as unlike that of the structural parts of the building as it was possible to be, and probably introduced by felice to counteract the fine old-english gloom of the place. disappointed in his hope of confronting his son-in-law here, he went on to the dining-room; this was without light or fire, and pervaded by a cold atmosphere, which signified that she had not dined there that day. by this time melbury's mood had a little mollified. everything here was so pacific, so unaggressive in its repose, that he was no longer incited to provoke a collision with fitzpiers or with anybody. the comparative stateliness of the apartments influenced him to an emotion, rather than to a belief, that where all was outwardly so good and proper there could not be quite that delinquency within which he had suspected. it occurred to him, too, that even if his suspicion were justified, his abrupt, if not unwarrantable, entry into the house might end in confounding its inhabitant at the expense of his daughter's dignity and his own. any ill result would be pretty sure to hit grace hardest in the long-run. he would, after all, adopt the more rational course, and plead with fitzpiers privately, as he had pleaded with mrs. charmond. he accordingly retreated as silently as he had come. passing the door of the drawing-room anew, he fancied that he heard a noise within which was not the crackling of the fire. melbury gently reopened the door to a distance of a few inches, and saw at the opposite window two figures in the act of stepping out--a man and a woman--in whom he recognized the lady of the house and his son-in-law. in a moment they had disappeared amid the gloom of the lawn. he returned into the hall, and let himself out by the carriage-entrance door, coming round to the lawn front in time to see the two figures parting at the railing which divided the precincts of the house from the open park. mrs. charmond turned to hasten back immediately that fitzpiers had left her side, and he was speedily absorbed into the duskiness of the trees. melbury waited till mrs. charmond had re-entered the drawing-room, and then followed after fitzpiers, thinking that he would allow the latter to mount and ride ahead a little way before overtaking him and giving him a piece of his mind. his son-in-law might possibly see the second horse near his own; but that would do him no harm, and might prepare him for what he was to expect. the event, however, was different from the plan. on plunging into the thick shade of the clump of oaks, he could not perceive his horse blossom anywhere; but feeling his way carefully along, he by-and-by discerned fitzpiers's mare darling still standing as before under the adjoining tree. for a moment melbury thought that his own horse, being young and strong, had broken away from her fastening; but on listening intently he could hear her ambling comfortably along a little way ahead, and a creaking of the saddle which showed that she had a rider. walking on as far as the small gate in the corner of the park, he met a laborer, who, in reply to melbury's inquiry if he had seen any person on a gray horse, said that he had only met dr. fitzpiers. it was just what melbury had begun to suspect: fitzpiers had mounted the mare which did not belong to him in mistake for his own--an oversight easily explicable, in a man ever unwitting in horse-flesh, by the darkness of the spot and the near similarity of the animals in appearance, though melbury's was readily enough seen to be the grayer horse by day. he hastened back, and did what seemed best in the circumstances--got upon old darling, and rode rapidly after fitzpiers. melbury had just entered the wood, and was winding along the cart-way which led through it, channelled deep in the leaf-mould with large ruts that were formed by the timber-wagons in fetching the spoil of the plantations, when all at once he descried in front, at a point where the road took a turning round a large chestnut-tree, the form of his own horse blossom, at which melbury quickened darling's pace, thinking to come up with fitzpiers. nearer view revealed that the horse had no rider. at melbury's approach it galloped friskily away under the trees in a homeward direction. thinking something was wrong, the timber-merchant dismounted as soon as he reached the chestnut, and after feeling about for a minute or two discovered fitzpiers lying on the ground. "here--help!" cried the latter as soon as he felt melbury's touch; "i have been thrown off, but there's not much harm done, i think." since melbury could not now very well read the younger man the lecture he had intended, and as friendliness would be hypocrisy, his instinct was to speak not a single word to his son-in-law. he raised fitzpiers into a sitting posture, and found that he was a little stunned and stupefied, but, as he had said, not otherwise hurt. how this fall had come about was readily conjecturable: fitzpiers, imagining there was only old darling under him, had been taken unawares by the younger horse's sprightliness. melbury was a traveller of the old-fashioned sort; having just come from shottsford-forum, he still had in his pocket the pilgrim's flask of rum which he always carried on journeys exceeding a dozen miles, though he seldom drank much of it. he poured it down the surgeon's throat, with such effect that he quickly revived. melbury got him on his legs; but the question was what to do with him. he could not walk more than a few steps, and the other horse had gone away. with great exertion melbury contrived to get him astride darling, mounting himself behind, and holding fitzpiers round his waist with one arm. darling being broad, straight-backed, and high in the withers, was well able to carry double, at any rate as far as hintock, and at a gentle pace. chapter xxxv. the mare paced along with firm and cautious tread through the copse where winterborne had worked, and into the heavier soil where the oaks grew; past great willy, the largest oak in the wood, and thence towards nellcombe bottom, intensely dark now with overgrowth, and popularly supposed to be haunted by the spirits of the fratricides exorcised from hintock house. by this time fitzpiers was quite recovered as to physical strength. but he had eaten nothing since making a hasty breakfast in london that morning, his anxiety about felice having hurried him away from home before dining; as a consequence, the old rum administered by his father-in-law flew to the young man's head and loosened his tongue, without his ever having recognized who it was that had lent him a kindly hand. he began to speak in desultory sentences, melbury still supporting him. "i've come all the way from london to-day," said fitzpiers. "ah, that's the place to meet your equals. i live at hintock--worse, at little hintock--and i am quite lost there. there's not a man within ten miles of hintock who can comprehend me. i tell you, farmer what's-your-name, that i'm a man of education. i know several languages; the poets and i are familiar friends; i used to read more in metaphysics than anybody within fifty miles; and since i gave that up there's nobody can match me in the whole county of wessex as a scientist. yet i an doomed to live with tradespeople in a miserable little hole like hintock!" "indeed!" muttered melbury. fitzpiers, increasingly energized by the alcohol, here reared himself up suddenly from the bowed posture he had hitherto held, thrusting his shoulders so violently against melbury's breast as to make it difficult for the old man to keep a hold on the reins. "people don't appreciate me here!" the surgeon exclaimed; lowering his voice, he added, softly and slowly, "except one--except one!...a passionate soul, as warm as she is clever, as beautiful as she is warm, and as rich as she is beautiful. i say, old fellow, those claws of yours clutch me rather tight--rather like the eagle's, you know, that ate out the liver of pro--pre--the man on mount caucasus. people don't appreciate me, i say, except her. ah, gods, i am an unlucky man! she would have been mine, she would have taken my name; but unfortunately it cannot be so. i stooped to mate beneath me, and now i rue it." the position was becoming a very trying one for melbury, corporeally and mentally. he was obliged to steady fitzpiers with his left arm, and he began to hate the contact. he hardly knew what to do. it was useless to remonstrate with fitzpiers, in his intellectual confusion from the rum and from the fall. he remained silent, his hold upon his companion, however, being stern rather than compassionate. "you hurt me a little, farmer--though i am much obliged to you for your kindness. people don't appreciate me, i say. between ourselves, i am losing my practice here; and why? because i see matchless attraction where matchless attraction is, both in person and position. i mention no names, so nobody will be the wiser. but i have lost her, in a legitimate sense, that is. if i were a free man now, things have come to such a pass that she could not refuse me; while with her fortune (which i don't covet for itself) i should have a chance of satisfying an honorable ambition--a chance i have never had yet, and now never, never shall have, probably!" melbury, his heart throbbing against the other's backbone, and his brain on fire with indignation, ventured to mutter huskily, "why?" the horse ambled on some steps before fitzpiers replied, "because i am tied and bound to another by law, as tightly as i am to you by your arm--not that i complain of your arm--i thank you for helping me. well, where are we? not nearly home yet?...home, say i. it is a home! when i might have been at the other house over there." in a stupefied way he flung his hand in the direction of the park. "i was just two months too early in committing myself. had i only seen the other first--" here the old man's arm gave fitzpiers a convulsive shake. "what are you doing?" continued the latter. "keep still, please, or put me down. i was saying that i lost her by a mere little two months! there is no chance for me now in this world, and it makes me reckless--reckless! unless, indeed, anything should happen to the other one. she is amiable enough; but if anything should happen to her--and i hear she is ill--well, if it should, i should be free--and my fame, my happiness, would be insured." these were the last words that fitzpiers uttered in his seat in front of the timber-merchant. unable longer to master himself, melbury, the skin of his face compressed, whipped away his spare arm from fitzpiers's waist, and seized him by the collar. "you heartless villain--after all that we have done for ye!" he cried, with a quivering lip. "and the money of hers that you've had, and the roof we've provided to shelter ye! it is to me, george melbury, that you dare to talk like that!" the exclamation was accompanied by a powerful swing from the shoulder, which flung the young man head-long into the road, fitzpiers fell with a heavy thud upon the stumps of some undergrowth which had been cut during the winter preceding. darling continued her walk for a few paces farther and stopped. "god forgive me!" melbury murmured, repenting of what he had done. "he tried me too sorely; and now perhaps i've murdered him!" he turned round in the saddle and looked towards the spot on which fitzpiers had fallen. to his great surprise he beheld the surgeon rise to his feet with a bound, as if unhurt, and walk away rapidly under the trees. melbury listened till the rustle of fitzpiers's footsteps died away. "it might have been a crime, but for the mercy of providence in providing leaves for his fall," he said to himself. and then his mind reverted to the words of fitzpiers, and his indignation so mounted within him that he almost wished the fall had put an end to the young man there and then. he had not ridden far when he discerned his own gray mare standing under some bushes. leaving darling for a moment, melbury went forward and easily caught the younger animal, now disheartened at its freak. he then made the pair of them fast to a tree, and turning back, endeavored to find some trace of fitzpiers, feeling pitifully that, after all, he had gone further than he intended with the offender. but though he threaded the wood hither and thither, his toes ploughing layer after layer of the little horny scrolls that had once been leaves, he could not find him. he stood still listening and looking round. the breeze was oozing through the network of boughs as through a strainer; the trunks and larger branches stood against the light of the sky in the forms of writhing men, gigantic candelabra, pikes, halberds, lances, and whatever besides the fancy chose to make of them. giving up the search, melbury came back to the horses, and walked slowly homeward, leading one in each hand. it happened that on this self-same evening a boy had been returning from great to little hintock about the time of fitzpiers's and melbury's passage home along that route. a horse-collar that had been left at the harness-mender's to be repaired was required for use at five o'clock next morning, and in consequence the boy had to fetch it overnight. he put his head through the collar, and accompanied his walk by whistling the one tune he knew, as an antidote to fear. the boy suddenly became aware of a horse trotting rather friskily along the track behind him, and not knowing whether to expect friend or foe, prudence suggested that he should cease his whistling and retreat among the trees till the horse and his rider had gone by; a course to which he was still more inclined when he found how noiselessly they approached, and saw that the horse looked pale, and remembered what he had read about death in the revelation. he therefore deposited the collar by a tree, and hid himself behind it. the horseman came on, and the youth, whose eyes were as keen as telescopes, to his great relief recognized the doctor. as melbury surmised, fitzpiers had in the darkness taken blossom for darling, and he had not discovered his mistake when he came up opposite the boy, though he was somewhat surprised at the liveliness of his usually placid mare. the only other pair of eyes on the spot whose vision was keen as the young carter's were those of the horse; and, with that strongly conservative objection to the unusual which animals show, blossom, on eying the collar under the tree--quite invisible to fitzpiers--exercised none of the patience of the older horse, but shied sufficiently to unseat so second-rate an equestrian as the surgeon. he fell, and did not move, lying as melbury afterwards found him. the boy ran away, salving his conscience for the desertion by thinking how vigorously he would spread the alarm of the accident when he got to hintock--which he uncompromisingly did, incrusting the skeleton event with a load of dramatic horrors. grace had returned, and the fly hired on her account, though not by her husband, at the crown hotel, shottsford-forum, had been paid for and dismissed. the long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness being a feverish intermittent nervousness which had more to do with mind than body, and she walked about her sitting-room in something of a hopeful mood. mrs. melbury had told her as soon as she arrived that her husband had returned from london. he had gone out, she said, to see a patient, as she supposed, and he must soon be back, since he had had no dinner or tea. grace would not allow her mind to harbor any suspicion of his whereabouts, and her step-mother said nothing of mrs. charmond's rumored sorrows and plans of departure. so the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. she had left hintock in a turmoil of feeling after the revelation of mrs. charmond, and had intended not to be at home when her husband returned. but she had thought the matter over, and had allowed her father's influence to prevail and bring her back; and now somewhat regretted that edgar's arrival had preceded hers. by-and-by mrs. melbury came up-stairs with a slight air of flurry and abruptness. "i have something to tell--some bad news," she said. "but you must not be alarmed, as it is not so bad as it might have been. edgar has been thrown off his horse. we don't think he is hurt much. it happened in the wood the other side of nellcombe bottom, where 'tis said the ghosts of the brothers walk." she went on to give a few of the particulars, but none of the invented horrors that had been communicated by the boy. "i thought it better to tell you at once," she added, "in case he should not be very well able to walk home, and somebody should bring him." mrs. melbury really thought matters much worse than she represented, and grace knew that she thought so. she sat down dazed for a few minutes, returning a negative to her step-mother's inquiry if she could do anything for her. "but please go into the bedroom," grace said, on second thoughts, "and see if all is ready there--in case it is serious." mrs. melbury thereupon called grammer, and they did as directed, supplying the room with everything they could think of for the accommodation of an injured man. nobody was left in the lower part of the house. not many minutes passed when grace heard a knock at the door--a single knock, not loud enough to reach the ears of those in the bedroom. she went to the top of the stairs and said, faintly, "come up," knowing that the door stood, as usual in such houses, wide open. retreating into the gloom of the broad landing she saw rise up the stairs a woman whom at first she did not recognize, till her voice revealed her to be suke damson, in great fright and sorrow. a streak of light from the partially closed door of grace's room fell upon her face as she came forward, and it was drawn and pale. "oh, miss melbury--i would say mrs. fitzpiers," she said, wringing her hands. "this terrible news. is he dead? is he hurted very bad? tell me; i couldn't help coming; please forgive me, miss melbury--mrs. fitzpiers i would say!" grace sank down on the oak chest which stood on the landing, and put her hands to her now flushed face and head. could she order suke damson down-stairs and out of the house? her husband might be brought in at any moment, and what would happen? but could she order this genuinely grieved woman away? there was a dead silence of half a minute or so, till suke said, "why don't ye speak? is he here? is he dead? if so, why can't i see him--would it be so very wrong?" before grace had answered somebody else came to the door below--a foot-fall light as a roe's. there was a hurried tapping upon the panel, as if with the impatient tips of fingers whose owner thought not whether a knocker were there or no. without a pause, and possibly guided by the stray beam of light on the landing, the newcomer ascended the staircase as the first had done. grace was sufficiently visible, and the lady, for a lady it was, came to her side. "i could make nobody hear down-stairs," said felice charmond, with lips whose dryness could almost be heard, and panting, as she stood like one ready to sink on the floor with distress. "what is--the matter--tell me the worst! can he live?" she looked at grace imploringly, without perceiving poor suke, who, dismayed at such a presence, had shrunk away into the shade. mrs. charmond's little feet were covered with mud; she was quite unconscious of her appearance now. "i have heard such a dreadful report," she went on; "i came to ascertain the truth of it. is he--killed?" "she won't tell us--he's dying--he's in that room!" burst out suke, regardless of consequences, as she heard the distant movements of mrs. melbury and grammer in the bedroom at the end of the passage. "where?" said mrs. charmond; and on suke pointing out the direction, she made as if to go thither. grace barred the way. "he is not there," she said. "i have not seen him any more than you. i have heard a report only--not so bad as you think. it must have been exaggerated to you." "please do not conceal anything--let me know all!" said felice, doubtingly. "you shall know all i know--you have a perfect right to know--who can have a better than either of you?" said grace, with a delicate sting which was lost upon felice charmond now. "i repeat, i have only heard a less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and how little, i cannot say. i pray god that it means not much--in common humanity. you probably pray the same--for other reasons." she regarded them both there in the dim light a while. they stood dumb in their trouble, not stinging back at her; not heeding her mood. a tenderness spread over grace like a dew. it was well, very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife's regulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, for losing their hearts to her husband. but life, what was it, and who was she? she had, like the singer of the psalm of asaph, been plagued and chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in order to please herself--the individual--"offend against the generation," as he would not? "he is dying, perhaps," blubbered suke damson, putting her apron to her eyes. in their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of heart, all for a man who had wronged them--had never really behaved towards either of them anyhow but selfishly. neither one but would have wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. the tears which his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes surged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women. she turned to the balustrade, bent herself upon it, and wept. thereupon felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and letting the tears run down silently. while these three poor women stood together thus, pitying another though most to be pitied themselves, the pacing of a horse or horses became audible in the court, and in a moment melbury's voice was heard calling to his stableman. grace at once started up, ran down the stairs and out into the quadrangle as her father crossed it towards the door. "father, what is the matter with him?" she cried. "who--edgar?" said melbury, abruptly. "matter? nothing. what, my dear, and have you got home safe? why, you are better already! but you ought not to be out in the air like this." "but he has been thrown off his horse!" "i know; i know. i saw it. he got up again, and walked off as well as ever. a fall on the leaves didn't hurt a spry fellow like him. he did not come this way," he added, significantly. "i suppose he went to look for his horse. i tried to find him, but could not. but after seeing him go away under the trees i found the horse, and have led it home for safety. so he must walk. now, don't you stay out here in this night air." she returned to the house with her father. when she had again ascended to the landing and to her own rooms beyond it was a great relief to her to find that both petticoat the first and petticoat the second of her bien-aime had silently disappeared. they had, in all probability, heard the words of her father, and departed with their anxieties relieved. presently her parents came up to grace, and busied themselves to see that she was comfortable. perceiving soon that she would prefer to be left alone they went away. grace waited on. the clock raised its voice now and then, but her husband did not return. at her father's usual hour for retiring he again came in to see her. "do not stay up," she said, as soon as he entered. "i am not at all tired. i will sit up for him." "i think it will be useless, grace," said melbury, slowly. "why?" "i have had a bitter quarrel with him; and on that account i hardly think he will return to-night." "a quarrel? was that after the fall seen by the boy?" melbury nodded an affirmative, without taking his eyes off the candle. "yes; it was as we were coming home together," he said. something had been swelling up in grace while her father was speaking. "how could you want to quarrel with him?" she cried, suddenly. "why could you not let him come home quietly if he were inclined to? he is my husband; and now you have married me to him surely you need not provoke him unnecessarily. first you induce me to accept him, and then you do things that divide us more than we should naturally be divided!" "how can you speak so unjustly to me, grace?" said melbury, with indignant sorrow. "i divide you from your husband, indeed! you little think--" he was inclined to say more--to tell her the whole story of the encounter, and that the provocation he had received had lain entirely in hearing her despised. but it would have greatly distressed her, and he forbore. "you had better lie down. you are tired," he said, soothingly. "good-night." the household went to bed, and a silence fell upon the dwelling, broken only by the occasional skirr of a halter in melbury's stables. despite her father's advice grace still waited up. but nobody came. it was a critical time in grace's emotional life that night. she thought of her husband a good deal, and for the nonce forgot winterborne. "how these unhappy women must have admired edgar!" she said to herself. "how attractive he must be to everybody; and, indeed, he is attractive." the possibility is that, piqued by rivalry, these ideas might have been transformed into their corresponding emotions by a show of the least reciprocity in fitzpiers. there was, in truth, a love-bird yearning to fly from her heart; and it wanted a lodging badly. but no husband came. the fact was that melbury had been much mistaken about the condition of fitzpiers. people do not fall headlong on stumps of underwood with impunity. had the old man been able to watch fitzpiers narrowly enough, he would have observed that on rising and walking into the thicket he dropped blood as he went; that he had not proceeded fifty yards before he showed signs of being dizzy, and, raising his hands to his head, reeled and fell down. chapter xxxvi. grace was not the only one who watched and meditated in hintock that night. felice charmond was in no mood to retire to rest at a customary hour; and over her drawing-room fire at the manor house she sat as motionless and in as deep a reverie as grace in her little apartment at the homestead. having caught ear of melbury's intelligence while she stood on the landing at his house, and been eased of much of her mental distress, her sense of personal decorum returned upon her with a rush. she descended the stairs and left the door like a ghost, keeping close to the walls of the building till she got round to the gate of the quadrangle, through which she noiselessly passed almost before grace and her father had finished their discourse. suke damson had thought it well to imitate her superior in this respect, and, descending the back stairs as felice descended the front, went out at the side door and home to her cottage. once outside melbury's gates mrs. charmond ran with all her speed to the manor house, without stopping or turning her head, and splitting her thin boots in her haste. she entered her own dwelling, as she had emerged from it, by the drawing-room window. in other circumstances she would have felt some timidity at undertaking such an unpremeditated excursion alone; but her anxiety for another had cast out her fear for herself. everything in her drawing-room was just as she had left it--the candles still burning, the casement closed, and the shutters gently pulled to, so as to hide the state of the window from the cursory glance of a servant entering the apartment. she had been gone about three-quarters of an hour by the clock, and nobody seemed to have discovered her absence. tired in body but tense in mind, she sat down, palpitating, round-eyed, bewildered at what she had done. she had been betrayed by affrighted love into a visit which, now that the emotion instigating it had calmed down under her belief that fitzpiers was in no danger, was the saddest surprise to her. this was how she had set about doing her best to escape her passionate bondage to him! somehow, in declaring to grace and to herself the unseemliness of her infatuation, she had grown a convert to its irresistibility. if heaven would only give her strength; but heaven never did! one thing was indispensable; she must go away from hintock if she meant to withstand further temptation. the struggle was too wearying, too hopeless, while she remained. it was but a continual capitulation of conscience to what she dared not name. by degrees, as she sat, felice's mind--helped perhaps by the anticlimax of learning that her lover was unharmed after all her fright about him--grew wondrously strong in wise resolve. for the moment she was in a mood, in the words of mrs. elizabeth montagu, "to run mad with discretion;" and was so persuaded that discretion lay in departure that she wished to set about going that very minute. jumping up from her seat, she began to gather together some small personal knick-knacks scattered about the room, to feel that preparations were really in train. while moving here and there she fancied that she heard a slight noise out-of-doors, and stood still. surely it was a tapping at the window. a thought entered her mind, and burned her cheek. he had come to that window before; yet was it possible that he should dare to do so now! all the servants were in bed, and in the ordinary course of affairs she would have retired also. then she remembered that on stepping in by the casement and closing it, she had not fastened the window-shutter, so that a streak of light from the interior of the room might have revealed her vigil to an observer on the lawn. how all things conspired against her keeping faith with grace! the tapping recommenced, light as from the bill of a little bird; her illegitimate hope overcame her vow; she went and pulled back the shutter, determining, however, to shake her head at him and keep the casement securely closed. what she saw outside might have struck terror into a heart stouter than a helpless woman's at midnight. in the centre of the lowest pane of the window, close to the glass, was a human face, which she barely recognized as the face of fitzpiers. it was surrounded with the darkness of the night without, corpse-like in its pallor, and covered with blood. as disclosed in the square area of the pane it met her frightened eyes like a replica of the sudarium of st. veronica. he moved his lips, and looked at her imploringly. her rapid mind pieced together in an instant a possible concatenation of events which might have led to this tragical issue. she unlatched the casement with a terrified hand, and bending down to where he was crouching, pressed her face to his with passionate solicitude. she assisted him into the room without a word, to do which it was almost necessary to lift him bodily. quickly closing the window and fastening the shutters, she bent over him breathlessly. "are you hurt much--much?" she cried, faintly. "oh, oh, how is this!" "rather much--but don't be frightened," he answered in a difficult whisper, and turning himself to obtain an easier position if possible. "a little water, please." she ran across into the dining-room, and brought a bottle and glass, from which he eagerly drank. he could then speak much better, and with her help got upon the nearest couch. "are you dying, edgar?" she said. "do speak to me!" "i am half dead," said fitzpiers. "but perhaps i shall get over it....it is chiefly loss of blood." "but i thought your fall did not hurt you," said she. "who did this?" "felice--my father-in-law!...i have crawled to you more than a mile on my hands and knees--god, i thought i should never have got here!...i have come to you--be-cause you are the only friend--i have in the world now....i can never go back to hintock--never--to the roof of the melburys! not poppy nor mandragora will ever medicine this bitter feud!...if i were only well again--" "let me bind your head, now that you have rested." "yes--but wait a moment--it has stopped bleeding, fortunately, or i should be a dead man before now. while in the wood i managed to make a tourniquet of some half-pence and my handkerchief, as well as i could in the dark....but listen, dear felice! can you hide me till i am well? whatever comes, i can be seen in hintock no more. my practice is nearly gone, you know--and after this i would not care to recover it if i could." by this time felice's tears began to blind her. where were now her discreet plans for sundering their lives forever? to administer to him in his pain, and trouble, and poverty, was her single thought. the first step was to hide him, and she asked herself where. a place occurred to her mind. she got him some wine from the dining-room, which strengthened him much. then she managed to remove his boots, and, as he could now keep himself upright by leaning upon her on one side and a walking-stick on the other, they went thus in slow march out of the room and up the stairs. at the top she took him along a gallery, pausing whenever he required rest, and thence up a smaller staircase to the least used part of the house, where she unlocked a door. within was a lumber-room, containing abandoned furniture of all descriptions, built up in piles which obscured the light of the windows, and formed between them nooks and lairs in which a person would not be discerned even should an eye gaze in at the door. the articles were mainly those that had belonged to the previous owner of the house, and had been bought in by the late mr. charmond at the auction; but changing fashion, and the tastes of a young wife, had caused them to be relegated to this dungeon. here fitzpiers sat on the floor against the wall till she had hauled out materials for a bed, which she spread on the floor in one of the aforesaid nooks. she obtained water and a basin, and washed the dried blood from his face and hands; and when he was comfortably reclining, fetched food from the larder. while he ate her eyes lingered anxiously on his face, following its every movement with such loving-kindness as only a fond woman can show. he was now in better condition, and discussed his position with her. "what i fancy i said to melbury must have been enough to enrage any man, if uttered in cold blood, and with knowledge of his presence. but i did not know him, and i was stupefied by what he had given me, so that i hardly was aware of what i said. well--the veil of that temple is rent in twain!...as i am not going to be seen again in hintock, my first efforts must be directed to allay any alarm that may be felt at my absence, before i am able to get clear away. nobody must suspect that i have been hurt, or there will be a country talk about me. felice, i must at once concoct a letter to check all search for me. i think if you can bring me a pen and paper i may be able to do it now. i could rest better if it were done. poor thing! how i tire her with running up and down!" she fetched writing materials, and held up the blotting-book as a support to his hand, while he penned a brief note to his nominal wife. "the animosity shown towards me by your father," he wrote, in this coldest of marital epistles, "is such that i cannot return again to a roof which is his, even though it shelters you. a parting is unavoidable, as you are sure to be on his side in this division. i am starting on a journey which will take me a long way from hintock, and you must not expect to see me there again for some time." he then gave her a few directions bearing upon his professional engagements and other practical matters, concluding without a hint of his destination, or a notion of when she would see him again. he offered to read the note to felice before he closed it up, but she would not hear or see it; that side of his obligations distressed her beyond endurance. she turned away from fitzpiers, and sobbed bitterly. "if you can get this posted at a place some miles away," he whispered, exhausted by the effort of writing--"at shottsford or port-bredy, or still better, budmouth--it will divert all suspicion from this house as the place of my refuge." "i will drive to one or other of the places myself--anything to keep it unknown," she murmured, her voice weighted with vague foreboding, now that the excitement of helping him had passed away. fitzpiers told her that there was yet one thing more to be done. "in creeping over the fence on to the lawn," he said, "i made the rail bloody, and it shows rather much on the white paint--i could see it in the dark. at all hazards it should be washed off. could you do that also, felice?" what will not women do on such devoted occasions? weary as she was she went all the way down the rambling staircases to the ground-floor, then to search for a lantern, which she lighted and hid under her cloak; then for a wet sponge, and next went forth into the night. the white railing stared out in the darkness at her approach, and a ray from the enshrouded lantern fell upon the blood--just where he had told her it would be found. she shuddered. it was almost too much to bear in one day--but with a shaking hand she sponged the rail clean, and returned to the house. the time occupied by these several proceedings was not much less than two hours. when all was done, and she had smoothed his extemporized bed, and placed everything within his reach that she could think of, she took her leave of him, and locked him in. chapter xxxvii. when her husband's letter reached grace's hands, bearing upon it the postmark of a distant town, it never once crossed her mind that fitzpiers was within a mile of her still. she felt relieved that he did not write more bitterly of the quarrel with her father, whatever its nature might have been; but the general frigidity of his communication quenched in her the incipient spark that events had kindled so shortly before. from this centre of information it was made known in hintock that the doctor had gone away, and as none but the melbury household was aware that he did not return on the night of his accident, no excitement manifested itself in the village. thus the early days of may passed by. none but the nocturnal birds and animals observed that late one evening, towards the middle of the month, a closely wrapped figure, with a crutch under one arm and a stick in his hand, crept out from hintock house across the lawn to the shelter of the trees, taking thence a slow and laborious walk to the nearest point of the turnpike-road. the mysterious personage was so disguised that his own wife would hardly have known him. felice charmond was a practised hand at make-ups, as well she might be; and she had done her utmost in padding and painting fitzpiers with the old materials of her art in the recesses of the lumber-room. in the highway he was met by a covered carriage, which conveyed him to sherton-abbas, whence he proceeded to the nearest port on the south coast, and immediately crossed the channel. but it was known to everybody that three days after this time mrs. charmond executed her long-deferred plan of setting out for a long term of travel and residence on the continent. she went off one morning as unostentatiously as could be, and took no maid with her, having, she said, engaged one to meet her at a point farther on in her route. after that, hintock house, so frequently deserted, was again to be let. spring had not merged in summer when a clinching rumor, founded on the best of evidence, reached the parish and neighborhood. mrs. charmond and fitzpiers had been seen together in baden, in relations which set at rest the question that had agitated the little community ever since the winter. melbury had entered the valley of humiliation even farther than grace. his spirit seemed broken. but once a week he mechanically went to market as usual, and here, as he was passing by the conduit one day, his mental condition expressed largely by his gait, he heard his name spoken by a voice formerly familiar. he turned and saw a certain fred beaucock--once a promising lawyer's clerk and local dandy, who had been called the cleverest fellow in sherton, without whose brains the firm of solicitors employing him would be nowhere. but later on beaucock had fallen into the mire. he was invited out a good deal, sang songs at agricultural meetings and burgesses' dinners; in sum, victualled himself with spirits more frequently than was good for the clever brains or body either. he lost his situation, and after an absence spent in trying his powers elsewhere, came back to his native town, where, at the time of the foregoing events in hintock, he gave legal advice for astonishingly small fees--mostly carrying on his profession on public-house settles, in whose recesses he might often have been overheard making country-people's wills for half a crown; calling with a learned voice for pen-and-ink and a halfpenny sheet of paper, on which he drew up the testament while resting it in a little space wiped with his hand on the table amid the liquid circles formed by the cups and glasses. an idea implanted early in life is difficult to uproot, and many elderly tradespeople still clung to the notion that fred beaucock knew a great deal of law. it was he who had called melbury by name. "you look very down, mr. melbury--very, if i may say as much," he observed, when the timber-merchant turned. "but i know--i know. a very sad case--very. i was bred to the law, as you know, and am professionally no stranger to such matters. well, mrs. fitzpiers has her remedy." "how--what--a remedy?" said melbury. "under the new law, sir. a new court was established last year, and under the new statute, twenty and twenty-one vic., cap. eighty-five, unmarrying is as easy as marrying. no more acts of parliament necessary; no longer one law for the rich and another for the poor. but come inside--i was just going to have a nibleykin of rum hot--i'll explain it all to you." the intelligence amazed melbury, who saw little of newspapers. and though he was a severely correct man in his habits, and had no taste for entering a tavern with fred beaucock--nay, would have been quite uninfluenced by such a character on any other matter in the world--such fascination lay in the idea of delivering his poor girl from bondage, that it deprived him of the critical faculty. he could not resist the ex-lawyer's clerk, and entered the inn. here they sat down to the rum, which melbury paid for as a matter of course, beaucock leaning back in the settle with a legal gravity which would hardly allow him to be conscious of the spirits before him, though they nevertheless disappeared with mysterious quickness. how much of the exaggerated information on the then new divorce laws which beaucock imparted to his listener was the result of ignorance, and how much of dupery, was never ascertained. but he related such a plausible story of the ease with which grace could become a free woman that her father was irradiated with the project; and though he scarcely wetted his lips, melbury never knew how he came out of the inn, or when or where he mounted his gig to pursue his way homeward. but home he found himself, his brain having all the way seemed to ring sonorously as a gong in the intensity of its stir. before he had seen grace, he was accidentally met by winterborne, who found his face shining as if he had, like the law-giver, conversed with an angel. he relinquished his horse, and took winterborne by the arm to a heap of rendlewood--as barked oak was here called--which lay under a privet-hedge. "giles," he said, when they had sat down upon the logs, "there's a new law in the land! grace can be free quite easily. i only knew it by the merest accident. i might not have found it out for the next ten years. she can get rid of him--d'ye hear?--get rid of him. think of that, my friend giles!" he related what he had learned of the new legal remedy. a subdued tremulousness about the mouth was all the response that winterborne made; and melbury added, "my boy, you shall have her yet--if you want her." his feelings had gathered volume as he said this, and the articulate sound of the old idea drowned his sight in mist. "are you sure--about this new law?" asked winterborne, so disquieted by a gigantic exultation which loomed alternately with fearful doubt that he evaded the full acceptance of melbury's last statement. melbury said that he had no manner of doubt, for since his talk with beaucock it had come into his mind that he had seen some time ago in the weekly paper an allusion to such a legal change; but, having no interest in those desperate remedies at the moment, he had passed it over. "but i'm not going to let the matter rest doubtful for a single day," he continued. "i am going to london. beaucock will go with me, and we shall get the best advice as soon as we possibly can. beaucock is a thorough lawyer--nothing the matter with him but a fiery palate. i knew him as the stay and refuge of sherton in knots of law at one time." winterborne's replies were of the vaguest. the new possibility was almost unthinkable by him at the moment. he was what was called at hintock "a solid-going fellow;" he maintained his abeyant mood, not from want of reciprocity, but from a taciturn hesitancy, taught by life as he knew it. "but," continued the timber-merchant, a temporary crease or two of anxiety supplementing those already established in his forehead by time and care, "grace is not at all well. nothing constitutional, you know; but she has been in a low, nervous state ever since that night of fright. i don't doubt but that she will be all right soon....i wonder how she is this evening?" he rose with the words, as if he had too long forgotten her personality in the excitement of her previsioned career. they had sat till the evening was beginning to dye the garden brown, and now went towards melbury's house, giles a few steps in the rear of his old friend, who was stimulated by the enthusiasm of the moment to outstep the ordinary walking of winterborne. he felt shy of entering grace's presence as her reconstituted lover--which was how her father's manner would be sure to present him--before definite information as to her future state was forthcoming; it seemed too nearly like the act of those who rush in where angels fear to tread. a chill to counterbalance all the glowing promise of the day was prompt enough in coming. no sooner had he followed the timber-merchant in at the door than he heard grammer inform him that mrs. fitzpiers was still more unwell than she had been in the morning. old dr. jones being in the neighborhood they had called him in, and he had instantly directed them to get her to bed. they were not, however, to consider her illness serious--a feverish, nervous attack the result of recent events, was what she was suffering from, and she would doubtless be well in a few days. winterborne, therefore, did not remain, and his hope of seeing her that evening was disappointed. even this aggravation of her morning condition did not greatly depress melbury. he knew, he said, that his daughter's constitution was sound enough. it was only these domestic troubles that were pulling her down. once free she would be blooming again. melbury diagnosed rightly, as parents usually do. he set out for london the next morning, jones having paid another visit and assured him that he might leave home without uneasiness, especially on an errand of that sort, which would the sooner put an end to her suspense. the timber-merchant had been away only a day or two when it was told in hintock that mr. fitzpiers's hat had been found in the wood. later on in the afternoon the hat was brought to melbury, and, by a piece of ill-fortune, into grace's presence. it had doubtless lain in the wood ever since his fall from the horse, but it looked so clean and uninjured--the summer weather and leafy shelter having much favored its preservation--that grace could not believe it had remained so long concealed. a very little of fact was enough to set her fevered fancy at work at this juncture; she thought him still in the neighborhood; she feared his sudden appearance; and her nervous malady developed consequences so grave that dr. jones began to look serious, and the household was alarmed. it was the beginning of june, and the cuckoo at this time of the summer scarcely ceased his cry for more than two or three hours during the night. the bird's note, so familiar to her ears from infancy, was now absolute torture to the poor girl. on the friday following the wednesday of melbury's departure, and the day after the discovery of fitzpiers's hat, the cuckoo began at two o'clock in the morning with a sudden cry from one of melbury's apple-trees, not three yards from the window of grace's room. "oh, he is coming!" she cried, and in her terror sprang clean from the bed out upon the floor. these starts and frights continued till noon; and when the doctor had arrived and had seen her, and had talked with mrs. melbury, he sat down and meditated. that ever-present terror it was indispensable to remove from her mind at all hazards; and he thought how this might be done. without saying a word to anybody in the house, or to the disquieted winterborne waiting in the lane below, dr. jones went home and wrote to mr. melbury at the london address he had obtained from his wife. the gist of his communication was that mrs. fitzpiers should be assured as soon as possible that steps were being taken to sever the bond which was becoming a torture to her; that she would soon be free, and was even then virtually so. "if you can say it at once it may be the means of averting much harm," he said. "write to herself; not to me." on saturday he drove over to hintock, and assured her with mysterious pacifications that in a day or two she might expect to receive some assuring news. so it turned out. when sunday morning came there was a letter for grace from her father. it arrived at seven o'clock, the usual time at which the toddling postman passed by hintock; at eight grace awoke, having slept an hour or two for a wonder, and mrs. melbury brought up the letter. "can you open it yourself?" said she. "oh yes, yes!" said grace, with feeble impatience. she tore the envelope, unfolded the sheet, and read; when a creeping blush tinctured her white neck and cheek. her father had exercised a bold discretion. he informed her that she need have no further concern about fitzpiers's return; that she would shortly be a free woman; and therefore, if she should desire to wed her old lover--which he trusted was the case, since it was his own deep wish--she would be in a position to do so. in this melbury had not written beyond his belief. but he very much stretched the facts in adding that the legal formalities for dissolving her union were practically settled. the truth was that on the arrival of the doctor's letter poor melbury had been much agitated, and could with difficulty be prevented by beaucock from returning to her bedside. what was the use of his rushing back to hintock? beaucock had asked him. the only thing that could do her any good was a breaking of the bond. though he had not as yet had an interview with the eminent solicitor they were about to consult, he was on the point of seeing him; and the case was clear enough. thus the simple melbury, urged by his parental alarm at her danger by the representations of his companion, and by the doctor's letter, had yielded, and sat down to tell her roundly that she was virtually free. "and you'd better write also to the gentleman," suggested beaucock, who, scenting notoriety and the germ of a large practice in the case, wished to commit melbury to it irretrievably; to effect which he knew that nothing would be so potent as awakening the passion of grace for winterborne, so that her father might not have the heart to withdraw from his attempt to make her love legitimate when he discovered that there were difficulties in the way. the nervous, impatient melbury was much pleased with the idea of "starting them at once," as he called it. to put his long-delayed reparative scheme in train had become a passion with him now. he added to the letter addressed to his daughter a passage hinting that she ought to begin to encourage winterborne, lest she should lose him altogether; and he wrote to giles that the path was virtually open for him at last. life was short, he declared; there were slips betwixt the cup and the lip; her interest in him should be reawakened at once, that all might be ready when the good time came for uniting them. chapter xxxviii. at these warm words winterborne was not less dazed than he was moved in heart. the novelty of the avowal rendered what it carried with it inapprehensible by him in its entirety. only a few short months ago completely estranged from this family--beholding grace going to and fro in the distance, clothed with the alienating radiance of obvious superiority, the wife of the then popular and fashionable fitzpiers, hopelessly outside his social boundary down to so recent a time that flowers then folded were hardly faded yet--he was now asked by that jealously guarding father of hers to take courage--to get himself ready for the day when he should be able to claim her. the old times came back to him in dim procession. how he had been snubbed; how melbury had despised his christmas party; how that sweet, coy grace herself had looked down upon him and his household arrangements, and poor creedle's contrivances! well, he could not believe it. surely the adamantine barrier of marriage with another could not be pierced like this! it did violence to custom. yet a new law might do anything. but was it at all within the bounds of probability that a woman who, over and above her own attainments, had been accustomed to those of a cultivated professional man, could ever be the wife of such as he? since the date of his rejection he had almost grown to see the reasonableness of that treatment. he had said to himself again and again that her father was right; that the poor ceorl, giles winterborne, would never have been able to make such a dainty girl happy. yet, now that she had stood in a position farther removed from his own than at first, he was asked to prepare to woo her. he was full of doubt. nevertheless, it was not in him to show backwardness. to act so promptly as melbury desired him to act seemed, indeed, scarcely wise, because of the uncertainty of events. giles knew nothing of legal procedure, but he did know that for him to step up to grace as a lover before the bond which bound her was actually dissolved was simply an extravagant dream of her father's overstrained mind. he pitied melbury for his almost childish enthusiasm, and saw that the aging man must have suffered acutely to be weakened to this unreasoning desire. winterborne was far too magnanimous to harbor any cynical conjecture that the timber-merchant, in his intense affection for grace, was courting him now because that young lady, when disunited, would be left in an anomalous position, to escape which a bad husband was better than none. he felt quite sure that his old friend was simply on tenterhooks of anxiety to repair the almost irreparable error of dividing two whom nature had striven to join together in earlier days, and that in his ardor to do this he was oblivious of formalities. the cautious supervision of his past years had overleaped itself at last. hence, winterborne perceived that, in this new beginning, the necessary care not to compromise grace by too early advances must be exercised by himself. perhaps winterborne was not quite so ardent as heretofore. there is no such thing as a stationary love: men are either loving more or loving less. but giles himself recognized no decline in his sense of her dearness. if the flame did indeed burn lower now than when he had fetched her from sherton at her last return from school, the marvel was small. he had been laboring ever since his rejection and her marriage to reduce his former passion to a docile friendship, out of pure regard to its expediency; and their separation may have helped him to a partial success. a week and more passed, and there was no further news of melbury. but the effect of the intelligence he had already transmitted upon the elastic-nerved daughter of the woods had been much what the old surgeon jones had surmised. it had soothed her perturbed spirit better than all the opiates in the pharmacopoeia. she had slept unbrokenly a whole night and a day. the "new law" was to her a mysterious, beneficent, godlike entity, lately descended upon earth, that would make her as she once had been without trouble or annoyance. her position fretted her, its abstract features rousing an aversion which was even greater than her aversion to the personality of him who had caused it. it was mortifying, productive of slights, undignified. him she could forget; her circumstances she had always with her. she saw nothing of winterborne during the days of her recovery; and perhaps on that account her fancy wove about him a more romantic tissue than it could have done if he had stood before her with all the specks and flaws inseparable from corporeity. he rose upon her memory as the fruit-god and the wood-god in alternation; sometimes leafy, and smeared with green lichen, as she had seen him among the sappy boughs of the plantations; sometimes cider-stained, and with apple-pips in the hair of his arms, as she had met him on his return from cider-making in white hart vale, with his vats and presses beside him. in her secret heart she almost approximated to her father's enthusiasm in wishing to show giles once for all how she still regarded him. the question whether the future would indeed bring them together for life was a standing wonder with her. she knew that it could not with any propriety do so just yet. but reverently believing in her father's sound judgment and knowledge, as good girls are wont to do, she remembered what he had written about her giving a hint to winterborne lest there should be risk in delay, and her feelings were not averse to such a step, so far as it could be done without danger at this early stage of the proceedings. from being a frail phantom of her former equable self she returned in bounds to a condition of passable philosophy. she bloomed again in the face in the course of a few days, and was well enough to go about as usual. one day mrs. melbury proposed that for a change she should be driven in the gig to sherton market, whither melbury's man was going on other errands. grace had no business whatever in sherton; but it crossed her mind that winterborne would probably be there, and this made the thought of such a drive interesting. on the way she saw nothing of him; but when the horse was walking slowly through the obstructions of sheep street, she discerned the young man on the pavement. she thought of that time when he had been standing under his apple-tree on her return from school, and of the tender opportunity then missed through her fastidiousness. her heart rose in her throat. she abjured all such fastidiousness now. nor did she forget the last occasion on which she had beheld him in that town, making cider in the court-yard of the earl of wessex hotel, while she was figuring as a fine lady in the balcony above. grace directed the man to set her down there in the midst, and immediately went up to her lover. giles had not before observed her, and his eyes now suppressedly looked his pleasure, without the embarrassment that had formerly marked him at such meetings. when a few words had been spoken, she said, archly, "i have nothing to do. perhaps you are deeply engaged?" "i? not a bit. my business now at the best of times is small, i am sorry to say." "well, then, i am going into the abbey. come along with me." the proposition had suggested itself as a quick escape from publicity, for many eyes were regarding her. she had hoped that sufficient time had elapsed for the extinction of curiosity; but it was quite otherwise. the people looked at her with tender interest as the deserted girl-wife--without obtrusiveness, and without vulgarity; but she was ill prepared for scrutiny in any shape. they walked about the abbey aisles, and presently sat down. not a soul was in the building save themselves. she regarded a stained window, with her head sideways, and tentatively asked him if he remembered the last time they were in that town alone. he remembered it perfectly, and remarked, "you were a proud miss then, and as dainty as you were high. perhaps you are now?" grace slowly shook her head. "affliction has taken all that out of me," she answered, impressively. "perhaps i am too far the other way now." as there was something lurking in this that she could not explain, she added, so quickly as not to allow him time to think of it, "has my father written to you at all?" "yes," said winterborne. she glanced ponderingly up at him. "not about me?" "yes." his mouth was lined with charactery which told her that he had been bidden to take the hint as to the future which she had been bidden to give. the unexpected discovery sent a scarlet pulsation through grace for the moment. however, it was only giles who stood there, of whom she had no fear; and her self-possession returned. "he said i was to sound you with a view to--what you will understand, if you care to," continued winterborne, in a low voice. having been put on this track by herself, he was not disposed to abandon it in a hurry. they had been children together, and there was between them that familiarity as to personal affairs which only such acquaintanceship can give. "you know, giles," she answered, speaking in a very practical tone, "that that is all very well; but i am in a very anomalous position at present, and i cannot say anything to the point about such things as those." "no?" he said, with a stray air as regarded the subject. he was looking at her with a curious consciousness of discovery. he had not been imagining that their renewed intercourse would show her to him thus. for the first time he realized an unexpectedness in her, which, after all, should not have been unexpected. she before him was not the girl grace melbury whom he used to know. of course, he might easily have prefigured as much; but it had never occurred to him. she was a woman who had been married; she had moved on; and without having lost her girlish modesty, she had lost her girlish shyness. the inevitable change, though known to him, had not been heeded; and it struck him into a momentary fixity. the truth was that he had never come into close comradeship with her since her engagement to fitzpiers, with the brief exception of the evening encounter on rubdown hill, when she met him with his cider apparatus; and that interview had been of too cursory a kind for insight. winterborne had advanced, too. he could criticise her. times had been when to criticise a single trait in grace melbury would have lain as far beyond his powers as to criticise a deity. this thing was sure: it was a new woman in many ways whom he had come out to see; a creature of more ideas, more dignity, and, above all, more assurance, than the original grace had been capable of. he could not at first decide whether he were pleased or displeased at this. but upon the whole the novelty attracted him. she was so sweet and sensitive that she feared his silence betokened something in his brain of the nature of an enemy to her. "what are you thinking of that makes those lines come in your forehead?" she asked. "i did not mean to offend you by speaking of the time being premature as yet." touched by the genuine loving-kindness which had lain at the foundation of these words, and much moved, winterborne turned his face aside, as he took her by the hand. he was grieved that he had criticised her. "you are very good, dear grace," he said, in a low voice. "you are better, much better, than you used to be." "how?" he could not very well tell her how, and said, with an evasive smile, "you are prettier;" which was not what he really had meant. he then remained still holding her right hand in his own right, so that they faced in opposite ways; and as he did not let go, she ventured upon a tender remonstrance. "i think we have gone as far as we ought to go at present--and far enough to satisfy my poor father that we are the same as ever. you see, giles, my case is not settled yet, and if--oh, suppose i never get free!--there should be any hitch or informality!" she drew a catching breath, and turned pale. the dialogue had been affectionate comedy up to this point. the gloomy atmosphere of the past, and the still gloomy horizon of the present, had been for the interval forgotten. now the whole environment came back, the due balance of shade among the light was restored. "it is sure to be all right, i trust?" she resumed, in uneasy accents. "what did my father say the solicitor had told him?" "oh--that all is sure enough. the case is so clear--nothing could be clearer. but the legal part is not yet quite done and finished, as is natural." "oh no--of course not," she said, sunk in meek thought. "but father said it was almost--did he not? do you know anything about the new law that makes these things so easy?" "nothing--except the general fact that it enables ill-assorted husbands and wives to part in a way they could not formerly do without an act of parliament." "have you to sign a paper, or swear anything? is it something like that?" "yes, i believe so." "how long has it been introduced?" "about six months or a year, the lawyer said, i think." to hear these two poor arcadian innocents talk of imperial law would have made a humane person weep who should have known what a dangerous structure they were building up on their supposed knowledge. they remained in thought, like children in the presence of the incomprehensible. "giles," she said, at last, "it makes me quite weary when i think how serious my situation is, or has been. shall we not go out from here now, as it may seem rather fast of me--our being so long together, i mean--if anybody were to see us? i am almost sure," she added, uncertainly, "that i ought not to let you hold my hand yet, knowing that the documents--or whatever it may be--have not been signed; so that i--am still as married as ever--or almost. my dear father has forgotten himself. not that i feel morally bound to any one else, after what has taken place--no woman of spirit could--now, too, that several months have passed. but i wish to keep the proprieties as well as i can." "yes, yes. still, your father reminds us that life is short. i myself feel that it is; that is why i wished to understand you in this that we have begun. at times, dear grace, since receiving your father's letter, i am as uneasy and fearful as a child at what he said. if one of us were to die before the formal signing and sealing that is to release you have been done--if we should drop out of the world and never have made the most of this little, short, but real opportunity, i should think to myself as i sunk down dying, 'would to my god that i had spoken out my whole heart--given her one poor little kiss when i had the chance to give it! but i never did, although she had promised to be mine some day; and now i never can.' that's what i should think." she had begun by watching the words from his lips with a mournful regard, as though their passage were visible; but as he went on she dropped her glance. "yes," she said, "i have thought that, too. and, because i have thought it, i by no means meant, in speaking of the proprieties, to be reserved and cold to you who loved me so long ago, or to hurt your heart as i used to do at that thoughtless time. oh, not at all, indeed! but--ought i to allow you?--oh, it is too quick--surely!" her eyes filled with tears of bewildered, alarmed emotion. winterborne was too straightforward to influence her further against her better judgment. "yes--i suppose it is," he said, repentantly. "i'll wait till all is settled. what did your father say in that last letter?" he meant about his progress with the petition; but she, mistaking him, frankly spoke of the personal part. "he said--what i have implied. should i tell more plainly?" "oh no--don't, if it is a secret." "not at all. i will tell every word, straight out, giles, if you wish. he said i was to encourage you. there. but i cannot obey him further to-day. come, let us go now." she gently slid her hand from his, and went in front of him out of the abbey. "i was thinking of getting some dinner," said winterborne, changing to the prosaic, as they walked. "and you, too, must require something. do let me take you to a place i know." grace was almost without a friend in the world outside her father's house; her life with fitzpiers had brought her no society; had sometimes, indeed, brought her deeper solitude and inconsideration than any she had ever known before. hence it was a treat to her to find herself again the object of thoughtful care. but she questioned if to go publicly to dine with giles winterborne were not a proposal, due rather to his unsophistication than to his discretion. she said gently that she would much prefer his ordering her lunch at some place and then coming to tell her it was ready, while she remained in the abbey porch. giles saw her secret reasoning, thought how hopelessly blind to propriety he was beside her, and went to do as she wished. he was not absent more than ten minutes, and found grace where he had left her. "it will be quite ready by the time you get there," he said, and told her the name of the inn at which the meal had been ordered, which was one that she had never heard of. "i'll find it by inquiry," said grace, setting out. "and shall i see you again?" "oh yes--come to me there. it will not be like going together. i shall want you to find my father's man and the gig for me." he waited on some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, till he thought her lunch ended, and that he might fairly take advantage of her invitation to start her on her way home. he went straight to the three tuns--a little tavern in a side street, scrupulously clean, but humble and inexpensive. on his way he had an occasional misgiving as to whether the place had been elegant enough for her; and as soon as he entered it, and saw her ensconced there, he perceived that he had blundered. grace was seated in the only dining-room that the simple old hostelry could boast of, which was also a general parlor on market-days; a long, low apartment, with a sanded floor herring-boned with a broom; a wide, red-curtained window to the street, and another to the garden. grace had retreated to the end of the room looking out upon the latter, the front part being full of a mixed company which had dropped in since he was there. she was in a mood of the greatest depression. on arriving, and seeing what the tavern was like, she had been taken by surprise; but having gone too far to retreat, she had heroically entered and sat down on the well-scrubbed settle, opposite the narrow table with its knives and steel forks, tin pepper-boxes, blue salt-cellars, and posters advertising the sale of bullocks against the wall. the last time that she had taken any meal in a public place it had been with fitzpiers at the grand new earl of wessex hotel in that town, after a two months' roaming and sojourning at the gigantic hotels of the continent. how could she have expected any other kind of accommodation in present circumstances than such as giles had provided? and yet how unprepared she was for this change! the tastes that she had acquired from fitzpiers had been imbibed so subtly that she hardly knew she possessed them till confronted by this contrast. the elegant fitzpiers, in fact, at that very moment owed a long bill at the above-mentioned hotel for the luxurious style in which he used to put her up there whenever they drove to sherton. but such is social sentiment, that she had been quite comfortable under those debt-impending conditions, while she felt humiliated by her present situation, which winterborne had paid for honestly on the nail. he had noticed in a moment that she shrunk from her position, and all his pleasure was gone. it was the same susceptibility over again which had spoiled his christmas party long ago. but he did not know that this recrudescence was only the casual result of grace's apprenticeship to what she was determined to learn in spite of it--a consequence of one of those sudden surprises which confront everybody bent upon turning over a new leaf. she had finished her lunch, which he saw had been a very mincing performance; and he brought her out of the house as soon as he could. "now," he said, with great sad eyes, "you have not finished at all well, i know. come round to the earl of wessex. i'll order a tea there. i did not remember that what was good enough for me was not good enough for you." her face faded into an aspect of deep distress when she saw what had happened. "oh no, giles," she said, with extreme pathos; "certainly not. why do you--say that when you know better? you ever will misunderstand me." "indeed, that's not so, mrs. fitzpiers. can you deny that you felt out of place at the three tuns?" "i don't know. well, since you make me speak, i do not deny it." "and yet i have felt at home there these twenty years. your husband used always to take you to the earl of wessex, did he not?" "yes," she reluctantly admitted. how could she explain in the street of a market-town that it was her superficial and transitory taste which had been offended, and not her nature or her affection? fortunately, or unfortunately, at that moment they saw melbury's man driving vacantly along the street in search of her, the hour having passed at which he had been told to take her up. winterborne hailed him, and she was powerless then to prolong the discourse. she entered the vehicle sadly, and the horse trotted away. chapter xxxix. all night did winterborne think over that unsatisfactory ending of a pleasant time, forgetting the pleasant time itself. he feared anew that they could never be happy together, even should she be free to choose him. she was accomplished; he was unrefined. it was the original difficulty, which he was too sensitive to recklessly ignore, as some men would have done in his place. he was one of those silent, unobtrusive beings who want little from others in the way of favor or condescension, and perhaps on that very account scrutinize those others' behavior too closely. he was not versatile, but one in whom a hope or belief which had once had its rise, meridian, and decline seldom again exactly recurred, as in the breasts of more sanguine mortals. he had once worshipped her, laid out his life to suit her, wooed her, and lost her. though it was with almost the same zest, it was with not quite the same hope, that he had begun to tread the old tracks again, and allowed himself to be so charmed with her that day. move another step towards her he would not. he would even repulse her--as a tribute to conscience. it would be sheer sin to let her prepare a pitfall for her happiness not much smaller than the first by inveigling her into a union with such as he. her poor father was now blind to these subtleties, which he had formerly beheld as in noontide light. it was his own duty to declare them--for her dear sake. grace, too, had a very uncomfortable night, and her solicitous embarrassment was not lessened the next morning when another letter from her father was put into her hands. its tenor was an intenser strain of the one that had preceded it. after stating how extremely glad he was to hear that she was better, and able to get out-of-doors, he went on: "this is a wearisome business, the solicitor we have come to see being out of town. i do not know when i shall get home. my great anxiety in this delay is still lest you should lose giles winterborne. i cannot rest at night for thinking that while our business is hanging fire he may become estranged, or go away from the neighborhood. i have set my heart upon seeing him your husband, if you ever have another. do, then, grace, give him some temporary encouragement, even though it is over-early. for when i consider the past i do think god will forgive me and you for being a little forward. i have another reason for this, my dear. i feel myself going rapidly downhill, and late affairs have still further helped me that way. and until this thing is done i cannot rest in peace." he added a postscript: "i have just heard that the solicitor is to be seen to-morrow. possibly, therefore, i shall return in the evening after you get this." the paternal longing ran on all fours with her own desire; and yet in forwarding it yesterday she had been on the brink of giving offence. while craving to be a country girl again just as her father requested; to put off the old eve, the fastidious miss--or rather madam--completely, her first attempt had been beaten by the unexpected vitality of that fastidiousness. her father on returning and seeing the trifling coolness of giles would be sure to say that the same perversity which had led her to make difficulties about marrying fitzpiers was now prompting her to blow hot and cold with poor winterborne. if the latter had been the most subtle hand at touching the stops of her delicate soul instead of one who had just bound himself to let her drift away from him again (if she would) on the wind of her estranging education, he could not have acted more seductively than he did that day. he chanced to be superintending some temporary work in a field opposite her windows. she could not discover what he was doing, but she read his mood keenly and truly: she could see in his coming and going an air of determined abandonment of the whole landscape that lay in her direction. oh, how she longed to make it up with him! her father coming in the evening--which meant, she supposed, that all formalities would be in train, her marriage virtually annulled, and she be free to be won again--how could she look him in the face if he should see them estranged thus? it was a fair green evening in june. she was seated in the garden, in the rustic chair which stood under the laurel-bushes--made of peeled oak-branches that came to melbury's premises as refuse after barking-time. the mass of full-juiced leafage on the heights around her was just swayed into faint gestures by a nearly spent wind which, even in its enfeebled state, did not reach her shelter. all day she had expected giles to call--to inquire how she had got home, or something or other; but he had not come. and he still tantalized her by going athwart and across that orchard opposite. she could see him as she sat. a slight diversion was presently created by creedle bringing him a letter. she knew from this that creedle had just come from sherton, and had called as usual at the post-office for anything that had arrived by the afternoon post, of which there was no delivery at hintock. she pondered on what the letter might contain--particularly whether it were a second refresher for winterborne from her father, like her own of the morning. but it appeared to have no bearing upon herself whatever. giles read its contents; and almost immediately turned away to a gap in the hedge of the orchard--if that could be called a hedge which, owing to the drippings of the trees, was little more than a bank with a bush upon it here and there. he entered the plantation, and was no doubt going that way homeward to the mysterious hut he occupied on the other side of the woodland. the sad sands were running swiftly through time's glass; she had often felt it in these latter days; and, like giles, she felt it doubly now after the solemn and pathetic reminder in her father's communication. her freshness would pass, the long-suffering devotion of giles might suddenly end--might end that very hour. men were so strange. the thought took away from her all her former reticence, and made her action bold. she started from her seat. if the little breach, quarrel, or whatever it might be called, of yesterday, was to be healed up it must be done by her on the instant. she crossed into the orchard, and clambered through the gap after giles, just as he was diminishing to a faun-like figure under the green canopy and over the brown floor. grace had been wrong--very far wrong--in assuming that the letter had no reference to herself because giles had turned away into the wood after its perusal. it was, sad to say, because the missive had so much reference to herself that he had thus turned away. he feared that his grieved discomfiture might be observed. the letter was from beaucock, written a few hours later than melbury's to his daughter. it announced failure. giles had once done that thriftless man a good turn, and now was the moment when beaucock had chosen to remember it in his own way. during his absence in town with melbury, the lawyer's clerk had naturally heard a great deal of the timber-merchant's family scheme of justice to giles, and his communication was to inform winterborne at the earliest possible moment that their attempt had failed, in order that the young man should not place himself in a false position towards grace in the belief of its coming success. the news was, in sum, that fitzpiers's conduct had not been sufficiently cruel to grace to enable her to snap the bond. she was apparently doomed to be his wife till the end of the chapter. winterborne quite forgot his superficial differences with the poor girl under the warm rush of deep and distracting love for her which the almost tragical information engendered. to renounce her forever--that was then the end of it for him, after all. there was no longer any question about suitability, or room for tiffs on petty tastes. the curtain had fallen again between them. she could not be his. the cruelty of their late revived hope was now terrible. how could they all have been so simple as to suppose this thing could be done? it was at this moment that, hearing some one coming behind him, he turned and saw her hastening on between the thickets. he perceived in an instant that she did not know the blighting news. "giles, why didn't you come across to me?" she asked, with arch reproach. "didn't you see me sitting there ever so long?" "oh yes," he said, in unprepared, extemporized tones, for her unexpected presence caught him without the slightest plan of behavior in the conjuncture. his manner made her think that she had been too chiding in her speech; and a mild scarlet wave passed over her as she resolved to soften it. "i have had another letter from my father," she hastened to continue. "he thinks he may come home this evening. and--in view of his hopes--it will grieve him if there is any little difference between us, giles." "there is none," he said, sadly regarding her from the face downward as he pondered how to lay the cruel truth bare. "still--i fear you have not quite forgiven me about my being uncomfortable at the inn." "i have, grace, i'm sure." "but you speak in quite an unhappy way," she returned, coming up close to him with the most winning of the many pretty airs that appertained to her. "don't you think you will ever be happy, giles?" he did not reply for some instants. "when the sun shines on the north front of sherton abbey--that's when my happiness will come to me!" said he, staring as it were into the earth. "but--then that means that there is something more than my offending you in not liking the three tuns. if it is because i--did not like to let you kiss me in the abbey--well, you know, giles, that it was not on account of my cold feelings, but because i did certainly, just then, think it was rather premature, in spite of my poor father. that was the true reason--the sole one. but i do not want to be hard--god knows i do not," she said, her voice fluctuating. "and perhaps--as i am on the verge of freedom--i am not right, after all, in thinking there is any harm in your kissing me." "oh god!" said winterborne within himself. his head was turned askance as he still resolutely regarded the ground. for the last several minutes he had seen this great temptation approaching him in regular siege; and now it had come. the wrong, the social sin, of now taking advantage of the offer of her lips had a magnitude, in the eyes of one whose life had been so primitive, so ruled by purest household laws, as giles's, which can hardly be explained. "did you say anything?" she asked, timidly. "oh no--only that--" "you mean that it must be settled, since my father is coming home?" she said, gladly. winterborne, though fighting valiantly against himself all this while--though he would have protected grace's good repute as the apple of his eye--was a man; and, as desdemona said, men are not gods. in face of the agonizing seductiveness shown by her, in her unenlightened school-girl simplicity about the laws and ordinances, he betrayed a man's weakness. since it was so--since it had come to this, that grace, deeming herself free to do it, was virtually asking him to demonstrate that he loved her--since he could demonstrate it only too truly--since life was short and love was strong--he gave way to the temptation, notwithstanding that he perfectly well knew her to be wedded irrevocably to fitzpiers. indeed, he cared for nothing past or future, simply accepting the present and what it brought, desiring once in his life to clasp in his arms her he had watched over and loved so long. she started back suddenly from his embrace, influenced by a sort of inspiration. "oh, i suppose," she stammered, "that i am really free?--that this is right? is there really a new law? father cannot have been too sanguine in saying--" he did not answer, and a moment afterwards grace burst into tears in spite of herself. "oh, why does not my father come home and explain," she sobbed, "and let me know clearly what i am? it is too trying, this, to ask me to--and then to leave me so long in so vague a state that i do not know what to do, and perhaps do wrong!" winterborne felt like a very cain, over and above his previous sorrow. how he had sinned against her in not telling her what he knew. he turned aside; the feeling of his cruelty mounted higher and higher. how could he have dreamed of kissing her? he could hardly refrain from tears. surely nothing more pitiable had ever been known than the condition of this poor young thing, now as heretofore the victim of her father's well-meant but blundering policy. even in the hour of melbury's greatest assurance winterborne had harbored a suspicion that no law, new or old, could undo grace's marriage without her appearance in public; though he was not sufficiently sure of what might have been enacted to destroy by his own words her pleasing idea that a mere dash of the pen, on her father's testimony, was going to be sufficient. but he had never suspected the sad fact that the position was irremediable. poor grace, perhaps feeling that she had indulged in too much fluster for a mere kiss, calmed herself at finding how grave he was. "i am glad we are friends again anyhow," she said, smiling through her tears. "giles, if you had only shown half the boldness before i married that you show now, you would have carried me off for your own first instead of second. if we do marry, i hope you will never think badly of me for encouraging you a little, but my father is so impatient, you know, as his years and infirmities increase, that he will wish to see us a little advanced when he comes. that is my only excuse." to winterborne all this was sadder than it was sweet. how could she so trust her father's conjectures? he did not know how to tell her the truth and shame himself. and yet he felt that it must be done. "we may have been wrong," he began, almost fearfully, "in supposing that it can all be carried out while we stay here at hintock. i am not sure but that people may have to appear in a public court even under the new act; and if there should be any difficulty, and we cannot marry after all--" her cheeks became slowly bloodless. "oh, giles," she said, grasping his arm, "you have heard something! what--cannot my father conclude it there and now? surely he has done it? oh, giles, giles, don't deceive me. what terrible position am i in?" he could not tell her, try as he would. the sense of her implicit trust in his honor absolutely disabled him. "i cannot inform you," he murmured, his voice as husky as that of the leaves underfoot. "your father will soon be here. then we shall know. i will take you home." inexpressibly dear as she was to him, he offered her his arm with the most reserved air, as he added, correctingly, "i will take you, at any rate, into the drive." thus they walked on together. grace vibrating between happiness and misgiving. it was only a few minutes' walk to where the drive ran, and they had hardly descended into it when they heard a voice behind them cry, "take out that arm!" for a moment they did not heed, and the voice repeated, more loudly and hoarsely, "take out that arm!" it was melbury's. he had returned sooner than they expected, and now came up to them. grace's hand had been withdrawn like lightning on her hearing the second command. "i don't blame you--i don't blame you," he said, in the weary cadence of one broken down with scourgings. "but you two must walk together no more--i have been surprised--i have been cruelly deceived--giles, don't say anything to me; but go away!" he was evidently not aware that winterborne had known the truth before he brought it; and giles would not stay to discuss it with him then. when the young man had gone melbury took his daughter in-doors to the room he used as his office. there he sat down, and bent over the slope of the bureau, her bewildered gaze fixed upon him. when melbury had recovered a little he said, "you are now, as ever, fitzpiers's wife. i was deluded. he has not done you enough harm. you are still subject to his beck and call." "then let it be, and never mind, father," she said, with dignified sorrow. "i can bear it. it is your trouble that grieves me most." she stooped over him, and put her arm round his neck, which distressed melbury still more. "i don't mind at all what comes to me," grace continued; "whose wife i am, or whose i am not. i do love giles; i cannot help that; and i have gone further with him than i should have done if i had known exactly how things were. but i do not reproach you." "then giles did not tell you?" said melbury. "no," said she. "he could not have known it. his behavior to me proved that he did not know." her father said nothing more, and grace went away to the solitude of her chamber. her heavy disquietude had many shapes; and for a time she put aside the dominant fact to think of her too free conduct towards giles. his love-making had been brief as it was sweet; but would he on reflection contemn her for forwardness? how could she have been so simple as to suppose she was in a position to behave as she had done! thus she mentally blamed her ignorance; and yet in the centre of her heart she blessed it a little for what it had momentarily brought her. chapter xl. life among the people involved in these events seemed to be suppressed and hide-bound for a while. grace seldom showed herself outside the house, never outside the garden; for she feared she might encounter giles winterborne; and that she could not bear. this pensive intramural existence of the self-constituted nun appeared likely to continue for an indefinite time. she had learned that there was one possibility in which her formerly imagined position might become real, and only one; that her husband's absence should continue long enough to amount to positive desertion. but she never allowed her mind to dwell much upon the thought; still less did she deliberately hope for such a result. her regard for winterborne had been rarefied by the shock which followed its avowal into an ethereal emotion that had little to do with living and doing. as for giles, he was lying--or rather sitting--ill at his hut. a feverish indisposition which had been hanging about him for some time, the result of a chill caught the previous winter, seemed to acquire virulence with the prostration of his hopes. but not a soul knew of his languor, and he did not think the case serious enough to send for a medical man. after a few days he was better again, and crept about his home in a great coat, attending to his simple wants as usual with his own hands. so matters stood when the limpid inertion of grace's pool-like existence was disturbed as by a geyser. she received a letter from fitzpiers. such a terrible letter it was in its import, though couched in the gentlest language. in his absence grace had grown to regard him with toleration, and her relation to him with equanimity, till she had almost forgotten how trying his presence would be. he wrote briefly and unaffectedly; he made no excuses, but informed her that he was living quite alone, and had been led to think that they ought to be together, if she would make up her mind to forgive him. he therefore purported to cross the channel to budmouth by the steamer on a day he named, which she found to be three days after the time of her present reading. he said that he could not come to hintock for obvious reasons, which her father would understand even better than herself. as the only alternative she was to be on the quay to meet the steamer when it arrived from the opposite coast, probably about half an hour before midnight, bringing with her any luggage she might require; join him there, and pass with him into the twin vessel, which left immediately the other entered the harbor; returning thus with him to his continental dwelling-place, which he did not name. he had no intention of showing himself on land at all. the troubled grace took the letter to her father, who now continued for long hours by the fireless summer chimney-corner, as if he thought it were winter, the pitcher of cider standing beside him, mostly untasted, and coated with a film of dust. after reading it he looked up. "you sha'n't go," said he. "i had felt i would not," she answered. "but i did not know what you would say." "if he comes and lives in england, not too near here and in a respectable way, and wants you to come to him, i am not sure that i'll oppose him in wishing it," muttered melbury. "i'd stint myself to keep you both in a genteel and seemly style. but go abroad you never shall with my consent." there the question rested that day. grace was unable to reply to her husband in the absence of an address, and the morrow came, and the next day, and the evening on which he had requested her to meet him. throughout the whole of it she remained within the four walls of her room. the sense of her harassment, carking doubt of what might be impending, hung like a cowl of blackness over the melbury household. they spoke almost in whispers, and wondered what fitzpiers would do next. it was the hope of every one that, finding she did not arrive, he would return again to france; and as for grace, she was willing to write to him on the most kindly terms if he would only keep away. the night passed, grace lying tense and wide awake, and her relatives, in great part, likewise. when they met the next morning they were pale and anxious, though neither speaking of the subject which occupied all their thoughts. the day passed as quietly as the previous ones, and she began to think that in the rank caprice of his moods he had abandoned the idea of getting her to join him as quickly as it was formed. all on a sudden, some person who had just come from sherton entered the house with the news that mr. fitzpiers was on his way home to hintock. he had been seen hiring a carriage at the earl of wessex hotel. her father and grace were both present when the intelligence was announced. "now," said melbury, "we must make the best of what has been a very bad matter. the man is repenting; the partner of his shame, i hear, is gone away from him to switzerland, so that chapter of his life is probably over. if he chooses to make a home for ye i think you should not say him nay, grace. certainly he cannot very well live at hintock without a blow to his pride; but if he can bear that, and likes hintock best, why, there's the empty wing of the house as it was before." "oh, father!" said grace, turning white with dismay. "why not?" said he, a little of his former doggedness returning. he was, in truth, disposed to somewhat more leniency towards her husband just now than he had shown formerly, from a conviction that he had treated him over-roughly in his anger. "surely it is the most respectable thing to do?" he continued. "i don't like this state that you are in--neither married nor single. it hurts me, and it hurts you, and it will always be remembered against us in hintock. there has never been any scandal like it in the family before." "he will be here in less than an hour," murmured grace. the twilight of the room prevented her father seeing the despondent misery of her face. the one intolerable condition, the condition she had deprecated above all others, was that of fitzpiers's reinstatement there. "oh, i won't, i won't see him," she said, sinking down. she was almost hysterical. "try if you cannot," he returned, moodily. "oh yes, i will, i will," she went on, inconsequently. "i'll try;" and jumping up suddenly, she left the room. in the darkness of the apartment to which she flew nothing could have been seen during the next half-hour; but from a corner a quick breathing was audible from this impressible creature, who combined modern nerves with primitive emotions, and was doomed by such coexistence to be numbered among the distressed, and to take her scourgings to their exquisite extremity. the window was open. on this quiet, late summer evening, whatever sound arose in so secluded a district--the chirp of a bird, a call from a voice, the turning of a wheel--extended over bush and tree to unwonted distances. very few sounds did arise. but as grace invisibly breathed in the brown glooms of the chamber, the small remote noise of light wheels came in to her, accompanied by the trot of a horse on the turnpike-road. there seemed to be a sudden hitch or pause in the progress of the vehicle, which was what first drew her attention to it. she knew the point whence the sound proceeded--the hill-top over which travellers passed on their way hitherward from sherton abbas--the place at which she had emerged from the wood with mrs. charmond. grace slid along the floor, and bent her head over the window-sill, listening with open lips. the carriage had stopped, and she heard a man use exclamatory words. then another said, "what the devil is the matter with the horse?" she recognized the voice as her husband's. the accident, such as it had been, was soon remedied, and the carriage could be heard descending the hill on the hintock side, soon to turn into the lane leading out of the highway, and then into the "drong" which led out of the lane to the house where she was. a spasm passed through grace. the daphnean instinct, exceptionally strong in her as a girl, had been revived by her widowed seclusion; and it was not lessened by her affronted sentiments towards the comer, and her regard for another man. she opened some little ivory tablets that lay on the dressing-table, scribbled in pencil on one of them, "i am gone to visit one of my school-friends," gathered a few toilet necessaries into a hand-bag, and not three minutes after that voice had been heard, her slim form, hastily wrapped up from observation, might have been seen passing out of the back door of melbury's house. thence she skimmed up the garden-path, through the gap in the hedge, and into the mossy cart-track under the trees which led into the depth of the woods. the leaves overhead were now in their latter green--so opaque, that it was darker at some of the densest spots than in winter-time, scarce a crevice existing by which a ray could get down to the ground. but in open places she could see well enough. summer was ending: in the daytime singing insects hung in every sunbeam; vegetation was heavy nightly with globes of dew; and after showers creeping damps and twilight chills came up from the hollows. the plantations were always weird at this hour of eve--more spectral far than in the leafless season, when there were fewer masses and more minute lineality. the smooth surfaces of glossy plants came out like weak, lidless eyes; there were strange faces and figures from expiring lights that had somehow wandered into the canopied obscurity; while now and then low peeps of the sky between the trunks were like sheeted shapes, and on the tips of boughs sat faint cloven tongues. but grace's fear just now was not imaginative or spiritual, and she heeded these impressions but little. she went on as silently as she could, avoiding the hollows wherein leaves had accumulated, and stepping upon soundless moss and grass-tufts. she paused breathlessly once or twice, and fancied that she could hear, above the beat of her strumming pulse, the vehicle containing fitzpiers turning in at the gate of her father's premises. she hastened on again. the hintock woods owned by mrs. charmond were presently left behind, and those into which she next plunged were divided from the latter by a bank, from whose top the hedge had long ago perished--starved for want of sun. it was with some caution that grace now walked, though she was quite free from any of the commonplace timidities of her ordinary pilgrimages to such spots. she feared no lurking harms, but that her effort would be all in vain, and her return to the house rendered imperative. she had walked between three and four miles when that prescriptive comfort and relief to wanderers in woods--a distant light--broke at last upon her searching eyes. it was so very small as to be almost sinister to a stranger, but to her it was what she sought. she pushed forward, and the dim outline of a dwelling was disclosed. the house was a square cot of one story only, sloping up on all sides to a chimney in the midst. it had formerly been the home of a charcoal-burner, in times when that fuel was still used in the county houses. its only appurtenance was a paled enclosure, there being no garden, the shade of the trees preventing the growth of vegetables. she advanced to the window whence the rays of light proceeded, and the shutters being as yet unclosed, she could survey the whole interior through the panes. the room within was kitchen, parlor, and scullery all in one; the natural sandstone floor was worn into hills and dales by long treading, so that none of the furniture stood level, and the table slanted like a desk. a fire burned on the hearth, in front of which revolved the skinned carcass of a rabbit, suspended by a string from a nail. leaning with one arm on the mantle-shelf stood winterborne, his eyes on the roasting animal, his face so rapt that speculation could build nothing on it concerning his thoughts, more than that they were not with the scene before him. she thought his features had changed a little since she saw them last. the fire-light did not enable her to perceive that they were positively haggard. grace's throat emitted a gasp of relief at finding the result so nearly as she had hoped. she went to the door and tapped lightly. he seemed to be accustomed to the noises of woodpeckers, squirrels, and such small creatures, for he took no notice of her tiny signal, and she knocked again. this time he came and opened the door. when the light of the room fell upon her face he started, and, hardly knowing what he did, crossed the threshold to her, placing his hands upon her two arms, while surprise, joy, alarm, sadness, chased through him by turns. with grace it was the same: even in this stress there was the fond fact that they had met again. thus they stood, "long tears upon their faces, waxen white with extreme sad delight." he broke the silence by saying in a whisper, "come in." "no, no, giles!" she answered, hurriedly, stepping yet farther back from the door. "i am passing by--and i have called on you--i won't enter. will you help me? i am afraid. i want to get by a roundabout way to sherton, and so to exbury. i have a school-fellow there--but i cannot get to sherton alone. oh, if you will only accompany me a little way! don't condemn me, giles, and be offended! i was obliged to come to you because--i have no other help here. three months ago you were my lover; now you are only my friend. the law has stepped in, and forbidden what we thought of. it must not be. but we can act honestly, and yet you can be my friend for one little hour? i have no other--" she could get no further. covering her eyes with one hand, by an effort of repression she wept a silent trickle, without a sigh or sob. winterborne took her other hand. "what has happened?" he said. "he has come." there was a stillness as of death, till winterborne asked, "you mean this, grace--that i am to help you to get away?" "yes," said she. "appearance is no matter, when the reality is right. i have said to myself i can trust you." giles knew from this that she did not suspect his treachery--if it could be called such--earlier in the summer, when they met for the last time as lovers; and in the intensity of his contrition for that tender wrong, he determined to deserve her faith now at least, and so wipe out that reproach from his conscience. "i'll come at once," he said. "i'll light a lantern." he unhooked a dark-lantern from a nail under the eaves and she did not notice how his hand shook with the slight strain, or dream that in making this offer he was taxing a convalescence which could ill afford such self-sacrifice. the lantern was lit, and they started. chapter xli. the first hundred yards of their course lay under motionless trees, whose upper foliage began to hiss with falling drops of rain. by the time that they emerged upon a glade it rained heavily. "this is awkward," said grace, with an effort to hide her concern. winterborne stopped. "grace," he said, preserving a strictly business manner which belied him, "you cannot go to sherton to-night." "but i must!" "why? it is nine miles from here. it is almost an impossibility in this rain." "true--why?" she replied, mournfully, at the end of a silence. "what is reputation to me?" "now hearken," said giles. "you won't--go back to your--" "no, no, no! don't make me!" she cried, piteously. "then let us turn." they slowly retraced their steps, and again stood before his door. "now, this house from this moment is yours, and not mine," he said, deliberately. "i have a place near by where i can stay very well." her face had drooped. "oh!" she murmured, as she saw the dilemma. "what have i done!" there was a smell of something burning within, and he looked through the window. the rabbit that he had been cooking to coax a weak appetite was beginning to char. "please go in and attend to it," he said. "do what you like. now i leave. you will find everything about the hut that is necessary." "but, giles--your supper," she exclaimed. "an out-house would do for me--anything--till to-morrow at day-break!" he signified a negative. "i tell you to go in--you may catch agues out here in your delicate state. you can give me my supper through the window, if you feel well enough. i'll wait a while." he gently urged her to pass the door-way, and was relieved when he saw her within the room sitting down. without so much as crossing the threshold himself, he closed the door upon her, and turned the key in the lock. tapping at the window, he signified that she should open the casement, and when she had done this he handed in the key to her. "you are locked in," he said; "and your own mistress." even in her trouble she could not refrain from a faint smile at his scrupulousness, as she took the door-key. "do you feel better?" he went on. "if so, and you wish to give me some of your supper, please do. if not, it is of no importance. i can get some elsewhere." the grateful sense of his kindness stirred her to action, though she only knew half what that kindness really was. at the end of some ten minutes she again came to the window, pushed it open, and said in a whisper, "giles!" he at once emerged from the shade, and saw that she was preparing to hand him his share of the meal upon a plate. "i don't like to treat you so hardly," she murmured, with deep regret in her words as she heard the rain pattering on the leaves. "but--i suppose it is best to arrange like this?" "oh yes," he said, quickly. "i feel that i could never have reached sherton." "it was impossible." "are you sure you have a snug place out there?" (with renewed misgiving.) "quite. have you found everything you want? i am afraid it is rather rough accommodation." "can i notice defects? i have long passed that stage, and you know it, giles, or you ought to." his eyes sadly contemplated her face as its pale responsiveness modulated through a crowd of expressions that showed only too clearly to what a pitch she was strung. if ever winterborne's heart fretted his bosom it was at this sight of a perfectly defenceless creature conditioned by such circumstances. he forgot his own agony in the satisfaction of having at least found her a shelter. he took his plate and cup from her hands, saying, "now i'll push the shutter to, and you will find an iron pin on the inside, which you must fix into the bolt. do not stir in the morning till i come and call you." she expressed an alarmed hope that he would not go very far away. "oh no--i shall be quite within hail," said winterborne. she bolted the window as directed, and he retreated. his snug place proved to be a wretched little shelter of the roughest kind, formed of four hurdles thatched with brake-fern. underneath were dry sticks, hay, and other litter of the sort, upon which he sat down; and there in the dark tried to eat his meal. but his appetite was quite gone. he pushed the plate aside, and shook up the hay and sacks, so as to form a rude couch, on which he flung himself down to sleep, for it was getting late. but sleep he could not, for many reasons, of which not the least was thought of his charge. he sat up, and looked towards the cot through the damp obscurity. with all its external features the same as usual, he could scarcely believe that it contained the dear friend--he would not use a warmer name--who had come to him so unexpectedly, and, he could not help admitting, so rashly. he had not ventured to ask her any particulars; but the position was pretty clear without them. though social law had negatived forever their opening paradise of the previous june, it was not without stoical pride that he accepted the present trying conjuncture. there was one man on earth in whom she believed absolutely, and he was that man. that this crisis could end in nothing but sorrow was a view for a moment effaced by this triumphant thought of her trust in him; and the purity of the affection with which he responded to that trust rendered him more than proof against any frailty that besieged him in relation to her. the rain, which had never ceased, now drew his attention by beginning to drop through the meagre screen that covered him. he rose to attempt some remedy for this discomfort, but the trembling of his knees and the throbbing of his pulse told him that in his weakness he was unable to fence against the storm, and he lay down to bear it as best he might. he was angry with himself for his feebleness--he who had been so strong. it was imperative that she should know nothing of his present state, and to do that she must not see his face by daylight, for its color would inevitably betray him. the next morning, accordingly, when it was hardly light, he rose and dragged his stiff limbs about the precincts, preparing for her everything she could require for getting breakfast within. on the bench outside the window-sill he placed water, wood, and other necessaries, writing with a piece of chalk beside them, "it is best that i should not see you. put my breakfast on the bench." at seven o'clock he tapped at her window, as he had promised, retreating at once, that she might not catch sight of him. but from his shelter under the boughs he could see her very well, when, in response to his signal, she opened the window and the light fell upon her face. the languid largeness of her eyes showed that her sleep had been little more than his own, and the pinkness of their lids, that her waking hours had not been free from tears. she read the writing, seemed, he thought, disappointed, but took up the materials he had provided, evidently thinking him some way off. giles waited on, assured that a girl who, in spite of her culture, knew what country life was, would find no difficulty in the simple preparation of their food. within the cot it was all very much as he conjectured, though grace had slept much longer than he. after the loneliness of the night, she would have been glad to see him; but appreciating his feeling when she read the writing, she made no attempt to recall him. she found abundance of provisions laid in, his plan being to replenish his buttery weekly, and this being the day after the victualling van had called from sherton. when the meal was ready, she put what he required outside, as she had done with the supper; and, notwithstanding her longing to see him, withdrew from the window promptly, and left him to himself. it had been a leaden dawn, and the rain now steadily renewed its fall. as she heard no more of winterborne, she concluded that he had gone away to his daily work, and forgotten that he had promised to accompany her to sherton; an erroneous conclusion, for he remained all day, by force of his condition, within fifty yards of where she was. the morning wore on; and in her doubt when to start, and how to travel, she lingered yet, keeping the door carefully bolted, lest an intruder should discover her. locked in this place, she was comparatively safe, at any rate, and doubted if she would be safe elsewhere. the humid gloom of an ordinary wet day was doubled by the shade and drip of the leafage. autumn, this year, was coming in with rains. gazing, in her enforced idleness, from the one window of the living-room, she could see various small members of the animal community that lived unmolested there--creatures of hair, fluff, and scale, the toothed kind and the billed kind; underground creatures, jointed and ringed--circumambulating the hut, under the impression that, giles having gone away, nobody was there; and eying it inquisitively with a view to winter-quarters. watching these neighbors, who knew neither law nor sin, distracted her a little from her trouble; and she managed to while away some portion of the afternoon by putting giles's home in order and making little improvements which she deemed that he would value when she was gone. once or twice she fancied that she heard a faint noise amid the trees, resembling a cough; but as it never came any nearer she concluded that it was a squirrel or a bird. at last the daylight lessened, and she made up a larger fire for the evenings were chilly. as soon as it was too dark--which was comparatively early--to discern the human countenance in this place of shadows, there came to the window to her great delight, a tapping which she knew from its method to be giles's. she opened the casement instantly, and put out her hand to him, though she could only just perceive his outline. he clasped her fingers, and she noticed the heat of his palm and its shakiness. "he has been walking fast, in order to get here quickly," she thought. how could she know that he had just crawled out from the straw of the shelter hard by; and that the heat of his hand was feverishness? "my dear, good giles!" she burst out, impulsively. "anybody would have done it for you," replied winterborne, with as much matter-of-fact as he could summon. "about my getting to exbury?" she said. "i have been thinking," responded giles, with tender deference, "that you had better stay where you are for the present, if you wish not to be caught. i need not tell you that the place is yours as long as you like; and perhaps in a day or two, finding you absent, he will go away. at any rate, in two or three days i could do anything to assist--such as make inquiries, or go a great way towards sherton-abbas with you; for the cider season will soon be coming on, and i want to run down to the vale to see how the crops are, and i shall go by the sherton road. but for a day or two i am busy here." he was hoping that by the time mentioned he would be strong enough to engage himself actively on her behalf. "i hope you do not feel over-much melancholy in being a prisoner?" she declared that she did not mind it; but she sighed. from long acquaintance they could read each other's heart-symptoms like books of large type. "i fear you are sorry you came," said giles, "and that you think i should have advised you more firmly than i did not to stay." "oh no, dear, dear friend," answered grace, with a heaving bosom. "don't think that that is what i regret. what i regret is my enforced treatment of you--dislodging you, excluding you from your own house. why should i not speak out? you know what i feel for you--what i have felt for no other living man, what i shall never feel for a man again! but as i have vowed myself to somebody else than you, and cannot be released, i must behave as i do behave, and keep that vow. i am not bound to him by any divine law, after what he has done; but i have promised, and i will pay." the rest of the evening was passed in his handing her such things as she would require the next day, and casual remarks thereupon, an occupation which diverted her mind to some degree from pathetic views of her attitude towards him, and of her life in general. the only infringement--if infringement it could be called--of his predetermined bearing towards her was an involuntary pressing of her hand to his lips when she put it through the casement to bid him good-night. he knew she was weeping, though he could not see her tears. she again entreated his forgiveness for so selfishly appropriating the cottage. but it would only be for a day or two more, she thought, since go she must. he replied, yearningly, "i--i don't like you to go away." "oh, giles," said she, "i know--i know! but--i am a woman, and you are a man. i cannot speak more plainly. 'whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are of good report'--you know what is in my mind, because you know me so well." "yes, grace, yes. i do not at all mean that the question between us has not been settled by the fact of your marriage turning out hopelessly unalterable. i merely meant--well, a feeling no more." "in a week, at the outside, i should be discovered if i stayed here: and i think that by law he could compel me to return to him." "yes; perhaps you are right. go when you wish, dear grace." his last words that evening were a hopeful remark that all might be well with her yet; that mr. fitzpiers would not intrude upon her life, if he found that his presence cost her so much pain. then the window was closed, the shutters folded, and the rustle of his footsteps died away. no sooner had she retired to rest that night than the wind began to rise, and, after a few prefatory blasts, to be accompanied by rain. the wind grew more violent, and as the storm went on, it was difficult to believe that no opaque body, but only an invisible colorless thing, was trampling and climbing over the roof, making branches creak, springing out of the trees upon the chimney, popping its head into the flue, and shrieking and blaspheming at every corner of the walls. as in the old story, the assailant was a spectre which could be felt but not seen. she had never before been so struck with the devilry of a gusty night in a wood, because she had never been so entirely alone in spirit as she was now. she seemed almost to be apart from herself--a vacuous duplicate only. the recent self of physical animation and clear intentions was not there. sometimes a bough from an adjoining tree was swayed so low as to smite the roof in the manner of a gigantic hand smiting the mouth of an adversary, to be followed by a trickle of rain, as blood from the wound. to all this weather giles must be more or less exposed; how much, she did not know. at last grace could hardly endure the idea of such a hardship in relation to him. whatever he was suffering, it was she who had caused it; he vacated his house on account of her. she was not worth such self-sacrifice; she should not have accepted it of him. and then, as her anxiety increased with increasing thought, there returned upon her mind some incidents of her late intercourse with him, which she had heeded but little at the time. the look of his face--what had there been about his face which seemed different from its appearance as of yore? was it not thinner, less rich in hue, less like that of ripe autumn's brother to whom she had formerly compared him? and his voice; she had distinctly noticed a change in tone. and his gait; surely it had been feebler, stiffer, more like the gait of a weary man. that slight occasional noise she had heard in the day, and attributed to squirrels, it might have been his cough after all. thus conviction took root in her perturbed mind that winterborne was ill, or had been so, and that he had carefully concealed his condition from her that she might have no scruples about accepting a hospitality which by the nature of the case expelled her entertainer. "my own, own, true l----, my dear kind friend!" she cried to herself. "oh, it shall not be--it shall not be!" she hastily wrapped herself up, and obtained a light, with which she entered the adjoining room, the cot possessing only one floor. setting down the candle on the table here, she went to the door with the key in her hand, and placed it in the lock. before turning it she paused, her fingers still clutching it; and pressing her other hand to her forehead, she fell into agitating thought. a tattoo on the window, caused by the tree-droppings blowing against it, brought her indecision to a close. she turned the key and opened the door. the darkness was intense, seeming to touch her pupils like a substance. she only now became aware how heavy the rainfall had been and was; the dripping of the eaves splashed like a fountain. she stood listening with parted lips, and holding the door in one hand, till her eyes, growing accustomed to the obscurity, discerned the wild brandishing of their boughs by the adjoining trees. at last she cried loudly with an effort, "giles! you may come in!" there was no immediate answer to her cry, and overpowered by her own temerity, grace retreated quickly, shut the door, and stood looking on the floor. but it was not for long. she again lifted the latch, and with far more determination than at first. "giles, giles!" she cried, with the full strength of her voice, and without any of the shamefacedness that had characterized her first cry. "oh, come in--come in! where are you? i have been wicked. i have thought too much of myself! do you hear? i don't want to keep you out any longer. i cannot bear that you should suffer so. gi-i-iles!" a reply! it was a reply! through the darkness and wind a voice reached her, floating upon the weather as though a part of it. "here i am--all right. don't trouble about me." "don't you want to come in? are you not ill? i don't mind what they say, or what they think any more." "i am all right," he repeated. "it is not necessary for me to come. good-night! good-night!" grace sighed, turned and shut the door slowly. could she have been mistaken about his health? perhaps, after all, she had perceived a change in him because she had not seen him for so long. time sometimes did his ageing work in jerks, as she knew. well, she had done all she could. he would not come in. she retired to rest again. chapter xlii. the next morning grace was at the window early. she felt determined to see him somehow that day, and prepared his breakfast eagerly. eight o'clock struck, and she had remembered that he had not come to arouse her by a knocking, as usual, her own anxiety having caused her to stir. the breakfast was set in its place without. but he did not arrive to take it; and she waited on. nine o'clock arrived, and the breakfast was cold; and still there was no giles. a thrush, that had been repeating itself a good deal on an opposite bush for some time, came and took a morsel from the plate and bolted it, waited, looked around, and took another. at ten o'clock she drew in the tray, and sat down to her own solitary meal. he must have been called away on business early, the rain having cleared off. yet she would have liked to assure herself, by thoroughly exploring the precincts of the hut, that he was nowhere in its vicinity; but as the day was comparatively fine, the dread lest some stray passenger or woodman should encounter her in such a reconnoitre paralyzed her wish. the solitude was further accentuated to-day by the stopping of the clock for want of winding, and the fall into the chimney-corner of flakes of soot loosened by the rains. at noon she heard a slight rustling outside the window, and found that it was caused by an eft which had crept out of the leaves to bask in the last sun-rays that would be worth having till the following may. she continually peeped out through the lattice, but could see little. in front lay the brown leaves of last year, and upon them some yellowish-green ones of this season that had been prematurely blown down by the gale. above stretched an old beech, with vast armpits, and great pocket-holes in its sides where branches had been amputated in past times; a black slug was trying to climb it. dead boughs were scattered about like ichthyosauri in a museum, and beyond them were perishing woodbine stems resembling old ropes. from the other window all she could see were more trees, jacketed with lichen and stockinged with moss. at their roots were stemless yellow fungi like lemons and apricots, and tall fungi with more stem than stool. next were more trees close together, wrestling for existence, their branches disfigured with wounds resulting from their mutual rubbings and blows. it was the struggle between these neighbors that she had heard in the night. beneath them were the rotting stumps of those of the group that had been vanquished long ago, rising from their mossy setting like decayed teeth from green gums. farther on were other tufts of moss in islands divided by the shed leaves--variety upon variety, dark green and pale green; moss-like little fir-trees, like plush, like malachite stars, like nothing on earth except moss. the strain upon grace's mind in various ways was so great on this the most desolate day she had passed there that she felt it would be well-nigh impossible to spend another in such circumstances. the evening came at last; the sun, when its chin was on the earth, found an opening through which to pierce the shade, and stretched irradiated gauzes across the damp atmosphere, making the wet trunks shine, and throwing splotches of such ruddiness on the leaves beneath the beech that they were turned to gory hues. when night at last arrived, and with it the time for his return, she was nearly broken down with suspense. the simple evening meal, partly tea, partly supper, which grace had prepared, stood waiting upon the hearth; and yet giles did not come. it was now nearly twenty-four hours since she had seen him. as the room grew darker, and only the firelight broke against the gloom of the walls, she was convinced that it would be beyond her staying power to pass the night without hearing from him or from somebody. yet eight o'clock drew on, and his form at the window did not appear. the meal remained untasted. suddenly rising from before the hearth of smouldering embers, where she had been crouching with her hands clasped over her knees, she crossed the room, unlocked the door, and listened. every breath of wind had ceased with the decline of day, but the rain had resumed the steady dripping of the night before. grace might have stood there five minutes when she fancied she heard that old sound, a cough, at no great distance; and it was presently repeated. if it were winterborne's, he must be near her; why, then, had he not visited her? a horrid misgiving that he could not visit her took possession of grace, and she looked up anxiously for the lantern, which was hanging above her head. to light it and go in the direction of the sound would be the obvious way to solve the dread problem; but the conditions made her hesitate, and in a moment a cold sweat pervaded her at further sounds from the same quarter. they were low mutterings; at first like persons in conversation, but gradually resolving themselves into varieties of one voice. it was an endless monologue, like that we sometimes hear from inanimate nature in deep secret places where water flows, or where ivy leaves flap against stones; but by degrees she was convinced that the voice was winterborne's. yet who could be his listener, so mute and patient; for though he argued so rapidly and persistently, nobody replied. a dreadful enlightenment spread through the mind of grace. "oh," she cried, in her anguish, as she hastily prepared herself to go out, "how selfishly correct i am always--too, too correct! cruel propriety is killing the dearest heart that ever woman clasped to her own." while speaking thus to herself she had lit the lantern, and hastening out without further thought, took the direction whence the mutterings had proceeded. the course was marked by a little path, which ended at a distance of about forty yards in a small erection of hurdles, not much larger than a shock of corn, such as were frequent in the woods and copses when the cutting season was going on. it was too slight even to be called a hovel, and was not high enough to stand upright in; appearing, in short, to be erected for the temporary shelter of fuel. the side towards grace was open, and turning the light upon the interior, she beheld what her prescient fear had pictured in snatches all the way thither. upon the straw within, winterborne lay in his clothes, just as she had seen him during the whole of her stay here, except that his hat was off, and his hair matted and wild. both his clothes and the straw were saturated with rain. his arms were flung over his head; his face was flushed to an unnatural crimson. his eyes had a burning brightness, and though they met her own, she perceived that he did not recognize her. "oh, my giles," she cried, "what have i done to you!" but she stopped no longer even to reproach herself. she saw that the first thing to be thought of was to get him indoors. how grace performed that labor she never could have exactly explained. but by dint of clasping her arms round him, rearing him into a sitting posture, and straining her strength to the uttermost, she put him on one of the hurdles that was loose alongside, and taking the end of it in both her hands, dragged him along the path to the entrance of the hut, and, after a pause for breath, in at the door-way. it was somewhat singular that giles in his semi-conscious state acquiesced unresistingly in all that she did. but he never for a moment recognized her--continuing his rapid conversation to himself, and seeming to look upon her as some angel, or other supernatural creature of the visionary world in which he was mentally living. the undertaking occupied her more than ten minutes; but by that time, to her great thankfulness, he was in the inner room, lying on the bed, his damp outer clothing removed. then the unhappy grace regarded him by the light of the candle. there was something in his look which agonized her, in the rush of his thoughts, accelerating their speed from minute to minute. he seemed to be passing through the universe of ideas like a comet--erratic, inapprehensible, untraceable. grace's distraction was almost as great as his. in a few moments she firmly believed he was dying. unable to withstand her impulse, she knelt down beside him, kissed his hands and his face and his hair, exclaiming, in a low voice, "how could i? how could i?" her timid morality had, indeed, underrated his chivalry till now, though she knew him so well. the purity of his nature, his freedom from the grosser passions, his scrupulous delicacy, had never been fully understood by grace till this strange self-sacrifice in lonely juxtaposition to her own person was revealed. the perception of it added something that was little short of reverence to the deep affection for him of a woman who, herself, had more of artemis than of aphrodite in her constitution. all that a tender nurse could do, grace did; and the power to express her solicitude in action, unconscious though the sufferer was, brought her mournful satisfaction. she bathed his hot head, wiped his perspiring hands, moistened his lips, cooled his fiery eyelids, sponged his heated skin, and administered whatever she could find in the house that the imagination could conceive as likely to be in any way alleviating. that she might have been the cause, or partially the cause, of all this, interfused misery with her sorrow. six months before this date a scene, almost similar in its mechanical parts, had been enacted at hintock house. it was between a pair of persons most intimately connected in their lives with these. outwardly like as it had been, it was yet infinite in spiritual difference, though a woman's devotion had been common to both. grace rose from her attitude of affection, and, bracing her energies, saw that something practical must immediately be done. much as she would have liked, in the emotion of the moment, to keep him entirely to herself, medical assistance was necessary while there remained a possibility of preserving him alive. such assistance was fatal to her own concealment; but even had the chance of benefiting him been less than it was, she would have run the hazard for his sake. the question was, where should she get a medical man, competent and near? there was one such man, and only one, within accessible distance; a man who, if it were possible to save winterborne's life, had the brain most likely to do it. if human pressure could bring him, that man ought to be brought to the sick giles's side. the attempt should be made. yet she dreaded to leave her patient, and the minutes raced past, and yet she postponed her departure. at last, when it was after eleven o'clock, winterborne fell into a fitful sleep, and it seemed to afford her an opportunity. she hastily made him as comfortable as she could, put on her things, cut a new candle from the bunch hanging in the cupboard, and having set it up, and placed it so that the light did not fall upon his eyes, she closed the door and started. the spirit of winterborne seemed to keep her company and banish all sense of darkness from her mind. the rains had imparted a phosphorescence to the pieces of touchwood and rotting leaves that lay about her path, which, as scattered by her feet, spread abroad like spilt milk. she would not run the hazard of losing her way by plunging into any short, unfrequented track through the denser parts of the woodland, but followed a more open course, which eventually brought her to the highway. once here, she ran along with great speed, animated by a devoted purpose which had much about it that was stoical; and it was with scarcely any faltering of spirit that, after an hour's progress, she passed over rubdown hill, and onward towards that same hintock, and that same house, out of which she had fled a few days before in irresistible alarm. but that had happened which, above all other things of chance and change, could make her deliberately frustrate her plan of flight and sink all regard of personal consequences. one speciality of fitzpiers's was respected by grace as much as ever--his professional skill. in this she was right. had his persistence equalled his insight, instead of being the spasmodic and fitful thing it was, fame and fortune need never have remained a wish with him. his freedom from conventional errors and crusted prejudices had, indeed, been such as to retard rather than accelerate his advance in hintock and its neighborhood, where people could not believe that nature herself effected cures, and that the doctor's business was only to smooth the way. it was past midnight when grace arrived opposite her father's house, now again temporarily occupied by her husband, unless he had already gone away. ever since her emergence from the denser plantations about winterborne's residence a pervasive lightness had hung in the damp autumn sky, in spite of the vault of cloud, signifying that a moon of some age was shining above its arch. the two white gates were distinct, and the white balls on the pillars, and the puddles and damp ruts left by the recent rain, had a cold, corpse-eyed luminousness. she entered by the lower gate, and crossed the quadrangle to the wing wherein the apartments that had been hers since her marriage were situate, till she stood under a window which, if her husband were in the house, gave light to his bedchamber. she faltered, and paused with her hand on her heart, in spite of herself. could she call to her presence the very cause of all her foregoing troubles? alas!--old jones was seven miles off; giles was possibly dying--what else could she do? it was in a perspiration, wrought even more by consciousness than by exercise, that she picked up some gravel, threw it at the panes, and waited to see the result. the night-bell which had been fixed when fitzpiers first took up his residence there still remained; but as it had fallen into disuse with the collapse of his practice, and his elopement, she did not venture to pull it now. whoever slept in the room had heard her signal, slight as it was. in half a minute the window was opened, and a voice said "yes?" inquiringly. grace recognized her husband in the speaker at once. her effort was now to disguise her own accents. "doctor," she said, in as unusual a tone as she could command, "a man is dangerously ill in one-chimney hut, out towards delborough, and you must go to him at once--in all mercy!" "i will, readily." the alacrity, surprise, and pleasure expressed in his reply amazed her for a moment. but, in truth, they denoted the sudden relief of a man who, having got back in a mood of contrition, from erratic abandonment to fearful joys, found the soothing routine of professional practice unexpectedly opening anew to him. the highest desire of his soul just now was for a respectable life of painstaking. if this, his first summons since his return, had been to attend upon a cat or dog, he would scarcely have refused it in the circumstances. "do you know the way?" she asked. "yes," said he. "one-chimney hut," she repeated. "and--immediately!" "yes, yes," said fitzpiers. grace remained no longer. she passed out of the white gate without slamming it, and hastened on her way back. her husband, then, had re-entered her father's house. how he had been able to effect a reconciliation with the old man, what were the terms of the treaty between them, she could not so much as conjecture. some sort of truce must have been entered into, that was all she could say. but close as the question lay to her own life, there was a more urgent one which banished it; and she traced her steps quickly along the meandering track-ways. meanwhile, fitzpiers was preparing to leave the house. the state of his mind, over and above his professional zeal, was peculiar. at grace's first remark he had not recognized or suspected her presence; but as she went on, he was awakened to the great resemblance of the speaker's voice to his wife's. he had taken in such good faith the statement of the household on his arrival, that she had gone on a visit for a time because she could not at once bring her mind to be reconciled to him, that he could not quite actually believe this comer to be she. it was one of the features of fitzpiers's repentant humor at this date that, on receiving the explanation of her absence, he had made no attempt to outrage her feelings by following her; though nobody had informed him how very shortly her departure had preceded his entry, and of all that might have been inferred from her precipitancy. melbury, after much alarm and consideration, had decided not to follow her either. he sympathized with her flight, much as he deplored it; moreover, the tragic color of the antecedent events that he had been a great means of creating checked his instinct to interfere. he prayed and trusted that she had got into no danger on her way (as he supposed) to sherton, and thence to exbury, if that were the place she had gone to, forbearing all inquiry which the strangeness of her departure would have made natural. a few months before this time a performance by grace of one-tenth the magnitude of this would have aroused him to unwonted investigation. it was in the same spirit that he had tacitly assented to fitzpiers's domicilation there. the two men had not met face to face, but mrs. melbury had proposed herself as an intermediary, who made the surgeon's re-entrance comparatively easy to him. everything was provisional, and nobody asked questions. fitzpiers had come in the performance of a plan of penitence, which had originated in circumstances hereafter to be explained; his self-humiliation to the very bass-string was deliberate; and as soon as a call reached him from the bedside of a dying man his desire was to set to work and do as much good as he could with the least possible fuss or show. he therefore refrained from calling up a stableman to get ready any horse or gig, and set out for one-chimney hut on foot, as grace had done. chapter xliii. she re-entered the hut, flung off her bonnet and cloak, and approached the sufferer. he had begun anew those terrible mutterings, and his hands were cold. as soon as she saw him there returned to her that agony of mind which the stimulus of her journey had thrown off for a time. could he really be dying? she bathed him, kissed him, forgot all things but the fact that lying there before her was he who had loved her more than the mere lover would have loved; had martyred himself for her comfort, cared more for her self-respect than she had thought of caring. this mood continued till she heard quick, smart footsteps without; she knew whose footsteps they were. grace sat on the inside of the bed against the wall, holding giles's hand, so that when her husband entered the patient lay between herself and him. he stood transfixed at first, noticing grace only. slowly he dropped his glance and discerned who the prostrate man was. strangely enough, though grace's distaste for her husband's company had amounted almost to dread, and culminated in actual flight, at this moment her last and least feeling was personal. sensitive femininity was eclipsed by self-effacing purpose, and that it was a husband who stood there was forgotten. the first look that possessed her face was relief; satisfaction at the presence of the physician obliterated thought of the man, which only returned in the form of a sub-consciousness that did not interfere with her words. "is he dying--is there any hope?" she cried. "grace!" said fitzpiers, in an indescribable whisper--more than invocating, if not quite deprecatory. he was arrested by the spectacle, not so much in its intrinsic character--though that was striking enough to a man who called himself the husband of the sufferer's friend and nurse--but in its character as the counterpart of one that had its hour many months before, in which he had figured as the patient, and the woman had been felice charmond. "is he in great danger--can you save him?" she cried again. fitzpiers aroused himself, came a little nearer, and examined winterborne as he stood. his inspection was concluded in a mere glance. before he spoke he looked at her contemplatively as to the effect of his coming words. "he is dying," he said, with dry precision. "what?" said she. "nothing can be done, by me or any other man. it will soon be all over. the extremities are dead already." his eyes still remained fixed on her; the conclusion to which he had come seeming to end his interest, professional and otherwise, in winterborne forever. "but it cannot be! he was well three days ago." "not well, i suspect. this seems like a secondary attack, which has followed some previous illness--possibly typhoid--it may have been months ago, or recently." "ah--he was not well--you are right. he was ill--he was ill when i came." there was nothing more to do or say. she crouched down at the side of the bed, and fitzpiers took a seat. thus they remained in silence, and long as it lasted she never turned her eyes, or apparently her thoughts, at all to her husband. he occasionally murmured, with automatic authority, some slight directions for alleviating the pain of the dying man, which she mechanically obeyed, bending over him during the intervals in silent tears. winterborne never recovered consciousness of what was passing; and that he was going became soon perceptible also to her. in less than an hour the delirium ceased; then there was an interval of somnolent painlessness and soft breathing, at the end of which winterborne passed quietly away. then fitzpiers broke the silence. "have you lived here long?" said he. grace was wild with sorrow--with all that had befallen her--with the cruelties that had attacked her--with life--with heaven. she answered at random. "yes. by what right do you ask?" "don't think i claim any right," said fitzpiers, sadly. "it is for you to do and say what you choose. i admit, quite as much as you feel, that i am a vagabond--a brute--not worthy to possess the smallest fragment of you. but here i am, and i have happened to take sufficient interest in you to make that inquiry." "he is everything to me!" said grace, hardly heeding her husband, and laying her hand reverently on the dead man's eyelids, where she kept it a long time, pressing down their lashes with gentle touches, as if she were stroking a little bird. he watched her a while, and then glanced round the chamber where his eyes fell upon a few dressing necessaries that she had brought. "grace--if i may call you so," he said, "i have been already humiliated almost to the depths. i have come back since you refused to join me elsewhere--i have entered your father's house, and borne all that that cost me without flinching, because i have felt that i deserved humiliation. but is there a yet greater humiliation in store for me? you say you have been living here--that he is everything to you. am i to draw from that the obvious, the extremest inference?" triumph at any price is sweet to men and women--especially the latter. it was her first and last opportunity of repaying him for the cruel contumely which she had borne at his hands so docilely. "yes," she answered; and there was that in her subtly compounded nature which made her feel a thrill of pride as she did so. yet the moment after she had so mightily belied her character she half repented. her husband had turned as white as the wall behind him. it seemed as if all that remained to him of life and spirit had been abstracted at a stroke. yet he did not move, and in his efforts at self-control closed his mouth together as a vice. his determination was fairly successful, though she saw how very much greater than she had expected her triumph had been. presently he looked across at winterborne. "would it startle you to hear," he said, as if he hardly had breath to utter the words, "that she who was to me what he was to you is dead also?" "dead--she dead?" exclaimed grace. "yes. felice charmond is where this young man is." "never!" said grace, vehemently. he went on without heeding the insinuation: "and i came back to try to make it up with you--but--" fitzpiers rose, and moved across the room to go away, looking downward with the droop of a man whose hope was turned to apathy, if not despair. in going round the door his eye fell upon her once more. she was still bending over the body of winterborne, her face close to the young man's. "have you been kissing him during his illness?" asked her husband. "yes." "since his fevered state set in?" "yes." "on his lips?" "yes." "then you will do well to take a few drops of this in water as soon as possible." he drew a small phial from his pocket and returned to offer it to her. grace shook her head. "if you don't do as i tell you you may soon be like him." "i don't care. i wish to die." "i'll put it here," said fitzpiers, placing the bottle on a ledge beside him. "the sin of not having warned you will not be upon my head at any rate, among my other sins. i am now going, and i will send somebody to you. your father does not know that you are here, so i suppose i shall be bound to tell him?" "certainly." fitzpiers left the cot, and the stroke of his feet was soon immersed in the silence that pervaded the spot. grace remained kneeling and weeping, she hardly knew how long, and then she sat up, covered poor giles's features, and went towards the door where her husband had stood. no sign of any other comer greeted her ear, the only perceptible sounds being the tiny cracklings of the dead leaves, which, like a feather-bed, had not yet done rising to their normal level where indented by the pressure of her husband's receding footsteps. it reminded her that she had been struck with the change in his aspect; the extremely intellectual look that had always been in his face was wrought to a finer phase by thinness, and a care-worn dignity had been superadded. she returned to winterborne's side, and during her meditations another tread drew near the door, entered the outer room, and halted at the entrance of the chamber where grace was. "what--marty!" said grace. "yes. i have heard," said marty, whose demeanor had lost all its girlishness under the stroke that seemed almost literally to have bruised her. "he died for me!" murmured grace, heavily. marty did not fully comprehend; and she answered, "he belongs to neither of us now, and your beauty is no more powerful with him than my plainness. i have come to help you, ma'am. he never cared for me, and he cared much for you; but he cares for us both alike now." "oh don't, don't, marty!" marty said no more, but knelt over winterborne from the other side. "did you meet my hus--mr. fitzpiers?" "no!" "then what brought you here?" "i come this way sometimes. i have got to go to the farther side of the wood this time of the year, and am obliged to get there before four o'clock in the morning, to begin heating the oven for the early baking. i have passed by here often at this time." grace looked at her quickly. "then did you know i was here?" "yes, ma'am." "did you tell anybody?" "no. i knew you lived in the hut, that he had gied it up to ye, and lodged out himself." "did you know where he lodged?" "no. that i couldn't find out. was it at delborough?" "no. it was not there, marty. would it had been! it would have saved--saved--" to check her tears she turned, and seeing a book on the window-bench, took it up. "look, marty, this is a psalter. he was not an outwardly religious man, but he was pure and perfect in his heart. shall we read a psalm over him?" "oh yes--we will--with all my heart!" grace opened the thin brown book, which poor giles had kept at hand mainly for the convenience of whetting his pen-knife upon its leather covers. she began to read in that rich, devotional voice peculiar to women only on such occasions. when it was over, marty said, "i should like to pray for his soul." "so should i," said her companion. "but we must not." "why? nobody would know." grace could not resist the argument, influenced as she was by the sense of making amends for having neglected him in the body; and their tender voices united and filled the narrow room with supplicatory murmurs that a calvinist might have envied. they had hardly ended when now and more numerous foot-falls were audible, also persons in conversation, one of whom grace recognized as her father. she rose, and went to the outer apartment, in which there was only such light as beamed from the inner one. melbury and mrs. melbury were standing there. "i don't reproach you, grace," said her father, with an estranged manner, and in a voice not at all like his old voice. "what has come upon you and us is beyond reproach, beyond weeping, and beyond wailing. perhaps i drove you to it. but i am hurt; i am scourged; i am astonished. in the face of this there is nothing to be said." without replying, grace turned and glided back to the inner chamber. "marty," she said, quickly, "i cannot look my father in the face until he knows the true circumstances of my life here. go and tell him--what you have told me--what you saw--that he gave up his house to me." she sat down, her face buried in her hands, and marty went, and after a short absence returned. then grace rose, and going out asked her father if he had met her husband. "yes," said melbury. "and you know all that has happened?" "i do. forgive me, grace, for suspecting ye of worse than rashness--i ought to know ye better. are you coming with me to what was once your home?" "no. i stay here with him. take no account of me any more." the unwonted, perplexing, agitating relations in which she had stood to winterborne quite lately--brought about by melbury's own contrivance--could not fail to soften the natural anger of a parent at her more recent doings. "my daughter, things are bad," he rejoined. "but why do you persevere to make 'em worse? what good can you do to giles by staying here with him? mind, i ask no questions. i don't inquire why you decided to come here, or anything as to what your course would have been if he had not died, though i know there's no deliberate harm in ye. as for me, i have lost all claim upon you, and i make no complaint. but i do say that by coming back with me now you will show no less kindness to him, and escape any sound of shame. "but i don't wish to escape it." "if you don't on your own account, cannot you wish to on mine and hers? nobody except our household knows that you have left home. then why should you, by a piece of perverseness, bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave?" "if it were not for my husband--" she began, moved by his words. "but how can i meet him there? how can any woman who is not a mere man's creature join him after what has taken place?" "he would go away again rather than keep you out of my house." "how do you know that, father?" "we met him on our way here, and he told us so," said mrs. melbury. "he had said something like it before. he seems very much upset altogether." "he declared to her when he came to our house that he would wait for time and devotion to bring about his forgiveness," said her husband. "that was it, wasn't it, lucy?" "yes. that he would not intrude upon you, grace, till you gave him absolute permission," mrs. melbury added. this antecedent considerateness in fitzpiers was as welcome to grace as it was unexpected; and though she did not desire his presence, she was sorry that by her retaliatory fiction she had given him a different reason for avoiding her. she made no further objections to accompanying her parents, taking them into the inner room to give winterborne a last look, and gathering up the two or three things that belonged to her. while she was doing this the two women came who had been called by melbury, and at their heels poor creedle. "forgive me, but i can't rule my mourning nohow as a man should, mr. melbury," he said. "i ha'n't seen him since thursday se'night, and have wondered for days and days where he's been keeping. there was i expecting him to come and tell me to wash out the cider-barrels against the making, and here was he-- well, i've knowed him from table-high; i knowed his father--used to bide about upon two sticks in the sun afore he died!--and now i've seen the end of the family, which we can ill afford to lose, wi' such a scanty lot of good folk in hintock as we've got. and now robert creedle will be nailed up in parish boards 'a b'lieve; and noboby will glutch down a sigh for he!" they started for home, marty and creedle remaining behind. for a time grace and her father walked side by side without speaking. it was just in the blue of the dawn, and the chilling tone of the sky was reflected in her cold, wet face. the whole wood seemed to be a house of death, pervaded by loss to its uttermost length and breadth. winterborne was gone, and the copses seemed to show the want of him; those young trees, so many of which he had planted, and of which he had spoken so truly when he said that he should fall before they fell, were at that very moment sending out their roots in the direction that he had given them with his subtle hand. "one thing made it tolerable to us that your husband should come back to the house," said melbury at last--"the death of mrs. charmond." "ah, yes," said grace, arousing slightly to the recollection, "he told me so." "did he tell you how she died? it was no such death as giles's. she was shot--by a disappointed lover. it occurred in germany. the unfortunate man shot himself afterwards. he was that south carolina gentleman of very passionate nature who used to haunt this place to force her to an interview, and followed her about everywhere. so ends the brilliant felice charmond--once a good friend to me--but no friend to you." "i can forgive her," said grace, absently. "did edgar tell you of this?" "no; but he put a london newspaper, giving an account of it, on the hall table, folded in such a way that we should see it. it will be in the sherton paper this week, no doubt. to make the event more solemn still to him, he had just before had sharp words with her, and left her. he told lucy this, as nothing about him appears in the newspaper. and the cause of the quarrel was, of all people, she we've left behind us." "do you mean marty?" grace spoke the words but perfunctorily. for, pertinent and pointed as melbury's story was, she had no heart for it now. "yes. marty south." melbury persisted in his narrative, to divert her from her present grief, if possible. "before he went away she wrote him a letter, which he kept in his, pocket a long while before reading. he chanced to pull it out in mrs. charmond's, presence, and read it out loud. it contained something which teased her very much, and that led to the rupture. she was following him to make it up when she met with her terrible death." melbury did not know enough to give the gist of the incident, which was that marty south's letter had been concerning a certain personal adornment common to herself and mrs. charmond. her bullet reached its billet at last. the scene between fitzpiers and felice had been sharp, as only a scene can be which arises out of the mortification of one woman by another in the presence of a lover. true, marty had not effected it by word of mouth; the charge about the locks of hair was made simply by fitzpiers reading her letter to him aloud to felice in the playfully ironical tones of one who had become a little weary of his situation, and was finding his friend, in the phrase of george herbert, a "flat delight." he had stroked those false tresses with his hand many a time without knowing them to be transplanted, and it was impossible when the discovery was so abruptly made to avoid being finely satirical, despite her generous disposition. that was how it had begun, and tragedy had been its end. on his abrupt departure she had followed him to the station but the train was gone; and in travelling to baden in search of him she had met his rival, whose reproaches led to an altercation, and the death of both. of that precipitate scene of passion and crime fitzpiers had known nothing till he saw an account of it in the papers, where, fortunately for himself, no mention was made of his prior acquaintance with the unhappy lady; nor was there any allusion to him in the subsequent inquiry, the double death being attributed to some gambling losses, though, in point of fact, neither one of them had visited the tables. melbury and his daughter drew near their house, having seen but one living thing on their way, a squirrel, which did not run up its tree, but, dropping the sweet chestnut which it carried, cried chut-chut-chut, and stamped with its hind legs on the ground. when the roofs and chimneys of the homestead began to emerge from the screen of boughs, grace started, and checked herself in her abstracted advance. "you clearly understand," she said to her step-mother some of her old misgiving returning, "that i am coming back only on condition of his leaving as he promised? will you let him know this, that there may be no mistake?" mrs. melbury, who had some long private talks with fitzpiers, assured grace that she need have no doubts on that point, and that he would probably be gone by the evening. grace then entered with them into melbury's wing of the house, and sat down listlessly in the parlor, while her step-mother went to fitzpiers. the prompt obedience to her wishes which the surgeon showed did honor to him, if anything could. before mrs. melbury had returned to the room grace, who was sitting on the parlor window-bench, saw her husband go from the door under the increasing light of morning, with a bag in his hand. while passing through the gate he turned his head. the firelight of the room she sat in threw her figure into dark relief against the window as she looked through the panes, and he must have seen her distinctly. in a moment he went on, the gate fell to, and he disappeared. at the hut she had declared that another had displaced him; and now she had banished him. chapter xliv. fitzpiers had hardly been gone an hour when grace began to sicken. the next day she kept her room. old jones was called in; he murmured some statements in which the words "feverish symptoms" occurred. grace heard them, and guessed the means by which she had brought this visitation upon herself. one day, while she still lay there with her head throbbing, wondering if she were really going to join him who had gone before, grammer oliver came to her bedside. "i don't know whe'r this is meant for you to take, ma'am," she said, "but i have found it on the table. it was left by marty, i think, when she came this morning." grace turned her hot eyes upon what grammer held up. it was the phial left at the hut by her husband when he had begged her to take some drops of its contents if she wished to preserve herself from falling a victim to the malady which had pulled down winterborne. she examined it as well as she could. the liquid was of an opaline hue, and bore a label with an inscription in italian. he had probably got it in his wanderings abroad. she knew but little italian, but could understand that the cordial was a febrifuge of some sort. her father, her mother, and all the household were anxious for her recovery, and she resolved to obey her husband's directions. whatever the risk, if any, she was prepared to run it. a glass of water was brought, and the drops dropped in. the effect, though not miraculous, was remarkable. in less than an hour she felt calmer, cooler, better able to reflect--less inclined to fret and chafe and wear herself away. she took a few drops more. from that time the fever retreated, and went out like a damped conflagration. "how clever he is!" she said, regretfully. "why could he not have had more principle, so as to turn his great talents to good account? perhaps he has saved my useless life. but he doesn't know it, and doesn't care whether he has saved it or not; and on that account will never be told by me! probably he only gave it to me in the arrogance of his skill, to show the greatness of his resources beside mine, as elijah drew down fire from heaven." as soon as she had quite recovered from this foiled attack upon her life, grace went to marty south's cottage. the current of her being had again set towards the lost giles winterborne. "marty," she said, "we both loved him. we will go to his grave together." great hintock church stood at the upper part of the village, and could be reached without passing through the street. in the dusk of the late september day they went thither by secret ways, walking mostly in silence side by side, each busied with her own thoughts. grace had a trouble exceeding marty's--that haunting sense of having put out the light of his life by her own hasty doings. she had tried to persuade herself that he might have died of his illness, even if she had not taken possession of his house. sometimes she succeeded in her attempt; sometimes she did not. they stood by the grave together, and though the sun had gone down, they could see over the woodland for miles, and down to the vale in which he had been accustomed to descend every year, with his portable mill and press, to make cider about this time. perhaps grace's first grief, the discovery that if he had lived he could never have claimed her, had some power in softening this, the second. on marty's part there was the same consideration; never would she have been his. as no anticipation of gratified affection had been in existence while he was with them, there was none to be disappointed now that he had gone. grace was abased when, by degrees, she found that she had never understood giles as marty had done. marty south alone, of all the women in hintock and the world, had approximated to winterborne's level of intelligent intercourse with nature. in that respect she had formed the complement to him in the other sex, had lived as his counterpart, had subjoined her thought to his as a corollary. the casual glimpses which the ordinary population bestowed upon that wondrous world of sap and leaves called the hintock woods had been with these two, giles and marty, a clear gaze. they had been possessed of its finer mysteries as of commonplace knowledge; had been able to read its hieroglyphs as ordinary writing; to them the sights and sounds of night, winter, wind, storm, amid those dense boughs, which had to grace a touch of the uncanny, and even the supernatural, were simple occurrences whose origin, continuance, and laws they foreknew. they had planted together, and together they had felled; together they had, with the run of the years, mentally collected those remoter signs and symbols which, seen in few, were of runic obscurity, but all together made an alphabet. from the light lashing of the twigs upon their faces, when brushing through them in the dark, they could pronounce upon the species of the tree whence they stretched; from the quality of the wind's murmur through a bough they could in like manner name its sort afar off. they knew by a glance at a trunk if its heart were sound, or tainted with incipient decay, and by the state of its upper twigs, the stratum that had been reached by its roots. the artifices of the seasons were seen by them from the conjuror's own point of view, and not from that of the spectator's. "he ought to have married you, marty, and nobody else in the world!" said grace, with conviction, after thinking somewhat in the above strain. marty shook her head. "in all our out-door days and years together, ma'am," she replied, "the one thing he never spoke of to me was love; nor i to him." "yet you and he could speak in a tongue that nobody else knew--not even my father, though he came nearest knowing--the tongue of the trees and fruits and flowers themselves." she could indulge in mournful fancies like this to marty; but the hard core to her grief--which marty's had not--remained. had she been sure that giles's death resulted entirely from his exposure, it would have driven her well-nigh to insanity; but there was always that bare possibility that his exposure had only precipitated what was inevitable. she longed to believe that it had not done even this. there was only one man whose opinion on the circumstances she would be at all disposed to trust. her husband was that man. yet to ask him it would be necessary to detail the true conditions in which she and winterborne had lived during these three or four critical days that followed her flight; and in withdrawing her original defiant announcement on that point, there seemed a weakness she did not care to show. she never doubted that fitzpiers would believe her if she made a clean confession of the actual situation; but to volunteer the correction would seem like signalling for a truce, and that, in her present frame of mind, was what she did not feel the need of. it will probably not appear a surprising statement, after what has been already declared of fitzpiers, that the man whom grace's fidelity could not keep faithful was stung into passionate throbs of interest concerning her by her avowal of the contrary. he declared to himself that he had never known her dangerously full compass if she were capable of such a reprisal; and, melancholy as it may be to admit the fact, his own humiliation and regret engendered a smouldering admiration of her. he passed a month or two of great misery at exbury, the place to which he had retired--quite as much misery indeed as grace, could she have known of it, would have been inclined to inflict upon any living creature, how much soever he might have wronged her. then a sudden hope dawned upon him; he wondered if her affirmation were true. he asked himself whether it were not the act of a woman whose natural purity and innocence had blinded her to the contingencies of such an announcement. his wide experience of the sex had taught him that, in many cases, women who ventured on hazardous matters did so because they lacked an imagination sensuous enough to feel their full force. in this light grace's bold avowal might merely have denoted the desperation of one who was a child to the realities of obliquity. fitzpiers's mental sufferings and suspense led him at last to take a melancholy journey to the neighborhood of little hintock; and here he hovered for hours around the scene of the purest emotional experiences that he had ever known in his life. he walked about the woods that surrounded melbury's house, keeping out of sight like a criminal. it was a fine evening, and on his way homeward he passed near marty south's cottage. as usual she had lighted her candle without closing her shutters; he saw her within as he had seen her many times before. she was polishing tools, and though he had not wished to show himself, he could not resist speaking in to her through the half-open door. "what are you doing that for, marty?" "because i want to clean them. they are not mine." he could see, indeed, that they were not hers, for one was a spade, large and heavy, and another was a bill-hook which she could only have used with both hands. the spade, though not a new one, had been so completely burnished that it was bright as silver. fitzpiers somehow divined that they were giles winterborne's, and he put the question to her. she replied in the affirmative. "i am going to keep 'em," she said, "but i can't get his apple-mill and press. i wish could; it is going to be sold, they say." "then i will buy it for you," said fitzpiers. "that will be making you a return for a kindness you did me." his glance fell upon the girl's rare-colored hair, which had grown again. "oh, marty, those locks of yours--and that letter! but it was a kindness to send it, nevertheless," he added, musingly. after this there was confidence between them--such confidence as there had never been before. marty was shy, indeed, of speaking about the letter, and her motives in writing it; but she thanked him warmly for his promise of the cider-press. she would travel with it in the autumn season, as he had done, she said. she would be quite strong enough, with old creedle as an assistant. "ah! there was one nearer to him than you," said fitzpiers, referring to winterborne. "one who lived where he lived, and was with him when he died." then marty, suspecting that he did not know the true circumstances, from the fact that mrs. fitzpiers and himself were living apart, told him of giles's generosity to grace in giving up his house to her at the risk, and possibly the sacrifice, of his own life. when the surgeon heard it he almost envied giles his chivalrous character. he expressed a wish to marty that his visit to her should be kept secret, and went home thoughtful, feeling that in more that one sense his journey to hintock had not been in vain. he would have given much to win grace's forgiveness then. but whatever he dared hope for in that kind from the future, there was nothing to be done yet, while giles winterborne's memory was green. to wait was imperative. a little time might melt her frozen thoughts, and lead her to look on him with toleration, if not with love. chapter xlv. weeks and months of mourning for winterborne had been passed by grace in the soothing monotony of the memorial act to which she and marty had devoted themselves. twice a week the pair went in the dusk to great hintock, and, like the two mourners in cymbeline, sweetened his sad grave with their flowers and their tears. sometimes grace thought that it was a pity neither one of them had been his wife for a little while, and given the world a copy of him who was so valuable in their eyes. nothing ever had brought home to her with such force as this death how little acquirements and culture weigh beside sterling personal character. while her simple sorrow for his loss took a softer edge with the lapse of the autumn and winter seasons, her self-reproach at having had a possible hand in causing it knew little abatement. little occurred at hintock during these months of the fall and decay of the leaf. discussion of the almost contemporaneous death of mrs. charmond abroad had waxed and waned. fitzpiers had had a marvellous escape from being dragged into the inquiry which followed it, through the accident of their having parted just before under the influence of marty south's letter--the tiny instrument of a cause deep in nature. her body was not brought home. it seemed to accord well with the fitful fever of that impassioned woman's life that she should not have found a native grave. she had enjoyed but a life-interest in the estate, which, after her death, passed to a relative of her husband's--one who knew not felice, one whose purpose seemed to be to blot out every vestige of her. on a certain day in february--the cheerful day of st. valentine, in fact--a letter reached mrs. fitzpiers, which had been mentally promised her for that particular day a long time before. it announced that fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where he had obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medical man, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not set them right. he had thought fit to communicate with her on that day of tender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining a substantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forget the past and bring herself to join him. there the practical part ended; he then went on-- "my last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear grace and dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued. you may be absolutely indifferent to what i say, but let me say it: i have never loved any woman alive or dead as i love, respect, and honor you at this present moment. what you told me in the pride and haughtiness of your heart i never believed [this, by the way, was not strictly true]; but even if i had believed it, it could never have estranged me from you. is there any use in telling you--no, there is not--that i dream of your ripe lips more frequently than i say my prayers; that the old familiar rustle of your dress often returns upon my mind till it distracts me? if you could condescend even only to see me again you would be breathing life into a corpse. my pure, pure grace, modest as a turtledove, how came i ever to possess you? for the sake of being present in your mind on this lovers' day, i think i would almost rather have you hate me a little than not think of me at all. you may call my fancies whimsical; but remember, sweet, lost one, that 'nature is one in love, and where 'tis fine it sends some instance of itself.' i will not intrude upon you further now. make me a little bit happy by sending back one line to say that you will consent, at any rate, to a short interview. i will meet you and leave you as a mere acquaintance, if you will only afford me this slight means of making a few explanations, and of putting my position before you. believe me, in spite of all you may do or feel, your lover always (once your husband), "e." it was, oddly enough, the first occasion, or nearly the first on which grace had ever received a love-letter from him, his courtship having taken place under conditions which rendered letter-writing unnecessary. its perusal, therefore, had a certain novelty for her. she thought that, upon the whole, he wrote love-letters very well. but the chief rational interest of the letter to the reflective grace lay in the chance that such a meeting as he proposed would afford her of setting her doubts at rest, one way or the other, on her actual share in winterborne's death. the relief of consulting a skilled mind, the one professional man who had seen giles at that time, would be immense. as for that statement that she had uttered in her disdainful grief, which at the time she had regarded as her triumph, she was quite prepared to admit to him that his belief was the true one; for in wronging herself as she did when she made it, she had done what to her was a far more serious thing, wronged winterborne's memory. without consulting her father, or any one in the house or out of it, grace replied to the letter. she agreed to meet fitzpiers on two conditions, of which the first was that the place of meeting should be the top of rubdown hill, the second that he would not object to marty south accompanying her. whatever part, much or little, there may have been in fitzpiers's so-called valentine to his wife, he felt a delight as of the bursting of spring when her brief reply came. it was one of the few pleasures that he had experienced of late years at all resembling those of his early youth. he promptly replied that he accepted the conditions, and named the day and hour at which he would be on the spot she mentioned. a few minutes before three on the appointed day found him climbing the well-known hill, which had been the axis of so many critical movements in their lives during his residence at hintock. the sight of each homely and well-remembered object swelled the regret that seldom left him now. whatever paths might lie open to his future, the soothing shades of hintock were forbidden him forever as a permanent dwelling-place. he longed for the society of grace. but to lay offerings on her slighted altar was his first aim, and until her propitiation was complete he would constrain her in no way to return to him. the least reparation that he could make, in a case where he would gladly have made much, would be to let her feel herself absolutely free to choose between living with him and without him. moreover, a subtlist in emotions, he cultivated as under glasses strange and mournful pleasures that he would not willingly let die just at present. to show any forwardness in suggesting a modus vivendi to grace would be to put an end to these exotics. to be the vassal of her sweet will for a time, he demanded no more, and found solace in the contemplation of the soft miseries she caused him. approaching the hill-top with a mind strung to these notions, fitzpiers discerned a gay procession of people coming over the crest, and was not long in perceiving it to be a wedding-party. though the wind was keen the women were in light attire, and the flowered waistcoats of the men had a pleasing vividness of pattern. each of the gentler ones clung to the arm of her partner so tightly as to have with him one step, rise, swing, gait, almost one centre of gravity. in the buxom bride fitzpiers recognized no other than suke damson, who in her light gown looked a giantess; the small husband beside her he saw to be tim tangs. fitzpiers could not escape, for they had seen him; though of all the beauties of the world whom he did not wish to meet suke was the chief. but he put the best face on the matter that he could and came on, the approaching company evidently discussing him and his separation from mrs. fitzpiers. as the couples closed upon him he expressed his congratulations. "we be just walking round the parishes to show ourselves a bit," said tim. "first we het across to delborough, then athwart to here, and from here we go to rubdown and millshot, and then round by the cross-roads home. home says i, but it won't be that long! we be off next month." "indeed. where to?" tim informed him that they were going to new zealand. not but that he would have been contented with hintock, but his wife was ambitious and wanted to leave, so he had given way. "then good-by," said fitzpiers; "i may not see you again." he shook hands with tim and turned to the bride. "good-by, suke," he said, taking her hand also. "i wish you and your husband prosperity in the country you have chosen." with this he left them, and hastened on to his appointment. the wedding-party re-formed and resumed march likewise. but in restoring his arm to suke, tim noticed that her full and blooming countenance had undergone a change. "holloa! me dear--what's the matter?" said tim. "nothing to speak o'," said she. but to give the lie to her assertion she was seized with lachrymose twitches, that soon produced a dribbling face. "how--what the devil's this about!" exclaimed the bridegroom. "she's a little wee bit overcome, poor dear!" said the first bridesmaid, unfolding her handkerchief and wiping suke's eyes. "i never did like parting from people!" said suke, as soon as she could speak. "why him in particular?" "well--he's such a clever doctor, that 'tis a thousand pities we sha'n't see him any more! there'll be no such clever doctor as he in new zealand, if i should require one; and the thought o't got the better of my feelings!" they walked on, but tim's face had grown rigid and pale, for he recalled slight circumstances, disregarded at the time of their occurrence. the former boisterous laughter of the wedding-party at the groomsman's jokes was heard ringing through the woods no more. by this time fitzpiers had advanced on his way to the top of the hill, where he saw two figures emerging from the bank on the right hand. these were the expected ones, grace and marty south, who had evidently come there by a short and secret path through the wood. grace was muffled up in her winter dress, and he thought that she had never looked so seductive as at this moment, in the noontide bright but heatless sun, and the keen wind, and the purplish-gray masses of brushwood around. fitzpiers continued to regard the nearing picture, till at length their glances met for a moment, when she demurely sent off hers at a tangent and gave him the benefit of her three-quarter face, while with courteous completeness of conduct he lifted his hat in a large arc. marty dropped behind; and when fitzpiers held out his hand, grace touched it with her fingers. "i have agreed to be here mostly because i wanted to ask you something important," said mrs. fitzpiers, her intonation modulating in a direction that she had not quite wished it to take. "i am most attentive," said her husband. "shall we take to the wood for privacy?" grace demurred, and fitzpiers gave in, and they kept the public road. at any rate she would take his arm? this also was gravely negatived, the refusal being audible to marty. "why not?" he inquired. "oh, mr. fitzpiers--how can you ask?" "right, right," said he, his effusiveness shrivelled up. as they walked on she returned to her inquiry. "it is about a matter that may perhaps be unpleasant to you. but i think i need not consider that too carefully." "not at all," said fitzpiers, heroically. she then took him back to the time of poor winterborne's death, and related the precise circumstances amid which his fatal illness had come upon him, particularizing the dampness of the shelter to which he had betaken himself, his concealment from her of the hardships that he was undergoing, all that he had put up with, all that he had done for her in his scrupulous considerateness. the retrospect brought her to tears as she asked him if he thought that the sin of having driven him to his death was upon her. fitzpiers could hardly help showing his satisfaction at what her narrative indirectly revealed, the actual harmlessness of an escapade with her lover, which had at first, by her own showing, looked so grave, and he did not care to inquire whether that harmlessness had been the result of aim or of accident. with regard to her question, he declared that in his judgment no human being could answer it. he thought that upon the whole the balance of probabilities turned in her favor. winterborne's apparent strength, during the last months of his life, must have been delusive. it had often occurred that after a first attack of that insidious disease a person's apparent recovery was a physiological mendacity. the relief which came to grace lay almost as much in sharing her knowledge of the particulars with an intelligent mind as in the assurances fitzpiers gave her. "well, then, to put this case before you, and obtain your professional opinion, was chiefly why i consented to come here to-day," said she, when he had reached the aforesaid conclusion. "for no other reason at all?" he asked, ruefully. "it was nearly the whole." they stood and looked over a gate at twenty or thirty starlings feeding in the grass, and he started the talk again by saying, in a low voice, "and yet i love you more than ever i loved you in my life." grace did not move her eyes from the birds, and folded her delicate lips as if to keep them in subjection. "it is a different kind of love altogether," said he. "less passionate; more profound. it has nothing to do with the material conditions of the object at all; much to do with her character and goodness, as revealed by closer observation. 'love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.'" "that's out of 'measure for measure,'" said she, slyly. "oh yes--i meant it as a citation," blandly replied fitzpiers. "well, then, why not give me a very little bit of your heart again?" the crash of a felled tree in the remote depths of the wood recalled the past at that moment, and all the homely faithfulness of winterborne. "don't ask it! my heart is in the grave with giles," she replied, stanchly. "mine is with you--in no less deep a grave, i fear, according to that." "i am very sorry; but it cannot be helped." "how can you be sorry for me, when you wilfully keep open the grave?" "oh no--that's not so," returned grace, quickly, and moved to go away from him. "but, dearest grace," said he, "you have condescended to come; and i thought from it that perhaps when i had passed through a long state of probation you would be generous. but if there can be no hope of our getting completely reconciled, treat me gently--wretch though i am." "i did not say you were a wretch, nor have i ever said so." "but you have such a contemptuous way of looking at me that i fear you think so." grace's heart struggled between the wish not to be harsh and the fear that she might mislead him. "i cannot look contemptuous unless i feel contempt," she said, evasively. "and all i feel is lovelessness." "i have been very bad, i know," he returned. "but unless you can really love me again, grace, i would rather go away from you forever. i don't want you to receive me again for duty's sake, or anything of that sort. if i had not cared more for your affection and forgiveness than my own personal comfort, i should never have come back here. i could have obtained a practice at a distance, and have lived my own life without coldness or reproach. but i have chosen to return to the one spot on earth where my name is tarnished--to enter the house of a man from whom i have had worse treatment than from any other man alive--all for you!" this was undeniably true, and it had its weight with grace, who began to look as if she thought she had been shockingly severe. "before you go," he continued, "i want to know your pleasure about me--what you wish me to do, or not to do." "you are independent of me, and it seems a mockery to ask that. far be it from me to advise. but i will think it over. i rather need advice myself than stand in a position to give it." "you don't need advice, wisest, dearest woman that ever lived. if you did--" "would you give it to me?" "would you act upon what i gave?" "that's not a fair inquiry," said she, smiling despite her gravity. "i don't mind hearing it--what you do really think the most correct and proper course for me." "it is so easy for me to say, and yet i dare not, for it would be provoking you to remonstrances." knowing, of course, what the advice would be, she did not press him further, and was about to beckon marty forward and leave him, when he interrupted her with, "oh, one moment, dear grace--you will meet me again?" she eventually agreed to see him that day fortnight. fitzpiers expostulated at the interval, but the half-alarmed earnestness with which she entreated him not to come sooner made him say hastily that he submitted to her will--that he would regard her as a friend only, anxious for his reform and well-being, till such time as she might allow him to exceed that privilege. all this was to assure her; it was only too clear that he had not won her confidence yet. it amazed fitzpiers, and overthrew all his deductions from previous experience, to find that this girl, though she had been married to him, could yet be so coy. notwithstanding a certain fascination that it carried with it, his reflections were sombre as he went homeward; he saw how deep had been his offence to produce so great a wariness in a gentle and once unsuspicious soul. he was himself too fastidious to care to coerce her. to be an object of misgiving or dislike to a woman who shared his home was what he could not endure the thought of. life as it stood was more tolerable. when he was gone, marty joined mrs. fitzpiers. she would fain have consulted marty on the question of platonic relations with her former husband, as she preferred to regard him. but marty showed no great interest in their affairs, so grace said nothing. they came onward, and saw melbury standing at the scene of the felling which had been audible to them, when, telling marty that she wished her meeting with mr. fitzpiers to be kept private, she left the girl to join her father. at any rate, she would consult him on the expediency of occasionally seeing her husband. her father was cheerful, and walked by her side as he had done in earlier days. "i was thinking of you when you came up," he said. "i have considered that what has happened is for the best. since your husband is gone away, and seems not to wish to trouble you, why, let him go, and drop out of your life. many women are worse off. you can live here comfortably enough, and he can emigrate, or do what he likes for his good. i wouldn't mind sending him the further sum of money he might naturally expect to come to him, so that you may not be bothered with him any more. he could hardly have gone on living here without speaking to me, or meeting me; and that would have been very unpleasant on both sides." these remarks checked her intention. there was a sense of weakness in following them by saying that she had just met her husband by appointment. "then you would advise me not to communicate with him?" she observed. "i shall never advise ye again. you are your own mistress--do as you like. but my opinion is that if you don't live with him, you had better live without him, and not go shilly-shallying and playing bopeep. you sent him away; and now he's gone. very well; trouble him no more." grace felt a guiltiness--she hardly knew why--and made no confession. chapter xlvi. the woods were uninteresting, and grace stayed in-doors a great deal. she became quite a student, reading more than she had done since her marriage but her seclusion was always broken for the periodical visit to winterborne's grave with marty, which was kept up with pious strictness, for the purpose of putting snow-drops, primroses, and other vernal flowers thereon as they came. one afternoon at sunset she was standing just outside her father's garden, which, like the rest of the hintock enclosures, abutted into the wood. a slight foot-path led along here, forming a secret way to either of the houses by getting through its boundary hedge. grace was just about to adopt this mode of entry when a figure approached along the path, and held up his hand to detain her. it was her husband. "i am delighted," he said, coming up out of breath; and there seemed no reason to doubt his words. "i saw you some way off--i was afraid you would go in before i could reach you." "it is a week before the time," said she, reproachfully. "i said a fortnight from the last meeting." "my dear, you don't suppose i could wait a fortnight without trying to get a glimpse of you, even though you had declined to meet me! would it make you angry to know that i have been along this path at dusk three or four times since our last meeting? well, how are you?" she did not refuse her hand, but when he showed a wish to retain it a moment longer than mere formality required, she made it smaller, so that it slipped away from him, with again that same alarmed look which always followed his attempts in this direction. he saw that she was not yet out of the elusive mood; not yet to be treated presumingly; and he was correspondingly careful to tranquillize her. his assertion had seemed to impress her somewhat. "i had no idea you came so often," she said. "how far do you come from?" "from exbury. i always walk from sherton-abbas, for if i hire, people will know that i come; and my success with you so far has not been great enough to justify such overtness. now, my dear one--as i must call you--i put it to you: will you see me a little oftener as the spring advances?" grace lapsed into unwonted sedateness, and avoiding the question, said, "i wish you would concentrate on your profession, and give up those strange studies that used to distract you so much. i am sure you would get on." "it is the very thing i am doing. i was going to ask you to burn--or, at least, get rid of--all my philosophical literature. it is in the bookcases in your rooms. the fact is, i never cared much for abstruse studies." "i am so glad to hear you say that. and those other books--those piles of old plays--what good are they to a medical man?" "none whatever!" he replied, cheerfully. "sell them at sherton for what they will fetch." "and those dreadful old french romances, with their horrid spellings of 'filz' and 'ung' and 'ilz' and 'mary' and 'ma foy?'" "you haven't been reading them, grace?" "oh no--i just looked into them, that was all." "make a bonfire of 'em directly you get home. i meant to do it myself. i can't think what possessed me ever to collect them. i have only a few professional hand-books now, and am quite a practical man. i am in hopes of having some good news to tell you soon, and then do you think you could--come to me again?" "i would rather you did not press me on that just now," she replied, with some feeling. "you have said you mean to lead a new, useful, effectual life; but i should like to see you put it in practice for a little while before you address that query to me. besides--i could not live with you." "why not?" grace was silent a few instants. "i go with marty to giles's grave. we swore we would show him that devotion. and i mean to keep it up." "well, i wouldn't mind that at all. i have no right to expect anything else, and i will not wish you to keep away. i liked the man as well as any i ever knew. in short, i would accompany you a part of the way to the place, and smoke a cigar on the stile while i waited till you came back." "then you haven't given up smoking?" "well--ahem--no. i have thought of doing so, but--" his extreme complacence had rather disconcerted grace, and the question about smoking had been to effect a diversion. presently she said, firmly, and with a moisture in her eye that he could not see, as her mind returned to poor giles's "frustrate ghost," "i don't like you--to speak lightly on that subject, if you did speak lightly. to be frank with you--quite frank--i think of him as my betrothed lover still. i cannot help it. so that it would be wrong for me to join you." fitzpiers was now uneasy. "you say your betrothed lover still," he rejoined. "when, then, were you betrothed to him, or engaged, as we common people say?" "when you were away." "how could that be?" grace would have avoided this; but her natural candor led her on. "it was when i was under the impression that my marriage with you was about to be annulled, and that he could then marry me. so i encouraged him to love me." fitzpiers winced visibly; and yet, upon the whole, she was right in telling it. indeed, his perception that she was right in her absolute sincerity kept up his affectionate admiration for her under the pain of the rebuff. time had been when the avowal that grace had deliberately taken steps to replace him would have brought him no sorrow. but she so far dominated him now that he could not bear to hear her words, although the object of her high regard was no more. "it is rough upon me--that!" he said, bitterly. "oh, grace--i did not know you--tried to get rid of me! i suppose it is of no use, but i ask, cannot you hope to--find a little love in your heart for me again?" "if i could i would oblige you; but i fear i cannot!" she replied, with illogical ruefulness. "and i don't see why you should mind my having had one lover besides yourself in my life, when you have had so many." "but i can tell you honestly that i love you better than all of them put together, and that's what you will not tell me!" "i am sorry; but i fear i cannot," she said, sighing again. "i wonder if you ever will?" he looked musingly into her indistinct face, as if he would read the future there. "now have pity, and tell me: will you try?" "to love you again?" "yes; if you can." "i don't know how to reply," she answered, her embarrassment proving her truth. "will you promise to leave me quite free as to seeing you or not seeing you?" "certainly. have i given any ground for you to doubt my first promise in that respect?" she was obliged to admit that he had not. "then i think that you might get your heart out of that grave," said he, with playful sadness. "it has been there a long time." she faintly shook her head, but said, "i'll try to think of you more--if i can." with this fitzpiers was compelled to be satisfied, and he asked her when she would meet him again. "as we arranged--in a fortnight." "if it must be a fortnight it must!" "this time at least. i'll consider by the day i see you again if i can shorten the interval." "well, be that as it may, i shall come at least twice a week to look at your window." "you must do as you like about that. good-night." "say 'husband.'" she seemed almost inclined to give him the word; but exclaiming, "no, no; i cannot," slipped through the garden-hedge and disappeared. fitzpiers did not exaggerate when he told her that he should haunt the precincts of the dwelling. but his persistence in this course did not result in his seeing her much oftener than at the fortnightly interval which she had herself marked out as proper. at these times, however, she punctually appeared, and as the spring wore on the meetings were kept up, though their character changed but little with the increase in their number. the small garden of the cottage occupied by the tangs family--father, son, and now son's wife--aligned with the larger one of the timber-dealer at its upper end; and when young tim, after leaving work at melbury's, stood at dusk in the little bower at the corner of his enclosure to smoke a pipe, he frequently observed the surgeon pass along the outside track before-mentioned. fitzpiers always walked loiteringly, pensively, looking with a sharp eye into the gardens one after another as he proceeded; for fitzpiers did not wish to leave the now absorbing spot too quickly, after travelling so far to reach it; hoping always for a glimpse of her whom he passionately desired to take to his arms anew. now tim began to be struck with these loitering progresses along the garden boundaries in the gloaming, and wondered what they boded. it was, naturally, quite out of his power to divine the singular, sentimental revival in fitzpiers's heart; the fineness of tissue which could take a deep, emotional--almost also an artistic--pleasure in being the yearning inamorato of a woman he once had deserted, would have seemed an absurdity to the young sawyer. mr. and mrs. fitzpiers were separated; therefore the question of affection as between them was settled. but his suke had, since that meeting on their marriage-day, repentantly admitted, to the urgency of his questioning, a good deal concerning her past levities. putting all things together, he could hardly avoid connecting fitzpiers's mysterious visits to this spot with suke's residence under his roof. but he made himself fairly easy: the vessel in which they were about to emigrate sailed that month; and then suke would be out of fitzpiers's way forever. the interval at last expired, and the eve of their departure arrived. they were pausing in the room of the cottage allotted to them by tim's father, after a busy day of preparation, which left them weary. in a corner stood their boxes, crammed and corded, their large case for the hold having already been sent away. the firelight shone upon suke's fine face and form as she stood looking into it, and upon the face of tim seated in a corner, and upon the walls of his father's house, which he was beholding that night almost for the last time. tim tangs was not happy. this scheme of emigration was dividing him from his father--for old tangs would on no account leave hintock--and had it not been for suke's reputation and his own dignity, tim would at the last moment have abandoned the project. as he sat in the back part of the room he regarded her moodily, and the fire and the boxes. one thing he had particularly noticed this evening--she was very restless; fitful in her actions, unable to remain seated, and in a marked degree depressed. "sorry that you be going, after all, suke?" he said. she sighed involuntarily. "i don't know but that i be," she answered. "'tis natural, isn't it, when one is going away?" "but you wasn't born here as i was." "no." "there's folk left behind that you'd fain have with 'ee, i reckon?" "why do you think that?" "i've seen things and i've heard things; and, suke, i say 'twill be a good move for me to get 'ee away. i don't mind his leavings abroad, but i do mind 'em at home." suke's face was not changed from its aspect of listless indifference by the words. she answered nothing; and shortly after he went out for his customary pipe of tobacco at the top of the garden. the restlessness of suke had indeed owed its presence to the gentleman of tim's suspicions, but in a different--and it must be added in justice to her--more innocent sense than he supposed, judging from former doings. she had accidentally discovered that fitzpiers was in the habit of coming secretly once or twice a week to hintock, and knew that this evening was a favorite one of the seven for his journey. as she was going next day to leave the country, suke thought there could be no great harm in giving way to a little sentimentality by obtaining a glimpse of him quite unknown to himself or to anybody, and thus taking a silent last farewell. aware that fitzpiers's time for passing was at hand she thus betrayed her feeling. no sooner, therefore, had tim left the room than she let herself noiselessly out of the house, and hastened to the corner of the garden, whence she could witness the surgeon's transit across the scene--if he had not already gone by. her light cotton dress was visible to tim lounging in the arbor of the opposite corner, though he was hidden from her. he saw her stealthily climb into the hedge, and so ensconce herself there that nobody could have the least doubt her purpose was to watch unseen for a passer-by. he went across to the spot and stood behind her. suke started, having in her blundering way forgotten that he might be near. she at once descended from the hedge. "so he's coming to-night," said tim, laconically. "and we be always anxious to see our dears." "he is coming to-night," she replied, with defiance. "and we be anxious for our dears." "then will you step in-doors, where your dear will soon jine 'ee? we've to mouster by half-past three to-morrow, and if we don't get to bed by eight at latest our faces will be as long as clock-cases all day." she hesitated for a minute, but ultimately obeyed, going slowly down the garden to the house, where he heard the door-latch click behind her. tim was incensed beyond measure. his marriage had so far been a total failure, a source of bitter regret; and the only course for improving his case, that of leaving the country, was a sorry, and possibly might not be a very effectual one. do what he would, his domestic sky was likely to be overcast to the end of the day. thus he brooded, and his resentment gathered force. he craved a means of striking one blow back at the cause of his cheerless plight, while he was still on the scene of his discomfiture. for some minutes no method suggested itself, and then he had an idea. coming to a sudden resolution, he hastened along the garden, and entered the one attached to the next cottage, which had formerly been the dwelling of a game-keeper. tim descended the path to the back of the house, where only an old woman lived at present, and reaching the wall he stopped. owing to the slope of the ground the roof-eaves of the linhay were here within touch, and he thrust his arm up under them, feeling about in the space on the top of the wall-plate. "ah, i thought my memory didn't deceive me!" he lipped silently. with some exertion he drew down a cobwebbed object curiously framed in iron, which clanked as he moved it. it was about three feet in length and half as wide. tim contemplated it as well as he could in the dying light of day, and raked off the cobwebs with his hand. "that will spoil his pretty shins for'n, i reckon!" he said. it was a man-trap. chapter xlvii. were the inventors of automatic machines to be ranged according to the excellence of their devices for producing sound artistic torture, the creator of the man-trap would occupy a very respectable if not a very high place. it should rather, however, be said, the inventor of the particular form of man-trap of which this found in the keeper's out-house was a specimen. for there were other shapes and other sizes, instruments which, if placed in a row beside one of the type disinterred by tim, would have worn the subordinate aspect of the bears, wild boars, or wolves in a travelling menagerie, as compared with the leading lion or tiger. in short, though many varieties had been in use during those centuries which we are accustomed to look back upon as the true and only period of merry england--in the rural districts more especially--and onward down to the third decade of the nineteenth century, this model had borne the palm, and had been most usually followed when the orchards and estates required new ones. there had been the toothless variety used by the softer-hearted landlords--quite contemptible in their clemency. the jaws of these resembled the jaws of an old woman to whom time has left nothing but gums. there were also the intermediate or half-toothed sorts, probably devised by the middle-natured squires, or those under the influence of their wives: two inches of mercy, two inches of cruelty, two inches of mere nip, two inches of probe, and so on, through the whole extent of the jaws. there were also, as a class apart, the bruisers, which did not lacerate the flesh, but only crushed the bone. the sight of one of these gins when set produced a vivid impression that it was endowed with life. it exhibited the combined aspects of a shark, a crocodile, and a scorpion. each tooth was in the form of a tapering spine, two and a quarter inches long, which, when the jaws were closed, stood in alternation from this side and from that. when they were open, the two halves formed a complete circle between two and three feet in diameter, the plate or treading-place in the midst being about a foot square, while from beneath extended in opposite directions the soul of the apparatus, the pair of springs, each one being of a stiffness to render necessary a lever or the whole weight of the body when forcing it down. there were men at this time still living at hintock who remembered when the gin and others like it were in use. tim tangs's great-uncle had endured a night of six hours in this very trap, which lamed him for life. once a keeper of hintock woods set it on the track of a poacher, and afterwards, coming back that way, forgetful of what he had done, walked into it himself. the wound brought on lockjaw, of which he died. this event occurred during the thirties, and by the year the use of such implements was well-nigh discontinued in the neighborhood. but being made entirely of iron, they by no means disappeared, and in almost every village one could be found in some nook or corner as readily as this was found by tim. it had, indeed, been a fearful amusement of tim and other hintock lads--especially those who had a dim sense of becoming renowned poachers when they reached their prime--to drag out this trap from its hiding, set it, and throw it with billets of wood, which were penetrated by the teeth to the depth of near an inch. as soon as he had examined the trap, and found that the hinges and springs were still perfect, he shouldered it without more ado, and returned with his burden to his own garden, passing on through the hedge to the path immediately outside the boundary. here, by the help of a stout stake, he set the trap, and laid it carefully behind a bush while he went forward to reconnoitre. as has been stated, nobody passed this way for days together sometimes; but there was just a possibility that some other pedestrian than the one in request might arrive, and it behooved tim to be careful as to the identity of his victim. going about a hundred yards along the rising ground to the right, he reached a ridge whereon a large and thick holly grew. beyond this for some distance the wood was more open, and the course which fitzpiers must pursue to reach the point, if he came to-night, was visible a long way forward. for some time there was no sign of him or of anybody. then there shaped itself a spot out of the dim mid-distance, between the masses of brushwood on either hand. and it enlarged, and tim could hear the brushing of feet over the tufts of sour-grass. the airy gait revealed fitzpiers even before his exact outline could be seen. tim tangs turned about, and ran down the opposite side of the hill, till he was again at the head of his own garden. it was the work of a few moments to drag out the man-trap, very gently--that the plate might not be disturbed sufficiently to throw it--to a space between a pair of young oaks which, rooted in contiguity, grew apart upward, forming a v-shaped opening between; and, being backed up by bushes, left this as the only course for a foot-passenger. in it he laid the trap with the same gentleness of handling, locked the chain round one of the trees, and finally slid back the guard which was placed to keep the gin from accidentally catching the arms of him who set it, or, to use the local and better word, "toiled" it. having completed these arrangements, tim sprang through the adjoining hedge of his father's garden, ran down the path, and softly entered the house. obedient to his order, suke had gone to bed; and as soon as he had bolted the door, tim unlaced and kicked off his boots at the foot of the stairs, and retired likewise, without lighting a candle. his object seemed to be to undress as soon as possible. before, however, he had completed the operation, a long cry resounded without--penetrating, but indescribable. "what's that?" said suke, starting up in bed. "sounds as if somebody had caught a hare in his gin." "oh no," said she. "it was not a hare, 'twas louder. hark!" "do 'ee get to sleep," said tim. "how be you going to wake at half-past three else?" she lay down and was silent. tim stealthily opened the window and listened. above the low harmonies produced by the instrumentation of the various species of trees around the premises he could hear the twitching of a chain from the spot whereon he had set the man-trap. but further human sound there was none. tim was puzzled. in the haste of his project he had not calculated upon a cry; but if one, why not more? he soon ceased to essay an answer, for hintock was dead to him already. in half a dozen hours he would be out of its precincts for life, on his way to the antipodes. he closed the window and lay down. the hour which had brought these movements of tim to birth had been operating actively elsewhere. awaiting in her father's house the minute of her appointment with her husband, grace fitzpiers deliberated on many things. should she inform her father before going out that the estrangement of herself and edgar was not so complete as he had imagined, and deemed desirable for her happiness? if she did so she must in some measure become the apologist of her husband, and she was not prepared to go so far. as for him, he kept her in a mood of considerate gravity. he certainly had changed. he had at his worst times always been gentle in his manner towards her. could it be that she might make of him a true and worthy husband yet? she had married him; there was no getting over that; and ought she any longer to keep him at a distance? his suave deference to her lightest whim on the question of his comings and goings, when as her lawful husband he might show a little independence, was a trait in his character as unexpected as it was engaging. if she had been his empress, and he her thrall, he could not have exhibited a more sensitive care to avoid intruding upon her against her will. impelled by a remembrance she took down a prayer-book and turned to the marriage-service. reading it slowly through, she became quite appalled at her recent off-handedness, when she rediscovered what awfully solemn promises she had made him at those chancel steps not so very long ago. she became lost in long ponderings on how far a person's conscience might be bound by vows made without at the time a full recognition of their force. that particular sentence, beginning "whom god hath joined together," was a staggerer for a gentlewoman of strong devotional sentiment. she wondered whether god really did join them together. before she had done deliberating the time of her engagement drew near, and she went out of the house almost at the moment that tim tangs retired to his own. the position of things at that critical juncture was briefly as follows. two hundred yards to the right of the upper end of tangs's garden fitzpiers was still advancing, having now nearly reached the summit of the wood-clothed ridge, the path being the actual one which further on passed between the two young oaks. thus far it was according to tim's conjecture. but about two hundred yards to the left, or rather less, was arising a condition which he had not divined, the emergence of grace as aforesaid from the upper corner of her father's garden, with the view of meeting tim's intended victim. midway between husband and wife was the diabolical trap, silent, open, ready. fitzpiers's walk that night had been cheerful, for he was convinced that the slow and gentle method he had adopted was promising success. the very restraint that he was obliged to exercise upon himself, so as not to kill the delicate bud of returning confidence, fed his flame. he walked so much more rapidly than grace that, if they continued advancing as they had begun, he would reach the trap a good half-minute before she could reach the same spot. but here a new circumstance came in; to escape the unpleasantness of being watched or listened to by lurkers--naturally curious by reason of their strained relations--they had arranged that their meeting for to-night should be at the holm-tree on the ridge above named. so soon, accordingly, as fitzpiers reached the tree he stood still to await her. he had not paused under the prickly foliage more than two minutes when he thought he heard a scream from the other side of the ridge. fitzpiers wondered what it could mean; but such wind as there was just now blew in an adverse direction, and his mood was light. he set down the origin of the sound to one of the superstitious freaks or frolicsome scrimmages between sweethearts that still survived in hintock from old-english times; and waited on where he stood till ten minutes had passed. feeling then a little uneasy, his mind reverted to the scream; and he went forward over the summit and down the embowered incline, till he reached the pair of sister oaks with the narrow opening between them. fitzpiers stumbled and all but fell. stretching down his hand to ascertain the obstruction, it came in contact with a confused mass of silken drapery and iron-work that conveyed absolutely no explanatory idea to his mind at all. it was but the work of a moment to strike a match; and then he saw a sight which congealed his blood. the man-trap was thrown; and between its jaws was part of a woman's clothing--a patterned silk skirt--gripped with such violence that the iron teeth had passed through it, skewering its tissue in a score of places. he immediately recognized the skirt as that of one of his wife's gowns--the gown that she had worn when she met him on the very last occasion. fitzpiers had often studied the effect of these instruments when examining the collection at hintock house, and the conception instantly flashed through him that grace had been caught, taken out mangled by some chance passer, and carried home, some of her clothes being left behind in the difficulty of getting her free. the shock of this conviction, striking into the very current of high hope, was so great that he cried out like one in corporal agony, and in his misery bowed himself down to the ground. of all the degrees and qualities of punishment that fitzpiers had undergone since his sins against grace first began, not any even approximated in intensity to this. "oh, my own--my darling! oh, cruel heaven--it is too much, this!" he cried, writhing and rocking himself over the sorry accessaries of her he deplored. the voice of his distress was sufficiently loud to be audible to any one who might have been there to hear it; and one there was. right and left of the narrow pass between the oaks were dense bushes; and now from behind these a female figure glided, whose appearance even in the gloom was, though graceful in outline, noticeably strange. she was in white up to the waist, and figured above. she was, in short, grace, his wife, lacking the portion of her dress which the gin retained. "don't be grieved about me--don't, dear edgar!" she exclaimed, rushing up and bending over him. "i am not hurt a bit! i was coming on to find you after i had released myself, but i heard footsteps; and i hid away, because i was without some of my clothing, and i did not know who the person might be." fitzpiers had sprung to his feet, and his next act was no less unpremeditated by him than it was irresistible by her, and would have been so by any woman not of amazonian strength. he clasped his arms completely round, pressed her to his breast, and kissed her passionately. "you are not dead!--you are not hurt! thank god--thank god!" he said, almost sobbing in his delight and relief from the horror of his apprehension. "grace, my wife, my love, how is this--what has happened?" "i was coming on to you," she said as distinctly as she could in the half-smothered state of her face against his. "i was trying to be as punctual as possible, and as i had started a minute late i ran along the path very swiftly--fortunately for myself. just when i had passed between these trees i felt something clutch at my dress from behind with a noise, and the next moment i was pulled backward by it, and fell to the ground. i screamed with terror, thinking it was a man lying down there to murder me, but the next moment i discovered it was iron, and that my clothes were caught in a trap. i pulled this way and that, but the thing would not let go, drag it as i would, and i did not know what to do. i did not want to alarm my father or anybody, as i wished nobody to know of these meetings with you; so i could think of no other plan than slipping off my skirt, meaning to run on and tell you what a strange accident had happened to me. but when i had just freed myself by leaving the dress behind, i heard steps, and not being sure it was you, i did not like to be seen in such a pickle, so i hid away." "it was only your speed that saved you! one or both of your legs would have been broken if you had come at ordinary walking pace." "or yours, if you had got here first," said she, beginning to realize the whole ghastliness of the possibility. "oh, edgar, there has been an eye watching over us to-night, and we should be thankful indeed!" he continued to press his face to hers. "you are mine--mine again now." she gently owned that she supposed she was. "i heard what you said when you thought i was injured," she went on, shyly, "and i know that a man who could suffer as you were suffering must have a tender regard for me. but how does this awful thing come here?" "i suppose it has something to do with poachers." fitzpiers was still so shaken by the sense of her danger that he was obliged to sit awhile, and it was not until grace said, "if i could only get my skirt out nobody would know anything about it," that he bestirred himself. by their united efforts, each standing on one of the springs of the trap, they pressed them down sufficiently to insert across the jaws a billet which they dragged from a faggot near at hand; and it was then possible to extract the silk mouthful from the monster's bite, creased and pierced with many holes, but not torn. fitzpiers assisted her to put it on again; and when her customary contours were thus restored they walked on together, grace taking his arm, till he effected an improvement by clasping it round her waist. the ice having been broken in this unexpected manner, she made no further attempt at reserve. "i would ask you to come into the house," she said, "but my meetings with you have been kept secret from my father, and i should like to prepare him." "never mind, dearest. i could not very well have accepted the invitation. i shall never live here again--as much for your sake as for mine. i have news to tell you on this very point, but my alarm had put it out of my head. i have bought a practice, or rather a partnership, in the midlands, and i must go there in a week to take up permanent residence. my poor old great-aunt died about eight months ago, and left me enough to do this. i have taken a little furnished house for a time, till we can get one of our own." he described the place, and the surroundings, and the view from the windows, and grace became much interested. "but why are you not there now?" she said. "because i cannot tear myself away from here till i have your promise. now, darling, you will accompany me there--will you not? to-night has settled that." grace's tremblings had gone off, and she did not say nay. they went on together. the adventure, and the emotions consequent upon the reunion which that event had forced on, combined to render grace oblivious of the direction of their desultory ramble, till she noticed they were in an encircled glade in the densest part of the wood, whereon the moon, that had imperceptibly added its rays to the scene, shone almost vertically. it was an exceptionally soft, balmy evening for the time of year, which was just that transient period in the may month when beech-trees have suddenly unfolded large limp young leaves of the softness of butterflies' wings. boughs bearing such leaves hung low around, and completely enclosed them, so that it was as if they were in a great green vase, which had moss for its bottom and leaf sides. the clouds having been packed in the west that evening so as to retain the departing glare a long while, the hour had seemed much earlier than it was. but suddenly the question of time occurred to her. "i must go back," she said; and without further delay they set their faces towards hintock. as they walked he examined his watch by the aid of the now strong moonlight. "by the gods, i think i have lost my train!" said fitzpiers. "dear me--whereabouts are we?" said she. "two miles in the direction of sherton." "then do you hasten on, edgar. i am not in the least afraid. i recognize now the part of the wood we are in and i can find my way back quite easily. i'll tell my father that we have made it up. i wish i had not kept our meetings so private, for it may vex him a little to know i have been seeing you. he is getting old and irritable, that was why i did not. good-by." "but, as i must stay at the earl of wessex to-night, for i cannot possibly catch the train, i think it would be safer for you to let me take care of you." "but what will my father think has become of me? he does not know in the least where i am--he thinks i only went into the garden for a few minutes." "he will surely guess--somebody has seen me for certain. i'll go all the way back with you to-morrow." "but that newly done-up place--the earl of wessex!" "if you are so very particular about the publicity i will stay at the three tuns." "oh no--it is not that i am particular--but i haven't a brush or comb or anything!" chapter xlviii. all the evening melbury had been coming to his door, saying, "i wonder where in the world that girl is! never in all my born days did i know her bide out like this! she surely said she was going into the garden to get some parsley." melbury searched the garden, the parsley-bed, and the orchard, but could find no trace of her, and then he made inquiries at the cottages of such of his workmen as had not gone to bed, avoiding tangs's because he knew the young people were to rise early to leave. in these inquiries one of the men's wives somewhat incautiously let out the fact that she had heard a scream in the wood, though from which direction she could not say. this set melbury's fears on end. he told the men to light lanterns, and headed by himself they started, creedle following at the last moment with quite a burden of grapnels and ropes, which he could not be persuaded to leave behind, and the company being joined by the hollow-turner and the man who kept the cider-house as they went along. they explored the precincts of the village, and in a short time lighted upon the man-trap. its discovery simply added an item of fact without helping their conjectures; but melbury's indefinite alarm was greatly increased when, holding a candle to the ground, he saw in the teeth of the instrument some frayings from grace's clothing. no intelligence of any kind was gained till they met a woodman of delborough, who said that he had seen a lady answering to the description her father gave of grace, walking through the wood on a gentleman's arm in the direction of sherton. "was he clutching her tight?" said melbury. "well--rather," said the man. "did she walk lame?" "well, 'tis true her head hung over towards him a bit." creedle groaned tragically. melbury, not suspecting the presence of fitzpiers, coupled this account with the man-trap and the scream; he could not understand what it all meant; but the sinister event of the trap made him follow on. accordingly, they bore away towards the town, shouting as they went, and in due course emerged upon the highway. nearing sherton-abbas, the previous information was confirmed by other strollers, though the gentleman's supporting arm had disappeared from these later accounts. at last they were so near sherton that melbury informed his faithful followers that he did not wish to drag them farther at so late an hour, since he could go on alone and inquire if the woman who had been seen were really grace. but they would not leave him alone in his anxiety, and trudged onward till the lamplight from the town began to illuminate their fronts. at the entrance to the high street they got fresh scent of the pursued, but coupled with the new condition that the lady in the costume described had been going up the street alone. "faith!--i believe she's mesmerized, or walking in her sleep," said melbury. however, the identity of this woman with grace was by no means certain; but they plodded along the street. percombe, the hair-dresser, who had despoiled marty of her tresses, was standing at his door, and they duly put inquiries to him. "ah--how's little hintock folk by now?" he said, before replying. "never have i been over there since one winter night some three year ago--and then i lost myself finding it. how can ye live in such a one-eyed place? great hintock is bad enough--hut little hintock--the bats and owls would drive me melancholy-mad! it took two days to raise my sperrits to their true pitch again after that night i went there. mr. melbury, sir, as a man's that put by money, why not retire and live here, and see something of the world?" the responses at last given by him to their queries guided them to the building that offered the best accommodation in sherton--having been enlarged contemporaneously with the construction of the railway--namely, the earl of wessex hotel. leaving the others without, melbury made prompt inquiry here. his alarm was lessened, though his perplexity was increased, when he received a brief reply that such a lady was in the house. "do you know if it is my daughter?" asked melbury. the waiter did not. "do you know the lady's name?" of this, too, the household was ignorant, the hotel having been taken by brand-new people from a distance. they knew the gentleman very well by sight, and had not thought it necessary to ask him to enter his name. "oh, the gentleman appears again now," said melbury to himself. "well, i want to see the lady," he declared. a message was taken up, and after some delay the shape of grace appeared descending round the bend of the stair-case, looking as if she lived there, but in other respects rather guilty and frightened. "why--what the name--" began her father. "i thought you went out to get parsley!" "oh, yes--i did--but it is all right," said grace, in a flurried whisper. "i am not alone here. i am here with edgar. it is entirely owing to an accident, father." "edgar! an accident! how does he come here? i thought he was two hundred mile off." "yes, so he is--i mean he has got a beautiful practice two hundred miles off; he has bought it with his own money, some that came to him. but he travelled here, and i was nearly caught in a man-trap, and that's how it is i am here. we were just thinking of sending a messenger to let you know." melbury did not seem to be particularly enlightened by this explanation. "you were caught in a man-trap?" "yes; my dress was. that's how it arose. edgar is up-stairs in his own sitting-room," she went on. "he would not mind seeing you, i am sure." "oh, faith, i don't want to see him! i have seen him too often a'ready. i'll see him another time, perhaps, if 'tis to oblige 'ee." "he came to see me; he wanted to consult me about this large partnership i speak of, as it is very promising." "oh, i am glad to hear it," said melbury, dryly. a pause ensued, during which the inquiring faces and whity-brown clothes of melbury's companions appeared in the door-way. "then bain't you coming home with us?" he asked. "i--i think not," said grace, blushing. "h'm--very well--you are your own mistress," he returned, in tones which seemed to assert otherwise. "good-night;" and melbury retreated towards the door. "don't be angry, father," she said, following him a few steps. "i have done it for the best." "i am not angry, though it is true i have been a little misled in this. however, good-night. i must get home along." he left the hotel, not without relief, for to be under the eyes of strangers while he conversed with his lost child had embarrassed him much. his search-party, too, had looked awkward there, having rushed to the task of investigation--some in their shirt sleeves, others in their leather aprons, and all much stained--just as they had come from their work of barking, and not in their sherton marketing attire; while creedle, with his ropes and grapnels and air of impending tragedy, had added melancholy to gawkiness. "now, neighbors," said melbury, on joining them, "as it is getting late, we'll leg it home again as fast as we can. i ought to tell you that there has been some mistake--some arrangement entered into between mr. and mrs. fitzpiers which i didn't quite understand--an important practice in the midland counties has come to him, which made it necessary for her to join him to-night--so she says. that's all it was--and i'm sorry i dragged you out." "well," said the hollow-turner, "here be we six mile from home, and night-time, and not a hoss or four-footed creeping thing to our name. i say, we'll have a mossel and a drop o' summat to strengthen our nerves afore we vamp all the way back again? my throat's as dry as a kex. what d'ye say so's?" they all concurred in the need for this course, and proceeded to the antique and lampless back street, in which the red curtain of the three tuns was the only radiant object. as soon as they had stumbled down into the room melbury ordered them to be served, when they made themselves comfortable by the long table, and stretched out their legs upon the herring-boned sand of the floor. melbury himself, restless as usual, walked to the door while he waited for them, and looked up and down the street. "i'd gie her a good shaking if she were my maid; pretending to go out in the garden, and leading folk a twelve-mile traipse that have got to get up at five o'clock to morrow," said a bark-ripper; who, not working regularly for melbury, could afford to indulge in strong opinions. "i don't speak so warm as that," said the hollow-turner, "but if 'tis right for couples to make a country talk about their separating, and excite the neighbors, and then make fools of 'em like this, why, i haven't stood upon one leg for five-and-twenty year." all his listeners knew that when he alluded to his foot-lathe in these enigmatic terms, the speaker meant to be impressive; and creedle chimed in with, "ah, young women do wax wanton in these days! why couldn't she ha' bode with her father, and been faithful?" poor creedle was thinking of his old employer. "but this deceiving of folks is nothing unusual in matrimony," said farmer bawtree. "i knowed a man and wife--faith, i don't mind owning, as there's no strangers here, that the pair were my own relations--they'd be at it that hot one hour that you'd hear the poker and the tongs and the bellows and the warming-pan flee across the house with the movements of their vengeance; and the next hour you'd hear 'em singing 'the spotted cow' together as peaceable as two holy twins; yes--and very good voices they had, and would strike in like professional ballet-singers to one another's support in the high notes." "and i knowed a woman, and the husband o' her went away for four-and-twenty year," said the bark-ripper. "and one night he came home when she was sitting by the fire, and thereupon he sat down himself on the other side of the chimney-corner. 'well,' says she, 'have ye got any news?' 'don't know as i have,' says he; 'have you?' 'no,' says she, 'except that my daughter by my second husband was married last month, which was a year after i was made a widow by him.' 'oh! anything else?' he says. 'no,' says she. and there they sat, one on each side of that chimney-corner, and were found by their neighbors sound asleep in their chairs, not having known what to talk about at all." "well, i don't care who the man is," said creedle, "they required a good deal to talk about, and that's true. it won't be the same with these." "no. he is such a projick, you see. and she is a wonderful scholar too!" "what women do know nowadays!" observed the hollow-turner. "you can't deceive 'em as you could in my time." "what they knowed then was not small," said john upjohn. "always a good deal more than the men! why, when i went courting my wife that is now, the skilfulness that she would show in keeping me on her pretty side as she walked was beyond all belief. perhaps you've noticed that she's got a pretty side to her face as well as a plain one?" "i can't say i've noticed it particular much," said the hollow-turner, blandly. "well," continued upjohn, not disconcerted, "she has. all women under the sun be prettier one side than t'other. and, as i was saying, the pains she would take to make me walk on the pretty side were unending! i warrant that whether we were going with the sun or against the sun, uphill or downhill, in wind or in lewth, that wart of hers was always towards the hedge, and that dimple towards me. there was i, too simple to see her wheelings and turnings; and she so artful, though two years younger, that she could lead me with a cotton thread, like a blind ram; for that was in the third climate of our courtship. no; i don't think the women have got cleverer, for they was never otherwise." "how many climates may there be in courtship, mr. upjohn?" inquired a youth--the same who had assisted at winterborne's christmas party. "five--from the coolest to the hottest--leastwise there was five in mine." "can ye give us the chronicle of 'em, mr. upjohn?" "yes--i could. i could certainly. but 'tis quite unnecessary. they'll come to ye by nater, young man, too soon for your good." "at present mrs. fitzpiers can lead the doctor as your mis'ess could lead you," the hollow-turner remarked. "she's got him quite tame. but how long 'twill last i can't say. i happened to be setting a wire on the top of my garden one night when he met her on the other side of the hedge; and the way she queened it, and fenced, and kept that poor feller at a distance, was enough to freeze yer blood. i should never have supposed it of such a girl." melbury now returned to the room, and the men having declared themselves refreshed, they all started on the homeward journey, which was by no means cheerless under the rays of the high moon. having to walk the whole distance they came by a foot-path rather shorter than the highway, though difficult except to those who knew the country well. this brought them by way of great hintock; and passing the church-yard they observed, as they talked, a motionless figure standing by the gate. "i think it was marty south," said the hollow-turner, parenthetically. "i think 'twas; 'a was always a lonely maid," said upjohn. and they passed on homeward, and thought of the matter no more. it was marty, as they had supposed. that evening had been the particular one of the week upon which grace and herself had been accustomed to privately deposit flowers on giles's grave, and this was the first occasion since his death, eight months earlier, on which grace had failed to keep her appointment. marty had waited in the road just outside little hintock, where her fellow-pilgrim had been wont to join her, till she was weary; and at last, thinking that grace had missed her and gone on alone, she followed the way to great hintock, but saw no grace in front of her. it got later, and marty continued her walk till she reached the church-yard gate; but still no grace. yet her sense of comradeship would not allow her to go on to the grave alone, and still thinking the delay had been unavoidable, she stood there with her little basket of flowers in her clasped hands, and her feet chilled by the damp ground, till more than two hours had passed. she then heard the footsteps of melbury's men, who presently passed on their return from the search. in the silence of the night marty could not help hearing fragments of their conversation, from which she acquired a general idea of what had occurred, and where mrs. fitzpiers then was. immediately they had dropped down the hill she entered the church-yard, going to a secluded corner behind the bushes, where rose the unadorned stone that marked the last bed of giles winterborne. as this solitary and silent girl stood there in the moonlight, a straight slim figure, clothed in a plaitless gown, the contours of womanhood so undeveloped as to be scarcely perceptible, the marks of poverty and toil effaced by the misty hour, she touched sublimity at points, and looked almost like a being who had rejected with indifference the attribute of sex for the loftier quality of abstract humanism. she stooped down and cleared away the withered flowers that grace and herself had laid there the previous week, and put her fresh ones in their place. "now, my own, own love," she whispered, "you are mine, and on'y mine; for she has forgot 'ee at last, although for her you died. but i--whenever i get up i'll think of 'ee, and whenever i lie down i'll think of 'ee. whenever i plant the young larches i'll think that none can plant as you planted; and whenever i split a gad, and whenever i turn the cider-wring, i'll say none could do it like you. if ever i forget your name, let me forget home and heaven!--but no, no, my love, i never can forget 'ee; for you was a good man, and did good things!" note: this edition has not been prepared in a normal project gutenberg methodology. a year ago we released moby dick (from the on-line book initiative) without editing which meant it was available as one single zip file which contained one file for each chapter (i noted chapter was missing, and we are replacing it when we do a copyright analysis on the various chapters we received. we did not receive much, if any, response to this method of release of an etext, but we have continued to produce most of our etexts in this normal project gutenberg format with blank lines between paragraphs, no hyphenation and no characters one wouldn't expect to find on the obvious parts of the printed page. however, once a year, at least, we will present a book in various other format designs to let you know what is available, to go gain a response to the kind of formatting we do. we usually spend a hour day revising any etext we receive into what we consider easy to read formats, chapter and paragraph separation, two spaces between an end of one sentence and the beginning of the next, standardizing punctuation, etc, not to mention checking spelling. even though chapter and page headers and footers were supplied with the text of this book when we received it, it would appear this is fairly obviously mostly scanner output, which may explain punctuation. far from the madding crowd by thomas hardy, from the penguin edition, chapter i description of farmer oak -- an incident when farmer oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun. his christian name was gabriel, and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character. on sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of laodicean neutrality which lay between the communion people of the parish and the drunken section, -- that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time the con- gegation reached the nicene creed,- and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon. or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture. since he lived six times as many working-days as sundays, oak's appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own -- the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. he wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like dr. johnson's; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp -- their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity. mr. oak carried about him, by way of watch,- what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. this instrument being several years older than oak's grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. the smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. the stopping peculiarity of his watch oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours' windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. it may be mentioned that oak's fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well. but some thoughtfull persons, who had seen him walking across one of his fields on a certain december morning -- sunny and exceedingly mild -- might have regarded gabriel oak in other aspects than these. in his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of the boy. his height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. but there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtail- ing their dimensions by their manner of showing them. and from a quiet modesty that would have become a vestal which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world's room, oak walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. this may be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear well, which oak did not. he had just reached the time of life at which "young" is ceasing to be the prefix of "man" in speaking of one. he was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. in short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor. the field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called norcombe hill. through a spur of this hill ran the highway between emminster and chalk- newton. casually glancing over the hedge, oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly. the waggon was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, "young" and attractive. gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes. "the tailboard of the waggon is gone, miss." said the waggoner. "then i heard it fall." said the girl, in a soft, though not particularly low voice. "i heard a noise i could not account for when we were coming up the hill." "i'll run back." "do." she answered. the sensible horses stood -- perfectly still, and the waggoner's steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance. the girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by tables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle, and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses, together with a caged canary -- all probably from the windows of the house just vacated. there was also a cat in a willow basket, from the partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately-surveyed the small birds around. the handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up-and down the perches of its prison. then she looked attentively downwards. it was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying between them. she turned her head to learn if the waggoner were coming. he was not yet in sight; and her-eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. at length she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. she parted her lips and smiled. it was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright face and dark hair. the myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar vernal charm. what possessed her to indulge in such a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer who were alone its spectators, -- whether the smile began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art, -- nobody knows; it ended certainly in a real smile. she blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more. the change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an act -- from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out of doors -- lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. the picture was a delicate one. woman's prescriptive infirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an originality. a cynical inference was irresistible by gabriel oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have been. there was no necessity whatever for her looking in the glass. she did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention had been her motive in taking up the glass. she simply observed herself as a fair product of nature in the feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which men would play a part -- vistas of probable triumphs -- the smiles being of a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won. still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any part in them at all. the waggoner's steps were heard returning. she put the glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place. when the waggon had passed on, gabriel withdrew from his point of espial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the object of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll. about twenty steps still remained between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. lt was a difference con- cerning twopence between the persons with the waggon and the man at the toll-bar. "mis'ess's niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that's enough that i've offered ye, you great miser, and she won't pay any more." these were the waggoner's words. "very well; then mis'ess's niece can't pass." said the turnpike-keeper, closing the gate. oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into a reverie. there was something in the tone of twopence remarkably insignificant. threepence had a definite value as money -- it was an appreciable infringement on a day's wages, and, as such, a higgling matter; but twopence -- " here." he said, stepping forward and handing twopence to the gatekeeper; "let the young woman pass." he looked up at her then; she heard his words, and looked down. gabriel's features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the middle line between the beauty of st. john and the ugliness of judas iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of distinction or notoriety. the redjacketed and dark- haired maiden seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told her man to drive on. she might have looked her thanks to gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt none, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we know how women take a favour of that kind. the gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. "that's a handsome maid" he said to oak "but she has her faults." said gabriel. "true, farmer." "and the greatest of them is -- well, what it is always." "beating people down? ay, 'tis so." "o no." "what, then?" gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller's indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance over the hedge, and said, "vanity." chapter ii night -- the flock -- an interior -- another interior it was nearly midnight on the eve of st. thomas's, the shortest day in the year. a desolating wind wandered from the north over the hill whereon oak had watched the yellow waggon and its occupant in the sunshine of a few days earlier. norcombe hill -- not far from lonely toller-down -- was one of the spots which suggest to a passer-by that he is in the presence of a shape approaching the indestructible as nearly as any to be found on earth. it was a featureless convexity of chalk and soil -- an ordinary specimen of those smoothly-outlined protuber- ances of the globe which may remain undisturbed on some great day of confusion, when far grander heights and dizzy granite precipices topple down. the hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient and decaying plantation of beeches, whose upper verge formed a line over the crest, fringing its arched curve against the sky, like a mane. to-night these trees sheltered the southern slope from the keenest blasts, which smote the wood and floundered through it with a sound as of grumbling, or gushed over its crowning boughs in a weakened moan. the dry leaves in the ditch simmered and boiled in the same breezes, a tongue of air occasionally ferreting out a few, and sending them spinning across the grass. a group or two of the latest in date amongst the dead multitude had remained till this very mid-winter time on the twigs which bore them and in falling rattled against the trunks with smart taps: between this half-wooded, half naked hill, and the vague still horizon that its summit indistinctly com- manded, was a mysterious sheet of fathomless shade -- the sounds from which suggested that what it con- cealed bore some reduced resemblance to features here. the thin grasses, more or less coating the hill, were touched by the wind in breezes of differing powers, and almost of differing natures -- one rubbing the blades heavily, another raking them piercingly, another brushing them like a soft broom. the instinctive act of human- kind was to stand and listen, and learn how the trees to each other in the regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir; how hedges and other shapes to leeward them caught the note, lowering it to the tenderest sob; and how the hurrying gust then plunged into the south, to be heard no more. the sky was clear -- remarkably clear -- and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse. the north star was directly in the wind's eye, and since evening the bear had swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at a right angle with the meridian. a difference of colour in the stars -- oftener read of than seen in england-was really perceptible here. the sovereign brilliancy of sirius pierced the eye with a steely glitter, the star called capella was yellow, aldebaran and betelgueux shone with a fiery red. to persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement. the sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the stars past earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of still- ness, or by the better outlook upon space that a hill affords, or by the wind, or by the solitude; but whatever be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid and abiding. the poetry of motion is a phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification it is necessary to stand on a hill at a small hour of the night, and, having first expanded with a sense of differ- ence from the mass of civilised mankind, who are dreamwrapt and disregardful of all such proceedings at this time, long and quietly watch your stately progress through the stars. after such a nocturnal reconnoitre it is hard to get back to earth, and to believe that the consciousness of such majestic speeding is derived from a tiny human frame. suddenly an unexpected series of sounds began to be heard in this place up against the sky. they had a clearness which was to be found nowhere in the wind, and a sequence which was to be found nowhere in nature. they were the notes of farmer oak's flute. the tune was not floating unhindered into the open air: it seemed muffled in some way, and was altogether too curtailed in power to spread high or wide. it came from the direction of a small dark object under the plantation hedge -- a shepherd's hut -- now presenting an outline to which an uninitiated person might have been puzzled to attach either meaning or use. the image as a whole was that of a small noah's ark on a small ararat, allowing the traditionary outlines and general form of the ark which are followed by toy- makers -- and by these means are established in men's imaginations among their firmest, because earliest im- pressions -- to pass as an approximate pattern. the hut stood on little wheels, which raised its floor about a foot from the ground. such shepherds' huts are dragged into the fields when the lambing season comes on, to shelter the shepherd in his- enforced nightly attendance. it was only latterly that people had begun to call gabriel "farmer" oak. during the twelvemonth pre- ceding this time he had been enabled by sustained efforts of industry and chronic good spirits to lease the small sheep farm of which norcombe hill was a portion, and stock it with two hundred sheep. previously he had been a bailiff for a short time, and earlier still a shepherd only, having from his childhood assisted his father in tending the flocks of large proprietors, till old gabriel sank to rest. this venture, unaided and alone, into the paths of farming as master and not as man, with an advance of sheep not yet paid for, was a critical juncture with gabriel oak, and he recognised his position clearly. the first movement in his new progress was the lambing of his ewes, and sheep having been his speciality from his "youth, he wisely refrained from deputing -- the task of tending them at this season to a hireling or a novice. the wind continued to beat-about the corners of the hut, but the flute-playing ceased. a rectangular space of light appeared in the side of the hut, and in the opening the outline of farmer oak's figure. he carried a lantern in his hand, and closing the door behind him, came forward and busied himself about this nook of the field for nearly twenty minutes, the lantern light appear- ing and disappearing here and there, and brightening him or darkening him as he stood before or behind it. oak's motions, though they had a quiet-energy, were slow, and their deliberateness accorded well with his occupation. fitness being the basis of beauty, nobody could-have denied that his steady swings and turns" in and- about the flock had elements of grace, yet, although if occasion demanded he could do or think a thing with as mercurial a dash as can the men of towns who are more to the manner born, his special power, morally, physically, and mentally, was static, owing little or nothing to momentum as a rule. a close examination of the ground hereabout, even by the wan starlight only, revealed how a portion of what would have been casually called a wild slope had been appropriated by farmer oak for his great purpose this winter. detached hurdles thatched with straw were stuck into the ground at various scattered points, amid and under which the whitish forms of his meek ewes moved and rustled. the ring of the sheep-bell, which had been silent during his absence, recommenced, in tones that had more mellowness than clearness, owing to an increasing growth of surrounding wool. this continued till oak withdrew again from the flock. he -- returned to the hut, bringing in his arms a new-born lamb, consisting of four legs large enough for a full- grown sheep, united by a seemingly inconsiderable mem- brane about half the substance of the legs collectively, which constituted the animal's entire body just at present. the little speck of life he placed on a wisp of hay before the small stove, where a can of milk was simmer- ing. oak extinguished the lantern by blowing into it and then pinching the snuff, the cot being lighted by a candle suspended by a twisted wire. a rather hard couch, formed of a few corn sacks thrown carelessly down, covered half the floor of this little habitation, and here the young man stretched himself along, loosened his woollen cravat, and closed his eyes. in about the time a person unaccustomed to bodily labour would have decided upon which side to lie, farmer oak was asleep. the inside of the hut, as it now presented itself, was cosy and alluring, and the scarlet handful of fire in addition to the candle, reflecting its own genial colour upon whatever it could reach, flung associations of enjoyment even over utensils and tools. in the corner stood the sheep-crook, and along a shelf at one side were ranged bottles and canisters of the simple prepara- tions pertaining to bovine surgery and physic; spirits of wine, turpentine, tar, magnesia, ginger, and castor-oil being the chief. on a triangular shelf across the corner stood bread, bacon, cheese, and a cup for ale or cider, which was supplied from a flagon beneath. beside the provisions lay the flute whose notes had lately been called forth by the lonely watcher to beguile a tedious hour. the house was ventilated by two round holes, like the lights of a ship's cabin, with wood slides- the lamb, revived by the warmth began to bleat" instant meaning, as expected sounds will. passing from the profoundest sleep to the most alert wakefulness with the same ease that had accompanied the reverse operation, he looked at his watch, found that the hour- hand had shifted again, put on his hat, took the lamb in his arms, and carried it into the darkness. after placing the little creature with its mother, he stood and carefully examined the sky, to ascertain the time of night from the altitudes of the stars. the dog-star and aldebaran, pointing to the restless pleiades, were half-way up the southern sky, and between them hung orion, which gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it soared forth above the rim of the landscape. castor and pollux will the north-west; far away through the plantation vega and cassiopeia's chair stood daintily poised on the uppermost boughs. "one o'clock." said gabriel. being a man not without a frequent consciousness that there was some charm in this life he led, he stood still after looking at the sky as a useful instrument, and regarded it in an appreciative spirit, as a work of art superlatively beautiful. for a moment he seemed impressed with the speaking loneliness of the scene, or rather with the complete abstraction from all its compass of the sights and sounds of man. human shapes,interferences, troubles, and joys were all as if they were not, and there seemed to be on the shaded hemisphere of the globe no sentient being save himself; he could fancy them all gone round to the sunny side. occupied this, with eyes stretched afar, oak gradually per- ceived that what he had previously taken to be a star low down behind the outskirts of the plantation was in reality no such thing. it was an artificial light, almost close at hand. to find themselves utterly alone at night where company is desirable and expected makes some people fearful; but a case more trying by far to the nerves is to discover some mysterious companionship when intuition, sensation, memory, analogy, testimony, probability, induction -- every kind of evidence in the logician's list -- have united to persuade con- sciousness that it is quite in isolation. farmer oak went towards the plantation and pushed through its lower boughs to the windy side. a dim mass under the slope reminded him that a shed occupied a place here, the site being a cutting into the slope of the hill, so that at its back part the roof was almost level with the ground. in front it was formed of board nailed to posts and covered with tar as a preservative. through crevices in the roof and side spread streaks and spots of light, a combination of which made the radiance that had attracted him. oak stepped up behind, where,leaning down upon the roof and putting his eye close to a hole, he could see into the interior clearly. the place contained two women and two cows. by the side of the latter a steaming bran-mash stood in a bucket. one of the women was past middle age. her companion was ap- parently young and graceful; he could form no decided opinion upon her looks, her position being almost beneath his eye, so that he saw her in a bird's-eye view, as milton's satan first saw paradise. she wore no bonnet or het, but had enveloped her- self in a large cloak, which was carelessly flung over her head as a covering. "there, now we'll go home," said the elder of the two, resting her knuckles upon her hips, and looking at their goings-on as a whole. "i do hope daisy will fetch round again now. i have never been more frightened in my life, but i don't mind break- ing my rest if she recovers." the young woman, whose eyelids were apparently inclined to fall together on the smallest provocation of silence,yawned in sympathy. "i wish we were rich enough to pay a man to do these things," she said. "as we are not, we must do them ourselves," said the other; "for you must help me if you stay." "well, my hat is gone, however," continued the younger. "it went over the hedge, i think. the idea of such a slight wind catching it." the cow standing erect was of the devon breed, and was encased in a tight warm hide of rich indian red, as absolutely uniform from eyes to tail as if the animal had been dipped in a dye of that colour, her long back being mathematically level. the other was spotted,grey and white. beside her oak now noticed a little calf about a day old, looking idiotically at the two women, which showed that it had not long been accustomed to the phenomenon of eyesight, and often turn- ing to the lantern, which it apparently mistook for the moon. inherited instinct having as yet had little time for correction by experience. between the sheep and the cows lucina had been busy on norcombe hill lately. "i think we had better send for some oatmeal," said the "yes, aunt; and i'll ride over for it as soon as it is light." "but there's no side-saddle." "i can ride on the other: trust me." oak, upon hearing these remarks, became more curious to observe her features, but this prospect being denied him by the hooding effect of the cloak, and by his aerial position, he felt himself drawing upon his fancy for their details. in making even horizontal and clear inspections we colour and mould according to the warts within us whatever our eyes bring in. had gabriel been able from the first to get a distinct view of her - countenance, his estimate of it as very handsome or slightly so would have been as his soul required a divinity at the moment or was ready supplied with one. having for some time known the want of a satisfactory form to fill an increasing void within him, his position moreover affording the widest scope for his fancy, he painted her a beauty. by one of those whimsical coincidences in which nature, like a busy mother, seems to spare a moment from her unremitting labours to turn and make her children smile, the girl now dropped the cloak, and forth tumbled ropes of black hair over a red jacket. oak knew her instantly as the heroine of the yellow waggon, myrtles, and looking-glass: prosily, as the woman who owed him twopence. they placed the calf beside its mother again, took up the lantern, and went out, the light sinking down the hill till it was no more than a nebula. gabriel oak returned to his flock. chapter iii a girl on horseback -- conversation the sluggish day began to break. even its position terrestrially is one of the elements of a new interest, and for no particular reason save that the incident of the night had occurred there, oak went again into the plantation. lingering and musing here, he heard the steps of a horse at the foot of the hill, and soon there appeared in view an auburn pony with a girl on its back, ascending by the path leading past the cattle- shed. she was the young woman of the night before. gabriel instantly thought of the hat she had mentioned as having lost in the wind; possibly she had come to look for it. he hastily scanned the ditch and after walking about ten yards along it, found the hat among the leaves. gabriel took it in his hand and returned to his hut. here he ensconced himself, and peeped through the loophole in the direction of the riders approach. she came up and looked around -- then on the other side of the hedge. gabriel was about to advance and restore the missing article when an unexpected per- formance induced him to suspend the action for the present. the path, after passing the cowshed, bisected the plantation. it was not a bridle-path -- merely a pedestrian's track, and the boughs spread horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the ground, which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. the girl, who wore no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure herself that all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped backwards flat upon the pony's back, her head over its tail, her feet against its shoulders, and her eyes to the sky. the rapidity of her glide into this position was that of a kingfisher -- its noiselessness that of a hawk. gabriel's eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. the tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. thus she passed under the level boughs. the performer seemed quite at home anywhere between a horse's head and its tail, and the necessity for this abnormal attitude having ceased with the passage of the plantation, she began to adopt another, even more obviously convenient than the first. she had no side-saddle, and it was very apparent that a firm seat upon the smooth leather beneath her was un- attainable sideways. springing to her accustomed perpendicular like a bowed sapling, and satisfying her, self that nobody was in sight, she seated herself in the manner demanded by the saddle, though hardly expected of the woman, and trotted off in the direction of tewnell mill. oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, and hanging up the hat in his hut, went again among his ewes. an hour passed, the girl returned, properly seated now, with a bag of bran in front of her. on nearing the cattle-shed she was met by a boy bringing a milking-pail, who held the reins of the pony whilst she slid off. the boy led away the horse, leaving the pail with the young woman. soon soft shirts alternating with loud shirts came in regular succession from within the shed, the obvious sounds of a person milking a cow. gabriel took the lost hat in his hand, and waited beside the path she would follow in leaving the hill. she came, the pail in one hand, hanging against her knee. the left arm was extended as a balance, enough of it being shown bare to make oak wish that the event ha happened in the summer, when the whole would have been revealed. there was a bright air and manner about her now, by which she seemed to imply that the desirability of her existence could not be questioned; and this rather saucy assumption failed in being offensive, because a beholder felt it to be, upon the whole, true. like exceptional emphasis in the tone of a genius, that which would have made mediocrity ridiculous was an addition to recognised power. it was with some surprise that she saw gabriel's face rising like the moon behind the hedge. the adjustment of the farmer's hazy conceptions of her charms to the portrait of herself she now presented him with was less a diminution than a difference. the starting-point selected by the judgment was. her height she seemed tall, but the pail was a small one, and the hedge diminutive; hence, making allowance for error by comparison with these, she could have been not above the height to be chosen by women as best. all features of consequence were severe and regular. it may have been observed by persons who go about the shires with eyes for beauty, that in englishwoman a classically-formed face is seldom found to be united with a figure of the same pattern, the highly-finished features being generally too large for the remainder of the frame; that a graceful and proportionate figure of eight heads usually goes off into random facial curves. without throwing a nymphean tissue over a milkmaid, let it be said that here criticism checked itself as out of place, and looked at her proportions with a long consciousness of pleasure. from the contours of her figure in its upper part, she must have had a beautiful neck and shoulders; but since her infancy nobody had ever seen them. had she been put into a low dress she would have run and thrust her head into a bush. yet she was not a shy girl by any means; it was merely her instinct to draw the line dividing the seen from the unseen higher than they do it in towns. that the girl's thoughts hovered about her face and form as soon as she caught oak's eyes conning the same page was natural, and almost certain. the self- consciousness shown would have been vanity if a little more pronounced, dignity if a little less. rays of male vision seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural districts; she brushed hers with her hand, as if gabriel had been irritating its pink surface by actual touch, and the free air of her previous movements was reduced at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. yet it was the man who blushed, the maid not at all. "i found a hat." said oak. "it is mine." said she, and, from a sense of proportion, kept down to a small smile an inclination to laugh dis- tinctly: "it flew away last night." "one o'clock this morning?" "well -- it was." she was surprised. "how did you know?" she said. "i was here." "you are farmer oak, are you not?" "that or thereabouts. i'm lately come to this place." "a large farm?" she inquired, casting her eyes round, and swinging back her hair, which was black in the shaded hollows of its mass; but it being now an hour past sunrise, the rays touched its prominent curves with a colour of their own. "no; not large. about a hundred." (in speaking of farms the word "acres" is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions as "a stag of ten.") "i wanted my hat this morning." she went on. "i had to ride to tewnell mill." "yes you had." "how do you know?" "i saw you!" "where?" she inquired, a misgiving bringing every muscle of her lineaments and frame to a standstill. "here-going through the plantation, and all down the hill." said farmer oak, with an aspect excessively knowing with regard to some matter in his mind, as he gazed at a remote point in the direction named, and then turned back to meet his colloquist's eyes. a perception caused him to withdraw his own eyes from hers as suddenly as if he had been caught in a theft. recollection of the strange antics she had indulged in when passing through the trees, was suc- ceeded in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face. it was a time to see a woman redden who was not given to reddening as a rule; not a point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose-colour. from the maiden's blush, through all varieties of the provence down to the crimson tuscany, the countenance of oak's acquaintance quickly graduated; whereupon he, in con- siderateness, turned away his head. the sympathetic man still looked the other way, and wondered when she would recover coolness sufficient to justify him in facing her again. he heard what seemed to be the flitting of a dead leaf upon the breeze, and looked. she had gone away. with an air between that of tragedy and comedy! gabriel returned to his work. five mornings and evenings passed. the young woman came regularly to milk the healthy cow or to attend to the sick one, but never allowed her vision to stray in the direction of oak's person. his want of tact had deeply offended her -- not by seeing what he could not help, but by letting her know that he had seen it. for, as without law there is no sin, without eyes there is no indecorum; and she appeared to feel that gabriel's espial had made her an indecorous woman without her own connivance. it was food for great regret with him; it was also a contretemps which touched into life a latent heat he had experienced in that direction. the acquaintanceship might, however, have ended in a slow forgetting, but for an incident which occurred at the end of the same week. one afternoon it began to freeze, and the frost increased with evening, which drew on like a stealthy tightening of bonds. it was a time when in cottages the breath of the sleepers freezes to the sheets; when round the drawing-room fire of a thick-walled mansion the sitters' backs are cold, even whilst their faces are all aglow. many a small bird went to bed supperless that night among the bare boughs. as the milking-hour drew near, oak kept his usual watch upon the cowshed. at last he felt cold, and shaking an extra quantity of bedding round the yearling ewes he entered the hut and heaped more fuel upon the stove. the wind came in at the bottom of the door, and to prevent it oak laid a sack there and wheeled the cot round a little more to the south. then the wind spouted in at a ventilating hole -- of which there was one on each side of the hut. gabriel had always known that when the fire was lighted and the door closed one of these must be kept open -- that chosen being always on the side away from the wind. closing the slide to windward, he turned to open the other; on second -- thoughts the farmer con- sidered that he would first sit down leaving both closed for a minute or two, till the temperature of the hut was a little raised. he sat down. his head began to ache in an unwonted manner, and, fancying himself weary by reason of the broken rests of the preceding nights, oak decided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall asleep. he fell asleep, however, without having performed the necessary preliminary. how long he remained unconscious gabriel never knew. during the first stages of his return to percep- tion peculiar deeds seemed to be in course of enactment. his dog was howling, his head was aching fearfully -- somebody was pulling him about, hands were loosening his neckerchief. on opening his eyes he found that evening had sunk to dusk in a strange manner of unexpectedness. the young girl with the remarkably pleasant lips and white teeth was beside him. more than this -- astonishingly more -- his head was upon her lap, his face and neck were disagreeably wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning his collar. "whatever is the matter?" said oak, vacantly. she seemed to experience mirth, but of too insignifi- cant a kind to start enjoyment. "nothing now', she answered, "since you are not dead it is a wonder you were not,suffocated in this hut of yours." "ah, the hut!" murmured gabriel. "i gave ten pounds for that hut. but i'll sell it, and sit under thatched hurdles as they did in old times, curl up to sleep in a lock of straw! it played me nearly the same trick the other day!" gabriel, by way of emphasis, brought down his fist upon the floor. "it was not exactly the fault of the hut." she ob- served in a tone which showed her to be that novelty among women -- one who finished a thought before beginning the sentence which was to convey it. "you should i think, have considered, and not have been so foolish as to leave the slides closed." "yes i suppose i should." said oak, absently. he was endeavouring to catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his head upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone things. he wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. so he remained silent. she made him sit up, and then oak began wiping his face and shaking himself like a samson. "how can i thank 'ee?" he said at last, gratefully, some of the natural rusty red having returned to his face. "oh, never mind that." said the girl, smiling, and allowing her smile to hold good for gabriel's next remark, whatever that might prove to be. "how did you find me?" "i heard your dog howling and scratching at the door of the hut when i came to the milking (it was so lucky, daisy's milking is almost over for the season, and i shall not come here after this week or the next). the dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of my skirt. i came across and looked round the hut the very first thing to see if the slides were closed. my uncle has a hut like this one, and i have heard him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without leaving a slide open. i opened the door, and there you were like dead. i threw the milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use." "i wonder if i should have died?" gabriel said, in a low voice, which was rather meant to travel back to himself than to her. "o no," the girl replied. she seemed to prefer a less tragic probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should harmonise with the dignity of such a deed -- and she shunned it. "i believe you saved my life, miss -- -- i don't know your name. i know your aunt's, but not yours." "i would just as soon not tell it -- rather not. there is no reason either why i should, as you probably will never have much to do with me." "still, i should like to know." "you can inquire at my aunt's -- she will tell you." "my name is gabriel oak." "and mine isn't. you seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, gabriel oak." "you see, it is the only one i shall ever have, and i must make the most of it." "i always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable." "i should think you might soon get a new one." "mercy! -- how many opinions you keep about you concerning other people, gabriel oak." "well miss-excuse the words-i thought you would like them but i can't match you i know in napping out my mind upon my tongue. i never was very clever in my inside. but i thank you. come give me your hand!" she hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at oak's old- fashioned earnest conclusion. to a dialogue lightly carried on."very well." she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity. he held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person. "i am sorry." he said, the instant after. "what for?" "you may have it again if you like; there it is." she gave him her hand again. oak held it longer this time -- indeed, curiously long. "how soft it is -- being winter time, too -- not chapped or rough or anything!" he said. "there -- that's long enough." said she, though with- out pulling it away "but i suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? you may if you want to." "i wasn't thinking of any such thing." said gabriel, simply; "but i will" "that you won't!" she snatched back her hand. gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact. "now find out my name." she said, teasingly; and withdrew. chapter iv gabriel's resolve -- the visit -- the mistake the only superiority in women that is tolerable to the rival sex is, as a rule, that of the unconscious kind; but a superiority which recognizes itself may sometimes please by suggesting possibilities of capture to the subordinated man. this well-favoured and comely girl soon made appre- ciable inroads upon the emotional constitution of young farmer oak. love, being an extremely exacting usurer (a sense of exorbitant profit, spiritually, by an exchange of hearts, being at the bottom of pure passions, as that of exorbi- tant profit, bodily or materially, is at the bottom of those of lower atmosphere), every morning oak's feelings were as sensitive as the money-market in calculations upon his chances. his dog waited for his meals in a way so like that in which oak waited for the girl's presence, that the farmer was quite struck with the resemblance, felt it lowering, and would not look at the dog. however, he continued to watch through the hedge for her regular coming, and thus his sentiments towards her were deepened without any corresponding effect being produced upon herself. oak had nothing finished and ready to say as yet, and not being able to frame love phrases which end where they begin; passionate tales -- -- full of sound and fury -- signifying nothing -- he said no word at all. by making inquiries he found that the girl's name was bathsheba everdene, and that the cow would go dry in about seven days. he dreaded the eight day. at last the eighth day came. the cow had ceased to give milk for that year, and bathsheba everdene came up the hill no more. gabriel had reached a pitch of existence he never could have anticipated a short time before. he liked saying `bathsheba' as a private enjoyment instead of whistling; turned over his taste to black hair, though he had sworn by brown ever since he was a boy, isolated himself till the space he filled in a possible strength in an actual weakness. marriage transforms a distraction into a support, the power of which should be, and happily often is, in direct pro- portion to the degree of imbecility it supplants. oak began now to see light in this direction, and said to himself, "i'll make her my wife, or upon my soul i shall be good for nothing!" all this while he was perplexing himself about an errand on which he might consistently visit the cottage of bathsheba's aunt. he found his opportunity in the death of a ewe, mother of a living lamb. on a day which had a summer face and a winter constitution-a fine january morning, when there was just enough blue sky visible to make cheerfully-disposed people wish for more, and an occasional gleam of silvery sunshine, oak put the lamb into a respectable sunday basket, and stalked across the fields to the house of mrs. hurst, the aunt -- george, the dog walking behind, with a countenance of great concern at the serious turn pastoral affairs seemed to be taking. gabriel had watched the blue wood-smoke curling from the chimney with strange meditation. at evening he had fancifully traced it down the chimney to the spot of its origin -- seen the hearth and bathsheba beside it -- beside it in her out-door dress; for the clothes she had worn on the hill were by association equally with her person included in the compass of his affection; they seemed at this early time of his love a necessary ingredient of the sweet mixture called bath- sheba everdene. he had made a toilet of a nicely-adjusted kind -- of a nature between the carefully neat and the carelessly ornate -- of a degree between fine-market-day and wet- sunday selection. he thoroughly cleaned his silver watch-chain with whiting, put new lacing straps to his boots, looked to the brass eyelet-holes, went to the inmost heart of the plantation for a new walking-stick, and trimmed it vigorously on his way back; took a new handkerchief from the bottom of his clothes-box, put on the light waistcoat patterned all over with sprigs of an elegant flower uniting the beauties of both rose and lily without the defects of either, and used all the hair-oil he possessed upon his usually dry, sandy, and inextricably curly hair, till he had deepened it to a splendidly novel colour, between that of guano and roman cement, making it stick to his head like mace round a nutmeg, or wet seaweed round a boulder after the ebb. nothing disturbed the stillness of the cottage save the chatter of a knot of sparrows on the eaves; one might fancy scandal and rumour to be no less the staple topic of these little coteries on roofs than of those under them. it seemed that the omen was an unpropitious one, for, as the rather untoward commence- ment of oak's overtures, just as he arrived by the garden gate, he saw a cat inside, going into various arched shapes and fiendish convulsions at the sight of his dog george. the dog took no notice , for he had arrived at an age at which all superfluous barking was cynically avoided as a waste of breath -- in fact he never barked even at the sheep except to order, when it was done with an absolutely neutral countenance, as a sort of com- mination-service, which, though offensive, had to be gone through once now and then to frighten the flock for their own good. a voice came from behind some laurel-bushes into which the cat had run: "poor dear! did a nasty brute of a dog want to kill it; -- did he poor dear!" "i beg your pardon." said oak to the voice, "but george was walking on behind me with a temper as mild as milk." almost before he had ceased speaking, oak was seized with a misgiving as to whose ear was the recipient of his answer. nobody appeared, and he heard the person retreat among the bushes. gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he brought small furrows into his forehead by sheer force of reverie. where the issue of an interview is as likely to be a vast change for the worse as for the better, any initial difference from expectation causes nipping sensations of failure. oak went up to the door a little abashed: his mental rehearsal and the reality had had no common grounds of opening. bathsheba's aunt was indoors. "will you tell miss everdene that somebody would be glad to speak to her?" said mr. oak. (calling one's self merely some- body, without giving a name, is not to be taken as an example of the ill-breeding of the rural world: it springs from a refined modesty, of which townspeople, with their cards and announcements, have no notion whatever.) bathsheba was out. the voice had evidently been hers. "will you come in, mr. oak?" "oh, thank 'ee, said gabriel, following her to the fireplace. "i've brought a lamb for miss everdene. i thought she might like one to rear; girls do." "she might." said mrs. hurst, musingly; " though she's only a visitor here. if you will wait a minute, bathsheba will be in." "yes, i will wait." said gabriel, sitting down. "the lamb isn't really the business i came about, mrs. hurst. in short, i was going to ask her if she'd like to be married." "and were you indeed?" "yes. because if she would, i should be very glad to marry her. d'ye know if she's got any other young man hanging about her at all?" "let me think," said mrs. hurst, poking the fire superfluously.... "yes -- bless you, ever so many young men. you see, farmer oak, she's so good-looking, and an excellent scholar besides -- she was going to be a governess once, you know, only she was too wild. not that her young men ever come here -- but, lord, in the nature of women, she must have a dozen!" "that's unfortunate." said farmer oak, contemplating a crack in the stone floor with sorrow. "i'm only an every-day sort of man, and my only chance was in being the first comer... , well, there's no use in my waiting, for that was all i came about: so i'll take myself off home-along, mrs. hurst." when gabriel had gone about two hundred yards along the down, he heard a "hoi-hoi!" uttered behind him, in a piping note of more treble quality than that in which the exclamation usually embodies itself when shouted across a field. he looked round, and saw a girl racing after him, waving a white handkerchief. oak stood still -- and the runner drew nearer. it was bathsheba everdene. gabriel's colour deepened: hers was already deep, not, as it appeared, from emotion, but from running. "farmer oak -- i -- " she said, pausing for want of breath pulling up in front of him with a slanted face and putting her hand to her side. "i have just called to see you," said gabriel, pending her further speech. "yes-i know that!" she said panting like a robin, her face red and moist from her exertions, like a peony petal before the sun dries off the dew. "i didn't know you had come to ask to have me, or i should have come in from the garden instantly. i ran after you to say -- that my aunt made a mistake in sending you away from courting me -- -- -- " gabriel expanded."i'm sorry to have made you run so fast, my dear." he said, with a grateful sense of favours to come. "wait a bit till you've found your breath." "-- it was quite a mistake-aunt's telling you i had a young man "already."- bathsheba went on. "i haven't a sweetheart at all -- and i never had one, and i thought that, as times go with women, it was such a pity to send you away thinking that i had several." "really and truly i am glad to hear that!" said farmer oak, smiling one of his long special smiles, and blushing with gladness. he held out his hand to take hers, which, when she had eased her side by pressing it there, was prettily extended upon her bosom to still her loud-beating heart. directly he seized it she put it behind her, so that it slipped through his fingers like an eel. " "i have a nice snug little farm." said gabriel, with half a degree less assurance than when he had seized her hand. "yes; you have." "a man has advanced me money to begin with, but still, it will soon be paid off and though i am only an every-day sort of man, i have got on a little since i was a boy." gabriel uttered "a little" in a tone to-show her that it was the complacent form of "a great deal." e continued: " when we be married, i am quite sure i can work twice as hard as i do now." he went forward and stretched out his arm again. bathsheba had overtaken him at a point beside which stood a low stunted holly bush, now laden with red berries. seeing his advance take the form of an attitude threatening a possible enclosure, if not compression, of her person, she edged off round the bush. "why, farmer oak." she said, over the top, looking at him with rounded eyes, "i never said i was going to marry you." "well -- that is a tale!" said oak, with dismay." to run after anybody like this, and then say you don't want him!" "what i meant to tell you was only this." she said eagerly, and yet half conscious of the absurdity of the position she had made for herself -- "that nobody has got me yet as a sweetheart, instead of my having a dozen, as my aunt said; i hate to be thought men's property in that way, though possibly i shall be had some day. why, if i'd wanted you i shouldn't have run after you like this; 'twould have been the forwardest thing! but there was no harm in 'hurrying to correct a piece of false news that had been told you." "oh, no -- no harm at all." but there is such a thing as being too generous in expressing a judgment impuls- ively, and oak added with a more appreciative sense of all the circumstances -- "well, i am not quite certain it was no harm." "indeed, i hadn't time to think before starting whether i wanted to marry or not, for you'd have been gone over the hill." "come." said gabriel, freshening again; "think a minute or two. i'll wait a while, miss everdene. will you marry me? do, bathsheba. i love you far more than common!" "i'll try to think." she observed, rather more timor- ously; "if i can think out of doors; my mind spreads away so." "but you can give a guess." "then give me time." bathsheba looked thought- fully into the distance, away from the direction in which gabriel stood. "i can make you happy," said he to the back of her head, across the bush. "you shall have as piano in a year or two -- farmers' wives are getting to have pianos now -- and i'll practise up the flute right well to play with you in the evenings." "yes; i should like that." "and have one of those little ten-pound" gigs for market -- and nice flowers, and birds -- cocks and hens i mean, because they be useful." continued gabriel, feeling balanced between poetry and practicality. "i should like it very much." "and a frame for cucumbers -- like a gentleman and lady." yes." "and when the wedding was over, we'd have it put in the newspaper list of marriages." "dearly i should like that!" "and the babies in the births -- every man jack of "em! and at home by the fire, whenever you look up, there i shall be -- and whenever i look up there will be you." "wait wait and don't be improper!" her countenance fell, and she was silent awhile. he regarded the red berries between them over and over again, to such an extent, that holly seemed in his after life to be a cypher signifying a proposal of marriage. bathsheba decisively turned to him. "no;" 'tis no use." she said. "i don't want to marry you." "try." "i have tried hard all the time i've been thinking; for a marriage would be very nice in one sense. people would talk about me, and think i had won my battle, and i should feel triumphant, and all that, but a husband -- -- -- "well!" "why, he'd always be there, as you say; whenever i looked up, there he'd be." "of course he would -- i, that is." "well, what i mean is that i shouldn't mind being a bride at a wedding, if i could be one without having a husband. but since a woman can't show off in that way by herself, i shan't marry -- at least yet." "that's a terrible wooden story." at this criticism of her statement bathsheba made an addition to her dignity by a slight sweep away from him. "upon my heart and soul, i don't know what a maid can say stupider than that." said oak. "but dearest." he continued in a palliative voice, "don't be like it!" oak sighed a deep honest sigh -- none the less so in that, being like the sigh of a pine plantation, it was rather noticeable as a disturbance of the atmo- sphere. "why won't you have me?" he appealed, creeping round the holly to reach her side. "i cannot." she said, retreating. "but why?" he persisted, standing still at last in despair of ever reaching her, and facing over the bush. "because i don't love you." "yes, but -- -- " she contracted a yawn to an inoffensive smallness, so that it was hardly ill-mannered at all. "i don't love you." she said." "but i love you -- and, as for myself, i am content to be liked." "o mr. oak -- that's very fine! you'd get to despise me." "never." said mr oak, so earnestly that he seemed to be coming, by the force of his words, straight through the bush and into her arms. "i shall do one thing in this life -- one thing certain -- that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till i die." his voice had a genuine pathos now, and his large brown hands perceptibly trembled. "it seems dreadfully wrong not to have you when you feel so much!" she said with a little distress, and looking hopelessly around for some means of escape from her moral dilemma. "h(ow i wish i hadn't run after you!" however she seemed to have a short cut for getting back to cheerfulness, and set her face to signify archness. "it wouldn't do, mr oak. i want somebody to tame me; i am too independent; and you would never be able to, i know." oak cast his eyes down the field in a way implying that it was useless to attempt argument. "mr. oak." she said, with luminous distinctness and common sense, " you are better off than i. i have hardly a penny in the world -- i am staying with my aunt for my bare sustenance. i am better educated than you -- and i don't love you a bit: that's my side of the case. now yours: you are a farmer just begin- ing; and you ought in common prudence, if you marry at all (which you should certainly not think of doing at present) to marry a woman with money, who would admiration. "that's the very thing i had been thinking myself!" he naively said. farmer oak had one-and-a-half christian character- istics too many to succeed with bathsheba: his humility, and a superfluous moiety of honesty. bathsheba was decidedly disconcerted, "well, then, why did you come and disturb me?" she said, almost angrily, if not quite, an enlarging red spot rising in each cheek. "i can't do what i think would be -- would be -- -- " "right?" "no: wise." "you have made an admission now, mr. oak." she exclaimed, with even more hauteur, and rocking her head disdainfully. "after that, do you think i could marry you? not if i know it." he broke in passionately. "but don't mistake me like that! because i am open enough to own what every man in my shoes would have thought of, you make your colours come up your face, and get crabbed with me. that about your not being good enough for me is nonsense. you speak like a lady -- all the parish notice it, and your uncle at weatherbury is, i have heerd, a large farmer -- much larger than ever i shall be. may i call in the evening, or will you walk along with me o' sundays? i don't want you to make-up your mind at once, if you'd rather not." "no -- no -- i cannot. don't press me any more -- don't. i don't love you -- so 'twould be ridiculous," he said, with a laugh. no man likes to see his emotions the sport of a merry-go-round of skittishness. "very well." said oak, firmly, with the bearing of one who was going to give " his days and nights to ecclesiastes for ever. "then i'll ask you no more." chapter v departure of bathsheba -- a pastoral tragedy the news which one day reached gabriel, that bath- sheba everdene had left the neighbourhood, had an influence upon him which might have surprised any who never suspected that the more emphatic the renun- ciation the less absolute its character. it may have been observed that there is no regula path for getting out of love as there is for getting in. some people look upon marriage as a short cut that way, but it has been known to fail. separation, which was the means that chance offered to gabriel oak by bathsheba's disappearance though effectual with people of certain humours is apt to idealise the removed object with others -- notably those whose affection, placid and regular as it may be flows deep and long. oak belonged to the even-tempered order of humanity, and felt the secret fusion of himself in bathsheba to be burning with a finer flame now that she was gone -- that was all. his incipient friendship with her aunt-had been nipped by the failure of his suit, and all that oak learnt of bathsheba's movements was done indirectly. it ap- peared that she had gone to a place called weatherbury, more than twenty miles off, but in what capacity -- whether as a visitor, or permanently, he could not discover. gabriel had two dogs. george, the elder, exhibited an ebony-tipped nose, surrounded by a narrow margin of pink flesh, and a coat marked in random splotches approximating in colour to white and slaty grey; but the grey, after years of sun and rain, had been scorched and washed out of the more prominent locks, leaving them of a reddish-brown, as if the blue component of the grey had faded, like the indigo from the same kind of colour in turner's pictures. in substance it had originally been hair, but long contact with sheep seemed to be turning it by degrees into wool of a poor quality and staple. this dog had originally belonged to a shepherd of inferior morals and dreadful temper, and the result was that george knew the exact degrees of condemnation signified by cursing and swearing of all descriptions better than the wickedest old man in the neighbourhood. long experience had so precisely taught the animal the difference between such exclamations as "come in!" and "d -- -- ye, come in!" that he knew to a hair's breadth the rate of trotting back from the ewes' tails that each call involved, if a staggerer with the sheep crook was to be escaped. though old, he was clever and trustworthy still. the young dog, george's son, might possibly have been the image of his mother, for there was not much resemblance between him and george. he was learn- ing the sheep-keeping business, so as to follow on at the flock when the other should die, but had got no further than the rudiments as yet -- still finding an insuperable difficulty in distinguishing between doing a thing well enough and doing it too well. so earnest and yet so wrong-headed was this young dog (he had no, name in particular, and answered with perfect readiness to any pleasant interjection), that if sent behind the flock to help them on, he did it so thoroughly that he would have chased them across the whole county with the greatest pleasure if not called off or reminded when to step by the example of old george. thus much for the dogs. on the further side of norcombe hill was a chalk-pit, from which chalk had been drawn for generations, and spread over adjacent farms. two hedges converged upon it in the form of a v, but without quite meeting. the narrow opening left, which was immediately over the brow of the pit, was protected by a rough railing. one night, when farmer oak had returned to, his house, believing there would be no further necessity for his attendance on the down, he called as usual to the dogs, previously to shutting them up in the outhouse till next morning. only one responded -- old george; the other-could not be found, either in the house, lane, or garden. - gabriel then remembered that he had left the two dogs on the hill eating a dead lamb (a kind of meat he usually kept from them, except when other food-ran finished his meal, he went indoors to the luxury of a bed, which latterly he had only enjoyed on sundays. it was a still, moist night. just before dawn he was assisted in waking by the abnormal reverberation of familiar music. to the shepherd, the note of the sheep" chronic sound that only makes itself noticed by ceasing ever distant, that all is well in the fold. in the solemn this exceptional ringing may be caused in two ways -- by the rapid feeding of the sheep bearing the bell, as when the flock breaks into new pasture, which gives it an intermittent rapidity, or by the sheep starting off in a run, when the sound has a regular palpitation. the experienced ear of oak knew the sound he now heard to be caused by the running of the flock with great velocity. he jumped out of bed, dressed, tore down the lane through a foggy dawn, and ascended the hill. the forward ewes were kept apart from those among which the fall of lambs would be later, there being two hundred of the latter class in gabriel's flock. these two hundred seemed to have absolutely vanished from the hill. there were the fifty with their lambs, enclosed at the other end as he had left them, but the rest, forming the bulk of the flock, were nowhere. gabriel called at the top of his voice the shepherd's call. "ovey, ovey, ovey!" not a single bleat. he went to the hedge -- a gap had been broken through it, and in the gap were the footprints of the sheep. rather surprised to find them break fence at this season, yet putting it down instantly to their great fondness for ivy in winter-time, of which a great deal grew in the plantation, he followed through the hedge. they were not in the plantation. he called again: the valleys and farthest hills resounded as when the sailors invoked the lost hylas on the mysian shore; but no sheep. he passed through the trees and along the ridge of the hill. on the extreme summit, where the ends of the two converging hedges of which we have spoken were stopped short by meeting the brow of the chalk-pit, he saw the younger dog standing against the sky -- dark and motionless as napoleon at st. helena. a horrible conviction darted through oak. with a sensation of bodily faintness he advanced: at one point the rails were broken through, and there he saw the footprints of his ewes. the dog came up, licked his hand, and made signs implying that he expected some great reward for signal services rendered. oak looked over the precipice. the ewes lay dead and dying at its foot -- a heap of two hundred mangled carcasses, representing in their condition just now at least two hundred more. oak was an intensely humane man: indeed, his humanity often tore in pieces any politic intentions of his which bordered on strategy, and carried him on as by gravitation. a shadow in his life had always been that his flock ended in mutton -- that a day came and found every shepherd an arrant traitor to his defenseless sheep. his first feeling now was one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle ewes and their unborn lambs. it was a second to remember another phase of the matter. the sheep were not insured. all the savings of a frugal life had been dispersed at a blow; his hopes of being an independent farmer were laid low -- possibly for ever. gabriel's energies, patience, and industry had been so severely taxed during the years of his life between eighteen and eight-and-twenty, to reach his present stage of progress that no more seemed to be left in him. he hands. stupors, however, do not last for ever, and farmer oak recovered from his. it was as remarkable as it was characteristic that the one sentence he uttered was in thankfulness: -- "thank god i am not married: what would she have done in the poverty now coming upon me!" oak raised his head, and wondering what he could do listlessly surveyed the scene. by the outer margin of the pit was an oval pond, and over it hung the attenuated skeleton of a chrome-yellow moon which had only a few days to last -- the morning star dogging her on the left hand. the pool glittered like a dead man's eye, and as the world awoke a breeze blew, shaking and elongating the reflection of the moon without breaking it, and turning the image of the star to a phosphoric streak upon the water. all this oak saw and remembered. as far as could be learnt it appeared that the poor young dog, still under the impression that since he was kept for running after sheep, the more he ran after them the better, had at the end of his meal off the dead lamb, which may have given him additional energy and spirits, collected all the ewes into a corner, driven the timid creatures through the hedge, across the upper field, and by main force of worrying had given them momentum enough to break down a portion of the rotten railing, and so hurled them over the edge. george's son had done his work so thoroughly that he was considered too good a workman to live, and was, in fact, taken and tragically shot at twelve o'clock that same day -- another instance of the untoward fate which so often attends dogs and other philosophers who follow out a train of reasoning to its logical conclusion, and attempt perfectly consistent conduct in a world made up so largely of compromise. gabriel's farm had been stocked by a dealer -- on the strength of oak's promising look and character -- who was receiving a percentage from the farmer till such time as the advance should be cleared off oak found- that the value of stock, plant, and implements which were really his own would be about sufficient to pay his debts, leaving himself a free man with the clothes he stood up in, and nothing more. chapter vi the fair -- the journey -- the fire two months passed away. we are brought on to a day in february, on which was held the yearly statute or hiring fair in the county-town of casterbridge. at one end of the street stood from two to three hundred blithe and hearty labourers waiting upon chance -- all men of the stamp to whom labour suggests nothing worse than a wrestle with gravitation, and pleasure nothing better than a renunciation of the same among these, carters and waggoners were distinguished by having a piece of whip-cord twisted round their hats; thatchers wore a fragment of woven straw; shepherds held their sheep-crooks in their hands; and thus the situation required was known to the hirers at a glance. in the crowd was an athletic young fellow of some- what superior appearance to the rest -- in fact, his superiority was marked enough to lead several ruddy peasants standing by to speak to him inquiringly, as to a farmer, and to use `sir' as a finishing word. his answer always was, "i am looking for a place myself -- a bailiff's. do ye know of anybody who wants one?" gabriel was paler now. his eyes were more medi- tative, and his expression was more sad. he had passed through an ordeal of wretchedness which had given him more than it had taken away. he had sunk from his modest elevation as pastoral king into the very slime-pits of siddim; but there was left to him a digni- fied calm he had never before known, and that indiffer- ence to fate which, though it often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity when it does not. and thus the abasement had been exaltation, and the loss gain. in the morning a regiment of cavalry had left the town, and a sergeant and his party had been beating up for recruits through the four streets. as the end of the day drew on, and he found himself not hired, gabriel almost wished that he had joined them, and gone off to serve his country. weary of standing in the market- place, and not much minding the kind of work he turned his hand to, he decided to offer himself in some other capacity than that of bailiff. all the farmers seemed to be wanting shepherds. sheep-tending was gabriel's speciality. turning down an obscure street and entering an obscurer lane, he went up to a smith's shop. "how long would it take you to make a shepherd's crook?" "twenty minutes." "how much?" "two shillings." he sat on a bench and the crook was made, a stem being given him into the bargain. he then went to a ready-made clothes' shop, the owner of which had a large rural connection. as the crook had absorbed most of gabriel's money, he attempted, and carried out, an exchange of his overcoat for a shepherd's regulation smock-frock. this transaction having been completed, he again hurried off to the centre of the town, and stood on the kerb of the pavement, as a shepherd, crook in hand. now that oak had turned himself into a shepherd, it seemed that bailifs were most in demand. however, two or three farmers noticed him and drew near. dialogues followed, more or lessin the subjoined for: -- "where do you come from?" "norcombe." "that's a long way. "fifteen miles." "who's farm were you upon last?" "my own." this reply invariably operated like a rumour of cholera. the inquiring farmer would edge away and shake his head dubiously. gabriel, like his dog, was too good to be trustworthy,. and he never made advance beyond this point. it is safer to accept any chance that offers itself, and extemporize a procedure to fit it, than to get a good shepherd, but had laid himself out for anything in the whole cycle of labour that was required in the fair. it grew dusk. some merry men were whistling and singing by the corn-exchange. gabriel's hand, which had lain for some time idle in his smock-frock pocket, touched his flute which he carried there. here was an opportunity for putting his dearly bought wisdom into practice. he drew out his flute and began to play "jockey to the fair" in the style of a man who had never known moment's sorrow. oak could pipe with arcadian sweetness and the sound of the well-known notes cheered his own heart as well as those of the loungers. he played on with spirit, and in half an hour had earned in pence what was a small fortune to a destitute man. by making inquiries he learnt that there was another fair at shottsford the next day. "how far is shottsford?" "ten miles t'other side of weatherbury." weatherbury! it was where bathsheba had gone two months before. this information was like coming from night into noon. "how far is it to weatherbury?" "five or six miles." bathsheba had probably left weatherbury long before this time, but the place had enough interest attaching to it to lead oak to choose shottsford fair as his next field of inquiry, because it lay in the weatherbury quarter. moreover, the weatherbury folk were by no means uninteresting intrinsically. if report spoke truly they were as hardy, merry, thriving, wicked a set as any in the whole county. oak resolved to sleep at weatherbury -- that -- night on his way to shottsford, and struck out at once -- into the -- high road which had been recommended as the direct route to the village in question. the road stretched through water-meadows traversed by little brooks, whose quivering surfaces were braided along their centres, and folded into creases at the sides; or, where the flow was more rapid, the stream was pied with spots of white froth, which rode on in undisturbed serenity. on the higher levels the dead and dry carcasses of leaves tapped the ground as they bowled along helter- skelter upon the shoulders of the wind, and little birds in the hedges were rustling their feathers and tucking themselves in comfortably for the night, retaining their places if oak kept moving, but flying away if he stopped to look at them. he passed by yalbury-wood where the game-birds were rising to their roosts, and heard the crack-voiced cock-pheasants "cu-uck, cuck," and the wheezy whistle of the hens. by the time he had walked three or four miles every shape in the-landscape had assumed a uniform hue of blackness. he descended yalbury hill and could just discern ahead of him a waggon, drawn up under a great over-hanging tree by the roadside. on coming close, he found there were no horses attached to it, the spot being apparently quite deserted. the waggon, from its position, seemed to have been left there for the night, for beyond about half a truss of hay which was heaped in the bottom, it was quite empty. gabriel sat down on the shafts of the vehicle and con- sidered his position. he calculated that he had walked a very fair proportion of the journey; and having been on foot since daybreak, he felt tempted to lie down upon the hay in the waggon instead of pushing on to the village of weatherbury, and having to pay for a lodging. eating his las slices of bread and ham, and drinking from the bottle of cider he had taken the precaution to bring with him, he got into the lonely waggon. here he spread half of the hay as a bed, and, as well as he could in the darkness, pulled the other half over him by way of bed-clothes, covering himself entirely, and feeling, physically, as comfortable as ever he had been in his life. inward melancholy it was impossible for a man like oak, introspective far beyond his neighbours, to banish quite, whilst conning the present. untoward page of his history. so, thinking of his misfortunes, amorous and pastoral he fell asleep, shepherds enjoying, in common with sailors, the privilege of being able to summon the god instead of having to wait for him. on somewhat suddenly awaking after a sleep of whose length he had no idea, oak found that the waggon was in motion. he was being carried along the road at a rate rather considerable for a vehicle without springs, and under circumstances of physical uneasiness, his head being dandled up and down on the bed of the waggon like a kettledrum-stick. he then dis- tinguished voices in conversation, coming from the forpart of the waggon. his concern at this dilemma (which would have been alarm, had he been a thriving man; but -- misfortune is a fine opiate to personal terror) led him to peer cautiously from the hay, and the first sight he beheld was the stars above him. charles's wain was getting towards a right angle with the pole star, and gabriel concluded that it must be about nine o'clock -- in other words, that he had slept two hours. this small astronomical calculation was made without any positive effort, and whilst he was stealthily turning to discover, if possible, into whose hands he had fallen. two figures were dimly visible in front, sitting with their legs outside the waggon, one of whom was driving. gabriel soon found that this was the waggoner, and it appeared they had come from casterbridge fair, like himself. a conversation was in progress, which continued thus: -- "be as 'twill, she's a fine handsome body as far's looks be concerned. but that's only the skin of the woman, and these dandy cattle be as-proud as a lucifer in their insides." "ay -- so 'a do seem, billy smallbury -- so 'a do seem." this utterance was very shaky by nature, and more so by circumstance, the jolting of the waggon not being- without its effect upon the speaker's larynx. it came "from the man who held the reins. "she's a very vain feymell -- so 'tis said here and there." "ah, now. if so be 'tis like that, i can't look her in the face. lord, no: not i -- heh-heh-heh! such a shy man as i be!" "yes -- she's very vain. 'tis said that every night at going to bed she looks in the glass to put on her night- cap properly." "and not a married woman. oh, the world!" "and 'a can play the peanner, so 'tis said. can play so clever that 'a can make a psalm tune sound as well as the merriest loose song a man can wish for." "d'ye tell o't! a happy time for us, and i feel quite a new man! and how do she play?" "that i don't know, master poorgrass." on hearing these and other similar remarks, a wild thought flashed into gabriel's mind that they might be speaking of bathsheba. there were, however, no ground for retaining such a supposition, for the waggon, though going in the direction of weatherbury, might be going beyond it, and the woman alluded to seemed to be the mistress of some estate. they were now apparently close upon weatherbury and not to alarm the speakers unnecessarily, gabriel slipped out of the waggon unseen. he turned to an opening in the hedge, which he found to be a gate, and mounting thereon, he sat meditating whether to seek a cheap lodging in the village, or to ensure a cheaper one by lying under some hay or corn-stack. the crunching jangle of the waggon died upon his ear. he was about to walk on, when he noticed on his left hand an unusual light -- appearing about half a mile distant. oak watched it, and the glow increased. something was on fire. gabriel again mounted the gate, and, leaping down on the other side upon what he found to be ploughed soil, made across the field in the exact direction of the fire. the blaze, enlarging in a double ratio by his approach and its own increase, showed him as he drew nearer the outlines of ricks beside it, lighted up to great distinctness. a rick-yard was the source of the fire. his weary face now began to be painted over with a rich orange glow, and the whole front of his smock- frock and gaiters was covered with a dancing shadow pattern of thorn-twigs -- the light reaching him through a leafless intervening hedge -- and the metallic curve of his sheep-crook shone silver-bright in the same abound- ing rays. he came up to the boundary fence, and stood to regain breath. it seemed as if the spot was unoccupied by a living soul. the fire was issuing from a long straw-stack, which was so far gone as to preclude a possibility of saving it. a rick burns differently from a house. as the wind blows the fire inwards, the portion in flames completely disappears like melting sugar, and the outline is lost to the eye. however, a hay or a wheat-rick, well put together, will resist combustion for a length of time, if it begins on the outside. this before gabriel's eyes was a- rick of straw, loosely put together, and the flames darted into it with lightning swiftness. it glowed on the windward side, rising and falling in intensity, like the coal of a cigar. then a superincumbent bundle rolled down, with a whisking noise; flames elongated, and bent themselves about with a quiet roar, but no crackle. banks of smoke went off horizontally at the back like passing clouds, and behind these burned hidden pyres, illuminating the semi-transparent sheet of smoke to a lustrous yellow uniformity. individual straws in the foreground were consumed in a creeping movement of ruddy heat, as if they were knots of red worms, and above shone imaginary fiery faces, tongues hanging from lips, glaring eyes, and other impish forms, from which at intervals sparks flew in clusters like birds from a nest, oak suddenly ceased from being a mere spectator by discovering the case to be more serious than he had at first imagined. a scroll of smoke blew aside and revealed to him a wheat-rick in startling juxtaposition with the decaying one, and behind this a series of others, composing the main corn produce of the farm; so that instead of the straw-stack standing, as he had imagined comparatively isolated, there was a regular connection between it and the remaining stacks of the group. gabriel leapt over the hedge, and saw that he was not alone. the first man he came to was running about in a great hurry, as if his thoughts were several yards in advance of his body, which they could never drag on fast enough. "o, man -- fire, fire! a good master and a. bad servant is fire, fire! -- i mane a bad servant and a good master o, mark clark -- come! and you, billy smallbury -- and you, maryann money -- and you, jan coggan, and matthew there!" other figures now appeared behind this shouting man and among the smoke, and gabriel found that, far from being alone he was in a great company -- whose shadows danced merrily up and down, timed by the jigging of the flames, and not at all by their owners' movements. the assemblage -- belonging to that class of society which casts its thoughts into the form of feeling, and its feelings into the form of commotion -- set to work with a remarkable confusion of purpose. "stop the draught under the wheat-rick!" cried gabriel to those nearest to him. the corn stood on stone staddles, and between these, tongues of yellow hue from the burning straw licked and darted playfully. if the fire once got under this stack, all would be lost. "get a tarpaulin -- quick!" said gabriel. a rick-cloth was brought, and they hung it like a curtain across the channel. the flames immediately ceased to go under the bottom of the corn-stack, and stood up vertical. "stand here with a bucket of water and keep the cloth wet." said gabriel again. the flames, now driven upwards, began to attack the angles of the huge roof covering the wheat-stack. "a ladder." cried gabriel. "the ladder was against the straw-rick and is burnt to a cinder." said a spectre-like form in the smoke. oak seized the cut ends of the sheaves, as if he were going to engage in the operation of "reed-drawing," and digging in his feet, and occasionally sticking in the stem of his sheep-crook, he clambered up the beetling face. he at once sat astride the very apex, and began with his crook to beat off the fiery fragments which had lodged thereon, shouting to the others to get him a bough and a ladder, and some water. billy smallbury -- one of the men who had been on the waggon -- by this time had found a ladder, which mark clark ascended, holding on beside oak upon the thatch. the smoke at this corner was stifling, and clark, a nimble fellow, having been handed a bucket of water, bathed oak's face and sprinkled him generally, whilst gabriel, now with a long beech-bough in one hand, in addition to his crook in the other, kept sweeping the stack and dislodging all fiery particles. on the ground the groups of villagers were still occupied in doing all they could to keep down the conflagration, which was not much. they were all tinged orange, and backed up by shadows of varying pattern. round the corner of the largest stack, out of the direct rays of the fire, stood a pony, bearing a young woman on its back. by her side was another woman, on foot. these two seemed to keep at a distance from the fire, that the horse might not become restive. "he's a shepherd." said the woman on foot. "yes -- he is. see how his crook shines as he beats the rick with it. and his smock-frock is burnt in two holes, i declare! a fine young shepherd he is too, ma'am." "whose shepherd is he?" said the equestrian in a clear voice. "don't know, ma'am." "don't any of the others know?" "nobody at all -- i've asked 'em. quite a stranger, they say." the young woman on the pony rode out from the shade and looked anxiously around. "do you think the barn is safe?" she said. "d'ye think the barn is safe, jan coggan?" said the second woman, passing on the question to the nearest man in that direction. "safe -now -- leastwise i think so. if this rick had gone the barn would have followed. 'tis- that bold shepherd up there that have done the most good -- he sitting on the top o' rick, whizzing his great long-arms about like a windmill." "he does work hard." said the young woman on horseback, looking up at gabriel through her thick woollen veil. "i wish he was shepherd here. don't any of you know his name." "never heard the man's name in my life, or seed his form afore." the fire began to get worsted, and gabriel's elevated position being no longer required of him, he made as if to descend. "maryann." said the girl on horseback, "go to him as he comes down, and say that the farmer wishes to thank him for the great service he has done." maryann stalked off towards the rick and met oak at the foot of the ladder. she delivered her message. "where is your master the farmer?" asked gabriel, kindling with the idea of getting employment that seemed to strike him now. "'tisn't a master; 'tis a mistress, shepherd." "a woman farmer?" "ay, 'a b'lieve, and a rich one too!" said a by- stander. "lately 'a came here from a distance. took on her uncle's farm, who died suddenly. used to measure his money in half-pint cups. they say now that she've business in every bank in casterbridge, and thinks no more of playing pitch-and-toss sovereign than you and i, do pitch-halfpenny -- not a bit in the world, shepherd." "that's she, back there upon the pony." said mary- ann. "wi' her face a-covered up in that black cloth with holes in it." oak, his features smudged, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smoke and heat, his smock-frock burnt-into holes and dripping with water, the ash stem of his sheep- crook charred six inches shorter, advansed with the humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to the slight female form in the saddle. he lifted his hat with respect, and not without gallantry: stepping close to her hanging feet he said in a hesitating voice, -- "do you happen to want a shepherd, ma'am?" she lifted the wool veil tied round her face, and looked all astonishment. gabriel and his cold-hearted darling, bathsheba everdene, were face to face. bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanically repeated in an abashed and sad voice, -- "do you want a shepherd, ma'am?" chapter vii recognition -- a timid girl bathsheba withdrew into the shade. she scarcely knew whether most to be amused at the singularity of the meeting, or to be concerned at its awkwardness. there was room for a little pity, also for a very little exultation: the former at his position, the latter at her own. embarrassed she was not, and she" remembered gabriel's declaration of love to her at norcombe only to think she had nearly forgotten it. "yes," she murmured, putting on an air of dignity, and turning again to him with a little warmth of cheek; "i do want a shepherd. but -- -- " "he's the very man, ma'am." said one of the villagers, quietly. conviction breeds conviction. "ay, that 'a is." said a second, decisively. "the man, truly!" said a third, with heartiness." "he's all there!" said number four, fervidly." then will you tell him to speak to the bailiff, said bathsheba. all "was practical again now. a summer eve and loneliness would have been necessary to give the meeting its proper fulness of romance. the palpitation within his breast at discovering that this ashtoreth of strange report was only a modification of venus the well-known and admired, retired with him to talk over the necessary preliminaries of hiring. the fire before them wasted away. "men." said bathsheba, " you shall take a little refreshment after this extra work. will you come to the house?" "we could knock in a bit and a drop a good deal freer, miss, if so be ye'd send it to warren's malthouse," replied the spokesman. bathsheba then rode off into the darkness, and the men straggled on to the village in twos and threes -- oak and the bailiff being left by the rick alone. "and now." said the bailiff, finally, "all is settled, i think, about your coming, and i am going home-along. good-night to ye, shepherd." "can you get me a lodging?" inquired gabriel. "that i can't, indeed," he said, moving past oak as a christian edges past an offertory-plate when he does not mean to contribute. "if you follow on the road till you come to warren's malthouse, where they are all gone to have their snap of victuals, i daresay some of 'em will tell you of a place. good-night to ye, shepherd." the bailiff who showed this nervous dread of loving his neighbour as himself, went up the hill, and oak walked on to the village, still astonished at the ren- counter with bathsheba, glad of his nearness to her, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of norcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here. but some women only require an emerg- ency to make them fit for one. obliged, to some extent, to forgo dreaming in order to find the way, he reached the churchyard, and passed round it under the wall where several ancient trees grew. there was a wide margin of grass along here, and gabriel's footsteps were deadened by its softness, even at this indurating period of the year. when abreast of a trunk which appeared to be the oldest of the old, he became aware that a figure was standing behind it. gabriel did not pause in his walk, and in another moment he accidentally kicked a loose stone. the noise was enough to disturb the motionless stranger, who started and assumed a careless position. it was a slim girl, rather thinly clad. "good-night to you." said gabriel, heartily. "good-night." said the girl to gabriel. the voice was unexpectedly attractive; it was "the low and dulcet note suggestive of romance," common in descriptions, rare in experience. "i'll thank you to tell me if i'm in the way for warren's malthouse?" gabriel resumed, primarily to gain the information, indirectly to get more of the music. "quite right. it's at the bottom of the hill. and do you know -- --" the girl hesitated and then went on again. "do you know how late they keep open the buck's head inn?" she seemed" to be won by gabriel's heartiness, as gabriel had been won by her modulations. "i don't know where the buck's head is, or anything about it. do you think of going there to-night?" "yes -- --" the woman again paused. there was no necessity for any continuance of speech, and the fact that she did add more seemed to proceed from an unconscious desire to show unconcern by making a remark, which is noticeable in the ingenuous when they are acting by stealth. "you are not a weatherbury man?" she said, timorously. "i am not. i am the new shepherd -- just arrived." "only a shepherd -- and you seem almost a farmer by your ways." "only a shepherd." gabriel repeated, in a dull cadence of finality. "his thoughts were directed to the past, his eyes to the feet of the girl; and for the first time he saw lying there a bundle of some sort. she may have perceived the direction of his face, for she said coaxingly, -- "you won't say anything in the parish about having seen me here, will you -- at least, not for a day or two?" "i won't if you wish me not to." said oak. "thank you, indeed." the other replied."i am rather poor, and i don't want people to know anything about me." then she was silent and shivered. "you ought to have a cloak on such a cold night," gabriel observed. "i would advise 'ee to get indoors." "o no! would you mind going on and leaving me? i thank you much for what you have told me." "i will go on." he said; adding hesitatingly, -- "since you are not very well off, perhaps you would accept this trifle from me. it is only a shilling, but it is all i have to spare." "yes, i will take it." said the stranger, gratefully. she extended her hand; gabriel his. in feeling for each other's palm in the gloom before the money could be passed, a minute incident occurred which told much. gabriel's fingers alighted on the young woman's wrist. it was beating with a throb of tragic intensity. he had frequently felt the same quick, hard beat in the femoral artery of -- his lambs when overdriven. it suggested a consumption too great of a vitality which, to judge from her figure and stature, was already too little. "what is the matter?" "nothing." "but there is?" "no, no, no! let your having seen me be a secret!" "very well; i will. good-night, again." "good-night." the young girl remained motionless by the tree, and gabriel descended into the village of weatherbury, or lower longpuddle as it was sometimes called. he fancied that he had felt himself in the penumbra of a very deep sadness when touching that slight and fragile creature. but wisdom lies in moderating mere impres- sions, and gabriel endeavoured to think little of this. chapter viii the malthouse -- the chat -- news warren's malthouse was enclosed by an old wall inwrapped with ivy, and though not much of the exterior was visible at this hour, the character and purposes of the building were clearly enough shown by its outline upon the sky. from the walls an overhanging thatched roof sloped up to a point in the centre, upon which rose a small wooden lantern, fitted with louvre-boards on all the four sides, and from these openings a mist was dimly perceived to be escaping into the night air. there was no window in front; but a square hole in the door was glazed with a single pane, through which red, comfortable rays now stretched out upon the ivied wall in front. voices were to be heard inside. oak's hand skimmed the surface of the door with fingers extended to an elymas-the-somerer pattern, till he found a leathern strap, which he pulled. this lifted a wooden latch, and the door swung open. the room inside was lighted only by the, ruddy glow from the kiln mouth, which shone over ,the floor with the streaming, horizontality of the setting sun, and threw upwards the shadows of all facial irregularities in those assembled around. the stone-flag floor was worn into a path from the doorway to the kiln, and into undula- tions everywhere. a curved settle of unplaned oak stretched along one side, and in a remote corner was a small bed and bedstead, the owner and frequent occupier of which was the maltster. this aged man was now sitting opposite the fire, his frosty white hair and beard overgrowing his gnarled figure like the grey moss and lichen upon a leafless apple-tree. he wore breeches and the laced-up shoes called ankle-jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon the fire. gabriel's nose was greeted by an atmosphere laden with the sweet smell of new malt. the conversation (which seemed to have been concerning the origin of the fire) immediately ceased, and every one ocularly criticised him to the degree expressed by contracting the flesh of their foreheads and looking at him with narrowed eye- lids, as if he had been a light too strong for their sight. several exclaimed meditatively, after this operation had been completed: -- "oh, 'tis the new shepherd, 'a b'lieve." "we thought we heard a hand pawing about the door for the bobbin, but weren't sure 'twere not a dead leaf blowed across." said another. "come in, shepherd; sure ye be welcome, though we don't know yer name." "gabriel oak, that's my name, neighbours." the ancient maltster sitting in the midst turned up this -- his turning being as the turning of a rusty crane. "that's never gable oak's grandson over at nor- combe -- never!" he said, as a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed to take literally'. "my father and my grandfather were old men of the name of gabriel." said the shepherd, placidly. "thought i knowed the man's face as i seed him on the rick! -- thought i did! and where be ye trading o't to now, shepherd?" "i'm thinking of biding here." said mr. oak. "knowed yer grandfather for years and years!" continued the maltster, the words coming forth of their own accord as if the momentum previously imparted had been sufficient. "ah -- and did you!" "knowed yer grandmother." "and her too!" "likewise knowed yer father when he was a child. why, my boy jacob there and your father were sworn brothers -- that they were sure -- weren't ye, jacob?" "ay, sure." said his son, a young man about sixty- five, with a semi-bald head and one tooth in the left centre of his upper jaw, which made much of itself by standing prominent, like a milestone in a bank. "but "twas joe had most to do with him. however, my son william must have knowed the very man afore us -- didn't ye, billy, afore ye left norcombe?" "no, 'twas andrew." said jacob's son billy, a child of forty, or thereabouts, who manifested the peculiarity of possessing a cheerful soul in a gloomy body, and whose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla shade here and there. "i can mind andrew." said oak, "as being a man in the place when i was quite a child." "ay -- the other day i and my youngest daughter, liddy, were over at my grandson's christening." continued billy. "we were talking about this very family, and "twas only last purification day in this very world, when the use-money is gied away to the second-best poor folk, you know, shepherd, and i can mind the day because they all had to traypse up to the vestry -- yes, this very man's family." "come, shepherd, and drink. 'tis gape and swaller with us -- a drap of sommit, but not of much account." said the maltster, removing from the fire his eyes, which were vermilion-red and bleared by gazing into it for so many years. "take up the god-forgive- me, jacob. see if 'tis warm, jacob." jacob stooped to the god-forgive-me, which was a two-handled tall mug standing in the ashes, cracked and charred with heat: it was rather furred with ex- traneous matter about the outside, especially in the crevices of the handles, the innermost curves of which may not have seen daylight for several years by reason of this encrustation thereon -- formed of ashes accident- ally wetted with cider and baked hard; but to the mind of any sensible drinker the cup was no worse for that, being incontestably clean on the inside and about the rim. it may be observed that such a class of mug is called a god-forgive-me in weatherbury and its vicinity for uncertain reasons; probably because its size makes any given toper feel ashamed of himself when he sees its bottom in drinking it empty. jacob, on receiving the order to see if the liquor was warm enough, placidly dipped his forefinger into it by way of thermometer, and having pronounced it nearly of the proper degree, raised the cup and very civilly attempted to dust some of the ashes from the bottom with the skirt of his smock-frock, because shepherd oak was a stranger. "a clane cup for the shepherd." said the maltster commandingly. "no -- not at all," said gabriel, in a reproving tone of considerateness. "i never fuss about dirt in its pure state, and when i know what sort it is." taking the mug he drank an inch or more from the depth of its contents, and duly passed it to the next man. wouldn't think of giving such trouble to neighbours in washing up when there's so much work to be done in the world already." continued oak in a moister tone, after recovering from the stoppage of breath which is occasioned by pulls at large mugs. "a right sensible man." said jacob. "true, true; it can't be gainsaid!" observed a brisk young man -- mark clark by name, a genial and pleasant gentleman, whom to meet anywhere in your travels was to know, to know was to drink with, and to drink with was, unfortunately, to pay for. "and here's a mouthful of bread and bacon that mis'ess have sent, shepherd. the cider will go down better with a bit of victuals. don't ye chaw quite close, shepherd, for i let the bacon fall in the road outside as i was bringing it along, and may be 'tis rather gritty. there, 'tis clane dirt; and we all know what that is, as you say, and you bain't a particular man we see, shepherd." "true, true -- not at all." said the friendly oak. "don't let your teeth quite meet, and you won't feel the sandiness at all. ah! 'tis wonderful what can be done by contrivance!" "my own mind exactly, neighbour." "ah, he's his grandfer's own grandson! -- his grandfer were just such a nice unparticular man!" said the maltster. "drink, henry fray -- drink." magnanimously said jan coggan, a person who held saint-simonian notions of share and share alike where liquor was concerned, as the vessel showed signs of approaching him in its gradual revolution among them. having at this moment reached the end of a wistful gaze into mid-air, henry did not refuse. he was a man of more than middle age, with eyebrows high up in his forehead, who laid it down that the law of the world was bad, with a long-suffering look through his listeners at the world alluded to, as it presented itself to his imagination. he always signed his name "henery" -- strenuously insisting upon that spelling, and if any passing schoolmaster ventured to remark that the second "e" was superfluous and old-fashioned, he received the reply that "h-e-n-e-r-y" was the name he was christened and the name he would stick to -- in the tone of one to whom orthographical differences were matters which had a great deal to do with personal character. mr. jan coggan, who had passed the cup to henery, was a crimson man with a spacious countenance, and private glimmer in his eye, whose name had appeared on the marriage register of weatherbury and neighbour- ing parishes as best man and chief witness in countless unions of the previous twenty years; he also very frequently filled the post of head godfather in baptisms of the subtly-jovial kind. "come, mark clark -- come. ther's plenty more in the barrel." said jan. "ay -- that i will, 'tis my only doctor." replied mr. clark, who, twenty years younger than jan coggan, revolved in the same orbit. he secreted mirth on all occasions for special discharge at popular parties. "why, joseph poorgrass, ye han't had a drop!" said mr. coggan to a self-conscious man in the background, thrusting the cup towards him. "such a modest man as he is!" said jacob smallbury. "why, ye've hardly had strength of eye enough to look in our young mis'ess's face, so i hear, joseph?" all looked at joseph poorgrass with pitying reproach. "no -- i've hardly looked at her at all." simpered joseph, reducing his body smaller whilst talking, apparently from a meek sense of undue prominence. "and when i seed her, 'twas nothing but blushes with me!" "poor feller." said mr. clark. "'tis a curious nature for a man." said jan coggan. "yes." continued joseph poorgrass -- his shyness, which was so painful as a defect, filling him with a mild complacency now that it was regarded as an interesting study. "'twere blush, blush, blush with me every minute of the time, when she was speaking to me." "i believe ye, joseph poorgrass, for we all know ye to be a very bashful man." "'tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul." said the maltster. "and ye have suffered from it a long time, we know." "ay ever since i was a boy. yes -- mother was concerned to her heart about it -- yes. but twas all nought." "did ye ever go into the world to try and stop it, joseph poorgrass?" "oh ay, tried all sorts o' company. they took me to greenhill fair, and into a great gay jerry-go-nimble show, where there were women-folk riding round -- standing upon horses, with hardly anything on but their smocks; but it didn't cure me a morsel. and then i was put errand-man at the women's skittle alley at the back of the tailor's arms in casterbridge. 'twas a horrible sinful situation, and a very curious place for a good man. i had to stand and look ba'dy people in the face from morning till night; but 'twas no use -- i was just as-bad as ever after all. blushes hev been in the family for generations. there, 'tis a happy pro- vidence that i be no worse." "true." said jacob smallbury, deepening his thoughts to a profounder view of the subject. "'tis a thought to look at, that ye might have been worse; but even as you be, 'tis a very bad affliction for 'ee, joseph. for ye see, shepherd, though 'tis very well for a woman, dang it all, 'tis awkward for a man like him, poor feller?" "'tis -- 'tis." said gabriel, recovering from a medita- tion. "yes, very awkward for the man." "ay, and he's very timid, too." observed jan coggan. "once he had been working late at yalbury bottom, and had had a drap of drink, and lost his way as he was coming home-along through yalbury wood, didn't ye, master poorgrass?" "no, no, no; not that story!" expostulated the modest man, forcing a laugh to bury his concern. "-- -- and so 'a lost himself quite." continued mr coggan, with an impassive face, implying that a true narrative, like time and tide, must run its course and would respect no man. "and as he was coming along in the middle of the night, much afeared, and not able to find his way out of the trees nohow, 'a cried out, "man-a-lost! man-a-lost!" a owl in a tree happened to be crying "whoo-whoo-whoo!" as owls do, you know, shepherd" (gabriel nodded), " and joseph, all in a tremble, said, " joseph poorgrass, of weatherbury, sir!" "no, no, now -- that's too much!" said the timid man, becoming a man of brazen courage all of a sudden. "i didn't say sir. i'll tike my oath i didn't say " joseph poorgrass o' weatherbury, sir." no, no; what's right is right, and i never said sir to the bird, knowing very well that no man of a gentleman's rank would be hollering there at that time o' night." joseph poor- grass of weatherbury," -- that's every word i said, and i shouldn't ha' said that if 't hadn't been for keeper day's metheglin.... there, 'twas a merciful thing it ended where it did." the question of which was right being tacitly waived by the company, jan went on meditatively: -- "and he's the fearfullest man, bain't ye, joseph? ay, another time ye were lost by lambing-down gate, weren't ye, joseph?" "i was." replied poorgrass, as if there were some conditions too serious even for modesty to remember itself under, this being one. "yes; that were the middle of the night, too. the gate would not open, try how he would, and knowing there was the devil's hand in it, he kneeled down." "ay." said joseph, acquiring confidence from the warmth of the fire, the cider, and a perception of the narrative capabilities of the experience alluded to. "my heart died within me, that time; but i kneeled down and said the lord's prayer, and then the belie right through, and then the ten commandments, in earnest prayer. but no, the gate wouldn't open; and then i went on with dearly beloved brethren, and, thinks i, this makes four, and 'tis all i know out of book, and if this don't do it nothing will, and i'm a lost man. well, when i got to saying after me, i rose from my knees and found the gate would open -- yes, neighbours, the gate opened the same as ever." a meditation on the obvious inference was indulged in by all, and during its continuance each directed his vision into the ashpit, which glowed like a desert in the tropics under a vertical sun, shaping their eyes long and liny, partly because of the light, partly from the depth of the subject discussed. gabriel broke the silence. "what sort of a place is this to live at, and what sort of a mis'ess is she to work under?" gabriel's bosom thrilled gently as he thus slipped under the notice of the assembly the inner- most subject of his heart. "we d' know little of her -- nothing. she only showed herself a few days ago. her uncle was took bad, and the doctor was called with his world-wide skill; but he couldn't save the man. as i take it, she's going to keep on the farm. "that's about the shape o't, 'a b'lieve." said jan uncle was a very fair sort of man. did ye know en, be under 'em as under one here and there. her uncle was a very fair sort of man. did ye know 'en, shepherd -- a bachelor-man?" "not at all." "i used to go to his house a-courting my first wife, charlotte, who was his dairymaid. well, a very good- hearted man were farmer everdene, and i being a respectable young fellow was allowed to call and see her and drink as much ale as i liked, but not to carry away any -- outside my skin i mane of course." "ay, ay, jan coggan; we know yer meaning." "and so you see 'twas beautiful ale, and i wished to value his kindness as much as i could, and not to be so ill-mannered as to drink only a thimbleful, which would have been insulting the man's generosity -- -- " "true, master coggan, 'twould so." corroborated mark clark. " -- -- and so i used to eat a lot of salt fish afore going, and then by the time i got there i were as dry as a lime-basket -- so thorough dry that that ale would slip down -- ah, 'twould slip down sweet! happy times! heavenly times! such lovely drunks as i used to have at that house! you can mind, jacob? you used to go wi' me sometimes." "i can -- i can." said jacob. "that one, too, that we had at buck's head on a white monday was a pretty tipple." "'twas. but for a wet of the better class, that brought you no nearer to the horned man than you were afore you begun, there was none like those in farmer everdene's kitchen. not a single damn allowed; no, not a bare poor one, even at the most cheerful moment when all were blindest, though the good old word of sin thrown in here and there at such times is a great relief to a merry soul." "true." said the maltster. "nater requires her swearing at the regular times, or she's not herself; and unholy exclamations is a necessity of life." "but charlotte." continued coggan -- "not a word of the sort would charlotte allow, nor the smallest item of taking in vain.... ay, poor charlotte, i wonder if she had the good fortune to get into heaven when 'a died! but 'a was never much in luck's way, and perhaps 'a went downwards after all, poor soul." "and did any of you know miss everdene's-father and mother?" inquired the shepherd, who found some difficulty in keeping the conversation in the desired channel. "i knew them a little." said jacob smallbury; "but they were townsfolk, and didn't live here. they've been dead for years. father, what sort of people were mis'ess' father and mother?" "well." said the maltster, "he wasn't much to look at; but she was a lovely woman. he was fond enough of her as his sweetheart." "used to kiss her scores and long-hundreds o times, so 'twas said." observed coggan. "he was very proud of her, too, when they were married, as i've been told." said the maltster. "ay." said coggan. "he admired her so much that he used to light the candle three time a night to look at her." "boundless love; i shouldn't have supposed it in the universe!" murmered joseph poorgrass, who habitually spoke on a large scale in his moral reflections. "well, to be sure." said gabriel. "oh, 'tis true enough. i knowed the man and woman both well. levi everdene -- that was the man's name, sure. "man." saith i in my hurry, but he were of a higher circle of life than that -- 'a was a gentleman- tailor really, worth scores of pounds. and he became a very celebrated bankrupt two or three times." "oh, i thought he was quite a common man!" said joseph. "o no, no! that man failed for heaps of money; hundreds in gold and silver." the maltster being rather short of breath, mr. coggan, after absently scrutinising a coal which had fallen among the ashes, took up the narrative, with a private twirl of his eye: -- "well, now, you'd hardly believe it, but that man -- husbands alive, after a while. understand? 'a didn't want to be fickle, but he couldn't help it. the poor feller were faithful and true enough to her in his wish, but his heart would rove, do what he would. he spoke to me in real tribulation about it once. "coggan," he said, "i could never wish for a handsomer woman than i've got, but feeling she's ticketed as my lawful wife, i can't help my wicked heart wandering, do what i will." but at last i believe he cured it by making her take off her wedding-ring and calling her by her maiden name as they sat together after the shop was shut, and so 'a would get to fancy she was only his sweetheart, and not married to him at all. and as soon as he could thoroughly fancy he was doing wrong and committing the seventh, 'a got to like her as well as ever, and they lived on a perfect picture of mutel love." "well, 'twas a most ungodly remedy." murmured joseph poorgrass; "but we ought to feel deep cheerful- ness that a happy providence kept it from being any worse. you see, he might have gone the bad road and given his eyes to unlawfulness entirely -- yes, gross un- lawfulness, so to say it." "you see." said billy smallbury, "the man's will was to do right, sure enough, but his heart didn't chime in." "he got so much better, that he was quite godly in his later years, wasn't he, jan?" said joseph poor- grass. "he got himself confirmed over again in a more serious way, and took to saying "amen" almost as loud as the clerk, and he liked to copy comforting verses from the tombstones. he used, too, to hold the money- plate at let your light so shine, and stand godfather to poor little come-by-chance children; and he kept a missionary box upon his table to nab folks unawares when they called; yes, and he would-box the charity- boys' ears, if they laughed in church, till they could hardly stand upright, and do other deeds of piety natural to the saintly inclined." "ay, at that time he thought of nothing but high things." added billy smallbury. "one day parson thirdly met him and said, "good-morning, mister everdene; 'tis a fine day!" "amen" said everdene, quite absent- like, thinking only of religion when he seed a parson- "their daughter was not at all a pretty chile at that time." said henery fray. "never should have. thought she'd have growed up such a handsome body as she is." "'tis to be hoped her temper is as good as her face." "well, yes; but the baily will have most to do with the business and ourselves. ah!" henery gazed into the ashpit, and smiled volumes of ironical knowledge. "a queer christian, like the devil's head in a cowl, "he is." said henery, implying that irony must cease at a certain point. "between we two, man and man, i believe that man would as soon tell a lie sundays as working-days -- that i do so." "good faith, you do talk!" said gabriel. "true enough." said the man of bitter moods, looking round upon the company with the antithetic laughter that comes from a keener appreciation of the miseries of life than ordinary men are capable of. 'ah, there's people of one sort, and people of another, but that man -- bless your souls!" gabriel thought fit to change the subject. "you must be a very aged man, malter, to have sons growed mild and ancient" he remarked. "father's so old that 'a can't mind his age, can ye, father?" interposed jacob. "and he growled terrible crooked too, lately" jacob continued, surveying his father's figure, which was rather more bowed than his own. "really one may say that father there is three-double." "crooked folk will last a long while." said the maltster, grimly, and not in the best humour. "shepherd would like to hear the pedigree of yer life, father -- wouldn't ye, shepherd? "ay that i should." said gabriel with the heartiness of a man who had longed to hear it for several months. "what may your age be, malter?" the maltster cleared his throat in an exaggerated form for emphasis, and elongating his gaze to the remotest point of the ashpit! said, in the slow speech justifiable when the importance of a subject is so generally felt that any mannerism must be tolerated in getting at it, "well, i don't mind the year i were born in, but perhaps i can reckon up the places i've lived at, and so get it that way. i bode at upper long- puddle across there" (nodding to the north) "till i were eleven. i bode seven at kingsbere" (nodding to the east) "where i took to malting. i went therefrom to norcombe, and malted there two-and-twenty years, and- two-and-twenty years i was there turnip-hoeing and harvesting. ah, i knowed that old place, norcombe, years afore you were thought of, master oak" (oak smiled sincere belief in the fact). "then i malted at dur- nover four year, and four year turnip-hoeing; and i was fourteen times eleven months at millpond st. jude's" (nodding north-west-by-north). "old twills wouldn't hire me for more than eleven months at a time, to keep me from being chargeable to the parish if so be i was disabled. then i was three year at mellstock, and i've been here one-and-thirty year come candlemas. how much is that?" "hundred and seventeen." chuckled another old gentleman, given to mental arithmetic and little con- versation, who had hitherto sat unobserved in a corner. "well, then, that's my age." said the maltster, em- phatically. "o no, father!" said jacob. "your turnip-hoeing were in the summer and your malting in the winter of the same years, and ye don't ought to count-both halves father." "chok' it all! i lived through the summers, didn't i? that's my question. i suppose ye'll say next i be no age at all to speak of?" "sure we shan't." said gabriel, soothingly. "ye be a very old aged person, malter." attested jan must have a wonderful talented constitution to be able to live so long, mustn't he, neighbours?" "true, true; ye must, malter, wonderful," said the meeting unanimously. the maltster, being know pacified, was even generous enough to voluntarily disparage in a slight degree the virtue of having lived a great many years, by mentioning that the cup they were drinking out of was three years older than he. while the cup was being examined, the end of gabriel oak's flute became visible over his smock-frock i seed you blowing into a great flute by now at caster- bridge?" "you did." said gabriel, blushing faintly. "i've been in great trouble, neighbours, and was driven to it. take it careless-like, shepherd and your time will come tired?" "neither drum nor trumpet have i heard since christmas." said jan coggan. "come, raise a tune, master oak!" "that i will." said gabriel, pulling out his flute and putting it together. "a poor tool, neighbours; but such as i can do ye shall have and welcome." oak then struck up "jockey to the fair." and played that sparkling melody three times through accenting the notes in the third round in a most artistic and lively manner by bending his body in small jerks and tapping with his foot to beat time. "he can blow the flute very well -- that 'a can." said a young married man, who having no individuality worth mentioning was known as "susan tall's husband." he continued, "i'd as lief as not be able to blow into a flute as well-as that." "he's a clever man, and 'tis a true comfort for us to have such a shepherd." murmured joseph poorgrass, in a soft cadence. "we ought to feel full o' thanksgiving that he's not a player of ba'dy songs 'instead of these merry tunes; for 'twould have been just as easy for god to have made the shepherd a loose low man -- a man of iniquity, so to speak it -- as what he is. yes, for our wives" and daughters' sakes we should feel real thanks giving." "true, true, -- real thanksgiving!" dashed in mark clark conclusively, not feeling it to be of any conse- quence to his opinion that he had only heard about a word and three-quarters of what joseph had said. "yes." added joseph, beginning to feel like a man in the bible; "for evil do thrive so in these times that ye may be as much deceived in the cleanest shaved and whitest shirted man as in the raggedest tramp upon the turnpike, if i may term it so." "ay, i can mind yer face now, shepherd." said henery fray, criticising gabriel with misty eyes as he entered upon his second tune. "yes -- now i see 'ee blowing into the flute i know 'ee to be the same man i see play at casterbridge, for yer mouth were scrimped up and yer eyes a-staring out like a strangled man's -- just as they be now." "'tis a pity that playing the flute should make a man look such a scarecrow." observed mr. mark clark, with additional criticism of gabriel's countenance, the latter person jerking out, with the ghastly grimace required by the instrument, the chorus of "dame durden! "i hope you don't mind that young man's bad manners in naming your features?" whispered joseph to gabriel. "not at all." said mr. oak. "for by nature ye be a very handsome man, shepherd." continued joseph poorgrass, with winning sauvity. "ay, that ye be, shepard." said the company. "thank you very much." said oak, in the modest tone good manners demanded, thinking, however, that he would never let bathsheba see him playing the flute; in this severe showing a discretion equal to that related to its sagacious inventress, the divine minerva herself. "ah, when i and my wife were married at norcombe church." said the old maltster, not pleased at finding himself left out of the subject "we were called the handsomest couple in the neighbourhood -- everybody said so." "danged if ye bain't altered now, malter." said a voice with the vigour natural to the enunciation of a remark- ably evident truism. it came from the old man in the background, whose offensiveness and spiteful ways were barely atoned for by the occasional chuckle he con- tributed to general laughs. "o no, no." said gabriel. "don't ye play no more shepherd" said susan tall's husband, the young married man who had spoken once before. "i must be moving and when there's tunes going on i seem as if hung in wires. if i thought after i'd left that music was still playing, and i not there, i should be quite melancholy-like." "what's yer hurry then, laban?" inquired coggan. "you used to bide as late as the latest." "well, ye see, neighbours, i was lately married to a woman, and she's my vocation now, and so ye see -- -- " the young man hated lamely. "new lords new laws, as the saying is, i suppose," remarked coggan. "ay, 'a b'lieve -- ha, ha!" said susan tall's husband, in a tone intended to imply his habitual reception of jokes without minding them at all. the young man then wished them good-night and withdrew. henery fray was the first to follow. then gabriel arose and went off with jan coggan, who had offered him a lodging. a few minutes later, when the remaining ones were on their legs and about to depart, fray came back again in a hurry. flourishing his finger ominously he threw a gaze teeming with tidings just -- where his eye alighted by accident, which happened to be in joseph poorgrass's face. "o -- what's the matter, what's the matter, henery?" said joseph, starting back. "what's a-brewing, henrey?" asked jacob and mark clark. "baily pennyways -- baily pennyways -- i said so; yes, i said so!" "what, found out stealing anything?" "stealing it is. the news is, that after miss everdene got home she went out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and coming in found baily pennyways creeping down the granary steps with half a a bushel of barley. she fleed at him like a cat -- never such a tomboy as she is -- of course i speak with closed doors?" "you do -- you do, henery." "she fleed at him, and, to cut a long story short, he owned to having carried off five sack altogether, upon her promising not to persecute him. well, he's turned out neck and crop, and my question is, who's going to be baily now?" the question was such a profound one that henery was obliged to drink there and then from the large cup till the bottom was distinctly visible inside. before he had replaced it on the table, in came the young man, susan tall's husband, in a still greater hurry. "have ye heard the news that's all over parish?" "about baily pennyways?" "but besides that?" "no -- not a morsel of it!" they replied, looking into the very midst of laban tall as if to meet his words half-way down his throat. "what a night of horrors!" murmured joseph poor- grass, waving his hands spasmodically. "i've had the news-bell ringing in my left ear quite bad enough for a murder, and i've seen a magpie all alone!" "fanny robin -- miss everdene's youngest servant -- can't be found. they've been wanting to lock up the door these two hours, but she isn't come in. and they don't know what to do about going to hed for fear of locking her out. they wouldn't be so concerned if she hadn't been noticed in such low spirits these last few days, and maryann d'think the beginning of a crowner's inquest has happened to the poor girl." "o -- 'tis burned -- 'tis burned!" came from joseph poorgrass's dry lips. "no -- 'tis drowned!" said tall. "or 'tis her father's razor!" suggested billy smallbury, with a vivid sense of detail. "well -- miss everdene wants to speak to one or two of us before we go to bed. what with this trouble about the baily, and now about the girl, mis'ess is almost wild." they all hastened up the lane to the farmhouse, excepting the old maltster, whom neither news, fire, rain, nor thunder could draw from his hole. there, as the others' footsteps died away he sat down again and continued gazing as usual into the furnace with his red, bleared eyes. from the bedroom window above their heads bath- sheba's head and shoulders, robed in mystic white, were dimly seen extended into the air. "are any of my men among you?" she said anxiously. "yes, ma'am, several." said susan tall's husband. "tomorrow morning i wish two or three of you to make inquiries in the villages round if they have seen such a person as fanny robin. do it quietly; there is no reason for alarm as yet. she must have left whilst we were all at the fire." "i beg yer pardon, but had she any young man court- ing her in the parish, ma'am?" asked jacob smallbury. "i don't know." said bathsheba. "i've never heard of any such thing, ma'am." said two or three. "it is hardly likely, either." continued bathsheba. "for any lover of hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable lad. the most mysterious matter connected with her absence -- indeed, the only thing which gives me serious alarm -- is that she was seen to go out of the house by maryann with only her indoor working gown on -- not even a bonnet." "and you mean, ma'am, excusing my words, that a young woman would hardly go to see her young man without dressing up." said jacob, turning his mental vision upon past experiences. "that's true -- she would not, ma'am." "she had, i think, a bundle, though i couldn't see very well." said a female voice from another window, which seemed that of maryann. "but she had no young man about here. hers lives in casterbridge, and i believe he's a soldier." "do you know his name?" bathsheba said. "no, mistress; she was very close about it." "perhaps i might be able to find out if i went to casterbridge barracks." said william smallbury. "very well; if she doesn't return tomorrow, mind you go there and try to discover which man it is, and see him. i feel more responsible than i should if she had had any friends or relations alive. i do hope she has come to no harm through a man of that kind.... and then there's this disgraceful affair of the bailiff -- but i can't speak of him now." bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness that it seemed she did not think it worth while to dwell upon any particular one. "do as i told you, then" she said in conclusion, closing the casement. "ay, ay, mistress; we will." they replied, and moved away. that night at coggan's, gabriel oak, beneath the screen of closed eyelids, was busy with fancies, and full of movement, like a river flowing rapidly under its ice. night had always been the time at which he saw bath- sheba most vividly, and through the slow hours of shadow he tenderly regarded her image now. it is rarely that the pleasures of the imagination will compen- sate for the pain of sleeplessness, but they possibly did with oak to-night, for the delight of merely seeing her effaced for the time his perception of the great differ- ence between seeing and possessing. he also thought of plans for fetching his few utensils and books from norcombe. the young man's best companion, the farrier's sure guide, the veterinary surgeon, paradise lost, the pilgrim's progress, robinson crusoe, ash's dictionary, the walkingame's arithmetic, constituted his library; and though a limited series, it was one from which he had acquired more sound informa- tion by diligent perusal than many a man of opportunities has done from a furlong of laden shelves. chapter ix the homestead -- a visitor -- half-confidences by daylight, the bower of oak's new-found mistress, bathsheba everdene, presented itself as a hoary build- ing, of the early stage of classic renaissance as regards its architecture, and of 'a proportion which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had once been the memorial hall upon a small estate around it, now altogether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast tract of a non-resident landlord, which com- prised several such modest demesnes. fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front, and above the roof the chimneys were panelled or columnar, some coped gables with finials and like features still retaining traces of their gothic extraction. soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the houseleek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding buildings. a gravel walk leading from the door to the road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss -- here it was a silver-green variety, the nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the width of only a foot or two in the centre. this circum- stance, and the generally sleepy air of the whole prospect here, together with the animated and contrasting state of the reverse facade, suggested to the imagination that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes the vital principle' of the house had turned round inside its body to face the other way. reversals of this kind, strange deformities, tremendous paralyses, are often seen to be inflicted by trade upon edifices -- either individual or in the aggregate as streets and towns -- which were originally planned for pleasure alone. lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the main staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as bed-posts, being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their century, the handrail as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs themselves con- tinually twisting round like a person trying to look over his shoulder. going up, the floors above were found to have a very irregular surface, rising to ridges, sinking into valley; and being just then uncarpeted, the face of the boards was seen to be eaten into innumerable the opening and shutting of every door a tremble followed every bustling movement, and a creak accom- panied a walker about the house like a spirit, wherever- he went. in the room from which the conversation proceeded, bathsheba and her servant-companion, liddy small- bury were to be discovered sitting upon the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books, bottles, and rubbish spread out thereon -- remnants from the house- hold stores of the late occupier. liddy, the maltster's great-granddaughter, was about bathsheba's equal in age, and her face was a prominent advertisement of the features' might have lacked in form was amply made up for by perfection of hue, which at this winter-time was the softened ruddiness on a surface of high rotundity and, like the presentations of those great colourists, it was a face which kept well back from the boundary between comeliness and the ideal. though elastic in nature she was less daring than bathsheba, and occa- sionally showed some earnestness, which consisted half of genuine feeling, and half of mannerliness superadded by way of duty. through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing- brush led up to the charwoman, maryann money, a person who for a face had a circular disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at distant objects. to think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of her was to raise the image of a dried normandy pippin. "stop your scrubbing a moment." said bathsheba through the door to her. "i hear something." maryann suspended the brush. the tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the building. the paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door. the door was tapped with the end of a crop or stick. "what impertinence!" said liddy, in a low voice. "to ride up the footpath like that! why didn't he stop at the gate? lord! 'tis a gentleman! i see the top of his hat." "be quiet!" said bathsheba. the further expression of liddy's concern was con- tinued by aspect instead of narrative. "why doesn't mrs. coggan go to the door?" bath- sheba continued. rat-tat-tat-tat, resounded more decisively from bath- sheba's oak. "maryann, you go!" said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of romantic possibilities. "o ma'am -- see, here's a mess!" the argument was unanswerable after a glance at maryann. "liddy -- you must." said bathsheba. liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish they were sorting, and looked implor- ingly at her mistress. "there -- mrs. coggan is going!" said bathsheba, exhaling her relief in the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a minute or more. the door opened, and a deep voice said -- "is miss everdene at home?" "i'll see, sir." said mrs. coggan, and in a minute appeared in the room. "dear, what a thirtover place this world is!" con- tinued mrs. coggan (a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark according to the emotion involved; who could toss a pancake or twirl a mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who at this moment showed hands shaggy with frag- ments of dough and arms encrusted with flour). "i am never up to my elbows, miss, in making a pudding but one of two things do happen -- either my nose must needs begin tickling, and i can't live without scratching a woman's dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder in the one being of the same nature with a malformation or wound in the other, bathsheba said at once -- "i can't see him in this state. whatever shall i do?" not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in weatherbury farmhouses, so liddy suggested -- "say you're a fright with dust, and can't come down." "yes -- that sounds very well." said mrs. coggan, critically. "say i can't see him -- that will do." mrs. coggan went downstairs, and returned the answer as requested, adding, however, on her own responsibility, "miss is dusting bottles, sir, and is quite a object -- that's why 'tis." "oh, very well." said the deep voice." indifferently. "all i wanted to ask was, if anything had been heard of fanny robin?" "nothing, sir -- but we may know to-night. william smallbury is gone to casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and the other men be inquir- ing about everywhere." the horse's tramp then recommenced and -retreated, and the door closed. "who is mr. boldwood?" said bathsheba. "a gentleman-farmer at little weatherbury." "married?" "no, miss." "how old is he?" "forty, i should say -- very handsome -- rather stern- looking -- and rich." "what a bother this dusting is! i am always in some unfortunate plight or other," bathsheba said, complainingly. "why should he inquire about fanny?" "oh, because, as she had no friends in her childhood, he took her and put her to school, and got her her place here under your uncle. he's a very kind man that way, but lord -- there!" "what?" "never was such a hopeless man for a woman! he's been courted by sixes and sevens -- all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles round, have tried him. jane perkins worked at him for two months like a slave, and the two miss taylors spent a year upon him, and he cost farmer ives's daughter nights of tears and twenty pounds' worth of new clothes; but lord -- the money might as well have been thrown out of the window." a little boy came up at this moment and looked in upon them. this child was one of the coggans who, with the smallburys, were as common among the families of this district as the avons and derwents among our rivers. he always had a loosened tooth or a cut finger to show to particular friends, which he did with an air of being thereby elevated above the common herd of afflictionless humanity -- to which exhibition of congratulation as well as pity. "i've got a pen-nee!" said master coggan in a scanning measure. "well -- who gave it you, teddy?" said liddy. "mis-terr bold-wood! he gave it to me for opening the gate." "what did he say?" "he said "where are you going, my little man?'" and i said, "to miss everdene's please," and he said, "she is a staid woman, isn't she, my little man?" and i said, "yes." "you naughty child! what did you say that for?" "cause he gave me the penny!" "what a pucker everything is in!" said bathsheba, discontentedly when the child had gone. 'get away, thing! you ought to be married by this time, and not here troubling me!" "ay, mistress -- so i did. but what between the poor men i won't have, and the rich men who won't have me, i stand as a pelicon in the wilderness!" "did anybody ever want to marry you miss?" liddy ventured to ask when they were again alone. "lots of "em, i daresay.?" bathsheba paused, as if about to refuse a reply, but the temptation to say yes, since it was really in her power was irresistible by aspiring virginity, in spite of her spleen at having been published as old. "a man wanted to once." she said, in a highly experi- enced tone and the image of gabriel oak, as the farmer, rose before her. "how nice it must seem!" said liddy, with the fixed features of mental realization. "and you wouldn't have him?" "he wasn't quite good enough for me." "how sweet to be able to disdain, when most of us are glad to say, "thank you!" i seem i hear it. "no, sir -- i'm your better." or "kiss my foot, sir; my face is for mouths of consequence." and did you love him, miss?" "oh, no. but i rather liked him." "do you now?" "of course not -- what footsteps are those i hear?" liddy looked from a back window into the courtyard behind, which was now getting low-toned and dim with the earliest films of night. a crooked file of men was approaching the back door. the whole string of trailing individuals advanced in the completest balance of inten- tion, like the remarkable creatures known as chain salpae, which, distinctly organized in other respects, have one will common to a whole family. some were, as usual, in snow-white smock-frocks of russia duck, and some in whitey-brown ones of drabbet -- marked on the wrists, breasts, backs, and sleeves with honeycomb-work. two or three women in pattens brought up the rear. "the philistines be upon us." said liddy, making her nose white against the glass. "oh, very well. maryann, go down and keep them in the kitchen till i am dressed, and then show them in to me in the hall." chapter x half-an-hour later bathsheba, in finished dress, and followed by liddy, entered the upper end of the old hall to find that her men had all deposited themselves on a long form and a settle at the lower extremity. she sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in her hand, with a canvas money-bag beside her. from this she poured a small heap of coin. liddy chose a position at her elbow and began to sew, sometimes pausing and looking round, or with the air of a privileged person, taking up one of the half-sovereigns lying before her and surveying it merely as a work of art, while strictly preventing her countenance from expressing any wish to possess it as money. "now before i begin, men." said bathsheba, "i have two matters to speak of. the first is that the bailiff is dismissed for thieving, and that i have formed a resolu- tion to have no bailiff at all, but to manage everything with my own head and hands." the men breathed an audible breath of amazement. "the next matter is, have you heard anything of fanny?" "nothing, ma'am. "have you done anything?" "i met farmer boldwood." said jacob smallbury, 'and i went with him and two of his men, and dragged new- mill pond, but we found nothing." "and the new shepherd have been to buck's head, by yalbury, thinking she had gone there, but nobody had seed her." said laban tall. "hasn't william smallbury been to casterbridge?" "yes, ma'am, but he's not yet come home. he promised to be back by six." "it wants a quarter to six at present." said bathsheba, looking at her watch. "i daresay he'll be in directly. well, now then" -- she looked into the book -- "joseph poorgrass, are you there?" "yes, sir -- ma'am i mane." said the person addressed. "i be the personal name of poorgrass." "and what are you?" "nothing in my own eye. in the eye of other people -- well, i don't say it; though public thought will out." "what do you do on the farm?" "i do do carting things all the year, and in seed time i shoots the rooks and sparrows, and helps at pig-killing, sir." "how much to you?" "please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where 'twas a bad one, sir -- ma'am i mane." "quite correct. now here are ten shillings in addi- tion as a small present, as i am a new comer." bathsheba blushed slightly at the sense of being generous in public, and henery fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, lifted his eyebrows and fingers to express amazement on a small scale. "how much do i owe you -- that man in the corner -- what's your name?" continued bathsheba. "matthew moon, ma'am." said a singular framework of clothes with nothing of any consequence inside them, which advanced with the toes in no definite direction forwards, but turned in or out as they chanced to swing. "matthew mark, did you say? -- speak out -- i shall not hurt you." inquired the young farmer, kindly. "matthew moon mem" said henery fray, correct- ingly, from behind her chair, to which point he had edged himself. "matthew moon." murmured bathsheba, turning her bright eyes to the book. "ten and twopence halfpenny is the sum put down to you, i see?" "yes, mis'ess." said matthew, as the rustle of wind among dead leaves. "here it is and ten shillings. now -the next -- andrew randle, you are a new man, i hear. how come you to leave your last farm?" "p-p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-l-l-l-l-ease, ma'am, p-p-p-p-pl-pl- pl-pl-please, ma'am-please'm-please'm -- -- " "'a's a stammering man, mem." said henery fray in an undertone, "and they turned him away because the only time he ever did speak plain he said his soul was his own, and other iniquities, to the squire. "a can cuss, mem, as well as you or i, but 'a can't speak a common speech to save his life." "andrew randle, here's yours -- finish thanking me in a day or two. temperance miller -- oh, here's another, soberness -- both women i suppose?" "yes'm. here we be, 'a b'lieve." was echoed in shrill unison. "what have you been doing?" "tending thrashing-machine and wimbling haybonds, and saying "hoosh!" to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds and planting early flourballs and thompson's wonderfuls with a dibble." "yes -- i see. are they satisfactory women?" she inquired softly of henery fray. "o mem -- don't ask me! yielding women?" as scarlet a pair as ever was!" groaned henery under his breath. "sit down. "who, mem?" "sit down," joseph poorgrass, in the background twitched, and his lips became dry with fear of some terrible conse- quences, as he saw bathsheba summarily speaking, and henery slinking off to a corner. "now the next. laban tall, you'll stay on working for me?" "for you or anybody that pays me well, ma'am," replied the young married man. "true -- the man must live!" said a woman in the back quarter, who had just entered with clicking pattens. "what woman is that?" bathsheba asked. "i be his lawful wife!" continued the voice with greater prominence of manner and tone. this lady called herself five-and-twenty, looked thirty, passed as thirty-five, and was forty. she was a woman who never, like some newly married, showed conjugal tenderness in public, perhaps because she had none to show. "oh, you are." said bathsheba. "well, laban, will you stay on?" "yes, he'll stay, ma'am!" said again the shrill tongue of laban's lawful wife. "well, he can speak for himself, i suppose." "o lord, not he, ma'am! a simple tool. well enough, but a poor gawkhammer mortal." the wife replied "heh-heh-heh!" laughed the married man with a hideous effort of appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly good-humoured under ghastly snubs as a parliamentary candidate on the hustings. the names remaining were called in the same manner. "now i think i have done with you." said bathsheba, closing the book and shaking back a stray twine of hair. "has william smallbury returned?" "no, ma'am." "the new shepherd will want a man under him," suggested henery fray, trying to make himself official again by a sideway approach towards her chair. "oh -- he will. who can he have?" "young cain ball is a very good lad." henery said, "and shepherd oak don't mind his youth?" he added, turning with an apologetic smile to the shepherd, who had just appeared on the scene, and was now leaning against the doorpost with his arms folded. "no, i don't mind that." said gabriel. "how did cain come by such a name?" asked bathsheba. "oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a scripture-read woman made a mistake at his christening, thinking 'twas abel killed cain, and called en cain, but 'twas too late, for the name could never be got rid of in the parish. 'tis very unfortunate for the boy." "it is rather unfortunate." "yes. however, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him cainey. ah, pore widow-woman! she cried her heart out about it almost. she was brought up by a very heathen father and mother, who never sent her to church or school, and it shows how the sins of the parents are visited upon the children, mem." mr. fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not belong to your own family. "very well then, cainey ball to be under-shepherd and you quite understand your duties? -- you i mean, gabriel oak?" "quite well, i thank you miss everdene." said shepard oak from the doorpost. "if i don't, i'll inquire." gabriel was rather staggered by the remark- able coolness of her manner. certainly nobody without previous information would have dreamt that oak and the handsome woman before whom he stood had ever been other than strangers. but perhaps her air was the inevitable result of the social rise which had advanced her from a cottage to a large house and fields. the case is not unexampled in high places. when, in the writings of the later poets, jove and his family are found to have moved from their cramped quarters on the peak of olympus into the wide sky above it, their words show a proportionate increase of arrogance and reserve. footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character the qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of velocity. (all.) "here's billy smallbury come from caster- bridge." "and what's the news?" said bathsheba, as william, after marching to the middle of the hall, took a hand- kerchief from his hat and wiped his forehead from its centre to its remoter boundaries. "i should have been sooner, miss." he said, "if it hadn't been for the weather." he then stamped with each foot severely, and on looking down his boots were perceived to be clogged with snow. "come at last, is it?" said henery. "well, what about fanny?" said bathsheba. "well, ma'am, in round numbers, she's run away with the soldiers." said william. "no; not a steady girl like fanny!" "i'll tell ye all particulars. when i got to caster, bridge barracks, they said, " the eleventh dragoon- guards be gone away, and new troops have come." the eleventh left last week for melchester and onwards. the route came from government like a thief in the night, as is his nature to, and afore the eleventh knew it almost, they were on the march. they passed near here." gabriel had listened with interest. "i saw them go," he said. "yes." continued william," they pranced down the street playing "the girl i left behind me." so 'tis said, in glorious notes of triumph. every looker-on's inside shook with the blows of the great drum to his deepest vitals, and there was not a dry eye throughout the town among the public-house people and the name- less women!" "but they're not gone to any war?" "no, ma'am; but they be gone to take the places of them who may, which is very close connected. and so i said to myself, fanny's young man was one of the regiment, and she's gone after him. there, ma'am, that's it in black and white." gabriel remained musing and said nothing, for he was in doubt. "well, we are not likely to know more to-night, at any rate." said bathsheba. "but one of you had better run across to farmer boldwood's and tell him that much." she then rose; but before retiring, addressed a few words to them with a pretty dignity, to which her mourning dress added a soberness that was hardly to be found in the words themselves. "now mind, you have a mistress instead of a master i don't yet know my powers or my talents in farming; but i shall do my best, and if you serve me well, so shall i serve you. don't any unfair ones among you (if there are any such, but i hope not) suppose that because i'm a woman i don't understand the difference between bad goings-on and good." (all.) "nom!" (liddy.) "excellent well said." "i shall be up before you are awake; i shall be afield before you are up; and i shall have breakfasted before you are afield. in short, i shall astonish you all. (all.) "yes'm!" "and so good-night." (all.) "good-night, ma'am." then this small-thesmothete stepped from the table, and surged out of the hall, her black silk dress licking up a few straws and dragging them along with a scratch- ing noise upon the floor. biddy, elevating her feelings to the occasion from a sense of grandeur, floated off behind bathsheba with a milder dignity not entirely free from travesty, and the door was closed. chapter xi outside the barracks -- snow -- a meeting for dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of a certain town and military station, many miles north of weatherbury, at a later hour on this same snowy evening -- if that may be called a prospect of which the chief constituent was darkness. it was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causing any great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible persons, love becomes solicitous- ness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope: when the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret at opportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipation does not prompt to enterprise. the scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river, behind which rose a high wall. on the right was a tract of land, partly meadow'and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a wide undulating uplan. the changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this kind than amid woodland scenery. still, to a close observer, they are just as perceptible; the difference is that their media of manifestation are less trite and familiar than such well-known ones as the bursting of the buds or the fall of the leaf. many are not so stealthy and gradual as we may be apt to imagine in considering the general torpidity of a moor or waste. winter, in coming to the country hereabout, advanced in well-marked stages, wherein might have been successively observed the retreat of the snakes, the transformation of the ferns, the filling of the pools, a rising of fogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of the fungi, and an obliteration by snow. this climax of the series had been reached to-night on the aforesaid moor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were forms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing, and without more character than that of being the limit of something else -- the lowest layer of a firmament of snow. from this chaotic skyful of crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily received additional clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby. the vast arch of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were the roof of a large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor; for the instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens and that encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without any intervening stratum of air at all. we turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which were flatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wall behind it, and darkness as to both. these features made up the mass. if anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if any thing could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath. the indistinct summit of the facade was notched and pronged by chimneys here and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong shapes of windows, though only in the upper part. below, down to the water's edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projection. an indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in their regularity, sent their sound- with difficulty through the fluffy atmosphere. it was a neighbouring clock striking ten the bell was in the open air, and being overlaid with several inches of muffling snow, had lost its voice for the time. about this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty had fallen, then one had the room of ten. not long after a form moved by the brink of the river. by its outline upon the colourless background, a close observer might have seen that it was small. this was all that was positively discoverable, though it seemed human. the shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the snow, though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep. at this time some words were spoken aloud: -- "one. two. three. four. five." between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen yards. it was evident now that the windows high in the wall were being counted. the word "five" represented the fifth window from the end of the wall. here the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller. the figure was stooping. then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the fifth window. it smacked against the wall at a point several yards from its mark. the throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the execution of a woman. no man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or squirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter imbecility as was shown here. another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have become pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow at last one fragment struck the fifth window. the river would have been; seen by day to be of that deep smooth sort which races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any irregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small whirl- pool. nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle and cluck of one of these invisible wheels -- together with a few small sounds which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man laughter -- caused by the flapping of the waters against trifling objects in other parts of the stream. the window was struck again in the same manner. then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the window. this was followed by a voice from the same quarter. "who's there?" the tones were masculine, and not those of surprise. the high wall being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon with disfavour in the army, assigna- tions and communications had probably been made across the river before tonight. "is it sergeant troy?" said the blurred spot in the snow, tremulously. this person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the other speaker so much a part of the building, that one would have said the wall was holding a conversation with the snow. "yes." came suspiciously from the shadow." what girl are you?" "o, frank -- don't you know me?" said the spot. "your wife, fanny robin." "fanny!" said the wall, in utter astonishment. "yes." said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion. there was something in the woman's tone which is not that of the wife, and there was a mannerin the man which is rarely a husband's. the dialogue went on: "how did you come here?" "i asked which was your window. forgive me!" "i did not expect you to-night. indeed, i did not think you would come at all. it was a wonder you found me here. i am orderly to-morrow." "you said i was to come." "well -- i said that you might." "yes, i mean that i might. you are glad to see me, frank?" "o yes -- of course." "can you -- come to me!" my dear fan, no! the bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are closed, and i have no leave. we are all of us as good as in the county gaol till to-morrow morning." "then i shan't see you till then!" the words- were in a faltering tone of disappointment. "how did you get here from weatherbury?" "i walked -- some part of the way -- the rest by the carriers." "i am surprised." "yes -- so am i. and frank, when will it be?" "what?" "that you promised." "i don't quite recollect." "o you do! don't speak like that. it weighs me to the earth. it makes me say what ought to be said first by you." "never mind -- say it." "o, must i? -- it is, when shall we be married, frank?" "oh, i " see. well -- you have to get proper clothes." "i have money. will it be by banns or license?" "banns, i should think." "and we live in two parishes." "do we? what then?" "my lodgings are in st. mary's, and this is not. so they will have to be published in both." "is that the law?" "yes. o frank -- you think me forward, i am afraid! don't, dear frank -- will you -- for i love you so. and you said lots of times you would marry me, and and -- i -- i -- i -- -- " "don't cry, now! it is foolish. if i said so, of course i will." "and shall i put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?" "yes" "to-morrow?" "not tomorrow. we'll settle in a few days." "you have the permission of the officers?" "no, not yet." "o -- how is it? you said you almost had before you left casterbridge." "the fact is, i forgot to ask. your coming like this i'll go away now. will you **qode,and seq be to-morroy is so sudden and unexpected." "yes -- yes -- it is. it was wrong of me to worry you. i'll go away now. will you come and see me to-morrow, at mrs. twills's, in north street? i don't like to come to the barracks. there are bad women about, and they think me one." "quite,so. i'll come to you, my dean good-night." "good-night, frank -- good-night!" and the noise was again heard of a window closing the little spot moved away. when she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was heard inside the wall. "ho -- ho -- sergeant -- ho -- ho!" an expostulation followed, but it was indistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was hardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools outside. chapter xii farmers -- a rule -- in exception the first public evidence of bathsheba's decision to be a farmer in her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following market-day in. the cornmarket at casterbridge. the low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars, and latterly dignified by-the name of corn ex- change, was thronged with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor's face and concentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during de- livery. the greater number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as walking-sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. during conversations each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage -- bending it round his back, forming an"arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a hand- ful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to half-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the building unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations with a high- stretched neck and oblique eye. among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of her sex that the room contained. she was prettily and even daintily dressed. she moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a breeze among furnaces. it had required a little determination -- far more than she had at first imagined -- to take up a position here, for at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly fixed there. two or three only of the farmers were personally known to bathsheba, and to these she had made her way. but if she was to be the practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired con- fidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the professional pour into the hand -- holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect casterbridge manner. something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and in the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted lips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with a tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that lithe slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring enough to carry them out. but her eyes had a softness -- invariably a softness -- which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness; as they were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing to simple clearness, strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their state- ments before rejoining with hers. in arguing on prices, he held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a oman. but there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a naivete in her cheapening which saved it from meanness. those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings by far the greater part) were continually asking each other, "who is she?" the reply would be -- "farmer everdene's niece; took on weatherbury upper farm; turned away the baily, and swears she'll do everything herself." the other man would then shake his head. "yes, 'tis a pity she's so headstrong." the first would say. "but we ought to be proud of her here -- she lightens up the old place. 'tis such a shapely maid, however, that she'll soon get picked up." it would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had the beauty of her face and movements. however, the interest was general, and this saturday's debut in the forum, whatever it may have been to bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably a triumph to her as the maiden. indeed, the sensation was so pronounced that her instinct on two or three occasions was merely to walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a little sister of a little jove, and to neglect closing prices altogether. the numerous evidences of-her power to attract were only thrown into greater relief by a marked exception. women seem to have eyes in their ribbons for such matters as these. bathsheba, without looking within a right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the flock. it perplexed her first. if there had been a respect- able minority on either side, the case would have been most natural. if nobody had regarded her, she would have -- taken the matter indifferently -- such cases had occurred. if everybody, this man included, she would have taken it as a matter of course -- people had done so before. but the smallness of the exception made the mystery. she soon knew thus much of the recusant's appear- ance. he was a gentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined roman features, the prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of tone. he was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour. one characteristic pre-eminently marked him -- dignity. apparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age at which a man's aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen years or so; and, artificially, a woman't does likewise. thirty-five and fifty were his limits of variation -- he might have been either, or anywhere between the two. it may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and generous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty they may discern by the way. probably, as with persons playing whist for love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under any circumstances from that worst possible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly speculative. bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a married man. when marketing was over, she rushed off to liddy, who was waiting for her -- beside the yellowing in which they had driven to town. the horse was put in, and on they trotted bathsheba's sugar, tea, and drapery parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some indescribable manner, by their colour, shape, and general lineaments, that they were that young lady- farmer's property, and the grocer's and drapers no more. "i've been through it, liddy, and it is over. i shan't mind it again, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there; but this morning it was as bad as being married -- eyes everywhere!" "i knowed it would. be." liddy said "men be such a terrible class of society to look at a body." "but there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon me." the information was put in this form that liddy might not for a moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. "a very good-looking man." she continued, "upright; about forty, i should think. do you know at all who he could be?" liddy couldn't think. "can't you guess at all?" said bathsheba with some disappointment. "i haven't a notion; besides, 'tis no difference, since he took less notice of you than any of the rest. now, if he'd taken more, it would have mattered a great deal." bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they bowled along in silence. a low carriage, bowling along still more rapidly behind a horse of un- impeachable breed, overtook and passed them. "why, there he is!" she said. liddy looked. "that! that's farmer boldwood -- of course 'tis -- the man you couldn't see the other day when he called." "oh, farmer boldwood." murmured bathsheba, and looked at him as he outstripped them. the farmer had never turned his head once, but with eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as uncon- sciously and abstractedly as if bathsheba and her charms were thin air. "he's an interesting man -- don't you think so?" she remarked. "o yes, very. everybody owns it." replied liddy. "i wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far away from all he sees around him," "it is said -- but not known for certain -- that he met with some bitter disappointment when he was a young man and merry. a woman jilted him, they say." "people always say that -- and we know very well women scarcely ever jilt men; 'tis the men who jilt us. i expect it is simply his nature to be so reserved." "simply his nature -- i expect so, miss -- nothing else in the world." "still, 'tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor thing'! perhaps, after all, he has! i "depend upon it he has. o yes, miss, he has! feel he must have." "however, we are very apt to think extremes of people. i -- shouldn't wonder after all if it wasn't a little of both -- just between the two -- rather cruelly used and rather reserved." "o dear no, miss -- i can't think it between the two!" "that's most likely." "well, yes, so it is. i am convinced it is most likely. you may -- take my word, miss, that that's what's the matter with him." chapter xiii sortes sanctorum -- the valentine it was sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of february. dinner being over, bathsheba, for want of a better companion, had asked liddy to come and sit with her. the mouldy pile was dreary in winter-time before the candles were lighted and the shutters closed; the atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the walls; every nook behind the furniture had a temperature of its own, for the fire was not kindled in this part of the house early in the day; and bathsheba's new piano, which was an old one in other annals, looked particularly sloping and out of level on the warped floor before night threw a shade over its less prominent angles and hid the unpleasantness. liddy, like a little brook, though shallow, was always rippling; her presence had not so much weight as to task thought, and yet enough to exercise it. on the table lay an old quarto bible, bound in leather. liddy looking at it said, -- "did you ever find out, miss, who you are going to marry by means of the bible and key?, "don't be so foolish, liddy. as if such things could be." "well, there's a good deal in it, all the same." "nonsense, child." "and it makes your heart beat fearful. some believe in it; some don't; i do." "very well, let's try it." said bathsheba, bounding from her seat with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at once. "go and get the front door key." liddy fetched it. "i wish it wasn't sunday." she said, on returning." perhaps 'tis wrong." "what's right week days is right sundays." replied her mistress in a tone which was a proof in itself. the book was opened -- the leaves, drab with age, being quite worn away at much-read verses by the fore" fingers "of unpractised readers in former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to the vision. the special verse in the book of ruth was sought out by bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. they slightly thrilled and abashed her. it was wisdom in the abstract facing folly in the concrete. folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention, and placed the key on -the book. a rusty patch immediately upon the verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the purpose. "now keep steady, and be silent." said bathsheba. the 'verse was repeated; the book turned round; bathsheba blushed guiltily. "who did you try?" said liddy curiously. "i shall not tell you." "did you notice mr. boldwood's doings in church this morning, miss?"liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had taken. "no, indeed." said bathsheba, with serene indifference "his pew is exactly opposite yours, miss." "i know it." "and you did not see his goings on!," certainly i did not, i tell you." liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively. this move was unexpected, and proportionately dis concerting. "what did he do?" bathsheba said perforce. "didn't turn his head to look at you once all the service. "why should he?" again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look. "i didn't ask him to. "oh no. but everybody else was noticing you; and it was odd he didn't. there, 'tis like him. rich and gentlemanly, what does he care?" bathsheba dropped into a silence intended to ex- press that she had opinions on the matter too abstruse for liddy's comprehension, rather than that she had nothing to say. "dear me -- i had nearly forgotten the valentine i bought yesterday." she exclaimed at length. "valentine! who for, miss?" said liddy. "farmer boldwood?" it was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just at this moment seemed to bathsheba more pertinent than the right. "well, no. it is only for little teddy coggan. have promised him something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. liddy, you may as well bring me my desk and i'll direct it at once." bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illumin- ated and embossed design in post-octavo, which had been "bought on the previous market-day at the chief stationer's in casterbridge. in the centre was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion than any generalities by a printer could possibly be. "here's a place for writing." said bathsheba. "what shall i put?" "something of this sort, i should think', returned liddy promptly: -- "the rose is red, the violet blue, carnation's sweet, and so are you." "yes, that shall be it. it just suits itself to a chubby- faced child like him." said bathsheba. she inserted the words in a small though legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped her pen for the direction. "what fun it would be to send it to the stupid old boldwood, and how he would wonder!" said the irrepressible liddy, lifting her eyebrows, and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought of the moral and social magnitude of the man contem- plated. bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length. boldwood's had begun to be a troublesome image -- a species of daniel in her kingdom who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common sense said that he might just as well follow suit with the rest, and afford her the official glance of admiration which cost nothing at all. she was far from being seriously concerned about his nonconformity. still, it was faintly depressing that the most dignified and valuable man in the parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like liddy should talk about it. so liddy's idea was at first rather harassing than piquant. "no, i won't do that. he wouldn't see any humour in it." "he'd worry to death." said the persistent liddy. "really, i don't care particularly to send it to teddy." remarked her mistress. "he's rather a naughty child sometimes." "yes -- that he is." "let's toss as men do." said bathsheba, idly. "now then, head, boldwood; tail, teddy. no, we won't toss money on a sunday that would be tempting the devil indeed." "toss this hymn-book; there can't be no sinfulness in that, miss." "very well. open, boldwood -- shut, teddy. no; it's more likely to fall open. open, teddy -- shut, boldwood." the book went fluttering in the air and came down shut. bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with off-hand serenity directed the missive to boldwood. "now light a candle, liddy. which seal shall we use? here's a unicorn's head -- there's nothing in that. what's this? -- two doves -- no. it ought to be something extraordinary, ought it not, liddy? here's one with a motto -- i remember it is some funny one, but i can't read it. we'll try this, and if it doesn't do we'll have another." a large red seal was duly affixed. bathsheba looked closely at the hot wax to discover the words. "capital!" she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolicsomely. "'twould upset the solemnity of a parson the same evening the letter was sent, and was duly returned to weatherbury again in the morning. of love as a spectacle bathsheba had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively she knew nothing. chapter xiv effect of the letter -- sunrise at dusk, on the evening of st. valentine's day, bold- wood sat down to supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs. upon the mantel-shelf before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread eagle, and upon the eagle's wings was the letter bathsheba had sent. here the bachelor's gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large red seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye; and as he ate and drank he still read in fancy the words thereon, although they were too remote for his sight -- "marry me." the pert injunction was like those crystal substances which, colourless themselves, assume the tone of objects about them. here, in the quiet of boldwood's parlour, where everything that ,was not grave was extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a puritan sunday lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed" their tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity, imbibed from their accessories now. since the receipt of the missive in the morning, boldwood had felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the direction of an ideal passion. the disturbance was as the first floating weed to columbus -- the eontemptibly little suggesting possibilities of the infinitely great. the letter must have had an origin and a motive. that the latter was of the smallest magnitude com- patible with its existence at all, boldwood, of course, did not know. and such an explanation did not strike him as a possibility even. it is foreign to a mystified condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the processes of approving a course suggested by circumstance, and of striking out a course from inner impulse, would look the same in the result. the vast difference between starting a train of events, and direct- ing into a particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the person confounded by the issue. when boldwood went to bed he placed the valen- tine in the corner of the looking-glass. he was conscious of its presence, even when his back was turned upon it. it was the first time in boldwood's life that such an event had occurred. the same fascination that caused him to think it an act which had a deliberate motive prevented him from regarding it as an impertinence. he looked again at the direction. the mysterious influences of night invested the writing with the presence of the unknown writer. somebody's some woman's -- hand had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name; her unrevealed eyes had watched every curve as she formed it; her brain had seen him in imagination the while. why should she have imagined him? her mouth -- were the lips red or pale, plump or creased? -- had curved itself to a certain expression as the pen went on -- the corners had moved with all their natural tremulousness: what had been the expression? the vision of the woman writing, as a supplement to the words written, had no individuality. she was a misty shape, and well she might be, considering that her original was at that moment sound asleep and oblivious of all love and letter-writing under the sky. whenever boldwood dozed she took a form, and com- paratively ceased to be a vision: when he awoke there was the letter justifying the dream. the moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary kind. his window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen had that reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward and lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in strange places, and putting lights where shadows had used to be. the substance of the epistle had occupied him but little in comparison with the fact of its arrival. he suddenly wondered if anything more might be found in the envelope than what he had withdrawn. he jumped out of bed in the weird light, took the letter, pulled out the flimsy sheet, shook the envelope -- searched it. nothing more was there. boldwood looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding day, at the insistent red seal: "marry me." he said aloud. the solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter, and stuck it in the frame of the glass. in doing so he caught sight of his reflected features, wan in expression, and insubstantial in form. he saw how closely compressed was his mouth, and that his eyes were wide-spread and vacant. feeling uneasy and dis- satisfied with himself for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed. then the dawn drew on. the full power of the clear heaven was not equal to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when boldwood arose and dressed himself. he descended the stairs and went out towards the gate of a field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked around. it was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of the year, and the sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward, and murky to the east, where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease on weatherbury upper farm, and apparently resting upon the ridge, the only half of the sun yet visible burnt rayless, like a red and flameless fire shining over a white hearthstone. the whole effect resembled a sunset as childhood resembles age. in other directions, the fields and sky were so much of one colour by the snow, that it was difficult in a hasty glance to tell whereabouts the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too, that before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade which attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in the sky is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. over the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like tarnished brass. boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and glazed the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light wit-h the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, withered grass-bents, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth wan coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old venetian glass; and how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short perma- nency. a half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted him. boldwood turned back into the road. it was the mail-cart -- a crazy, two-wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind. the driver held out a letter. boldwood seized it and opened it, ex- pecting another anonymous one -- so greatly are people's ideas of probability a mere sense that precedent will repeat itself. "i don't think it is for you, sir." said the man, when he saw boldwood's action. "though there is no name i think it is for your shepherd." boldwood looked then at the address -- to the new shepherd, weatherbury farm, near casterbridge. "oh -- what a mistake! -- it is not mine. nor is it for my shepherd. it is for miss everdene's." you had better take it on to him -- gabriel oak -- and say i opened it in mistake." at this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a figure was visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame. then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to place, carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the same rays. a small figure on all fours followed behind. the tall form was that of gabriel oak; the small one that of george; the articles in course of transit were hurdles. "wait," said boldwood." that's the man on the hill. i'll take the letter to him myself." to boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to i another man. it was an opportunity. exhibiting a face pregnant with intention, he entered the snowy field. gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. the glow stretched down in this direction now, and touched the distant roof of warren's malthouse whither the shepherd was apparently bent: boldwood followed at a distance. chapter xv the scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse did not penetrate to its interior, which was, as usual, lighted by a rival glow of similar hue, radiating from the hearth. the maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a few hours, was now sitting beside a three-legged table, breakfasting of bread and bacon. this was eaten on the plateless system, which is performed by placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat upon the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of salt upon the whole, then cutting them vertically downwards with a large pocket-knife till wood is reached, when the severed lamp is impaled on the knife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food. the maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish his powers as a mill. he had been without them for so many years that toothlessness was felt less to be a defect than hard gums an acquisition. indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic curve approaches a straight line -- less directly as he got nearer, till it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all. in the ashpit was a heap of potatoes roasting, and a boiling pipkin of charred bread, called "coffee." for the benefit of whomsoever should call, for warren's was a sort of clubhouse. used as an alternative to the in! "i say, says i, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snapper at night." was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the malthouse from the door, which had been opened the previous moment. the form of henery fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots when about half-way there. the speech and entry had not seemed to be at all an abrupt begin- ning to the maltster, introductory matter being often omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and the maltster having the same latitude allowed him, did not hurry to reply. he picked up a fragment of cheese, by pecking upon it with his knife, as a butcher picks up skewers. henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, buttoned over his smock-frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the distance of about a foot below the coat-tails, which, when you got used to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and even ornamental -- it certainly was comfortable. matthew moon, joseph poorgrass, and other carters and waggoners followed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their hands, which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse stables, where they had been busily engaged since four o'clock that morning. "and how is she getting on without a baily?" the maltster inquired. henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bitter smiles, dragging all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre. "she'll rue it -- surely, surely!" he said " benjy pennyways were not a true man or an honest baily -- as big a betrayer as judas iscariot himself. but to think she can carr' on alone!" he allowed his head to swing laterally three or four times in silence. "never in all my creeping up -- never!" this was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech which had been expressed in thought alone during the shake of the head; henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon his face, to imply that they would be required for use again directly he should go on speaking. "all will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's no meat in gentlemen's houses!" said mark clark. "a headstrong maid, that's what she is -- and won't listen to no advice at all. pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's dog. dear, dear, when i think o' it, i sorrows like a man in travel!" "true, henery, you do, i've heard ye." said joseph poorgrass in a voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery. "'twould do a martel man no harm to have what's under her bonnet." said billy smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth before him. "she can spaik real language, and must have some sense some- where. do ye foller me?" "i do: but no baily -- i deserved that place." wailed henery, signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high destiny apparently visible to him on billy smallbury's smock-frock. "there, 'twas to be, i suppose. your lot is your lot, and scripture is nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded according to your works, but be cheated in some mean way out of your recompense." "no, no; i don't agree with'ee there." said mark clark. god's a perfect gentleman in that respect." "good works good pay, so to speak it." attested joseph poorgrass. a short pause ensued, and as a sort of entr'acte henery turned and blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered no longer necessary even in the malthouse, with its one pane of glass. "i wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord, dulcimer, pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?" said the maltster. "liddy saith she've a new one." "got a pianner?" "ay. seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her. she've bought all but everything new. there's heavy chairs for the stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting on to the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece." pictures, for the most part wonderful frames." "and long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse- hair pillows at each end." said mr. clark. "likewise looking-glasses for the pretty, and lying books for the wicked." firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was opened about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed -- "neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?"ay, sure, shepherd." said the conclave. the door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from top to bottom with the blow. mr. oak appeared in the entry with a steaming face, hay- bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking altogether an epitome of the world's health and vigour. four lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog george, whom gabriel had contrived to fetch from norcombe, stalked solemnly behind. "well, shepherd oak, and how's lambing this year, if i mid say it?" inquired joseph poorgrass. "terrible trying," said oak. "i've been wet through twice a-day, either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. cainy and i haven't tined our eyes to-night." "a good few twins, too, i hear?" "too many by half. yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year. we shan't have done by lady day." "and last year 'twer all over by sexajessamine sunday." joseph remarked. "bring on the rest cain." said gabriel, " and then run back to the ewes. i'll follow you soon." cainy ball -- a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular orifice by way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as he was bidden. oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation, wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire. "we've no lambing-hut here, as i used to have at norcombe." said gabriel, " and 'tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house. if 'twasn't for your place here, malter, i don't know what i should do! this keen weather. and how is it with you to-day, malter?" "oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd, but no younger." "ay -- i understand." "sit down, shepherd oak," continued the ancient man of malt. "and how was the old place at norcombe, when ye went for your dog? i should like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, i shouldn't" know a soul there now." "i suppose you wouldn't. 'tis altered very much." "is it true that dicky hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?" "o yes -- years ago, and dicky's cottage just above it." "well, to be sure!, "yes; and tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees." "rooted? -- you don't say it! ah! stirring times we live in -- stirring times." and you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the place? that's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone trough, and all complete." "dear, dear -- how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see nowadays! yes -- and 'tis the same here. they've been talking but now of the mis'ess's strange doings." "what have you been saying about her?" inquired oak, sharply turning to the rest, and getting very warm. "these middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride and vanity." said mark clark; "but i say, let her have rope enough. bless her pretty face shouldn't i like to do so -- upon her cherry lips!" the gallant mark clark here made a peculiar and well known sound with his own. "mark." said gabriel, sternly, "now you mind this! none of that dalliance-talk -- that smack-and-coddle style of yours -- about miss everdene. i don't allow it. do you hear? " "with all my heart, as i've got no chance." replied mr. clark, cordially. "i suppose you've been speaking against her?" said oak, turning to joseph poorgrass with a very grim look. "no, no -- not a word i -- 'tis a real joyful thing that she's no worse, that's what i say." said joseph, trembling and blushing with terror. "matthew just said -- -- " "matthew moon, what have you been saying?" asked oak. "i? why ye know i wouldn't harm a worm -- no, not one underground worm?" said matthew moon, looking very uneasy. "well, somebody has -- and look here, neighbours." gabriel, though one of the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion, with martial promptness and vigour. "that's my fist." here he placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the mathemarical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gave a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. "now -- the first man in the parish that i hear prophesying bad of our mistress, why" (here the fist was raised and let fall as t'hor might have done with his hammer in assaying it) -- "he'll smell and taste that -- or i'm a dutchman." all earnestly expressed by their features that their minds did not wander to holland for a moment on account of this statement, but were deploring the difference which gave rise to the figure; and mark clark cried "hear, hear; just what i should ha' said." the dog george looked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though he understood english but imperfectly, began to growl. "now, don't ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!" said henery, with a deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind in christianity. "we hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd." said joseph poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind the maltster's bed- stead whither he had retired for safety. "'tis a great thing to be clever, i'm sure." he added, making move- ments associated with states of mind rather than body; "we wish we were, don't we, neighbours?" "ay, that we do, sure." said matthew moon, with a small anxious laugh towards oak, to show how very friendly disposed he was likewise. "who's been telling you i'm clever?" said oak. "'tis blowed about from pillar to post quite common," said matthew. "we hear that ye can tell the time as well by the stars as we can by the sun and moon, shepherd." "yes, i can do a little that way." said gabriel, as a man of medium sentiments on the subject. names upon their waggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, and great long tails. a excellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever man, shepherd. joseph poorgrass used to prent to farmer james everdene's waggons before you came, and 'a could never mind which way to turn the j's and e's -- could ye, joseph?" joseph shook his head to express how absolute was the fact that he couldn't. "and so you used to do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye, joseph?" matthew marked on the dusty floor with his whip-handle. "and how farmer james would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't he, joseph, when 'a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?" continued matthew moon with feeling. "ay -- 'a would." said joseph, meekly. "but, you see, i wasn't so much to blame, for them j's and e's be such trying sons o' witches for the memory to mind whether they face backward or forward; and i always had such a forgetful memory, too." "'tis a bad afiction for ye, being such a man of calamities in other ways." "well, 'tis; but a happy providence ordered that it should be no worse, and i feel my thanks. as to shepherd, there, i'm sure mis'ess ought to have made ye her baily -- such a fitting man for't as you be." "i don't mind owning that i expected it." said oak, frankly." indeed, i hoped for the place. at the same time, miss everdene has a right to be own baily if she choose -- and to keep me down to be a common shepherd only." oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into the bright ashpit, and seemed lost in thoughts not of the most hopeful hue. the genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearly lifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbs briskly upon the hay, and to recognize for the first time the fact that they were born. their noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which oak pulled the milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from the pocket of his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those of the helpless creatures which were not to be restored to their dams how to drink from the spout -- a trick they acquired with astonishing aptitude. "and she don't even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs, i hear?" resumed joseph poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the operations of oak with the neces- sary melancholy. "i don't have them." said gabriel. "ye be very badly used, shepherd." hazarded joseph again, in the hope of getting oak as an ally in lamenta- tion after all. "i think she's took against ye -- that i do." "o no -- not at all." replied gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escaped him, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused. before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door, and boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of a quality between friendli- ness and condescension. "ah! oak, i thought you were here." he said. "i met the mail-cart ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which i opened without reading the address. i believe it is yours. you must excuse the accident please." "o yes -- not a bit of difference, mr. boldwood -- not a bit." said gabriel, readily. he had not a corre- spondent on earth, nor was there a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would not have been welcome to persue. oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand: -- "dear friend, -- i do not know your name, but l think these few lines will reach you, which i wrote to thank you for your kindness to me the night i left weatherbury in a reckless way. i also return the money i owe you, which you will excuse my not keeping as a gift. all has ended well, and i am happy to say i am going to be married to the young man who has courted me for some time -- sergeant troy, of the th dragoon guards, now quartered in this town. he would, i know, object to my having received anything except as a loan, being a man of great respecta- bility and high honour -- indeed, a nobleman by blood. "i should be much obliged to you if you would keep the contents of this letter a secret for the present, dear friend. we mean to surprise weatherbury by coming there soon as husband and wife, though l blush to state it to one nearly a stranger. the sergeant grew up in weatherbury. thank- ing you again for your kindness, "i am, your sincere well-wisher, "fanny robin." "have you read it, mr. boldwood?" said gabriel; "if not, you had better do so. i know you are interested in fanny robin." boldwood read the letter and looked grieved. "fanny -- poor fanny! the end she is so confident of has not yet come, she should remember -- and may never come. i see she gives no address." "what sort of a man is this sergeant troy?" said gabriel. "h'm -- i'm afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case as this." the farmer murmured, "though he's a clever fellow, and up to everything. a slight romance attaches to him, too. his mother was a french governess, and it seems that a secret attachment existed between her and the late lord severn. she was married to a poor medical man, and soon after an infant was horn; and while money was forthcoming all went on well. unfortunately for her boy, his best friends died; and he got then a situation as second clerk at a lawyer's in casterbridge. he stayed there for some time, and might have worked himself into a dignified position of some sort had he not indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. i have much doubt if ever little fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions -- very much doubt a silly girl! -- silly girl!" the door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running cainy ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a penny trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distension of face. "now, cain ball." said oak, sternly, "why will you run so fast and lose your breath so? i'm always telling you of it." "oh -- i -- a puff of mee breath -- went -- the -- wrong way, please, mister oak, and made me cough -- hok -- hok!" "well -- what have you come for?" "i've run to tell ye." said the junior shepherd, supporting his exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost," that you must come directly'. two more ewes have twinned -- that's what's the matter, shepherd oak." "oh, that's it." said oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present his thoughts on poor fanny. "you are a good boy to run and tell me, cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. but, before we go, cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark this lot and have done with 'em." oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it into the pot, and imprintcd on the buttocks of the infant sheep the initials of her he delighted to muse on -- "b. e.." which signified to all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to farmer bathsheba everdene, and to no one else. "now, cainy, shoulder your two, and off good morning, mr. boldwood." the shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the lambing field hard by -- their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of half an hour before. boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and turned back. he followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. on approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmer drew out-his pocket-book, unfastened-it, and allowed it to lie open on his hand. a letter was revealed -- bath- sheba's. "i was going to ask you, oak." he said, with unreal carelessness, "if you know whose writing this is? " oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed face, " miss everdene's." oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name. he now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought." the letter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would not have been necessary. boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always ready with their "is it i?" in preference to objective reasoning. "the question was perfectly fair." he returned -- and there was something incongruous in the serious earnest- ness with which he applied himself to an argument on a valentine. "you know it is always expected that privy inquiries will be made: that's where the -- fun lies." if the word "fun" had been "torture." it could not have been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenance than was boldwood's then." soon parting from gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned to his house to breakfast -- feeling twinges of shame and regret at having so far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger. he again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of the circumstances attending it by the light of gabriel's information. chapter xvi all saints' and all souls' on a week-day morning a small congregation, con- sisting mainly of women and girls, rose from its knees in the mouldy nave of a church called all saints', in the distant barrack-town before mentioned, at the end of a service without a sermon. they were about to disperse, when a smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central passage, arrested their attention. the step echoed with a ring unusual in a church; it was the clink of spurs. everybody looked. a young cavalry soldier in a red uniform, with the three chevrons of a sergeant upon his sleeve, strode up the aisle, with an embarrassment which was only the more marked by the intense vigour of his step, and by the deter- mination upon his face to show none. a slight flush had mounted his cheek by the time he had run the gauntlet between these women; but, passing on through the chancel arch, he never paused till he came close to the altar railing. here for a moment he stood alone. the officiating curate, who had not yet doffed his surplice, perceived the new-comer, and followed him to the communion-space. he whispered to the soldier, and then beckoned to the clerk, who in his turn whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they also went up the chancel steps. "'tis a wedding!" murmured some of the women, brightening. "let's wait!" the majority again sat down. there was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young ones turned their heads. from the interior face of the west wall of the tower projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell beneath it, the automaton being driven by the same clock machinery that struck the large bell in the tower. be- tween the tower and the church was a close screen, the door of which was kept shut during services, hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight. at present, how- ever, the door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on the bell, and the mannikin's retreat into.the nook again, were visible to many, and audible through- out the church. the jack had struck half-past eleven. "where's the woman?" whispered some of the spectators. the young sergeant stood still with the abnormal rigidity of the old pillars around. he faced the south- east, and was as silent as he was still. the silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went on, and nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved. the rattle of the quarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its fussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the congregation to start palpably. "i wonder where the woman is!" a voice whispered again. there began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial coughing among several, which betrays a nervous suspense. at length there was a titter. but the soldier never moved. there he stood, his face to the south-east, upright as a column, his cap in his hand. the clock ticked on. the women threw off their nervousness, and titters and giggling became more frequent. then came a dead silence. every one was waiting for the end. some persons may have noticed how extraordinarily the striking of quarters. seems to quicken the flight of time. it was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with the minutes when the rattle began again, the puppet emerged, and the four quarters were struck fitfully as before: one could al- most be positive that there was a malicious leer upon the hideous creature's face, and a mischievous delight in its twitchings. then, followed the dull and remote resonance of the twelve heavy strokes in the tower above. the women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time. the clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished. the sergeant had not yet turned; every woman in the church was waiting to see his face, and he appeared to know it. at last he did turn, and stalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all, with a compressed lip. two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each other and chuckled, innocently enough; but the sound had a strange weird effect in that place. opposite to the church was a paved square, around which several overhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade. the young man on leaving the door went to cross the square, when, in the middle, he met a little woman. the expression of her face, which had been one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his nearly to terror. "well?" he said, in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her. "o, frank -- i made a mistake! -- i thought that church with the spire was all saints', and i was at the door at half-past eleven to a minute as you said. waited till a quarter to twelve, and found then that i was in all souls'. but i wasn't much frightened, for i thought it could be to-morrow as well." "you fool, for so fooling me! but say no more." "shall it be to-morrow, frank?" she asked blankly. "to-morrow!" and he gave vent to a hoarse laugh. "i don't go through that experience again for some time, i warrant you!" "but after all." she expostulated in a trembling voice, "the mistake was not such a terrible thing! now, dear frank, when shall it be?" "ah, when? god knows!" he said, with a light irony, and turning from her walked rapidly away. chapter xvii in the market-place on saturday boldwood was in casterbridge market house as usual, when the disturber of his dreams entered and became visible to him. adam had awakened from his deep sleep, and behold! there was eve. the farmer took courage, and for the first time really looked at her. material causes and emotional effects are not to be arranged in regular equation. the result from capital employed in the production of any movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as the cause itself is absurdly minute. when women are in a freakish mood, their usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent defect, seemingly fails to teach them this, and hence it was that bathsheba was fated to be astonished today. boldwood looked at her -- not slily, critically, or understandingly, but blankly at gaze, in the way a reaper looks up at a passing train -- as something foreign to his element, and but dimly understood. to bold- wood women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary complements -- comets of such uncertain aspect, movement, and permanence, that whether their orbits were as geometrical, unchangeable, and as subject to laws as his own, or as absolutely erratic as they superficially appeared, he had not deemed it his duty to consider. he saw her black hair, her correct facial curves and profile, and the roundness of her chin and throat. he saw then the side of her eyelids, eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear. next he noticed her figure, her skirt, and the very soles of her shoes. boldwood thought her beautiful, but wondered whether he was right in his thought, for it seemed impossible that this romance in the flesh, if so sweet as he imagined, could have been going on long without creating a commotion of delight among men, and pro- voking more inquiry than bathsheba had done, even though that was not a little. to the best of his judge- ment neither nature nor art could improve this perfect one of an imperfect many. his heart began to move within him. boldwood, it must be remembered, though forty years of age, had never before inspected a woman with the very centre and force of his glance; they had struck upon all his senses at wide angles. was she really beautiful? he could not assure himself that his opinion was true even now. he fur- tively said to a neighbour, "is miss everdene considered handsome?" "o yes; she was a good deal noticed the first time she came, if you remember. a very handsome girl indeed." a man is never more credulous than in receiving favourable opinions on the beauty of a woman he is half, or quite, in love with; a mere child's word on the point has the weight of an r.a.'s. boldwood was satisfied now. and this charming woman had in effect said to him, "marry me." why should she have done that strange thing? boldwood's blindness to the difference between approving of what circumstances suggest, and originating what they do not suggest, was well matched by bathsheba's insensibility to the possibly great issues of little beginnings. she was at this moment coolly dealing with a dashing young farmer, adding up accounts with him as indiffer- ently as if his face had been the pages of a ledger. it was evident that such a nature as his had no attraction for a woman of bathsheba's taste. but boldwood grew hot down to his hands with an incipient jealousy; he trod for the first time the threshold of "the injured lover's hell." his first impulse was to go and thrust himself between them. this could be done, but only in one way -- by asking to see a sample of her corn. boldwood renounced the idea. he could not make the request; it was debasing loveliness to ask it to buy and sell, and jarred with his conceptions of her. all this time bathsheba was conscious of having broken into that dignified stronghold at last. his eyes, she knew, were following her everywhere. this was a triumph; and had it come naturally, such a triumph would have been the sweeter to her for this piquing delay. but it had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she valued it only as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit. being a woman with some good sense in reasoning on subjects wherein her heart was not involved, bath- sheba genuinely repented that a freak which had owed its existence as much to liddy as to herself, should ever have been undertaken, to disturb the placidity of a man she respected too highly to deliberately tease. she that day nearly formed the intention of begging his pardon on the very next occasion of their meeting. the worst features of this arrangement were that, if he thought she ridiculed him, an apology would in- crease the offence by being disbelieved; and if he thought she wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional evidence of her forwardness. chapter xviii boldwood in meditation -- regret boldwood was tenant of what was called little weatherbury farm, and his person was the nearest ap- proach to aristocracy that this remoter quarter of the parish could boast of. genteel strangers, whose god was their town, who might happen to be compelled to linger about this nook for a day, heard the sound of light wheels, and prayed to see good society, to the degree of a solitary lord, or squire at the very least, but it was only mr. boldwood going out for the day. they heard the sound of wheels yet once more, and were re-animated to expectancy: it was only mr. bold- wood coming home again. his house stood recessed from the road, and the stables, which are to a farm what a fireplace is to a room, were behind, their lower portions being lost amid bushes of laurel. inside the blue door, open half-way down, were to be seen at this time the backs and tails of half-a-dozen warm and contented horses standing in their stalls; and as thus viewed, they pre- sented alternations of roan and bay, in shapes like a moorish arch, the tail being a streak down the midst of each. over these, and lost to the eye gazing in from the outer light, the mouths of the same animals could be heard busily sustaining the above-named warmth and plumpness by quantities of oats and hay. the restless and shadowy figure of a colt wandered about a loose-box at the end, whilst the steady grind of all the eaters was occasionally diversified by the rattle of a rope or the stamp of a foot. pacing up and down at the heels of the animals was farmer boldwood himself. this place was his almonry and cloister in one: here, after looking to the feeding of his four-footed dependants, the celibate would walk and meditate of an evening till the moon's rays streamed in through the cobwebbed windows, or total darkness enveloped the scene. his square-framed perpendicularity showed more fully now than in the crowd and bustle of the market-house. in this meditative walk his foot met the floor with heel and toe simultaneously, and his fine reddish-fleshed face was bent downwards just enough to render obscure the still mouth and the well-rounded though rather prominent and broad chin. a few clear and thread-like horizontal lines were the only interruption to the otherwise smooth surface of his large forehead. the phases of boldwood's life were ordinary enough, but his was not an ordinary nature. that stillness, which struck casual observers more than anything else in his character and habit, and seemed so precisely like the rest of inanition, may have been the perfect balance of enormous antagonistic forces -- positives and negatives in fine adjustment. his equilibrium disturbed, he was in extremity at once. if an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering him was entirely latent. stagnant or rapid, it was never slow. he was always hit mortally, or he was missed. he had no light and careless touches in his constitu- tion, either for good or for evil. stern in the outlines of action, mild in the details, he was serious throughout all. he saw no absurd sides to the follies of life, and thus, though not quite companionable in the eyes of merry men and scoffers, and those to whom all things show life as a jest, he was not intolerable to the earnest and those acquainted with grief. being a man -who read all the dramas of life seriously, if he failed to please when they were comedies, there was no frivolous treat- ment to reproach him for when they chanced to end tragically. bathsheba was far from dreaming that the dark and silent shape upon which she had so carelessly thrown a seed was a hotbed of tropic intensity. had she known boldwood's moods, her blame would have been fearful, and the stain upon her heart ineradicable. moreover, had she known her present power for good or evil over this man, she would have trembled at her responsibility. luckily for her present, unluckily for her future tran- quillity, her understanding had not yet told her what boldwood was. nobody knew entirely; for though it was possible to form guesses concerning his wild capa- bilities from old floodmarks faintly visible, he had never been seen at the high tides which caused them. farmer boldwood came to the stable-door and looked forth across the level fields. beyond the first enclosure was a hedge, and on the other side of this a meadow belonging to bathsheba's farm. it was now early spring -- the time of going to grass with the sheep, when they have the first feed of the meadows, before these are laid up for mowing. the wind, which had been blowing east for several weeks, had veered to the southward, and the middle of spring had come abruptly -- almost without a beginning. it was that period in the vernal quarter when we map suppose the dryads to be waking for the season. the vegetable world begins to move and swell and the saps to rise, till in the completest silence of lone gardens and trackless plantations, where- everything seems -help- less and still after the bond and slavery of frost, there are bustlings, strainings, united thrusts, and pulls-all- together, in comparison with which the powerful tugs of cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but pigmy efforts. boldwood, looking into the distant meadows, saw there three figures. they were those of miss everdene, shepherd oak, and cainy ball. when bathsheba's figure shone upon the farmer's eyes it lighted him up as the moon lights up a great tower. a man's body is as the shell; or the tablet, of his soul, as he is reserved or ingenuous, overflowing or self-contained. there was a change in boldwood's exterior from its former impassibleness; and his face showed that he was now living outside his defences for the first time, and with a fearful sense of exposure. it is the usual experience of strong natures when they love. at last he arrived at a conclusion. it was to go across and inquire boldly of her. the insulation of his heart by reserve during these many years, without a channel of any kind for disposable emotion, had worked its effect. it has been observed more than once that the causes of love are chiefly subjective, and boldwood was a living testimony to the truth of the proposition. no mother existed to absorb his devotion, no sister for his tenderness, no idle ties for sense. he became surcharged with the compound, which was genuine lover's love. he approached the gate of the meadow. beyond it the ground was melodious with ripples, and the sky with larks; the low bleating of the flock mingling with both. mistress and man were engaged in the operation of making a lamb "take." which is performed whenever an ewe has lost her own offspring, one of the twins of another ewe being given her as a substitute. gabriel had skinned the dead lamb, and was tying the skin over the body of the live lamb, in the customary manner, whilst bathsheba was holding open a little pen of four hurdles, into which the mother and foisted lamb were driven, where they would remain till the old sheep conceived an affection for the young one. bathsheba looked up at the completion of the manouvre, and saw the farmer by the gate, where he was overhung by a willow tree in full bloom. gabriel, to whom her face was as the uncertain glory of an april day, was ever regardful of its faintest changes, and instantly discerned thereon the mark of some influence from without, in the form of a keenly self-conscious reddening. he also turned and beheld boldwood. at onee connecting these signs with the letter bold- wood had shown him, gabriel suspected her of some coquettish procedure begun by that means, and carried on since, he knew not how. farmer boldwood had read the pantomime denoting that they were aware of his presence, and the perception was as too much light turned upon his new sensibility. he was still in the road, and by moving on he hoped that neither would recognize that he had originally intended to enter the field. he passed by with an utter and overwhelming sensation of ignorance, shyness, and doubt. perhaps in her manner there were signs that she wished to see him -- perhaps not -- he could not read a woman. the cabala of this erotic philosophy seemed to consist of the subtlest meanings expressed in misleading ways. every turn, look, word, and accent contained a mystery quite distinct from its obvious import, and not one had ever been pondered by him until now. as for bathsheba, she was not deceived into the belief that farmer boldwood had walked by on business or in idleness. she collected the probabilities of the case, and concluded that she was herself responsible for boldwood's appearance there. it troubled her much to see what a great flame a little wildfire was likely to kindle. bathsheba was no schemer for marriage, nor was she deliberately a trifler with the affections of men, and a censor's experience on seeing an actual flirt after observing her would have been a feeling of surprise that bathsheba could be so different from such a one, and yet so like what a flirt is supposed to be. she resolved never again, by look or by sign, to interrupt the steady flow of this man's life. but a resolution to avoid an evil is seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance impossible. chapter xix the sheep-washing -- the offer boldwood did eventually call upon her. she was not at home. "of course not." he murmured. in con- templating bathsheba as a woman, he had forgotten the accidents of her position as an agriculturist -- that being as much of a farmer, and as extensive a farmer, as himself, her probable whereabouts was out-of-doors at this time of the year. this, and the other oversights boldwood was guilty of, were natural to the mood, and still more natural to the circumstances. the great aids to idealization in love were present here: occasional observation of her from a distance, and the absence of social intercourse with her -- visual familiarity, oral strangeness. the smaller human elements were kept out of sight; the pettinesses that enter so largely into all earthly living and doing were disguised by the accident of lover and loved-one not being on visiting terms; and there was hardly awakened a thought in boldwood that sorry household realities appertained to her, or that she, like all others, had moments of commonplace, when to be least plainly seen was to be most prettily remembered. thus a mild sort of apotheosis took place in his fancy, whilst she still lived and breathed within his own horizon, a troubled creature like himself. it was the end of may when the farmer determined to be no longer repulsed by trivialities or distracted by suspense. he had by this time grown used to being in love; the passion now startled him less even when it tortured him more, and he felt himself adequate to the situation. on inquiring for her at her house they had told him she was at the sheepwashing, and he went off to seek her there. the sheep-washing pool was a perfectly circular basin of brickwork in the meadows, full of the clearest water. to birds on the wing its glassy surface, reflecting the light sky, must have been visible for miles around as a glistening cyclops' eye in a green face. the grass about the margin at this season was a sight to remember long -- in a minor sort of way. its activity in sucking the moisture from the rich damp sod. was almost a pro- cess observable by the eye. the outskirts of this level water-meadow were diversified by rounded and hollow pastures, where just now every flower that was not a buttercup was a daisy. the river slid along noiselessly as a shade, the swelling reeds and sedge forming a flexible palisade upon its moist brink. to the north of the mead were trees, the leaves of which were new, soft, and moist, not yet having stiffened and darkened under summer sun and drought, their colour being yellow beside a green -- green beside a yellow. from the recesses of this knot of foliage the loud notes of three cuckoos were resounding through the still air. boldwood went meditating down the slopes with his eyes on his boots, which the yellow pollen from the buttercups had bronzed in artistic gradations. a tribu- tary of the main stream flowed through the basin of the pool by an inlet and outlet at opposite points of its diameter. shepherd oak, jan coggan, moon, poor- grass, cain ball, and several others were assembled here, all dripping wet to the very roots of their hair, and bathsheba was standing by in a new riding-habit -- the most elegant she had ever worn -- the reins of her horse being looped over her arm. flagons of cider were rolling about upon the green. the meek sheep were pushed into the pool by coggan and matthew moon, who stood by the lower hatch, immersed to their waists; then gabriel, who stood on the brink, thrust them under as they swam along, with an instrument like a crutch, formed for the purpose, and also for assisting the exhausted animals when the wool became saturated and they began to sink. they were let out against the stream, and through the upper opening, all impurities flowing away below. cainy ball and joseph, who performed this latter operation, were if possible wetter than the rest; they resembled dolphins under a fountain, every protuberance and angle of their clothes dribbling forth a small rill. boldwood came close and bade her good-morning, with such constraint that she could not but think he had stepped across to the washing for its own sake, hoping not to find her there; more, she fancied his brow severe and his eye slighting. bathsheba immediately contrived to withdraw, and glided along by the river till she was a stone's throw off. she heard footsteps brushing the grass, and had a consciousness that love was encircling her like a perfume. instead of turning or waiting, bathsheba went further among the high sedges, but boldwood seemed determined, and pressed on till they were completely past the bend of the river. here, without being seen, they could hear the splashing and shouts of the washers above. "miss everdene!" said the farmer. she trembled, turned, and said "good morning." his tone was so utterly removed from all she had expected as a beginning. it was lowness and quiet accentuated: an emphasis of deep meanings, their form, at the same time, being scarcely expressed. silence has sometimes a remarkable power of showing itself as the disembodied soul of feeling wandering without its carcase, and it is then more impressive than speech. in the same way, to say a little is often to tell more than to say a great deal. boldwood told everything in that word. as the consciousness expands on learning that what was fancied to be the rumble of wheels is the reverbera- tion of thunder, so did bathsheba's at her intuitive conviction. "i feel -- almost too much -- to think." he said, with a solemn simplicity. "i have come to speak to you with- out preface. my life is not my own since i have beheld you clearly, miss everdene -- i come to make you an offer of marriage." bathsheba tried to preserve an absolutely neutral countenance, and all the motion she made was that of closing lips which had previously been a little parted. "i am now forty-one years old." he went on. "i may have been called a confirmed bachelor, and i was a confirmed bachelor. i had never any views of myself as a husband in my earlier days, nor have i made any calculation on the subject since i have been older. but we all change, and my change, in this matter, came with seeing you. i have felt lately, more and more, that my present way of living is bad in every respect. beyond all things, i want you as my wife." "i feel, mr. boldwood, that though i respect you much, i do not feel -- what would justify me to -- in accepting your offer." she stammered. this giving back of dignity for dignity seemed to open the sluices of feeling that boldwood had as yet kept closed. "my life is a burden without you." he exclaimed, in a low voice. "i want you -- i want you to let me say i love you again and again!" bathsheba answered nothing, and the mare upon her arm seemed so impressed that instead of cropping the herbage she looked up. "i think and hope you care enough for me to listen to what i have to tell!" bathsheba's momentary impulse at hearing this was to ask why he thought that, till she remembered that, far from being a conceited assumption on boldwood's part, it was but the natural conclusion of serious reflec- tion based on deceptive premises of her own offering. "i wish i could say courteous flatteries to you." the farmer continued in an easier tone, " and put my rugged feeling into a graceful shape: but i have neither power nor patience to learn such things. i want you for my wife -- so wildly that no other feeling can abide in me; but i should not have spoken out had i not been led to hope." the valentine again! o that valentine!" she said to herself, but not a word to him. "if you can love me say so, miss everdene. if not -- don't say no!" "mr. boldwood, it is painful to have to say i am surprised, so that i don't know how to answer you with propriety and respect -- but am only just able to speak out my feeling -- i mean my meaning; that i am afraid i can't marry you, much as i respect you. you are too dignified for me to suit you, sir." "but, miss everdene!" "i -- i didn't -- i know i ought never to have dreamt of sending that valentine -- forgive me, sir -- it was a wanton thing which no woman with any self-respect should have done. if you will only pardon my thought- lessness, i promise never to -- -- " "no, no, no. don't say thoughtlessness! make me think it was something more -- that it was a sort of prophetic instinct -- the beginning of a feeling that you would like me. you torture me to say it was done in thoughtlessness -- i never thought of it in that light, and i can't endure it. ah! i wish i knew how to win you! but that i can't do -- i can only ask if i have already got you. if i have not, and it is not true that you have come unwittingly to me as i have to you, i can say no more." "i have not fallen in love with you, mr. boldwood -- certainly i must say that." she allowed a very small smile to creep for the first time over her serious face in saying this, and the white row of upper teeth, and keenly- cut lips already noticed, suggested an idea of heartless- ness, which was immediately contradicted by the pleasant eyes. "but you will just think -- in kindness and conde- scension think -- if you cannot bear with me as a husband! i fear i am too old for you, but believe me i will take more care of you than would many a man of your own age. i will protect and cherish you with all my strength -- i will indeed! you shall have no cares -- be worried by no household affairs, and live quite at ease, miss everdene. the dairy superintendence shall be done by a man -- i can afford it will -- you shall never have so much as to look out of doors at haymaking time, or to think of weather in the harvest. i rather cling; to the chaise, because it is he same my poor father and mother drove, but if you don't like it i will sell it, and you shall have a pony-carriage of your own. i cannot say how far above every other idea and object on earth you seem to me -- nobody knows -- god only knows -- how much you are to me!" bathsheba's heart was young, and it swelled with sympathy for the deep-natured man who spoke so simply. "don't say it! don't! i cannot bear you to feel so much, and me to feel nothing. and i am afraid they will notice us, mr. boldwood. will you let the matter rest now? i cannot think collectedly. i did not know you were going to say this to me. o, i am wicked to have made you suffer so!" she was frightened as well as agitated at his vehemence. "say then, that you don't absolutely refuse. do not quite refuse?" "i can do nothing. i cannot answer."i may speak to you again on the subject?" "yes." "i may think of you?" "yes, i suppose you may think of me." "and hope to obtain you?" "no -- do not hope! let us go on." "i will call upon you again to-morrow." "no -- please not. give me time." "yes -- i will give you any time." he said earnestly and gratefully. "i am happier now." "no -- i beg you! don't be happier if happiness only comes from my agreeing. be neutral, mr. bold- wood! i must think." "i will wait." he said. and then she turned away. boldwood dropped his gaze to the ground, and stood long like a man who did not know where he was. realities then returned upon him like the pain of a wound received in an excitement which eclipses it, and he, too, then went on. chapter xx perplexity -- grinding the shears -- a quarrel "he is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that i can desire." bathsheba mused. yet farmer boldwood, whether by nature kind or the reverse to kind, did not exercise kindness, here. the rarest offerings of the purest loves are but a self- indulgence, and no generosity at all. bathsheba, not being the least in love with him, was eventually able to look calmly at his offer. it was one which many women of her own station in the neighbour- hood, and not a few of higher rank, would have been wild to accept and proud to publish. in every point of view, ranging from politic to passionate, it was desirable that she, a lonely girl, should marry, and marry this earnest, well-to-do, and respected man. he was close to her doors: his standing was sufficient: his qualities were even supererogatory. had she felt, which she did not, any wish whatever for the married state in the abstract, she could not reasonably have rejected him, being a woman who frequently appealed to her under, standing for deliverance from her whims. boldwood as a means to marriage was unexceptionable: she esteemed and liked him, yet she did not want him. it appears that ordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without marriage, and that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage is not possible with, out possession; with totally differing aims the method is the same on both sides. but the understood incentive on the woman's part was wanting here. besides, bath- sheba's position as absolute mistress of a farm and house was a novel one, and the novelty had not yet begun to wear off. but a disquiet filled her which was somewhat to her credit, for it would have affected few. beyond the men- tioned reasons with which she combated her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having been the one who began the game, she ought in honesty to accept the conse- quences. still the reluctance remained. she said in the same breath that it would be ungenerous not to marry boldwood, and that she couldn't do it to save her life. bathsheba's was an impulsive nature under a delibera- tive aspect. an elizabeth in brain and a mary stuart in spirit, she often performed actions of the greatest temerity with a manner of extreme discretion. many of her thoughts were perfect syllogisms; unluckily they always remained thoughts. only a few were irrational assumptions; but, unfortunately, they were the ones which most frequently grew into deeds. the next day to that of the declaration she found gabriel oak at the bottom of her garden, grinding his shears for the sheep-shearing. all the surrounding cottages were more or less scenes of the same operation; the scurr of whetting spread into the sky from all parts of the village as from an armury previous to a campaign. peace and war kiss each other at their hours of prepara- tion -- sickles, scythes, shears, and pruning-hooks, ranking with swords, bayonets, and lances, in their common necessity for point and edge. cainy ball turned the handle of gabriel's grindstone, his head performing a melancholy see-saw up and down with each turn of the wheel. oak stood somewhat as eros is represented when in the act of sharpening his arrows: his figure slightly bent, the weight of his body thrown over on the shears, and his head balanced side- ways, with a critical compression of the lips and contrac- tion of the eyelids to crown the attitude. his mistress came up and looked upon them in silence for a minute or two; then she said -- "cain, go to the lower mead and catch the bay mare. i'll turn the winch of the grindstone. i want to speak to you, gabriel. cain departed, and bathsheba took the handle. gabriel had glanced up in intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again. bathsheba turned the winch, and gabriel applied the shears. the peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonderful tendency to benumb the mind. it is a sort of attenuated variety of ixion's punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the history of heavy, and the body's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden lump somewhere be- tween the eyebrows and the crown. bathsheba felt the unpleasant symptoms after two or three dozen turns. "will you turn, gabriel, and let me hold the shears?" she said. "my head is in a'whirl, and i can't talk. gabriel turned. bathsheba then began, with some awkwardness, allowing her thoughts to stray occasion- ally from her story to attend to the shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening. "i wanted to ask you if the men made any observa- tions on my going behind the sedge with mr. boldwood yesterday?" "yes, they did." said gabriel. "you don't hold the shears right, miss -- i knew you wouldn't know the way -- hold like this." he relinquished the winch, and inclosing her two hands completely in his own (taking each as we some- times slap a child's hand in teaching him to write), grasped the shears with her. "incline the edge so," he said. hands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held thus for a peculiarly long time by the in- structor as he spoke. "that will do." exclaimed bathsheba. "loose my hands. i won't have them held! turn the winch." gabriel freed her hands quietly, retired to his handle, and the grinding went on. "did the men think it odd?" she said again. "odd was not the idea, miss." "what did they say?" "that farmer boldwood's name and your own were likely to be flung over pulpit together before the year was out." "i thought so by the look of them! why, there's nothing in it. a more foolish remark was never made, and i want you to contradict it! that's what i came for." gabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his moments of incredulity, relieved. "they must have heard our conversation." she continued. "well, then, bathsheba!" said oak, stopping the handle, and gazing into her face with astonishment. "miss everdene, you mean," she said, with dignity. "i mean this, that if mr. boldwood really spoke of marriage, i bain't going to tell a story and say he didn't to please you. i have already tried to please you too much for my own good!" bathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity. she did not know whether to pity him for disappointed love of her, or to be angry with him for having got over it -- his tone being ambiguous. "i said i wanted you just to mention that it was not true i was going to be married to him." she mur- mured, with a slight decline in her assurance. "i can say that to them if you wish, miss everdene. and i could likewise give an opinion to 'ee on what you have done." "i daresay. but i don't want your opinion."i suppose not." said gabriel bitterly, and going on with his turning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence as he stooped or rose with the winch, which directed them, according to his position, perpendicularly into the earth, or horizontally along the garden, his eyes being fixed on a leaf upon the ground. with bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act; but, as does not always happen, time gained was prudence insured. it must be added, however, that time was very seldom gained. at this period the single opinion in the parish on herself and her doings that she valued as sounder than her own was gabriel oak's. and the outspoken honesty of his character was such- that on any subject even that of her love for, or marriage with, another man, the same disinter- estedness of opinion might be calculated on, and be had for the asking. thoroughly convinced of the impossibility of his own suit, a high resolve constrained him not to injure that of another. this is a lover's most stoical virtue, as the lack of it is a lover's most venial sin. knowing he would reply truly, she asked the question, painful as she must have known the sub- ject would be. such is the selfishness of some charm- ing women. perhaps it was some excuse for her thus torturing honesty to her own advantage, that she had absolutely no other sound judgment within easy reach. "well, what is your opinion of my conduct." she said, quietly. "that it is unworthy of any thoughtful, and meek, and comely woman." in an instant bathsheba's face coloured with the angry crimson of a danby sunset. but she forbore to utter this feeling, and the reticence of her tongue only made the loquacity of her face the more notice- able. the next thing gabriel did was to make a mistake. "perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my repri- manding you, for i know it is rudeness; but i thought it would do good." she instantly replied sarcastically -- "on the contrary, my opinion of you is so low, that i see in your abuse the praise of discerning people!" "i am glad you don't mind it, for i said it honestly and with every serious meaning." "i see. but, unfortunately, when you try not to speak in jest you are amusing -- just as when you wish to avoid seriousness you sometimes say a sensible word it was a hard hit, but bathsheba had unmistakably lost her temper, and on that account gabriel had never in his life kept his own better. he said nothing. she then broke out -- "i may ask, i suppose, where in particular my unworthiness lies? in my not marrying you, perhaps! "not by any means." said gabriel quietly. "i have long given up thinking of that matter."or wishing it, i suppose." she said; and it was apparent that she expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition. whatever gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words -- "or wishing it either." a woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet to her, and with a rudeness which is not offensive. bathsheba would have submitted to an indignant chastisement for her levity had gabriel pro- tested that he was loving her at the same time; the impetuosity of passion unrequited is bearable, even if it stings and anathematizes there is a triumph in the humiliation, and a tenderness in the strife. this was what she had been expecting, and what she had not got. to be lectured because the lecturer saw her in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was exasperating. he had not finished, either. he continued in a more agitated voice: -- "my opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like mr. boldwood, merely as a pastime. leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action. and even, miss everdene, if you seriously inclined towards him, you might have let him find it out in some way of true loving-kindness, and not by sending him a valentine's letter." bathsheba laid down the shears. "i cannot allow any man to -- to criticise my private conduct!" she exclaimed. "nor will i for a minute. so you'll please leave the farm at the end of the week!" it may have been a peculiarity -- at any rate it was a fact -- that when bathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly sort her lower lip trembled: when by a refined emotion, her upper or heavenward one. her nether lip quivered now. "very well, so i will." said gabriel calmly. he had been held to her by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking, rather than by a chain he could not break. "i should be even better pleased to go at once." he added. "go at once then, in heaven's name!" said she,her eyes flashing at his, though never meeting them. "don't let me see your face any more." "very well, miss everdene -- so it shall be." and he took his shears and went away from her in placid dignity, as moses left the presence of pharaoh. chapter xxi troubles in the fold -- a message gabriel oak had ceased to feed the weatherbury flock for about four-and-twenty hours, when on sunday afternoon the elderly gentlemen joseph poorgrass, matthew moon, fray, and half-a-dozen others, came running up to the house of the mistress of the upper farm. "whatever is the matter, men?" she said, meeting them at the door just as she was coming out on her way to church, and ceasing in a moment from the close compression of her two red lips, with which she had accompanied the exertion of pulling on a tight glove. "sixty!" said joseph poorgrass. "seventy!" said moon. "fifty-nine!" said susan tall's husband. "-- sheep have broke fence." said fray. "-- and got into a field of young clover." said tall. "-- young clover!" said moon. "-- clover!" said joseph poorgrass. "and they be getting blasted." said henery fray. "that they be." said joseph. "and will all die as dead as nits, if they bain't got out and cured!"said tall. joseph's countenance was drawn into lines and puckers by his concern. fray's forehead was wrinkled both perpendicularly and crosswise, after the pattern of a portcullis, expressive of a double despair. laban tall's lips were thin, and his face were rigid. matthew's jaws sank, and his eyes turned whichever way the strongest muscle happened to pull them. "yes." said joseph, "and i was sitting at home, looking for ephesians, and says i to myself, "'tis nothing but corinthians and thessalonians in this danged testament." when who should come in but henery there: "joseph," he said, "the sheep have with bathsheba it was a moment when thought was blasted theirselves -- " with bathsheba it was a moment when thought was speech and speech exclamation. moreover, she had hardly recovered her equanimity since the disturbance which she had suffered from oak's remarks. "that's enought -- that's enough! -- oh, you fools!" she cried, throwing the parasol and prayer-book into the passage, and running out of doors in the direction signified. "to come to me, and not go and get them out directly! oh, the stupid numskulls!" her eyes were at their darkest and brightest now. bathsheba's beauty belonged rather to the demonian than to the angelic school, she never looked so well as when she was angry -- and particularly when the effect was heightened by a rather dashing velvet dress, care- fully put on before a glass. all the ancient men ran in a jumbled throng after her to the clover-field, joseph sinking down in the midst when about half-way, like an individual withering in a world which was more and more insupportable. having once received the stimulus that her presence always gave them they went round among the sheep with a will. the majority of the afflicted animals were lying down, and could not be stirred. these were bodily lifted out, and the others driven into the adjoining field. here, after the lapse of a few minutes, several more fell down, and lay helpless and livid as the rest. bathsheba, with a sad, bursting heart, looked at these primest specimens of her prime flock as they rolled there -- swoln with wind and the rank mist they drew. many of them foamed at the mouth, their breathing being quick and short, whilst the bodies of all were fearfully distended. "o, what can i do, what can i do!" said bathsheba, helplessly. "sheep are such unfortunate animals! -- there's always something happening to them! i never knew a flock pass a year without getting into some scrape or other." "there's only one way of saving them." said tall. "what way? tell me quick!" "they must be pierced in the side with a thing made on purpose." "can you do it? can i?" "no, ma'am. we can't, nor you neither. it must be done in a particular spot. if ye go to the right or left but an inch you stab the ewe and kill her. not even a shepherd can do it, as a rule." "then they must die." she said, in a resigned tone. "only one man in the neighbourhood knows the way," said joseph, now just come up. "he could cure 'em all if he were here." "who is he? let's get him!" "shepherd oak," said matthew. "ah, he's a clever man in talents!" "ah, that he is so!" said joseph poorgrass. "true -- he's the man." said laban tall. "how dare you name that man in my presence!" she said excitedly. "i told you never to allude to him, nor shall you if you stay with me. ah!" she added, brighten- ing, "farmer boldwood knows!" "o no, ma'am" said matthew. "two of his store ewes got into some vetches t'other day, and were just like these. he sent a man on horseback here post-haste for gable, and gable went and saved 'em, farmer boldwood hev got the thing they do it with. 'tis a holler pipe, with a sharp pricker inside. isn't it, joseph?" "ay -- a holler pipe." echoed joseph. "that's what 'tis." "ay, sure -- that's the machine." chimed in henery fray, reflectively, with an oriental indifference to the flight of time. "well," burst out bathsheba, "don't stand there with your "ayes" and your "sures" talking at me! get somebody to cure the sheep instantly!" all then stalked or in consternation, to get some- body as directed, without any idea of who it was to be. in a minute they had vanished through the gate, and she stood alone with the dying flock. "never will i send for him never!" she said firmly. one of the ewes here contracted its muscles horribly, extended itself, and jumped high into the air. the leap was an astonishing one. the ewe fell heavily, and lay still. bathsheba went up to it. the sheep was dead. "o, what shall i do -- what shall i do!" she again exclaimed, wringing her hands. "i won't send for him. no, i won't!" the most vigorous expression of a resolution does not always coincide with the greatest vigour of the resolution itself. it is often flung out as a sort of prop to support a decaying conviction which, whilst strong, required no enunciation to prove it so. the "no, i won't" of bathsheba meant virtually, "i think i must." she followed her assistants through the gate, and lifted her hand to one of them. laban answered to her signal. "where is oak staying?" "across the valley at nest cottage!" "jump on the bay mare, and ride across, and say he must return instantly -- that i say so." tall scrambled off to the field, and in two minutes was on poll, the bay, bare-backed, and with only a halter by way of rein. he diminished down the hill. bathsheba watched. so did all the rest. tall cantered along the bridle-path through sixteen acres, sheeplands, middle field the flats, cappel's piece, shrank almost to a point, crossed the bridge, and ascended from the valley through springmead and whitepits on the other side. the cottage to which gabriel had retired before taking his final departure from the locality was visible as a white spot on the opposite hill, backed by blue firs. bathsheba walked up and down. the men entered the field and endeavoured to ease the anguish of the dumb creatures by rubbing them. nothing availed. bathsheba continued walking. the horse was seen descending the hill, and the wearisome series had to be repeated in reverse order: whitepits, springmead, cappel's piece, the flats, middle field, sheeplands, sixteen acres. she hoped tall had had presence of mind enough to give the mare up to gabriel, and return himself on foot. the rider neared them. it was tall. "o, what folly!" said bathsheba. gabriel was not visible anywhere. "perhaps he is already gone!" she said. tall came into the inclosure, and leapt off, his face tragic as morton's after the battle of shrewsbury. "well?" said bathsheba, unwilling to believe that her verbal lettre-de-cachet could possibly have miscarried. "he says beggars mustn't be choosers." replied laban. "what!" said the young farmer, opening her eyes and drawing in her breath for an outburst. joseph poorgrass retired a few steps behind a hurdle. "he says he shall not come unless you request en to come civilly and in a proper manner, as becomes any "woman begging a favour." "oh, oh, that's his answer! where does he get his airs? who am i, then, to be treated like that? shall i beg to a man who has begged to me?" another of the flock sprang into the air, and fell dead. the men looked grave, as if they suppressed opinion. bathsheba turned aside, her eyes full of tears. the strait she was in through pride and shrewishness could not be disguised longer: she burst out crying bitterly; they all saw it; and she attempted no further concealment. "i wouldn't cry about it, miss." said william small- bury, compassionately. "why not ask him softer like? i'm sure he'd come then. gable is a true man in that way." bathsheba checked her grief and wiped her eyes. "o, it is a wicked cruelty to me -- it is -- it is!" she murmured. "and he drives me to do what i wouldn't; yes, he does! -- tall, come indoors." after this collapse, not very dignified for the head of an establishment, she went into the house, tall at her heels. here she sat down and hastily scribbled a note between the small convulsive sobs of convalescence which follow a fit of crying as a ground-swell follows a storm. the note was none the less polite for being written in a hurry. she held it at a distance, was about to fold it, then added these words at the bottom: -- "do not desert me, gabriel!" she looked a little redder in refolding it, and closed her lips, as if thereby to suspend till too late the action of conscience in examining whether such strategy were justifiable. the note was despatched as the message had been, and bathsheba waited indoors for the result. it was an anxious quarter of an hour that intervened between the messenger's departure and the sound of the horse's tramp again outside. she- could not watch this time, but, leaning over the old bureau at which she had written the letter, closed her eyes, as if to keep out both hope and fear. the case, however, was a promising one. gabriel was not angry: he was simply neutral, although her first command had been so haughty. such imperiousness would have damned a little less beauty; and on the other hand, such beauty would have redeemed a little less imperiousness. she went out when the horse was heard, and looked up. a mounted figure passed between her and the sky, and drew on towards the field of sheep, the rider turning his face in receding. gabriel looked at her. it was a moment when a woman's eyes and tongue tell distinctly opposite tales. bathsheba looked full of gratitude, and she said: -- "o, gabriel, how could you serve me so unkindly!" such a tenderly-shaped reproach for his previous delay was the one speech in the language that he could pardon for not being commendation of his readiness now. gabriel murmured a confused reply, and hastened on. she knew from the look which sentence in her note had brought him. bathsheba followed to the field. gabriel was already among the turgid, prostrate forms. he had flung off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and taken from his pocket the instrument of salvation. it was a small tube or trochar, with a lance passing down the inside; and gabriel began to use it with a dexterity that would have graced a hospital surgeon. passing his hand over the sheep's left flank, and selecting the proper point, he punctured the skin and rumen with the lance as it stood in the tube; then he suddenly withdrew the lance, retaining the tube in its place. a current of air rushed up the tube, forcible enough to have extinguished a candle held at the orifice. it has been said that mere ease after torment is de- light for a time; and the countenances of these poor creatures expressed it now. forty-nine operations were successfully performed. owing to the great hurry necessitated by the far-gone state of some of the flock, gabriel missed his aim in one case, and in one only -- striking wide of the mark, and inflicting a mortal blow at once upon the suffering ewe. four had died; three recovered without an operation. the total number of sheep which had thus strayed and injured themselves so dangerously was fifty-seven. when the love-led man had ceased from his labours, bathsheba came and looked him in the face. "gabriel, will you stay on with me?" she, said, smiling winningly, and not troubling to bring her lips quite together again at the end, because there was going to be another smile soon. "i will." said gabriel. and she smiled on him again. chapter xxii the great barn and the sheep-shearers men thin away to insignificance and oblivion quite as often by not making the most of good spirits when they have them as by lacking good spirits when they are indispensable. gabriel lately, for the first time since his prostration by misfortune, had been independent in thought and vigorous in action to a marked extent -- conditions which, powerless without an opportunity as an opportunity without them is barren, would have given him a sure lift upwards when the favourable-con- junction should have occurred. but this incurable loitering beside bathsheba everdene stole his time ruinously. the spring tides were going by without floating him off, and the neap might soon come which could not. it was the first day of june, and the sheep-shearing season culminated, the landscape, even to the leanest pasture, being all health and colour. every green was young, every pore was open, and every stalk was swollen with racing currents of juice. god was palpably present in the country, and the devil had gone with the world to town. flossy catkins of the later kinds, fern-sprouts like bishops' croziers, the square-headed moschatel, the odd cuckoo-pint, -- like an apoplectic saint in a niche of malachite, -- snow-white ladies'-smocks, the toothwort, approximating to human flesh, the enchanter's night- shade, and the black-petaled doleful-bells, were among the quainter objects of the vegetable world in and about weatherbury at this teeming time; and of the animal, the metamorphosed figures of mr. jan coggan, the master-shearer; the second and third shearers, who travelled in the exercise of their calling, and do not re- quire definition by name; henery fray the fourth shearer, susan tall's husband the fifth, joseph poorgrass the sixth, young cain ball as assistant-shearer, and gabriel oak as general supervisor. none of these were clothed to any extent worth mentioning, each appearing to have hit in the matter of raiment the decent mean between a high and low caste hindoo. an angularity of lineament, and a fixity of facial machinery in general, proclaimed that serious work was the order of the day. they sheared in the great barn, called for the nonce the shearing-barn, which on ground-plan resembled a church with transepts. it not only emulated the form of the neighbouring church of the parish, but vied with it in antiquity. whether the barn had ever formed one of a group of conventual buildings nobody seemed to be aware; no trace of such surroundings remained. the vast porches at the sides, lofty enough to admit a waggon laden to its highest with corn in the sheaf, were spanned by heavy-pointed arches of stone, broadly and boldly cut, whose very simplicity was the origin of a grandeur not apparent in erections where more ornament has been attempted. the dusky, filmed, chestnut roof, braced and tied in by huge collars, curves, and diagonals, was far nobler in design, because more wealthy in material, than nine-tenths of those in our modern churches. along each side wall was a range of striding buttresses, throwing deep shadows on the spaces between them, which were perforated by lancet openings, combining in their proportions the precise requirements both of beauty and ventilation. one could say about this barn, what could hardly be said of either the church or the castle, akin to it in age and style, that the purpose which had dictated its original erection was the same with that to which it was still applied. unlike and superior to either of those two typical remnants of mediaevalism, the old barn embodied practices which had suffered no mutila- tion at the hands of time. here at least the spirit of the ancient builders was at one with the spirit of the modern beholder. standing before this abraded pile, the eye regarded its present usage, the mind-dwelt upon its past history, with a satisfied sense of functional continuity throughout -- a feeling almost of gratitude, and quite of pride, at the permanence of the idea which had heaped it up. the fact that four centuries had neither proved it to be founded on a mistake, inspired any hatred of its purpose, nor given rise to any reaction that had battered it down, invested this simple grey effort of old minds with a repose, if not a grandeur, which a too curious reflection was apt to disturb in its ecclesiastical and military compeers. for once medievalism and modernism had a common stand- point. the lanccolate windows, the time-eaten arch- stones and chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chestnut work of the rafters, referred to no exploded fortifying art or worn-out religious creed. the defence and salvation of the body by daily bread is still a study, a religion, and a desire. to-day the large side doors were thrown open towards the sun to admit a bountiful light to the immediate spot of the shearers' operations, which was the wood threshing-floor in the centre, formed of thick oak, black with age and polished by the beating of flails for many generations, till it had grown as slippery and as rich in hue as the state-room floors of an elizabethan mansion. here the shearers knelt, the sun slanting in upon their bleached shirts, tanned arms, and the polished shears they flourished, causing these to bristle with a thousand rays strong enough to blind a weak-eyed man. beneath them a captive sheep lay panting, quickening its pants as misgiving merged in terror, till it quivered like the hot landscape outside. this picture of to-day in its frame of four hundred years ago did not produce that marked contrast between ancient and modern which is implied by the contrast of date. in comparison with cities, weatherbury was immutable. the citizen's then is the rustic's now. in london, twenty or thirty-years ago are old times; in paris ten years, or five; in weatherbury three or four score years were included in the mere present, and nothing less than a century set a mark on its face or tone. five decades hardly modified the cut of a gaiter, the embroidery of a smock-frock, by the breadth of a hair. ten generations failed to alter the turn of a single phrase. in these wessex nooks the busy out- sider's ancient times are only old; his old times are still new; his present is futurity. so the barn was natural to the shearers, and the shearers were in harmony with the barn. the spacious ends of the building, answering ecclesi- astically to nave and chancel extremities, were fenced off with hurdles, the sheep being all collected in a crowd within these two enclosures; and in one angle a catching- pen was formed, in which three or four sheep were continuously kept ready for the shearers to seize without loss of time. in the background, mellowed by tawny shade, were the three women, maryann money, and temperance and soberness miller, gathering up the fleeces and twisting ropes of wool with a wimble for tying them round. they were indifferently well assisted by the old maltster, who, when the malting season from october to april had passed, made himself useful upon any of the bordering farmsteads. "behind all was bathsheba, carefully watching the men to see that there was no cutting or wounding through carelessness, and that the animals were shorn close. gabriel, who flitted and hovered under her bright eyes like a moth, did not shear continuously, half his time being spent in attending to the others and selecting the sheep for them. at the present moment he was engaged in handing round a mug of mild liquor, supplied from a barrel in the corner, and cut pieces of bread and cheese. bathsheba, after throwing a glance here, a caution there, and lecturing one of the younger operators who had allowed his last finished sheep to go off among the flock without re-stamping it with her initials, came again to gabriel, as he put down the luncheon to drag a frightened ewe to his shear-station, flinging it over upon its back with a dexterous twist of the arm he lopped off the tresses about its head, and opened up the neck and collar, his mistress quietly looking on: "she blushes at the insult." murmured bathsheba, watching the pink flush which arose and overspread the neck and shoulders of the ewe where they were left bare by the clicking shears -- a flush which was enviable, for its delicacy, by many queens of coteries, and would have been creditable, for its promptness, to any woman in the world. poor gabriel's soul was fed with a luxury of content by having her over him, her eyes critically regarding his skilful shears, which apparently were going to gather up a piece of the flesh at every close, and yet never did so. like guildenstern, oak was happy in that he was not over happy. he had no wish to converse with her: that his bright lady and himself formed one group, exclusively their own, and containing no others in the world, was enough. so the chatter was all on her side. there is a loquacity that tells nothing, which was bathsheba's; and there is a silence which says much: that was gabriel's. full of this dim and temperate bliss, he went on to fling the ewe over upon her other side, covering her head with his knee, gradually running the shears line after line round her dewlap; thence about her flank and back, and finishing over the tail. "well done, and done quickly!" said bathsheba, looking at her watch as the last snip resounded. "how long, miss?" said gabriel, wiping his brow. "three-and-twenty minutes and a half since you took the first lock from its forehead. it is the first time that i have ever seen one done in less than half an hour." the clean, sleek creature arose from its fleece -- how perfectly like aphrodite rising from the foam should have been seen to be realized -- looking startled and shy at the loss of its garment, which lay on the floor in one soft cloud, united throughout, the portion visible being the inner surface only, which, never before exposed, was white as snow, and without flaw or blemish of the minutest kind. "cain ball!" "yes, mister oak; here i be!" cainy now runs forward with the tar-pot. "b. e." is newly stamped upon the shorn skin, and away the simple dam leaps, panting, over the board into the shirtless flock outside. then up comes maryann; throws the loose locks into the middle of the fleece, rolls it up, and carries it into the background as three-and-a-half pounds of unadulterated warmth for the winter enjoy- ment of persons unknown and far away, who will, however, never experience the superlative comfort derivable from the wool as it here exists, new and pure -- before the unctuousness of its nature whilst in a living state has dried, stiffened, and been washed out -- rendering it just now as superior to anything woollen as cream is superior to milk-and-water. but heartless circumstance could not leave entire gabriel's happiness of this morning. the rams, old ewes, and two-shear ewes had duly undergone their stripping, and the men were proceeding with the shear- lings and hogs, when oak's belief that she was going to stand pleasantly by and time him through another performance was painfully interrupted by farmer bold- wood's appearance in the extremest corner of the barn. nobody seemed to have perceived his entry, but there he certainly was. boldwood always carried with him a social atmosphere of his own, which everybody felt who came near him; and the talk, which bathsheba's presence had somewhat suppressed, was now totally suspended. he crossed over towards bathsheba, who turned to greet him with a carriage of perfect ease. he spoke to her in low tones, and she instinctively modulated her own to the same pitch, and her voice ultimately even caught the inflection of his. she was far from having a wish to appear mysteriously connected with him; but woman at the impressionable age gravitates to the larger body not only in her choice of words, which is apparent every day, but even in her shades of tone and humour, when the influence is great. what they conversed about was not audible to gabriel, who was too independent to get near, though too concerned to disregard. the issue of their dialogue was the taking of her hand by the courteous farmer to help her over the spreading-board into the bright june sunlight outside. standing beside the sheep already shorn, they went on talking again. concerning the flock? apparently not. gabriel theorized, not without truth, that in quiet discussion of any matter within reach of the speakers' eyes, these are usually fixed upon it. bathsheba demurely regarded a contemptible straw lying upon the ground, in a way which suggested less ovine criticism than womanly embarrassment. she became more or less red in the cheek, the blood wavering in uncertain flux and reflux over the sensitive space between ebb and flood. gabriel sheared on, constrained and sad. she left boldwood's side, and he walked up and down alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. then she reappeared in her new riding-habit of myrtle-green, which fitted her to the waist as a rind fits its fruit; and young bob coggan led -on -her mare, boldwood fetching his own horse from the tree under which it had been tied. oak's eyes could not forsake them; and in en- deavouring to continue his shearing at the same time that he watched boldwood's manner, he snipped the sheep in the groin. the animal plunged; bathsheba instantly gazed towards it, and saw the blood. "o, gabriel!" she exclaimed, with severe remon- strance you who are so strict with the other men -- see what you are doing yourself!" to an outsider there was not much to complain of in this remark; but to oak, who "knew bathsheba to be well aware that she herself was the cause of the poor ewe's wound, because she had wounded the ewe's shearer in a -- still more vital part, it had a sting which the abiding sense of his inferiority to both herself and boldwood was not calculated to heal. but a manly resolve to recognize boldly that he had no longer a lover's interest in her, helped him occasionally to conceal a feeling. "bottle!" he shouted, in an unmoved voice of routine. cainy ball ran up, the wound was anointed, and the shearing continued. boldwood gently tossed bathsheba into the saddle, and before they turned away she again spoke out to oak with the same dominative and tantalizing graciousness. "i am going now to see mr. boldwood's leicesters. take my place in the barn, gabriel, and keep the men carefully to their work." the horses' heads were put about, and they trotted away. boldwood's deep attachment was a matter of great interest among all around him; but, after having been pointed out for so many years as the perfect exemplar of thriving bachelorship, his lapse was an anticlimax somewhat resembling that of st. john long's death by consumption in the midst of his proofs that it was not a fatal disease. "that means matrimony." said temperance miller, following them out of sight with her eyes. "i reckon that's the size o't." said coggan, working along without looking up. "well, better wed over the mixen than over the moor," said laban tall, turning his sheep. henery fray spoke, exhibiting miserable eyes at the same time: "i don't see why a maid should take a husband when she's bold enough to fight her own battles, and don't want a home; for 'tis keeping another woman out. but let it be, for 'tis a pity he and she should trouble two houses." as usual with decided characters, bathsheba invari- ably provoked the criticism of individuals like henery fray. her emblazoned fault was to be too pronounced in her objections, and not sufficiently overt in her likings. we learn that it is not the rays which bodies absorb, but those which they reject, that give them the colours they are known by; and win the same way people are specialized by their dislikes and antagonisms, whilst their goodwill is looked upon as no attribute at all. henery continued in a more complaisant mood: "i once hinted my mind to her on a few things, as nearly as a battered frame dared to do so to such a froward piece. you all know, neighbours, what a man i be, and how i come down with my powerful words when my pride is boiling wi' scarn?" "we do, we do, henery." "so i said, " mistress everdene, there's places empty, and there's gifted men willing; but the spite -- no. not the spite -- i didn't say spite -- "but the villainy of the contrarikind." i said (meaning womankind), " keeps 'em out." that wasn't too strong for her, say?" "passably well put." "yes; and i would have said it, had death and salvation overtook me for it. such is my spirit when i have a mind." "a true man, and proud as a lucifer." "you see the artfulness? why, 'twas about being baily really; but i didn't put it so plain that she could understand my meaning, so i could lay it on all the stronger. that was my depth! ... however, let her marry an she will. perhaps 'tis high time. i believe farmer boldwood kissed her behind the spear-bed at the sheep-washing t'other day -- that i do." "what a lie!" said gabriel. "ah, neighbour oak -- how'st know?" said, henery, mildly. "because she told me all that passed." said oak, with a pharisaical sense that he was not as other shearers in this matter. "ye have a right to believe it." said henery, with dudgeon; "a very true right. but i mid see a little distance into things! to be long-headed enough for a baily's place is a poor mere trifle -- yet a trifle more than nothing. however, i look round upon life quite cool. do you heed me, neighbours? my words, though made as simple as i can, mid be rather deep for some heads." "o yes, henery, we quite heed ye." "a strange old piece, goodmen -- whirled about from here to yonder, as if i were nothing! a little warped, too. but i have my depths; ha, and even my great depths! i might gird at a certain shepherd, brain to brain. but no -- o no!" "a strange old piece, ye say!" interposed the maltster, in a querulous voice. "at the same time ye be no old man worth naming -- no old man at all. yer teeth bain't half gone yet; and what's a old man's standing if se be his teeth bain't gone? weren't i stale in wedlock afore ye were out of arms? 'tis a poor thing to be sixty, when there's people far past four-score -- a boast'weak as water." it was the unvaying custom in weatherbury to sink minor differences when the maltster had to be pacified. "weak as-water! yes." said jan coggan.- "malter, we feel ye to be a wonderful veteran man, and nobody can gainsay it." "nobody." said joseph poorgrass. "ye be a very rare old spectacle, malter, and we all admire ye for that gift. " "ay, and as a young man, when my senses were in prosperity, i was likewise liked by a good-few who knowed me." said the maltster. "'ithout doubt you was -- 'ithout doubt." the bent and hoary 'man was satisfied, and so apparently was henery frag. that matters should continue pleasant maryann spoke, who, what with her brown complexion, and the working wrapper of rusty linsey, had at present the mellow hue of an old sketch in oils -- notably some of nicholas poussin's: -- "do anybody know of a crooked man, or a lame, or any second-hand fellow at all that would do for poor me?" said maryann. "a perfect one i don't expect to at my time of life. if i could hear of such a thing twould do me more good than toast and ale." coggan furnished a suitable reply. oak went on with his shearing, and said not another word. pestilent moods had come, and teased away his quiet. bathsheba had shown indications of anointing him above his fellows by installing him as the bailiff that the farm imperatively required. he did not covet the post relatively to the farm: in relation to herself, as beloved by him and unmarried to another, he had coveted it. his readings of her seemed now to be vapoury and indistinct. his lecture to her was, he thought, one of the absurdest mistakes. far from coquetting with boldwood, she had trifled with himself in thus feigning that she had trifled with another. he was inwardly convinced that, in accordance with the anticipations of his easy-going and worse-educated comrades, that day would see boldwood the accepted husband of miss everdene. gabriel at this time of his life had out- grown the instinctive dislike which every christian boy has for reading the bible, perusing it now quite frequently, and he inwardly said, "i find more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets!" this was mere exclamation -- the froth of the storm. he adored bathsheba just the same. "we workfolk shall have some lordly- junketing to-night." said cainy ball, casting forth his thoughts in a new direction. "this morning i see'em making the great puddens in the milking-pails -- lumps of fat as big as yer thumb, mister oak! i've never seed such splendid large knobs of fat before in the days of my life -- they never used to be bigger then a horse-bean. and there was a great black crock upon the brandish with his legs a-sticking out, but i don't know what was in within." "and there's two bushels of biffins for apple-pies," said maryann. "well, i hope to do my duty by it all." said joseph poorgrass, in a pleasant, masticating manner of anticipa- tion. "yes; victuals and drink is a cheerful thing, and gives nerves to the nerveless, if the form of words may be used. 'tis the gospel of the body, without which we perish, so to speak it." chapter xxiii eventide -- a second declaration for the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. miss everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. she was thus at the head without mingling with the men. this evening bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. she seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table was at her request left vacant until after they had begun and the duties appertaining to that end, which he did with great readiness. at this moment mr. boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the green to bathsheba at the window. he apologized for his lateness: his arrival was evidently by arrangement. "gabriel." said she, " will you move again, please, and let mr. boldwood come there?" oak moved in silence back to his original seat. the gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey. inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional degree. so also was bathsheba now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed her equan- imity for a while. supper being ended, coggan began on his own private account, without reference to listeners: -- l've lost my love and l care not, i've lost my love, and l care not; i shall soon have another that's better than t'other! i've lost my love, and i care not. this lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause. "now, master poorgrass, your song!" said coggan. "i be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me." said joseph, diminishing himself. "nonsense; wou'st never be so ungrateful, joseph -- never!" said coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. "and mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, "sing at once, joseph poor- grass." "faith, so she is; well, i must suffer it! ... just eye my features, and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?" "no, yer blushes be quite reasonable." said coggan. "i always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty's eyes get fixed on me." said joseph, differently; "but if so be 'tis willed they do, they must." "now, joseph, your song, please." said bathsheba, from the window. "well, really, ma'am." he replied, in a yielding tone, "i don't know what to say. it would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure." hear, hear!" said the supper-party. poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. this was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts: -- i sow'-ed th'-e i sow'-ed i sow'-ed the'-e seeds' of love', i-it was' all' i'-in the'-e spring', i-in a'-pril', ma'-ay, a'-nd sun'-ny' june', when sma'-all bi'-irds they' do' sing. "well put out of hand." said coggan, at the end of the verse. `they do sing' was a very taking paragraph." "ay; and there was a pretty place at "seeds of love." and 'twas well heaved out. though "love " is a nasty high corner when a man's voice is getting crazed. next verse, master poorgrass." but during this rendering young bob coggan ex- hibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose. joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing. coggan boxed bob's ears immediately. "go on, joseph -- go on, and never mind the young scamp." said coggan. "'tis a very catching ballet. now then again -- the next bar; i'll help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy: -- o the wi'-il-lo'-ow tree' will' twist', and the wil'-low' tre'-ee wi'ill twine'. but the singer could not be set going again. bob coggan was sent home for his ill manners, and tran- quility was restored by jacob smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper old silenus amused on a similar occasion the swains chromis and mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day. it was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light taking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. the sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of self- sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired. the sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in homer's heaven. bathsheba still remained enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in knitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside. the slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs of moving were shown. gabriel suddenly missed farmer boldwood from his place at the bottom of the table. how long he had been gone oak did not know; but he had apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. whilst he was thinking of this, liddy brought candles into the back part of the room overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down the table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind. bathsheba's form, still in its original position, was now again distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that boldwood had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her. next came the question of the evening. would miss everdene sing to them the song she always sang so charmingly -- " the banks of allan water" -- before they went home? after a moment's consideration bathsheba assented, beckoning to gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere. "have you brought your flute? " she whispered. "yes, miss." "play to my singing, then." she stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles behind her, gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the sash-frame. boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room. her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady clearness. subsequent events caused one of the verses to be remembered for many months, and even years, by more than one of those who were gathered there: -- for his bride a soldier sought her, and a winning tongue had he: on the banks of allan water none was gay as she! in addition to the dulcet piping of gabriel's flute, boldwood supplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his notes so softly, however, as to abstain entirely from making anything like an ordinary duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexplored shadow, which threw her tones into relief. the shearers reclined against each other as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be heard between the bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of pleasure which is the attar of applause. it is scarcely necessary to state that gabriel could not avoid noting the farmer's bearing to-night towards their entertainer. yet there was nothing exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained to his time of performing them. it was when the rest were all looking away that boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turned aside; when they thanked or praised he was silent; when they were inattentive he murmured his thanks. the meaning lay in the difference between actions, none of which had any meaning of itself; and the necessity of being jealous, which lovers are troubled with, did not lead oak to underestimate these signs. bathsheba then wished them good-night, withdrew from the window, and retired to the back part of the room, boldwood thereupon closing the sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. oak wandered away under the quiet and scented trees. recovering from the softer impressions produced by bathsheba's voice, the shearers rose to leave, coggan turning to pennyways as he pushed back the bench to pass out: -- "i like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deserves it -- that 'a do so." he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist. "i'm sure i should never have believed it if we hadn't proved it, so to allude," hiccupped joseph poorgrass, "that every cup, every one of the best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place as perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all. "i'm sure i don't deserve half the praise you give me." said the virtuous thief, grimly. "well, i'll say this for pennyways." added coggan, "that whenever he do really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a good action, as i could see by his face he. did to-night afore sitting down, he's generally able to carry it out. yes, i'm proud to say. neighbours, that he's stole nothing at all. "well." -- 'tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, pennyways." said joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed unanimously. at this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the inside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between the shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there." miss everdene and boldwood were alone. her cheeks had lost a great deal of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of her position; but her eye was bright with the excitement of a triumph -- though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplated than desired. she was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had just risen, and he was kneeling in it -- inclining himself over its back towards her, and holding her hand in both his own. his body moved restlessly, and it was with what keats daintily calls a too happy happiness. this unwonted abstraction by love of all dignity from a man of whom it had ever seemed the chief component, was, in its distressing incongruity, a pain to her which quenched much of the pleasure she derived from the proof that she was idolized. "i will try to love you." she was saying, in a trembling voice quite unlike her usual self-confidence. "and if i can believe in any way that i shall make you a good wife i shall indeed be willing to marry you. but, mr. boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourable in any woman, and i don't want to give a solemn promise to-night. i would rather ask you to wait a few weeks till i can see my situation better."but you have every reason to believe that then -- -- " "i have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks, between this time and harvest, that you say you are going to be away from home, i shall be able to promise to be your wife." she said, firmly. "but remember this distinctly, i don't promise yet." "it is enough i don't ask more. i can wait on those dear words. and now, miss everdene, good- night!" "good-night." she said, graciously -- almost tenderly; and boldwood withdrew with a serene smile. bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heart before her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look of a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. she had been awe- struck at her past temerity, and was struggling to make amends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty she was schooling herself to pay. to have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. the facility with which even the most timid woman some- times acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous. chapter xxiv the same night -- the fir plantation among the multifarious duties which bathsheba had voluntarily imposed upon herself by dispensing with the services of a bailiff, was the particular one of looking round the homestead before going to bed, to see that all was right and safe for the night. gabriel had almost constantly preceded her in this tour every evening, watching her affairs as carefully as any specially appointed officer of surveillance could have done; but this tender devotion was to a great extent unknown to his mistress, and as much as was known was somewhat thanklessly received. women are never tired of bewailing man's fickleness in love, but they only seem to snub his con- stancy. as watching is best done invisibly, she usually carried a dark lantern in her hand, and every now and then turned on the light to examine nooks and corners with the coolness of a metropolitan policeman. this cool- ness may have owed its existence not so much to her fearlessness of expected danger as to her freedom from the suspicion of any; her worst anticipated discovery being that a horse might not be well bedded, the fowls not all in, or a door not closed. this night the buildings were inspected as usual, and she went round to the farm paddock. here the only sounds disturbing the stillness were steady munch- ings of many mouths, and stentorian breathings from all but invisible noses, ending in snores and puffs like the blowing of bellows slowly. then the munching would recommence, when the lively imagination might assist the eye to discern a group of pink-white nostrils, shaped as caverns, and very clammy and humid on their sur- faces, not exactly pleasant to the touch until one got used to them; the mouths beneath having a great partiality for closing upon any loose end of bathsheba's apparel which came within reach of their tongues. above each of these a still keener vision suggested a brown forehead and two staring though not unfriendly eyes, and above all a pair of whitish crescent-shaped horns like two particularly new moons, an occasional stolid " moo!" proclaiming beyond the shade of a doubt that these phenomena were the features and persons of daisy, whitefoot, bonny-lass, jolly-o, spot, twinkle-eye, etc., etc. -- the respectable dairy of devon cows belonging to bathsheba aforesaid. her way back to the house was by a path through a young plantation of tapering firs, which had been planted some years earlier to shelter the premises from the north wind. by reason of the density of the interwoven foliage overhead, it was gloomy there at cloudless noontide, twilight in the evening, dark as midnight at dusk, and black as the ninth plague of egypt at midnight. to describe the spot is to call it a vast, low, naturally formed hall, the plumy ceiling of which was supported by slender pillars of living wood, the floor being covered with a soft dun carpet of dead spikelets and mildewed cones, with a tuft of grass-blades here and there. this bit of the path was always the crux of the night's ramble, though, before starting, her apprehen- sions of danger were not vivid enough to lead her to take a companion. slipping along here covertly as time, bathsheba fancied she could hear footsteps enter- ing the track at the opposite end. it was certainly a rustle of footsteps. her own instantly fell as gently as snowflakes. she reassured herself by a remembrance that the path was public, and that the traveller was probably some villager returning home; regetting, at the same time, that the meeting should be about to occur in the darkest point of her route, even though only just outside her own door. the noise approached, came close, and a figure was apparently on the point of gliding past her when some- thing tugged at her skirt and pinned it forcibly to the ground. the instantaneous check nearly threw bath- sheba off her balance. in recovering she struck against warm clothes and buttons. "a rum start, upon my soul!" said a masculine voice, a foot or so above her head. "have i hurt you, mate?" "no." said bathsheba, attempting to shrink a way. "we have got hitched together somehow, i think." "yes." "are you a woman?" "yes." "a lady, i should have said." "it doesn't matter." "i am a man." "oh!" bathsheba softly tugged again, but to no purpose. "is that a dark lantern you have? i fancy so." said the man. "yes." "if you'll allow me i'll open it, and set you free." a hand seized the lantern, the door was opened, the rays burst out from their prison, and bathsheba beheld her position with astonishment. the man to whom she was hooked was brilliant in brass and scarlet. he was a soldier. his sudden appearance was to darkness what the sound of a trumpet is to silense. gloom, the genius loci at all times hitherto, was now totally overthrown, less by the lantern-light than by what the lantern lighted. the contrast of this revelation with her anticipations of some sinister figure in sombre garb was so great that it had upon her the effect of a fairy transformation. it was immediately apparent that the military man's spur had become entangled in the gimp which decorated the skirt of her dress. he caught a view of her face. "i'll unfasten you in one moment, miss." he said, with new-born gallantry. "o no -- i can do it, thank you." she hastily replied, and stooped for the performance. the unfastening was not such a trifling affair. the rowel of the spur had so wound itself among the gimp cords in those few moments, that separation was likely to be a matter of time. he too stooped, and the lantern standing on the ground betwixt them threw the gleam from its open side among the fir-tree needles and the blades of long damp grass with the effect of a large glowworm. it radiated upwards into their faces, and sent over half the planta- tion gigantic shadows of both man and woman, each dusky shape becoming distorted and mangled upon the tree-trunks till it wasted to nothing. he looked hard into her eyes when she raised them for a moment; bathsheba looked down again, for his gaze was too strong to be received point-blank with her own. but she had obliquely noticed that he was young and slim, and that he wore three chevrons upon his sleeve. bathsheba pulled again. "you are a prisoner, miss; it is no use blinking the matter." said the soldier, drily. "i must cut your dress if you are in such a hurry." "yes -- please do!" she exclaimed, helplessly. " "it wouldn't be necessary if you could wait a moment," and he unwound a cord from the little wheel. she withdrew her own hand, but, whether by accident or design, he touched it. bathsheba was vexed; she hardly knew why. his unravelling went on, but it nevertheless seemed coming to no end. she looked at him again. "thank you for the sight of such a beautiful face!" said the young sergeant, without ceremony. she coloured with embarrassment. "'twas un- willingly shown." she replied, stiffly, and with as much dignity -- which was very little -- as she could infuse into a position of captivity "i like you the better for that incivility, miss." he said. "i should have liked -- i wish -- you had never shown yourself to me by intruding here!" she pulled again, and the gathers of her dress began to give way like liliputian musketry. "i deserve the chastisement your words give me. but why should such a fair and dutiful girl have such an aversion to her father's sex?" "go on your way, please." "what, beauty, and drag you after me? do but look; i never saw such a tangle!" "o, 'tis shameful of you; you have been making it worse on purpose to keep me here -- you have!" "indeed, i don't think so." said the sergeant, with a merry twinkle. "i tell you you have!" she exclaimed, in high temper. i insist upon undoing it. now, allow me!" "certainly, miss; i am not of steel." he added a sigh which had as much archness in it as a sigh could possess without losing its nature altogether. "i am thankful for beauty, even when 'tis thrown to me like a bone to a dog. these moments will be over too soon!" she closed her lips in a determined silence. bathsheba was revolving in her mind whether by a bold and desperate rush she could free herself at the risk of leaving her skirt bodily behind her. the thought was too dreadful. the dress -- which she had put on to appear stately at the supper -- was the head and front of her wardrobe; not another in her stock became her so well. what woman in bathsheba's position, not naturally timid, and within call of her retainers, would have bought escape from a dashing soldier at so dear a price? "all in good time; it will soon be done, i perceive," said her cool friend. "this trifling provokes, and -- and -- -- " "not too cruel!" "-- insults me!" "it is done in order that i may have the pleasure of apologizing to so charming a woman, which i straightway do most humbly, madam." he said, bowing low. bathsheba really knew not what to say. "i've seen a good many women in my time, continued the young man in a murmur, and more thoughtfully than hitherto, critically regarding her bent head at the same time; "but i've never seen a woman so beautiful as you. take it or leave it -- be offended or like it -- i don't care." "who are you, then, who can so well afford to despise opinion?" "no stranger. sergeant troy. i am staying in this place. -- there! it is undone at last, you see. your light fingers were more eager than mine. i wish it had been the knot of knots, which there's no untying!" this was worse and worse. she started up, and so did he. how to decently get away from him -- that was her difficulty now. she sidled off inch by inch, the lantern in her hand, till she could see the redness of his coat no longer. "ah, beauty; good-bye!" he said. she made no reply, and, reaching a distance of twenty or thirty yards, turned about, and ran indoors. liddy had just retired to rest. in ascending to her own chamber, bathsheba opened the girl's door an inch or two, and, panting, said -- "liddy, is any soldier staying in the village -- sergeant somebody -- rather gentlemanly for a sergeant, and good looking -- a red coat with blue facings?" "no, miss ... no, i say; but really it might be sergeant troy home on furlough, though i have not seen him. he was here once in that way when the regiment was at casterbridge." "yes; that's the name. had he a moustache -- no whiskers or beard?" "he had." "what kind of a person is he?" "o! miss -- i blush to name it -- a gay man! but i know him to be very quick and trim, who might have made his thousands, like a squire. such a clever young dandy as he is! he's a doctor's son by name, which is a great deal; and he's an earl's son by nature!" "which is a great deal more. fancy! is it true?" "yes. and, he was brought up so well, and sent to casterbridge grammar school for years and years. learnt all languages while he was there; and it was said he got on so far that he could take down chinese in shorthand; but that i don't answer for, as it was only reported. however, he wasted his gifted lot, and listed a soldier; but even then he rose to be a sergeant without trying at all. ah! such a blessing it is to be high-born; nobility of blood will shine out even in the ranks and files. and is he really come home, miss?" "i believe so. good-night, liddy." after all, how could a cheerful wearer of skirts be permanently offended with the man? there are occasions when girls like bathsheba will put up with a great deal of unconventional behaviour. when they want to be praised, which is often, when they want to be mastered, which is sometimes; and when they want no nonsense, which is seldom. just now the first feeling was in the ascendant with bathsheba, with a dash of the second. moreover, by chance or by devilry, the ministrant was antecedently made interesting by being a handsome stranger who had evidently seen better days. so she could not clearly decide whether it was her opinion that he had insulted her or not. " "was ever anything so odd!" she at last exclaimed to herself, in her own room. "and was ever anything so meanly done as what i did do to sulk away like that from a man who was only civil and kind!" clearly she did not think his barefaced praise of her person an insult now. it was a fatal omission of boldwood's that he had never once told her she was beautiful. chapter xxv the new acquaintance described idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp sergeant troy as an exceptional being. he was a man to whom memories were an in- cumbrance, and anticipations a superfluity. simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. his out- look upon time was as a transient flash of the eye now and then: that projection of consciousness into days gone by and to come, which makes the past a synonym for the pathetic and the future a word for circum- spection, was foreign to troy. with him the past was yesterday; the future, to-morrow; never, the day after. on this account he might, in certain lights, have been regarded as one of the most fortunate of his order. for it may be argued with great plausibility that reminiscence is less an endowment than a disease, and that expectation in its only comfortable form -- that of absolute faith -- is practically an impossibility; whilst in the form of hope and the secondary compounds, patience, impatience, resolve, curiosity, it is a constant fluctuation between pleasure and pain. sergeant troy, being entirely innocent of the practice of expectation, was never disappointed. to set against this negative gain there may have been some positive losses from a certain narrowing of the higher tastes and sensations which it entailed. but limitation of the capacity is never recognized as a loss by the loser therefrom: in this attribute moral or aesthetic poverty contrasts plausibly with material, since those who suffer do not mind it, whilst those who mind it soon cease to suffer. it is not a denial of anything to have been always without it, and what troy had never enjoyed he did not miss; but, being fully conscious that what sober people missed he enjoyed, his capacity, though really less, seemed greater than theirs. he was moderately truthful towards men, but to women lied like a cretan -- a system of ethics above all others calculated to win popularity at the first flush of admission into lively society; and the possibility of the favour gained being transitory had reference only to the future. he never passed the line which divides the spruce vices from the ugly; and hence, though his morals had hardly been applauded, disapproval of them" had fre- quently been tempered with a smile. this treatment had led to his becoming a sort of regrater of other men's gallantries, to his own aggrandizement as a corinthian, rather than to the moral profit of his hearers. his reason and his propensities had seldom any reciprocating influence, having separated by mutual consent long ago: thence it sometimes happened that, while his intentions were as honourable as could be wished, any particular deed formed a dark background which threw them into fine relief. the sergeant's vicious phases being the offspring of impulse, and his virtuous phases of cool meditation, the latter had a modest tendency to be oftener heard of than seen. troy was full of activity, but his activities were less of a locomotive than a vegetative nature; and, never being based upon any original choice of foundation or direc- tion, they were exercised on whatever object chance might place in their way. hence, whilst he sometimes reached the brilliant in speech because that -was spontaneous, he fell below the commonplace in action, from inability to guide incipient effort. he had a quick comprehension and considerable force of char- acter; but, being without the power to combine them, the comprehension became engaged with trivialities whilst waiting for the will to direct it, and the force wasted itself in useless grooves through unheeding the comprehension. he was a fairly well-educated man for one of middle class -- exceptionally well educated for a common soldier. he spoke fluently and unceasingly. he could in this way be one thing and seem another: for instance, he could speak of love and think of dinner; call on the intend to owe. the wondrous power of flattery in passados at woman is a perception so universal as to be remarked upon by many people almost as automatically as they repeat a proverb, or say that they are christians and the like, without thinking much of the enormous corollaries which spring from the proposition. still less is it acted upon for the good of the complemental being alluded to. with the majority such an opinion is shelved with all those trite aphorisms which require some catastrophe to bring their tremendous meanings thoroughly home. when expressed with some amount of reflectiveness it seems co-ordinate with a belief that this flattery must be reasonable to be effective. it is to the credit of men that few attempt to settle the question by experi- ment, and it is for their happiness, perhaps, that accident has never settled it for them. nevertheless, that a male dissembler who by deluging her with untenable fictions charms the female wisely, may acquire powers reaching to the extremity of perdition, is a truth taught to many by unsought and wringing occurrences. and some profess to have attained to the same knowledge by experiment as aforesaid, and jauntily continue their indulgence in such experiments with terrible effect. sergeant troy was one. he had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. there was no third method. "treat them fairly, and you are a lost man." he would say. this philosopher's public appearance in weatherbury promptly followed his arrival there. a week or two after the shearing, bathsheba, feeling a nameless relief of spirits on account of boldwood's absence, approached her hayfields and looked over the hedge towards the haymakers. they consisted in about equal proportions of gnarled and flexuous forms, the former being the men, the latter the women, who wore tilt bonnets covered with nankeen, which hung in a curtain upon their shoulders. coggan and mark clark were mowing in a less forward meadow, clark humming a tune to the strokes of his scythe, to which jan made no attempt to keep time with his. in the first mead they were already loading hay, the women raking it into cocks and windrows, and the men tossing it upon the waggon. from behind the waggon a bright scarlet spot emerged, and went on loading unconcernedly with the rest. it was the gallant sergeant, who had come hay- making for pleasure; and nobody could deny that he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by this voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time. as soon as she had entered the field troy saw her, and sticking his pitchfork into the ground and picking up his crop or cane, he came forward. bathsheba blushed with half-angry embarrassment, and adjusted her eyes as well as her feet to the direct line of her path. chapter xxvi scene on the verge of the hay-mead "ah, miss everdene!" said the sergeant, touching his diminutive cap. "little did i think it was you i was speaking to the other night. and yet, if i had reflected, the "queen of the corn-market" (truth is truth at any hour of the day or night, and i heard you so named in casterbridge yesterday), the "queen of the corn-market." i say, could be no other woman. i step across now to beg your forgiveness a thousand times for having been led by my feelings to express myself too strongly for a stranger. to be sure i am no stranger to the place -- i am sergeant troy, as i told you, and i have assisted your uncle in these fields no end of times when i was a lad. i have been doing the same for you today." "i suppose i must thank you for that, sergeant troy." said the queen of the corn-market, in an in- differently grateful tone. the sergeant looked hurt and sad. "indeed you must not, miss everdene." he said. "why could you think such a thing necessary?" "i am glad it is not." "why? if i may ask without offence." "because i don't much want to thank you for any" thing." "i am afraid i have made a hole with my tongue that my heart will never mend. o these intolerable times: that ill-luck should follow a man for honestly telling a woman she is beautiful! 'twas the most i said -- you must own that; and the least i could say -- that i own myself." "there is some talk i could do without more easily than money." "indeed. that remark is a sort of digression." "no. it means that i would rather have your room than your company." "and i would rather have curses from you than kisses from any other woman; so i'll stay here." bathsheba was absolutely speechless. and yet she could not help feeling that the assistance he was render- ing forbade a harsh repulse. "well." continued troy, "i suppose there is a praise which is rudeness, and that may be mine. at the same time there is a treatment which is injustice, and that may be yours. because a plain blunt man, who has never been taught concealment, speaks out his mind without exactly intending it, he's to be snapped off like the son of a sinner." "indeed there's no such case between us." she said, turning away. "i don't allow strangers to be bold and impudent -- even in praise of me." "ah -- it is not the fact but the method which offends you." he said, carelessly. "but i have the sad satis- faction of knowing that my words, whether pleasing or offensive, are unmistakably true. would you have had me look at you, and tell my acquaintance that you are quite a common-place woman, to save you the embar- rassment of being stared at if they come near you? not i. i couldn't tell any such ridiculous lie about a beauty to encourage a single woman in england in too excessive a modesty." "it is all pretence -- what you are saying!" exclaimed bathsheba, laughing in spite of herself at the sergeant's sly method. "you have a rare invention, sergeant troy. why couldn't you have passed by me that night, and said nothing? -- that was all i meant to reproach you for." "because i wasn't going to. half the pleasure of a feeling lies in being able to express it on the spur of the moment, and i let out mine. it would have been just the same if you had been the reverse person -- ugly and old -- i should have exclaimed about it in the same way. " "how long is it since you have been so afflicted with strong feeling, then?" "oh, ever since i was big enough to know loveliness from deformity." "'tis to be hoped your sense of the difference you speak of doesn't stop at faces, but extends to morals as well. " "i won't speak of morals or religion -- my own or anybody else's. though perhaps i should have been a very good christian if you pretty women hadn't made me an idolater." bathsheba moved on to hide the irrepressible dimp- lings of merriment. troy followed, whirling his crop. "but -- miss everdene -- you do forgive me?" "hardly. " "why?" "you say such things." "i said you were beautiful, and i'll say so still; for, by -- so you are! the most beautiful ever i saw, or may i fall dead this instant! why, upon my -- -- " "don't -- don't! i won't listen to you -- you are so profane!" she said, in a restless state between distress at hearing him and a penchant to hear more. "i again say you are a most fascinating woman. there's nothing remarkable in my saying so, is there? i'm sure the fact is evident enough. miss everdene, my opinion may be too forcibly let out to please you, and, for the matter of that, too insignificant to convince you, but surely it is honest, and why can't it be ex- cused? " "because it -- it isn't a correct one." she femininely murmured. "o, fie -- fie-! am i any worse for breaking the third of that terrible ten than you for breaking the ninth?" "well, it doesn't seem quite true to me that i am fascinating." she replied evasively. "not so to you: then i say with all respect that, if so, it is owing to your modesty, miss everdene. but surely you must have been told by everybody of what everybody notices? and you should take their words for it." "they don't say so exactly." "o yes, they must!" "well, i mean to my face, as you do." she went on, allowing herself to be further lured into a conversation that intention had rigorously forbidden. "but you know they think so?" "no -- that is -- i certainly have heard liddy say they do, but -- --" she paused. capitulation -- that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as it was -- capitulation, unknown to her- self. never did a fragile tailless sentence convey a more perfect meaning. the careless sergeant smiled within himself, and probably too the devil smiled from a loop-hole in tophet, for the moment was the turning- point of a career. her tone and mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift the foundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a mere question of time and natural changes. "there the truth comes out!" said the soldier, in reply. "never tell me that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without knowing something about it. ah." well, miss everdene, you are -- pardon my blunt way -- you are rather an injury to our race than other- wise. "how -- indeed?" she said, opening her eyes. "o, it is true enough. i may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb (an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a rough soldier), and so i will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. why, miss everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more. harm than good in the world." the sergeant looked down the mead in critical abstrac- ion. "probably some one man on an average falls in" love, with each ordinary woman. she can marry him: he is content, and leads a useful life. such women as you a hundred men always covet -- your eyes will be- witch scores on scores into an unavailing fancy for you you can only marry one of that many. out of these say twenty will endeavour to. drown the bitterness of espised love in drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in he world, because they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty more -- the susceptible person myself possibly among them -- will be always draggling after you, getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things. men are such constant fools! the rest may try to get over their passion with more or less success. but all these men will be saddened. and not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they might have married are saddened with them. there's my tale. that's why i say that a woman so charming as yourself, miss ever- dene, is hardly a blessing to her race." the handsome sergeant's features were during this speech as rigid and stern as john knox's in addressing his gay young queen. seeing she made no reply, he said, "do you read french?" "no; i began, but when i got to the verbs, father died." she said simply. "i do -- when i have an opportunity, which latterly has not been often (my mother was a parisienne) -- and there's a proverb they have, qui aime bien chatie bien -- "he chastens who loves well." do you understand me? "ah!" she replied, and there was even a little tremu- lousness in the usually cool girl's voice; "if you can only fight half as winningly as you can talk, you are able to make a pleasure of a bayonet wound!" and then poor bathsheba instantly perceived her slip in making this admission: in hastily trying to retrieve it, she went from bad to worse. "don't, however, suppose that i derive any pleasure from what you tell me." "i know you do not -- i know it perfectly." said troy, with much hearty conviction on the exterior of his face: and altering the expression to moodiness; "when a dozen men arfe ready to speak tenderly to you, and give the admiration you deserve without adding the warning you need, it stands to reason that my poor rough-and-ready mixture of praise and blame cannot convey much pleasure. fool as i may be, i am not so conceited as to suppose that!" "i think you -- are conceited, nevertheless." said bathsheba, looking askance at a reed she was fitfully pulling with one hand, having lately grown feverish under the soldier's system of procedure -- not because the nature of his cajolery was entirely unperceived, but because its vigour was overwhelming. "i would not own it to anybody else -- nor do i exactly to you. still, there might have been some self- conceit in my foolish supposition the other night. i knew that what i said in admiration might be an opinion too often forced upon you to give any pleasure but i certainly did think that the kindness of your nature might prevent you judging an uncontrolled tongue harshly -- which you have done -- and thinking badly of me and wounding me this morning, when i am working hard to save your hay." "well, you need not think more of that: perhaps you did not mean to be rude to me by speaking out your mind: indeed, i believe you did not." said the shrewd woman, in painfully innocent earnest. "and i thank you for giving help here. but -- but mind you don't speak to me again in that way, or in any other, unless i speak to you." "o, miss bathsheba! that is to hard!" "no, it isn't. why is it?" "you will never speak to me; for i shall not be here long. i am soon going back again to the miser- able monotony of drill -- and perhaps our regiment will be ordered out soon. and yet you take away the one little ewe-lamb of pleasure that i have in this dull life of mine. well, perhaps generosity is not a woman's most marked characteristic." "when are you going from here?" she asked, with some interest. "in a month." "but how can it give you pleasure to speak to me?" "can you ask miss everdene -- knowing as you do -- what my offence is based on?" "i you do care so much for a silly trifle of that kind, then, i don't mind doing it." she uncertainly and doubtingly answered. "but you can't really care for a word from me? you only say so -- i think you only say so." "that's unjust -- but i won't repeat the remark. i am too gratified to get such a mark of your friendship at any price to cavil at the tone. i do miss everdene, care for it. you may think a man foolish to want a mere word -- just a good morning. perhaps he is -- i don't know. but you have never been a man looking upon a woman, and that woman yourself." "well." "then you know nothing of what such an experience is like -- and heaven forbid that you ever should!" "nonsense, flatterer! what is it like? i am interested in knowing." "put shortly, it is not being able to think, hear, or look in any direction except one without wretchedness, nor there without torture." "ah, sergeant, it won't do -- you are pretending!" she said, shaking her head." your words are too dashing to be true." "i am not, upon the honour of a soldier" "but why is it so? -- of course i ask for mere pas- time." because you are so distracting -- and i am so distracted. " "you look like it." "i am indeed." "why, you only saw me the other night!" "that makes no difference. the lightning works in- stantaneously. i loved you then, at once -- as i do now." bathsheba surveyed him curiously, from the feet upward, as high as she liked to venture her glance, which was not quite so high as his eyes. "you cannot and you don"t." she said demurely. "there is-no such sudden feeling in people. i won't listen to you any longer. hear me, i wish i knew what o'clock it is -- i am going -- i have wasted too much time here already!" the sergeant looked at his watch and told her. "what, haven't you a watch, miss?" he inquired. "i have not just at present -- i am about to get a new one." "no. you shall be given one. yes -- you shall. a gift, miss everdene -- a gift." and before she knew what the young -- man was intending, a heavy gold watch was in her hand. "it is an unusually good one for a man like me to possess." he quietly said. "that watch has a history. press the spring and open the back." she did so. "what do you see?" "a crest and a motto." "a coronet with five points, and beneath, cedit amor rebus -- "love yields to circumstance." it's the motto of the earls of severn. that watch belonged to the last lord, and was given to my mother's husband, a medical man, for his use till i came of age, when it was to be given to me. it was all the fortune that ever i inherited. that watch has regulated imperial interests in its time -- the stately ceremonial, the courtly assigna- tion, pompous travels, and lordly sleeps. now it is yours. "but, sergeant troy, i cannot take this -- i cannot!" she exclaimed, with round-eyed wonder. "a gold watch! what are you doing? don't be such a dissembler!" the sergeant retreated to avoid receiving back his gift, which she held out persistently towards him. bathsheba followed as he retired. "keep it -- do, miss everdene -- keep it!" said the erratic child of impulse. "the fact of your possessing it makes it worth ten times as much to me. a more plebeian one will answer my purpose just as well, and the pleasure of knowing whose heart my old one beats against -- well, i won't speak of that. it is in far worthier hands than ever it has been in before." "but indeed i can't have it!" she said, in a perfect simmer of distress. "o, how can you do such a thing; that is if you really mean it! give me your dead father's watch, and such a valuable one! you should not be so reckless, indeed, sergeant troy!" "i loved my father: good; but better, i love you more. that's how i can do it." said the sergeant, with an intonation of such exquisite fidelity to nature that it. was evidently not all acted now. her beauty, which, whilst it had been quiescent, he had praised in jest, had in its animated phases moved him to earnest; and though his seriousness was less than she imagined, it was probably more than he imagined himself. bathsheba was brimming with agitated bewilderment, and she said, in half-suspicious accents of feeling, "can it be! o, how can it be, that you care for me, and so suddenly,! you have seen so little of me: i may not be really so -- so nice-looking as i seem to you. please, do take it; o, do! i cannot and will not have it. believe me, your generosity is too great. i have never done you a single kindness, and why should you be so kind to me?" a factitious reply had been again upon his lips, but it was again suspended, and he looked at her with an arrested eye. the truth was, that as she now stood -- excited, wild, and honest as the day -- her alluring beauty bore out so fully the epithets he had bestowed upon it that he was quite startled at his temerity in advancing them as false. he said mechanically, "ah, why?" and continued to look at her. "and my workfolk see me following you about the field, and are wondering. o, this is dreadful!" she went on, unconscious of the transmutation she was effecting. "i did not quite mean you to accept it at first, for it as my one poor patent of nobility." he broke out, bluntly; "but, upon my soul, i wish you would now. without any shamming, come! don't deny me the happiness of wearing it for my sake? but you are too lovely even to care to be kind as others are." "no, no; don"t say so! i have reasons for reserve which i cannot explain." "bet it be, then, let it be." he said, receiving back the watch at last; "i must be leaving you now. and will you speak to me for these few weeks of my stay?" "indeed i will. yet, i don't know if i will! o, why did you come and disturb me so!" "perhaps in setting a gin, i have caught myself. such things have happened. well, will you let me work in your fields?" he coaxed. "yes, i suppose so; if it is any pleasure to you." "miss everdene, i thank you. "no, no." "good-bye!" the sergeant brought his hand to the cap on the slope of his head, saluted, and returned to the distant group of haymakers. bathsheba could not face the haymakers now. her heart erratically flitting hither and thither from per- plexed excitement, hot, and almost tearful, she retreated homeward, murmuring, o, what have i done! what does it mean! i wish i knew how much of it was true! chapter xxvii hiving the bees the weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. it was in the latter part of june, and the day after the interview with troy in the hayfield, that bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place. not only were they late this year, but unruly. sometimes through- out a whole season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable bough -- such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next year they would, with just the same unanimity, make straight off to the uppermost member of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden, and there defy all invaders who did not come armed with ladders and staves to take them. this was the case at present. bathsheba's eyes, shaded by one hand, were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable stretch of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy trees spoken of. a process somewhat analogous to that of alleged formations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable. the bustling swarm had swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze, which now thickened to a nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough and grew still denser, till it formed a solid black spot upon the light. the men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay -- even liddy had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand -- bathsheba resolved to hive the bees herself, if possible. she had dressed the hive with herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze veil -- once green but now faded to snuff colour -- and ascended a dozen rungs of the ladder. at once she heard, not ten yards off, a voice that was beginning to have a strange power in agitating her. "miss everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt such a thing alone." troy was just opening the garden gate. bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the skirt of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry, and as well as she could slid down the ladder. by the time she reached the bottom troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up the hive. "how fortunate i am to have dropped in at this moment!" exclaimed the sergeant. she found her voice in a minute. "what! and will you shake them in for me?" she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way; though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough. "will i!" said troy. "why, of course i will. how blooming you are to-day!" troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to ascend. "but you must have on the veil and gloves, or you'll be stung fearfully!" "ah, yes. i must put on the veil and gloves. will you kindly show me how to fix them properly?" "and you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no brim to keep the veil off, and they'd reach your face." "the broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means." so a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off -- veil and all attached -- and placed upon his head, troy tossing his own into a gooseberry bush. then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge round his collar and the gloves put on him. he looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. it was the removal of yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him off bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other hand for them to fall into. she made use of an unobserved minute whilst his attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her plumes a little. he came down holding the hive at arm's length, behind which trailed a cloud of bees. "upon my life." said troy, through the veil," holding up this hive makes one's arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise." when the manoeuvre was complete he approached her. "would you be good enough to untie me and let me out? i am nearly stifled inside this silk cage." to hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the string about his neck, she said: -- "i have never seen that you spoke of." "what?" "the sword-exercise." "ah! would you like to?" said troy. bathsheba hesitated. she had heard wondrous reports from time to time by dwellers in weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile in casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious perform- ance, *tlie sword-exercise. men and boys who had peeped through chinks or over walls into the barrack- yard returned with accounts of its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and weapons glistening like stars-here,there,around-yet all by rule and compass. so she said mildly what she felt strongly. "yes; i should like to see it very much." "and so you shall; you shall see me go through it." "no! how?" "let me consider." "not with a walking-stick -- i don't care to see that. lt must be a real sword." "yes, i know; and i have no sword here; but i think i could get one by the evening. now, will you do this?" "o no, indeed!" said bathsheba, blushing." thank you very much, but i couldn't on any account. "surely you might? nobody would know." she shook her head, but with a weakened negation. "if i were to." she said, "i must bring liddy too. might i not?" troy looked far away. "i don't see why you want to bring her." he said coldly. an unconscious look of assent in bathsheba's eyes betrayed that something more than his coldness had made her also feel that liddy would be superfluous in the suggested scene. she had felt it, even whilst making the proposal. "well, i won't bring liddy -- and i'll come. but only for a very short time." she added; "a very short time." "it will not take five minutes." said troy. chapter xxviii the hollow amid the ferns the hill opposite bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, into an uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets of brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and radiant in hues of clear and untainted green. at eight o'clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball of gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long, luxuriant rays, a soft brushing- by of garments might have been heard among them, and bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft, feathery arms caressing her up to her shoulders. she paused, turned, went back over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast a farewell glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved not to remain near the place after all. she saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the rise. it disappeared on the other side. she waited one minute -- two minutes -- thought of troy's disappointment at her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran along the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original direction. she was now literally trembling and panting at this her temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went quickly, and her eyes shone with an in- frequent light. yet go she must. she reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns. troy stood in the bottom, looking up towards her. "i heard you rustling through the fern before i saw you." he said, coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope. the pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the sunshine to reach their heads. standing in the centre, the sky overhead was met by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to the bottom of the slope and then abruptly ceased. the middle within the belt of verdure was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss and grass intermingled, so yielding that the foot was half-buried within it. "now." said troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into the sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing, "first, we have four right and four left cuts; four right and four left thrusts. infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than ours, to my mind; but they are not so swashing. they have seven cuts and three thrusts. so much as a preliminary. well, next, our cut one is as if you were sowing your corn -- so." bathsheba saw a sort of rainbow, upside down in the air, and troy's arm was still again. "cut two, as if you were hedging -- so. three, as if you were reaping -- so." four, as if you were threshing -- in that way. "then the same on the left. the thrusts are these: one, two, three, four, right; one, two, three, four, left." he repeated them. "have 'em again?" he said. "one, two -- -- " she hurriedly interrupted: "i'd rather not; though i don't mind your twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!" "very well. i'll let you off the ones and threes. next, cuts, points and guards altogether." troy duly exhibited them. "then there's pursuing practice, in this way." he gave the movements as before. "there, those are the stereotyped forms. the infantry have two most diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use. like this -- three, four." "how murderous and bloodthirsty!" "they are rather deathy. now i'll be more inter- esting, and let you see some loose play -- giving all the cuts and points, infantry and cavalry, quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously -- with just enough rule to regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it. you are my antagonist, with this difference from real warfare, that i shall miss you every time by one hair's breadth, or perhaps two. mind you don't flinch, whatever you do." i'll be sure not to!" she said invincibly. he pointed to about a yard in front of him. bathsheba's adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of relish in these highly novel proceedings. she took up her position as directed, facing troy. "now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what i wish, i'll give you a preliminary test." he flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the next thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of the sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above her hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as it were from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her body. the third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same sword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in troy's hand (in the position technically called "recover swords"). all was as quick as electricity. "oh!" she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side." have you run me through? -- no, you have not! whatever have you done!" "i have not touched you." said troy, quietly. "it was mere sleight of hand. the sword passed behind you. now you are not afraid, are you? because if you are l can't perform. i give my word that l will not only not hurt you, but not once touch you." "i don't think i am afraid. you are quite sure you will not hurt me?" "quite sure." "is the sword very sharp?" "o no -- only stand as still as a statue. now!" in an instant the atmosphere was transformed to bathsheba's eyes. beams of light caught from the low sun's rays, above, around, in front of her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven -- all emitted in the marvellous evolutions of troy's reflecting blade, which seemed everywhere at once, and yet nowherre specially. these circling gleams were accompanied by a keen rush that was almost a whistling -- also springing from all sides of her at once. in short, she was enclosed in a firmament of light, and of sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full of meteors close at hand. never since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been more dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of sergeant troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the performance as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with bathsheba. it may safely be asserted with respect to the closeness of his cuts, that had it been possible for the edge of the sword to leave in the air a permanent substance wherever it flew past, the space left untouched would have been almost a mould of bathsheba's figure. behind the luminous streams of this aurora militaris, she could see the hue of troy's sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all troy himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts, half turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring her breadth and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained effort. next, his movements lapsed slower, and she could see them individually. the hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped entirely. "that outer loose lock of hair wants tidying, he said, before she had moved or spoken. "wait: i'll do it for you." an arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended. the lock droped to the ground. "bravely borne!" said troy. "you didn't flinch a shade's thickness. wonderful in a woman!" "it was because i didn't expect it. o, you have spoilt my hair!" "only once more." "no -- no! i am afraid of you -- indeed i am!" she cried. "i won't touch you at all -- not even your hair. i am only going to kill that caterpillar settling on you. now: still!" it appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the front of her bodice as his resting place. she saw the point glisten towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. bathsheba closed her eyes in the full persuasion that she was killed at last. how- ever, feeling just as usual, she opened them again. "there it is, look." said the sargeant, holding his sword before her eyes. the caterpillar was spitted upon its point. "why, it is magic!" said bathsheba, amazed. "o no -- dexterity. i merely gave point to your bosom where the caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the extension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface." "but how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has no edge?" "no edge! this sword will shave like a razor. look here." he touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it, showed her a thin shaving of scarf- skin dangling therefrom. "but you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn't cut me!" "that was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety. the risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to force me to tell you a fib to escape it." she shuddered. "i have been within an inch of my life, and didn't know it!" "more precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five tinies." "cruel, cruel, 'tis of you!" "you have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. my sword never errs." and troy returned the weapon to the scabbard. bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feel- ings resulting from the scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather. "i must leave you now." said troy, softly. "and i'll venture to take and keep this in remembrance of you." she saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he had severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers, unfasten a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put it inside. she felt power- less to withstand or deny him. he was altogether too much for her, and bathsheba seemed as one who, facing a reviving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath. he drew near and said, "i must be leaving you." he drew nearer still. a minute later and she saw his scarlet form disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand swiftly waved. that minute's interval had brought the blood beating into her face, set her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and enlarged emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. it had brought upon her a stroke resulting, as did that of moses in horeh, in a liquid stream -- here a stream of tears. she felt like one who has sinned a great sin. the circumstance had been the gentle dip of troy's mouth downwards upon her own. he had kissed her. chapter xxix particulars of a twilight walk we now see the element of folly distinctly mingling with the many varying particulars which made up the character of bathsheba everdene. it was almost foreign to her intrinsic nature. introduced as lymph on the dart of eros, it eventually permeated and coloured her whole constitution. bathsheba, though she had too much understanding to be entirely governed by her womanliness, had too much womanliness to use her understanding to the best advantage. perhaps in no minor point does woman astonish her helpmate more than in the strange power she possesses of believing cajoleries that she knows to be false -- except, indeed, in that of being utterly sceptical on strictures that she knows to be true. bathsheba loved troy in the way that only self-reliant women love when they abandon their self-reliance. when a strong woman recklessly throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any strength to throw away. one source of her inadequacy is the novelty of the occasion. she has never had practice in making the best of such a condition. weakness is doubly weak by being new. bathsheba was not conscious of guile in this matter. though in one sense a woman of the world, it was, after all, that world of daylight coteries and green carpets wherein cattle form the passing crowd and winds the busy hum; where a quiet family of rabbits or hares lives on the other side of your party-wall, where your neigh- bour is everybody in the tything, and where calculation formulated self-indulgence of bad, nothing at all. had her utmost thoughts in this direction been distinctly worded (and by herself they never were), they would only have amounted to such a matter as that she felt her impulses to be pleasanter guides than her discretion . her love was entire as a child's, and though warm as summer it was fresh as spring. her culpability lay in her making no attempt to control feeling by subtle and careful inquiry into consciences. she could show others the steep and thorny way, but 'reck'd not her own rede," and troy's deformities lay deep down from a woman's vision, whilst his embellishments were upon the very surface; thus contrasting with homely oak, whose defects were patent to the blindest, and whose vertues were as metals in a mine. the difference between love and respect was mark- edly shown in her conduct. bathsheba had spoken of her interest in boldwood with the greatest freedom to liddy, but she had only communed with her own heart concerning "troy". all this infatuation gabriel saw, and was troubled thereby from the time of his daily journey a-field to the time of his return, and on to the small hours of many a night. that he was not beloved had hitherto been his great that bathsheba was getting into the toils was now a sorrow greater than the first, and one which nearly obscured it. it was a result which paralleled the oft-quoted observation of hippocrates concerning physical pains. that is a noble though perhaps an unpromising love which not even the fear of breeding aversion in the bosom of the one beloved can deter from combating his or her errors. oak determined to speak to his mistress. he would base his appeal on what he considered her unfair treatment of farmer boldwood, now absent from home. an opportunity occurred one evening when she had gone for a short walk by a path through the neighbour- ing cornfields. it was dusk when oak, who had not been far a-field that day, took the same path and met her returning, quite pensively, as he thought. the wheat was now tall, and the path was narrow; thus the way was quite a sunken groove between the embowing thicket on either side. two persons could not walk abreast without damaging the crop, and oak stood aside to let her pass. "oh, is it gabriel?" she said. "you are taking a walk too. good-night." "i thought i would come to meet you, as it is rather late," said oak, turning and following at her heels when she had brushed somewhat quickly by him. "thank you, indeed, but i am not very fearful." "o no; but there are bad characters about." "i never meet them." now oak, with marvellous ingenuity, had been going to introduce the gallant sergeant through the channel of "bad characters." but all at once the scheme broke down, it suddenly occurring to him that this was rather a clumsy way, and too barefaced to begin with. he tried another preamble. "and as the man who would naturally come to meet you is away from home, too -- i mean farmer boldwood -- why, thinks i, i'll go." he said. "ah, yes." she walked on without turning her head, and for many steps nothing further was heard from her quarter than the rustle of her dress against the heavy corn-ears. then she resumed rather tartly -- "i don't quite understand what you meant by saying that mr. boldwood would naturally come to meet me." i meant on account of the wedding which they say is likely to take place between you and him, miss. for- give my speaking plainly." "they say what is not true." she returned quickly. no marriage is likely to take place between us." gabriel now put forth his unobscured opinion, for the moment had come. "well, miss everdene." he said, "putting aside what people say, i never in my life saw any courting if his is not a courting of you." bathsheba would probably have terminated the con- versation there and then by flatly forbidding the subject, had not her conscious weakness of position allured her to palter and argue in endeavours to better it. "since this subject has been mentioned." she said very emphatically, "i am glad of the opportunity of clearing up a mistake which is very common and very provoking. i didn't definitely promise mr. boldwood anything. i have never cared for him. i respect him, and he has urged me to marry him. but i have given him no distinct answer. as soon as he returns i shall do so; and the answer will be that i cannot think of marrying him." "people are full of mistakes, seemingly." "they are." the other day they said you were trifling with him, and you almost proved that you were not; lately they have said that you be not, and you straightway begin to show -- -- " that i am, i suppose you mean." "well, i hope they speak the truth." they do, but wrongly applied. i don't trifle with him; but then, i have nothing to do with him." oak was unfortunately led on to speak of boldwood's rival in a wrong tone to her after all. "i wish you had never met that young sergeant troy, miss." he sighed. bathsheba's steps became faintly spasmodic. "why?" she asked. "he is not good enough for 'ee." "did any one tell you to speak to me like this?" "nobody at all." "then it appears to me that sergeant troy does not concern us here." she said, intractably." yet i must say that sergeant troy is an educated man, and quite worthy of any woman. he is well born." "his being higher in learning and birth than the ruck o' soldiers is anything but a proof of his worth. it show's his course to be down'ard." "i cannot see what this has to do with our conversa- tion. mr. troy's course is not by any means downward; and his superiority is a proof of his worth!" "i believe him to have no conscience at all. and i cannot help begging you, miss, to have nothing to do with him. listen to me this once -- only this once! i don't say he's such a bad man as i have fancied -- i pray to god he is not. but since we don't exactly know what he is, why not behave as if he might be bad, simply for your own safety? don't trust him, mistress; i ask you not to trust him so." "why, pray?" "i like soldiers, but this one i do not like." he said, sturdily. "his cleverness in his calling may have tempted him astray, and what is mirth to the neighbours is ruin to the woman. when he tries to talk to 'ee again, why not turn away with a short "good day," and when you see him coming one way, turn the other. when he says anything laughable, fail to see the point and don't smile, and speak of him before those who will report your talk as "that fantastical man." or " that sergeant what's-his-name." "that man of a family that has come to the dogs." don't be unmannerly towards en, but harmless-uncivil, and so get rid of the man." no christmas robin detained by a window-pane ever pulsed as did bathsheba now. i say -- i say again -- that it doesn't become you to talk about him. why he should be mentioned passes me quite . she exclaimed desperately. "i know this, th-th-that he is a thoroughly conscientious man -- blunt sometimes even to rudeness -- but always speaking his mind about you plain to your face!" "oh." "he is as good as anybody in this parish! he is very particular, too, about going to church -- yes, he is!" "i am afraid nobody saw him there. i never did certainly." "the reason of that is." she said eagerly, " that he goes in privately by the old tower door, just when the service commences, and sits at the back of the gallery. he told me so." this supreme instance of troy's goodness fell upon gabriel ears like the thirteenth stroke of crazy clock. it was not only received with utter incredulity as re- garded itself, but threw a doubt on all the assurances that had preceded it. oak was grieved to find how entirely she trusted him. he brimmed with deep feeling as he replied in a steady voice, the steadiness of which was spoilt by the palpable- ness of his great effort to keep it so: -- "you know, mistress, that i love you, and shall love you always. i only mention this to bring to your mind that at any rate i would wish to do you no harm: beyond that i put it aside. i have lost in the race for money and good things, and i am not such a fool as to pretend to 'ee now i am poor, and you have got alto- gether above me. but bathsheba, dear mistress, this i beg you to consider -- that, both to keep yourself well honoured among the workfolk, and in common generosity to an honourable man who loves you as well as i, you particulars of a twilight walk should be more discreet in your bearing towards this soldier." "don't, don't, don't!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice. "are ye not more to me than my own affairs, and even life!" he went on. "come, listen to me! i am six years older than you, and mr. boldwood is ten years older than i, and consider -- i do beg of 'ee to consider before it is too late -- how safe you would be in his hands!" oak's allusion to his own love for her lessened, to some extent, her anger at his interference; but she could not really forgive him for letting his wish to marry her be eclipsed by his wish to do her good, any more than for his slighting treatment of troy. "i wish you to go elsewhere." she commanded, a paleness of face invisible to the eye being suggested by the trembling words. "do not remain on this farm any longer. i don't want you -- i beg you to go!" "that's nonsense." said oak, calmly. "this is the second time you have pretended to dismiss me; and what's the use o' it?" "pretended! you shall go, sir -- your lecturing i will not hear! i am mistress here." "go, indeed -- what folly will you say next? treating me like dick, tom and harry when you know that a short time ago my position was as good as yours! upon my life, bathsheba, it is too barefaced. you know, too, that i can't go without putting things in such a strait as you wouldn't get out of i can't tell when. unless, indeed, you'll promise to have an understanding man as bailiff, or manager, or something. i'll go at once if you'll promise that." "i shall have no bailiff; i shall continue to be my own manager." she said decisively. "very well, then; you should be thankful to me for biding. how would the farm go on with nobody to mind it but a woman? but mind this, i don't wish "ee to feel you owe me anything. not i. what i do, i do. sometimes i say i should be as glad as a bird to leave the place -- for don't suppose i'm content to be a nobody. i was made for better things. however, i don't like to see your concerns going to ruin, as they must if you keep in this mind.... i hate taking my own measure so plain, but, upon my life, your provok- ing ways make a man say what he wouldn't dream of at other times! i own to being rather interfering. but you know well enough how it is, and who she is that i like too well, and feel too much like a fool about to be civil to her!" it is more than probable that she privately and un- consciously respected him a little for this grim fidelity, which had been shown in his tone even more than in his words. at any rate she murmured something to the effect that he might stay if he wished. she said more distinctly, " will you leave me alone now? i don't order it as a mistress -- i ask it as a woman, and i expect you not to be so uncourteous as to refuse." "certainly i will, miss everdene." said gabriel, gently. he wondered that the request should have come at this moment, for the strife was over, and they were on a most desolate hill, far from every human habitation, and the hour was getting late. he stood still and allowed her to get far ahead of him till he could only see her form upon the sky. a distressing explanation of this anxiety to be rid of him at that point now ensued. a figure apparently rose from the earth beside her. the shape beyond all doubt was troy's. oak would not be even a possible listener, and at once turned back till a good two hundred yards were between the lovers and himself. gabriel went home by way of the churchyard. in passing the tower he thought of what she had said about the sergeant's virtuous habit of entering the church un- particulars of a twilight walk perceived at the beginning of service. believing that the little gallery door alluded to was quite disused, he ascended the external flight of steps at the top of which it stood, and examined it. the pale lustre yet hanging in the north-western heaven was sufficient to show that a sprig of ivy had grown from the wall across the door to a length of more than a foot, delicately tying the panel to the stone jamb. it was a decisive proof that the door had not been opened at least since troy came back to weatherbury. chapter xxx hot cheeks and tearful eyes half an hour later bathsheba entered her own house. there burnt upon her face when she met the light of the candles the flush and excitement which were little less than chronic with her now. the farewell words of troy, who had accompanied her to the very door, still lingered in her ears. he had bidden her adieu for two days, which were so he stated, to be spent at bath in visiting some friends. he had also kissed her a second time. it is only fair to bathsheba to explain here a little fact which did not come to light till a long time after- wards: that troy's presentation of himself so aptly at the roadside this evening was not by any distinctly pre- concerted arrangement. he had hinted -- she had forbidden; and it was only on the chance of his still coming that she had dismissed oak, fearing a meeting between them just then. she now sank down into a chair, wild and perturbed by all these new and fevering sequences. then she jumped up with a manner of decision, and fetched her desk from a side table. in three minutes, without pause or modification, she had written a letter to boldwood, at his address beyond casterbridge, saying mildly but firmly that she had well considered the whole subject he had brought before her and kindly given her time to decide upon; that her final decision was that she could not marry him. she had expressed to oak an intention to wait till boldwood came home before communicating to him her conclusive reply. but bathsheba found that she could not wait. it was impossible to send this letter till the next day; yet to quell her uneasiness by getting it out of her hands, and so, as it were, setting the act in motion at once, she arose to take it to any one of the women who might be in the kitchen. she paused in the passage. a dialogue was going on in the kitchen, and bathsheba and troy were the subject of it. "if he marry her, she'll gie up farming." "twill be a gallant life, but may bring some trouble between the mirth -- so say i." "well, i wish i had half such a husband." bathsheba had too much sense to mind seriously what her servitors said about her; but too much womanly redundance of speech to leave alone what was said till it died the natural death of unminded things. she burst in upon them. "who are you speaking of?" she asked. there was a pause before anybody replied. at last liddy said frankly," what was passing was a bit of a word about yourself, miss." "i thought so! maryann and liddy and temper- ance -- now i forbid you to suppose such things. you know i don't care the least for mr. troy -- not i. every- body knows how much i hate him. -- yes." repeated the froward young person, "hate him!" "we know you do, miss." said liddy; "and so do we all." "i hate him too." said maryann. "maryann -- o you perjured woman! how can you speak that wicked story!" said bathsheba, excitedly. "you admired him from your heart only this morning in the very world, you did. yes, maryann, you know it!" "yes, miss, but so did you. he is a wild scamp now, and you are right to hate him." "he's not a wild scamp! how dare you to my face! i have no right to hate him, nor you, nor anybody. but i am a silly woman! what is it to me what he is? you know it is nothing. i don't care for him; i don"t mean to defend his good name, not i. mind this, if any of you say a word against him you'll be dismissed instantly!" she flung down the letter and surged back into the parlour, with a big heart and tearful eyes, liddy following her. "o miss!" said mild liddy, looking pitifully into bathsheba's face. "i am sorry we mistook you so! did think you cared for him; but i see you don't now." "shut the door, liddy." liddy closed the door, and went on: " people always say such foolery, miss. i'll make answer hencefor'ard, "of course a lady like miss everdene can't love him;" i'll say it out in plain black and white." bathsheba burst out: "o liddy, are you such a simpleton? can't you read riddles? can't you see? are you a woman yourself?" liddy's clear eyes rounded with wonderment. "yes; you must be a blind thing, liddy!" she said, in reckless abandonment and grief. "o, i love him to very distraction and misery and agony! don't be frightened at me, though perhaps i am enough to frighten any innocent woman. come closer -- closer." she put her arms round liddy's neck. "i must let it out to somebody; it is wearing me away! don't you yet know enough of me to see through that miserable denial of mine? o god, what a lie it was! heaven and my love forgive me. and don't you know that a woman who loves at all thinks nothing of perjury when it is balanced against her love? there, go out of the room; i want to be quite alone." liddy went towards the door. "liddy, come here. solemnly swear to me that he's not a fast man; that it is all lies they say about him!" "put, miss, how can i say he is not if -- -- " "you graceless girl! how can you have the cruel heart to repeat what they say? unfeeling thing that you are.... but i'll see if you or anybody else in the village, or town either, dare do such a thing!" she started off, pacing from fireplace to door, and back again. "no, miss. i don't -- i know it is not true!" said liddy, frightened at bathsheba's unwonted vehemence. i suppose you only agree with me like that to please me. but, liddy, he cannot be had, as is said. do you hear? " "yes, miss, yes." "and you don't believe he is?" "i don't know what to say, miss." said liddy, be- ginning to cry. "if i say no, you don"t believe me; and if i say yes, you rage at me!" "say you don't believe it -- say you don't!" "i don't believe him to be so had as they make out." "he is not had at all.... my poor life and heart, how weak i am!" she moaned, in a relaxed, desultory way, heedless of liddy's presence. "o, how i wish i had never seen him! loving is misery for women always. i shall never forgive god for making me a woman, and dearly am i beginning to pay for the honour of owning a pretty face." she freshened and turned to liddy suddenly. "mind this, lydia smallbury, if you repeat anywhere a single word of what l have said to you inside this closed door, i'll never trust you, or love you, or have you with me a moment longer -- not a moment!" "i don't want to repeat anything." said liddy, with womanly dignity of a diminutive order; "but i don't wish to stay with you. and, if you please, i'll go at the end of the harvest, or this week, or to-day.... i don't see that i deserve to be put upon and stormed at for nothing!" concluded the small woman, bigly. "no, no, liddy; you must stay!" said bathsheba, dropping from haughtiness to entreaty with capricious inconsequence. "you must not notice my being in a taking just now. you are not as a servant -- you are a companion to me. dear, dear -- i don't know what i am doing since this miserable ache o'! my heart has weighted and worn upon me so! what shall i come to! i suppose i shall get further and further into troubles. i wonder sometimes if i am doomed to die in the union. i am friendless enough, god knows!" "i won't notice anything, nor will i leave you!" sobbed liddy, impulsively putting up her lips to bathsheba's, and kissing her. then bathsheba kissed liddy, and all was smooth again. "i don't often cry, do i, lidd? but you have made tears come into my eyes." she said, a smile shining through the moisture. "try to think him a good man, won't you, dear liddy?" "i will, miss, indeed." "he is a sort of steady man in a wild way, you know. way. i am afraid that's how i am. and promise me to keep my secret -- do, liddy! and do not let them know that i have been crying about him, because it will be dreadful for me, and no good to him, poor thing!"death's head himself shan't wring it from me, mistress, if i've a mind to keep anything; and i'll always be your friend." replied liddy, emphatically, at the same time bringing a few more tears into her own eyes, not from any particular necessity, but from an artistic sense of making herself in keeping with the remainder of the picture, which seems to influence women at such times. "i think god likes us to be good friends, don't you?" "indeed i do." "and, dear miss, you won"t harry me and storm at me, will you? because you seem to swell so tall as a lion then, and it frightens me! do you know, i fancy you would be a match for any man when you are in one o' your takings." "never! do you?" said bathsheba, slightly laughing, though somewhat seriously alarmed by this amazonian picture of herself. "i hope i am not a bold sort of maid -- mannish?" she continued with some anxiety. "o no, not mannish; but so almighty womanish that 'tis getting on that way sometimes. ah! miss." she said, after having drawn her breath very sadly in and sent it very sadly out, "i wish i had half your failing that way. 'tis a great protection to a poor maid in these illegit'mate days!" chapter xxxi blame -- fury the next evening bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the way of mr. boldwood in the event of his returning to answer her note in person, proceeded to fulfil an engagement made with liddy some few hours earlier. bathsheba's companion, as a gage of their reconciliation, had been granted a week's holiday to visit her sister, who was married to a thriving hurdler and cattle-crib-maker living in a delightful labyrinth of hazel copse not far beyond yalbury. the arrangement was that miss everdene should honour them by coming there for a day or two to inspect some ingenious con- trivances which this man of the woods had introduced into his wares. leaving her instructions with gabriel and maryann, that they were to see everything carefully locked up for the night, she went out of the house just at the close of a timely thunder-shower, which had refined the air, and daintily bathed the coat of the land, though all beneath was dry as ever. freshness was exhaled in an essence from the varied contours of bank and hollow, as if the earth breathed maiden breath; and the pleased birds were hymning to the scene. before her, among the clouds, there was a contrast in the shape of lairs of fierce light which showed themselves in the neighbour- hood of a hidden sun, lingering on to the farthest north- west corner of the heavens that this midsummer season allowed. she had walked nearly two miles of her journey, watching how the day was retreating, and thinking how the time of deeds was quietly melting into the time of thought, to give place in its turn to the time of prayer and sleep, when she beheld advancing over yalbury hill the very man she sought so anxiously to elude. boldwood was stepping on, not with that quiet tread of reserved strength which was his customary gait, in which he always seemed to be balancing two thoughts. his manner was stunned and sluggish now. boldwood had for the first time been awakened to woman's privileges in tergiversation even when it involves another person's possible blight. that bathsheba was a firm and positive girl, far less inconsequent than her fellows, had been the very lung of his hope; for he had held that these qualities would lead her to adhere to a straight course for consistency's sake, and accept him, though her fancy might not flood him with the iridescent hues of uncritical love. but the argument now came back as sorry gleams from a broken mirror. the dis- covery was no less a scourge than a surprise. he came on looking upon the ground, and did not see bathsheba till they were less than a stone's throw apart. he looked up at the sound of her pit-pat, and his changed appearance sufficiently denoted to her the depth and strength of the feelings paralyzed by her letter. "oh; is it you, mr. boldwood?" she faltered, a guilty warmth pulsing in her face. those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means more effective than words. there are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear. it is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. bold- wood's look was unanswerable. seeing she turned a little aside, he said, "what, are you afraid of me?" why should you say that?" said bathsheba. "i fancied you looked so." said he. "and it is most strange, because of its contrast with my feeling for you. she regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited. "you know what that feeling is." continued boldwood, deliberately. "a thing strong as death. no dismissal by a hasty letter affects that." "i wish you did not feel so strongly about me." she murmured. "it is generous of you, and more than i deserve, but i must not hear it now." "hear it? what do you think i have to say, then? i am not to marry you, and that's enough. your letter was excellently plain. i want you to hear nothing -- not i." bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for freeing herself from this fearfully and was moving on. boldwood walked up to her heavily and dully. "bathsheba -- darling -- is it final indeed?" "indeed it is." "o, bathsheba -- have pity upon me!" boldwood burst out. "god's sake, yes -- i am come to that low, lowest stage -- to ask a woman for pity! still, she is you -- she is you." bathsheba commanded herself well. but she could hardly get a clear voice for what came instinctively to her lips: "there is little honour to the woman in that speech." it was only whispered, for something unutter- ably mournful no less than distressing in this spectacle of a man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a passion enervated the feminine instinct for punctilios. "i am beyond myself about this, and am mad." he said. "i am no stoic at all to he supplicating here; but i do supplicate to you. i wish you knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible, that. in bare human mercy to a lonely man, don't throw me off now!" "i don't throw you off -- indeed, how can i? i never had you." in her noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a moment her thoughtless angle on that day in february. "but there was a time when you turned to me, before i thought of you! i don't reproach you, for even now i feel that the ignorant and cold darkness that i should have lived in if you had not attracted me by that letter -- valentine you call it -- would have been worse than my knowledge of you, though it has brought this misery. but, i say, there was a time when i knew nothing of you, and cared nothing for you, and yet you drew me on. and if you say you gave me no en- couragement, i cannot but contradict you." "what you call encouragement was the childish game of an idle minute. i have bitterly repented of it -- ay, bitterly, and in tears. can you still go on re- minding me?" "i don't accuse you of it -- i deplore it. i took for earnest what you insist was jest, and now this that i pray to be jest you say is awful, wretched earnest. our moods meet at wrong places. i wish your feeling was more like mine, or my feeling more like yours! o, could i but have foreseen the torture that trifling trick was going to lead me into, how i should have cursed you; but only having been able to see it since, i cannot do that, for i love you too well! but it is weak, idle drivelling to go on like this.... bathsheba, you are the first woman of any shade or nature that i have ever looked at to love, and it is the having been so near claiming you for my own that makes this denial so hard to bear. how nearly you promised me! but i don't speak now to move your heart, and make you grieve because of my pain; it is no use, that. i must bear it; my pain would get no less by paining you." "but i do pity you -- deeply -- o so deeply!" she earnestly said. "do no such thing -- do no such thing. your dear love, bathsheba, is such a vast thing beside your pity, that the loss of your pity as well as your love is no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the gain of your pity make it sensibly less. o sweet -- how dearly you spoke to me behind the spear-bed at the washing-pool, and in the barn at the shearing, and that dearest last time in the evening at your home! where are your pleasant words all gone -- your earnest hope to be able to love me? where is your firm conviction that you would get to care for me very much? really forgotten? -- really?" she checked emotion, looked him quietly and clearly in the face, and said in her low, firm voice, " mr. bold- wood, i promised you nothing. would you have had me a woman of clay when you paid me that furthest, highest compliment a man can pay a woman -- telling her he loves her? i was bound to show some feeling, if l would not be a graceless shrew. yet each of those pleasures was just for the day -- the day just for the pleasure. how was i to know that what is a pastime to all other men was death to you? have reason, do, and think more kindly of me!" "well, never mind arguing -- never mind. one thing is sure: you were all but mine, and now you are not nearly mine. everything is changed, and that by you alone, remember. you were nothing to me once, and i was contented; you are now nothing to me again, and how different the second nothing is from the first! would to god you had never taken me up, since it was only to throw me down!" bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to feel un- mistakable signs that she was inherently the weaker vessel. she strove miserably against this feminity which would insist upon supplying unbidden emotions in stronger and stronger current. she had tried to elude agitation by fixing her mind on the trees, sky, any trivial object before her eyes, whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenuity could not save her now. "i did not take you up -- surely i did not!" she answered as heroically as she could. "but don't be in this mood with me. i can endure being told i am in the wrong, if you will only tell it me gently! o sir, will you not kindly forgive me, and look at it cheerfully?" "cheerfully! can a man fooled to utter heart- burning find a reason for being merry> if i have lost, how can i be as if i had won? heavens you must be heartless quite! had i known what a fearfully bitter sweet this was to be, how would i have avoided you, and never seen you, and been deaf of you. i tell you all this, but what do you care! you don't care." she returned silent and weak denials to his charges, and swayed her head desperately, as if to thrust away the words as they came showering about her ears from the lips of the trembling man in the climax of life, with his bronzed roman face and fine frame. "dearest, dearest, i am wavering even now between the two opposites of recklessly renouncing you, and labouring humbly for you again. forget that you have said no, and let it be as it was! say, bathsheba, that you only wrote that refusal to me in fun -- come, say it to me!" "it would be untrue, and painful to both of us. you overrate my capacity for love. i don't possess half the warmth of nature you believe me to have. an un- protected childhood in a cold world has beaten gentle- ness out of me." he immediately said with more resentment: "that may be true, somewhat; but ah, miss everdene, it won't do as a reason! you are not the cold woman you would have me believe. no, no! it isn't because you have no feeling in you that you don't love me. you naturally would have me think so -- you would hide from that you have a burning heart like mine. you have love enough, but it is turned into a new channel. i know where." the swift music of her heart became hubbub now, and she throbbed to extremity. he was coming to troy. he did then know what had occurred! and the name fell from his lips the next moment. "why did troy not leave my treasure alone?" he asked, fiercely. "when i had no thought of injuring him, why did he force himself upon your notice! before he worried you your inclination was to have me; when next i should have come to you your answer would have been yes. can you deny it -- i ask, can you deny it?" she delayed the reply, but was to honest to with hold it." i cannot." she whispered. "i know you cannot. but he stole in in my absence and robbed me. why did't he win you away before, when nobody would have been grieved? -- when nobody would have been set tale-bearing. now the people sneer at me -- the very hills and sky seem to laugh at me till i blush shamefuly for my folly. i have lost my respect, my good name, my standing -- lost it, never to get it again. go and marry your man -- go on!" "o sir -- mr. boldwood!" "you may as well. i have no further claim upon you. as for me, i had better go somewhere alone, and hide -- and pray. i loved a woman once. i am now ashamed. when i am dead they'll say, miserable love-sick man that he was. heaven -- heaven -- if i had got jilted secretly, and the dishonour not known, and my position kept! but no matter, it is gone, and the woman not gained. shame upon him -- shame!" his unreasonable anger terrified her, and she glided from him, without obviously moving, as she said, "i am only a girl -- do not speak to me so!" "all the time you knew -- how very well you knew -- that your new freak was my misery. dazzled by brass and scarlet -- o, bathsheba -- this is woman's folly indeed!" she fired up at once. "you are taking too much upon yourself!" she said, vehemently. "everybody is upon me -- everybody. it is unmanly to attack a woman so! i have nobody in the world to fight my battles for me; but no mercy is shown. yet if a thousand of you sneer and say things against me, i will not be put down!" "you'll chatter with him doubtless about me. say to him, "boldwood would have died for me." yes, and you have given way to him, knowing him to be not the man for you. he has kissed you -- claimed you as his. do you hear -- he has kissed you. deny it!" the most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man, and although boldwood was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rendered into another sex, bathsheba's cheek quivered. she gasped," leave me, sir -- leave me! i am nothing to you. let me go on!" "deny that he has kissed you." "i shall not." "ha -- then he has!" came hoarsely from the farmer. "he has," she said, slowly, and, in spite of her fear, defiantly. "i am not ashamed to speak the truth." "then curse him; and curse him!" said boldwood, breaking into a whispered fury." whilst i would have given worlds to touch your hand, you have let a rake come in without right or ceremony and -- kiss you! heaven's mercy -- kiss you! ... ah, a time of his life shall come when he will have to repent, and think wretchedly of the pain he has caused another man; and then may he ache, and wish, and curse, and yearn -- as i do now!" "don't, don't, o, don't pray down evil upon him!" she implored in a miserable cry. "anything but that -- anything. o, be kind to him, sir, for i love him true ." boldwood's ideas had reached that point of fusion at which outline and consistency entirely disappear. the impending night appeared to concentrate in his eye. he did not hear her at all now. "i'll punish him -- by my soul, that will i! i'll meet him, soldier or no, and i'll horsewhip the untimely stripling for this reckless theft of my one delight. if he were a hundred men i'd horsewhip him -- --" he dropped his voice suddenly and unnaturally. "bath- sheba, sweet, lost coquette, pardon me! i've been blaming you, threatening you, behaving like a churl to you, when he's the greatest sinner. he stole your dear heart away with his unfathomable lies! ... lt is a fortunate thing for him that he's gone back to his regiment -- that he's away up the country, and not here! i hope he may not return here just yet. i pray god he may not come into my sight, for i may be tempted beyond myself. o, bathsheba, keep him away -- yes, keep him away from me!" for a moment boldwood stood so inertly after this that his soul seemed to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his passionate words. he turned his face away, and withdrew, and his form was soon covered over by the twilight as his footsteps mixed in with the low hiss of the leafy trees. bathsheba, who had been standing motionless as a model all this latter time, flung her hands to her face, and wildly attempted to ponder on the exhibition which had just passed away. such astounding wells of fevered feeling in a still man like mr. boldwood were incompre- hensible, dreadful. instead of being a man trained to repression he was -- what she had seen him. the force of the farmer's threats lay in their relation to a circumstance known at present only to herself: her lover was coming back to weatherby in the course of the very next day or two. troy had not returned to his distant barracks as boldwood and others supposed, but had merely gone to visit some acquaintance in bath, and had yet a week or more remaining to his furlough. she felt wretchedly certain that if he revisited her just at this nick of time, and came into contact with boldwood,a fierce quarrel would be the consequence. she panted with solicitude when she thought of possible injury to troy. the least spark would kindle the farmer's swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his self-mastery as he had this evening; troy's blitheness might become aggressive; it might take the direction of derision, and boldwood's anger might then take the direction of revenge. with almost a morbid dread of being thought a gushing girl, this guileless woman too well concealed from the world under a manner of carelessness the warm depths of her strong emotions. but now there was no reserve. in fer her distraction, instead of advancing further she walked up and down, beating the air with her fingers, pressing on her brow, and sobbing brokenly to herself. then she sat down on a heap of stones by the wayside to think. there she remained long. above the dark margin of the earth appeared foreshores and promontor- ies of coppery cloud,bounding a green and pellucid expanse in the western sky. amaranthine glosses came over them then, and the unresting world wheeled her round to a contrasting prospect eastward, in the shape of indecisive and palpitating stars. she gazed upon their silent throes amid the shades of space, but realised none at all. her troubled spirit was far away with troy. chapter xxxii night -- horses tramping the village of weatherbury was quiet as the graveyard in its midst, and the living were lying well nigh as still as the dead. the church clock struck eleven. the air was so empty of other sounds that the whirr of the clock-work immediately before the strokes was distinct, and so was also the click of the same at their close. the notes flew forth with the usual blind obtuseness of inanimate things -- flapping and rebounding among walls, undulating against the scattered clouds, spreading through their interstices into unexplored miles of space. bathsheba's crannied and mouldy halls were to-night occupied only by maryann, liddy being, as was stated, with her sister, whom bathsheba had set out to visit. a few minutes after eleven had struck, maryann turned in her bed with a sense of being disturbed. she was totally unconscious of the nature of the interruption to her sleep. it led to a dream, and the dream to an awakening, with an uneasy sensation that something had happened. she left her bed and looked out of the window. the paddock abutted on this end of the building, and in the paddock she could just discern by the uncertain gray a moving figure approaching the horse that was feeding there. the figure seized the horse by the forelock, and led it to the corner of the field. here she could see some object which circum- stances proved to be a vehicle for after a few minutes the horse down the road, mingled with the sound of light wheels. two varieties only of humanity could have entered the paddock with the ghostlike glide of that mysterious figure. they were a woman and a gipsy man. a woman was out of the question in such an occupation at this hour, and the comer could be no less than a thief, who might probably have known the weakness of the house- hold on this particular night, and have chosen it on that account for his daring attempt. moreover, to raise suspicion to conviction itself, there were gipsies in! weatherbury bottom. maryann, who had been afraid to shout in the robber's presence, having seen him depart had no fear. she hastily slipped on her clothes, stumped down the dis- jointed staircase with its hundred creaks, ran to coggan's, the nearest house, and raised an alarm. coggan called gabriel, who now again lodged in his house as at first, and together they went to the paddock. beyond all doubt the horse was gone. "hark!" said gabriel. they listened. distinct upon the stagnant air came the sounds of a trotting horse passing up longpuddle lane -- just beyond the gipsies' encampment in weather- bury bottom. "that's our dainty-i'll swear to her step." said jan. "mighty me! won't mis'ess storm and call us stupids wen she comes back!" moaned maryann. "how i wish it had happened when she was at home, and none of us had been answerable!" "we must ride after." said gabriel, decisively. be responsible to miss everdene for what we do. yes, we'll follow. " "faith, i don't see how." said coggan. "all our horses are too heavy for that trick except little poppet, and what's she between two of us?-if we only had that pair over the hedge we might do something." "which pair?" "mr boldwood's tidy and moll." "then wait here till i come hither again." said gabriel. he ran down the hill towards farmer boldwood's. "farmer boldwood is not at home." said maryann. "all the better." said coggan. "i know what he's gone for." less than five minutes brought up oak again, running at the same pace, with two halters dangling from his hand. "where did you find 'em?" said coggan, turning round and leaping upon the hedge without waiting for an answer. "under the eaves. i knew where they were kept," said gabriel, following him. "coggan, you can ride bare-backed? there's no time to look for saddles." "like a hero!" said jan. "maryann, you go to hed." gabriel shouted to her from the top of the hedge. springing down into boldwood's pastures, each pocketed his halter to hide it from the horses, who, seeing the men empty-handed, docilely allowed them- selves to he seized by the mane, when the halters were dexterously slipped on. having neither bit nor bridle, oak and coggan extemporized the former by passing the rope in each case through the animal's mouth and looping it on the other side. oak vaulted astride, and coggan clambered up by aid of the hank, when they ascended to the gate and galloped off in the direction taken by bathsheha's horse and the robber. whose vehicle the horse had been harnessed to was a matter of some uncertainty. weatherbury bottom was reached in three or four minutes. they scanned the shady green patch by the roadside. the gipsies were gone. "the villains!" said gabriel. "which way have they gone, i wonder?" "straight on, as sure as god made little apples," said jan. "very well; we are better mounted, and must over- discovered. the road-metal grew softer and more rain had wetted its surface to a somewhat plastic, but not muddy state. they came to cross-roads. coggan suddenly pulled up moll and slipped off. "what's the matter?" said gabriel. "we must try to track 'em, since we can't hear 'em," said jan, fumbling in his pockets. he struck a light, and held the match to the ground. the rain had been heavier here, and all foot and horse tracks made previous to the storm had been abraded and blurred by the drops, and they were now so many little scoops of water, which reflected the flame of the match like eyes. one set of tracks was fresh and had no water in them; one pair of ruts was also empty, and not small canals, like the others. the footprints forming this recent impression were full of information as to pace; they were in equidistant pairs, three or four feet apart, the right and left foot of each pair being exactly opposite one another. "straight on!" jan exclaimed. "tracks like that mean a stiff gallop. no wonder we don't hear him. and the horse is harnessed -- look at the ruts. ay, "how do you know?" "old jimmy harris only shoed her last week, and i'd swear to his make among ten thousand." "the rest of the gipsies must ha" gone on earlier, or some other way." said oak. "you saw there were no other tracks?" "true." they rode along silently for a long weary time. coggan carried an old pinchbeck repeater which he had inherited from some genius in his family; and it now struck one. he lighted another match, and ex- amined the ground again. "'tis a canter now." he said, throwing away the light. "a twisty, rickety pace for a gig. the fact is, they over- drove her at starting, we shall catch 'em yet." again they hastened on, and entered blackmore vale. coggan's watch struck one. when they looked again the hoof-marks were so spaced as to form a sort of zigzag if united, like the lamps along a street. "that's a trot, i know." said gabriel. "only a trot now." said coggan, cheerfully. "we shall overtake him in time." they pushed rapidly on for yet two or three miles. "ah! a moment." said jan. "let's see how she was driven up this hill. "twill help us." a light was promptly struck upon his gaiters as before, and the ex- amination made, "hurrah!" said coggan. "she walked up here -- and well she might. we shall get them in two miles, for a crown." they rode three, and listened. no sound was to be heard save a millpond trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy possibilities of drowning by jumping in. gabriel dismounted when they came to a turning. the tracks were absolutely the only guide as to the direction that they now had, and great caution was necessary to avoid confusing them with some others which had made their appearance lately. "what does this mean? -- though i guess." said gabriel, looking up at coggan as he moved the match over the ground about the turning. coggan, who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly shown signs of weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. this time only three were of the regular horseshoe shape. every fourth was a dot. he screwed up his face and emitted a long "whew-w-w!" "lame." said oak. "yes dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore." said coggan slowly staring still at the footprints. "we'll push on." said gabriel, remounting his humid steed. although the road along its greater part had been as good as any turnpike-road in the country, it was nomin- ally only a byway. the last turning had brought them into the high road leading to bath. coggan recollected himself. "we shall have him now!" he exclaimed. "where?" "sherton turnpike. the keeper of that gate is the sleepiest man between here and london -- dan randall. that's his name -- knowed en for years, when he was at casterbridge gate. between the lameness and the gate 'tis a done job." 'twas said until, against a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible, crossing their route a little way ahead. "hush -- we are almost close!" said gabriel. "amble on upon the grass." said coggan. the white bars were blotted out in the midst by a dark shape in front of them. the silence of this lonely time was pierced by an exclamation from that quarter. "hoy-a-hoy! gate!" it appeared that there had been a previous call which they had not noticed, for on their close approach the door of the turnpike-house opened, and the keeper came out half-dressed, with a candle in his hand. the rays illumined the whole group. "keep the gate close!" shouted gabriel. "he has stolen the horse!" who?" said the turnpike-man. gabriel looked at the driver of the gig, and saw a woman -- bathsheba, his mistress. on hearing his voice she had turned her face away from the light. coggan had, however, caught sight of her in the meanwhile. "why, 'tis mistress-i'll take my oath!" he said, amazed. bathsheba it certainly was, and she had by this time done the trick she could do so well in crises not of love, namely, mask a surprise by coolness of manner. "well, gabriel." she inquired quietly," where are you going?" "we thought -- --" began gabriel. "bath." she said, taking for her own use the assurance that gabriel lacked. "an important matter made it necessary for me to give up my visit to liddy, and go off at once. what, then, were you following me?" "we thought the horse was stole." "well-what a thing! how very foolish of you not to know that i had taken the trap and horse. i could neither wake maryann nor get into the house, though i hammered for ten minutes against her window-sill. fortunately, i could get the key of the coach-house, so i troubled no one further. didn't you think it might be me?" "why should we, miss?" "perhaps not why, those are never farmer bold- wood's horses! goodness mercy! what have you been doing bringing trouble upon me in this way? what! mustn't a lady move an inch from her door without being dogged like a thief?" "but how was we to know, if you left no account of your doings?" expostulated coggan, "and ladies don't drive at these hours, miss, as a jineral rule of society." "i did leave an account -- and you would have seen it in the morning. i wrote in chalk on the coach-house doors that i had come back for the horse and gig, and driven off; that i could arouse nobody, and should return soon." "but you'll consider, ma'am, that we couldn't see that till it got daylight." "true." she said, and though vexed at first she had too much sense to blame them long or seriously for a devotion to her that was as valuable as it was rare. she added with a very pretty grace," well, i really thank you heartily for taking all this trouble; but i wish you had borrowed anybody's horses but mr. boldwood's." "dainty is lame, miss." said coggan. "can ye go on?" "lt was only a stone in her shoe. i got down and pulled it out a hundred yards back. i can manage very well, thank you. i shall be in bath by daylight. will you now return, please?" she turned her head -- the gateman's candle shimmering upon her quick, clear eyes as she did so -- passed through the gate, and was soon wrapped in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs. coggan and gabriel put about their horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of this july night, retraced the road by which they had come. "a strange vagary, this of hers, isn't it, oak?" said coggan, curiously. "yes." said gabriel, shortly. "she won't be in bath by no daylight!" "coggan, suppose we keep this night's work as quiet as we can?" "i am of one and the same mind." "very well. we shall be home by three o'clock or so, and can creep into the parish like lambs." bathsheba's perturbed meditations by the roadside had ultimately evolved a conclusion that there were only two remedies for the present desperate state of affairs. the first was merely to keep troy away from weather- bury till boldwood's indignation had cooled; the second to listen to oak's entreaties, and boldwood's denuncia- tions, and give up troy altogether. alas! could she give up this new love -- induce him to renounce her by saying she did not like him -- could no more speak to him, and beg him, for her good, to end his furlough in bath, and see her and weather- bury no more? it was a picture full of misery, but for a while she contemplated it firmly, allowing herself, nevertheless, as girls will, to dwell upon the happy life she would have enjoyed had troy been boldwood, and the path of love the path of duty -- inflicting upon herself gratuit- ous tortures by imagining him the lover of another woman after forgetting her; for she had penetrated troy's nature so far as to estimate his tendencies pretty accurately, hut unfortunately loved him no less in thinking that he might soon cease to love her -- indeed, considerably more. she jumped to her feet. she would see him at once. yes, she would implore him by word of mouth to assist her in this dilemma. a letter to keep him away could not reach him in time, even if he should be disposed to listen to it. was bathsheba altogether blind to the obvious fact that the support of a lover's arms is not of a kind best calculated to assist a resolve to renounce him? or was she sophistically sensible, with a thrill of pleasure, that by adopting this course for getting rid of him she was ensuring a meeting with him, at any rate, once more? it was now dark, and the hour must have been nearly ten. the only way to accomplish her purpose was to give up her idea of visiting liddy at yalbury, return to weatherbury farm, put the horse into the gig, and drive at once to bath. the scheme seemed at first impossible: the journey was a fearfully heavy one, even for a strong horse, at her own estimate; and she much underrated the distance. it was most venturesome for a woman, at night, and alone. but could she go on to liddy's and leave things to take their course? no, no; anything but that. bath- sheba was full of a stimulating turbulence, beside which caution vainly prayed for a hearing. she turned back towards the village. her walk was slow, for she wished not to enter weatherbury till the cottagers were in bed, and, par- ticularly, till boldwood was secure. her plan was now to drive to bath during the night, see sergeant troy in the morning before he set out to come to her, bid him farewell, and dismiss him: then to rest the horse thoroughly (herself to weep the while, she thought), starting early the next morning on her return journey. by this arrangement she could trot dainty gently all the day, reach liddy at yalbury in the evening, and come home to weatherbury with her whenever they chose -- so nobody would know she had been to bath at all. such was bathsheba's scheme. but in her topo- graphical ignorance as a late comer to the place, she misreckoned the distance of her journey as not much more than half what it really was. her idea, however, she proceeded to carry out, with what initial success we have already seen. chapter xxxiii in the sun -- a harbinger a week passed, and there were no tidings of bath- sheba; nor was there any explanation of her gilpin's rig. then a note came for maryann, stating that the business which had called her mistress to bath still detained her there; but that she hoped to return in the course of another week. another week passed. the oat-harvest began, and all the men were a-field under a monochromatic lammas sky, amid the trembling air and short shadows of noon. indoors nothing was to be heard save the droning of blue-bottle flies; out-of-doors the whetting of scythes and the hiss of tressy oat-ears rubbing together as their perpendicular stalks of amber-yellow fell heavily to each swath. every drop of moisture not in the men's bottles and flagons in the form of cider was raining as perspira- tion from their foreheads and cheeks. drought was everywhere else. they were about to withdraw for a while into the charitable shade of a tree in the fence, when coggan saw a figure in a blue coat and brass buttons running to them across the field. "i wonder who that is?" he said. "i hope nothing is wrong about mistress." said maryann, who with some other women was tying the bundles (oats being always sheafed on this farm), "but an unlucky token came to me indoors this morning. l went to unlock the door and dropped the key, and it fell upon the stone floor and broke into two pieces. breaking a key is a dreadful bodement. i wish mis'ess was home." "'tis cain ball." said gabriel, pausing from whetting his reaphook. oak was not bound by his agreement to assist in the corn-field; but the harvest month is an anxious time for a farmer, and the corn was bathsheba's, so he lent a hand. "he's dressed up in his best clothes." said matthew moon. "he hev been away from home for a few days, since he's had that felon upon his finger; for 'a said, since i can't work i'll have a hollerday." "a good time for one -- a excellent time." said joseph poorgrass, straightening his back; for he, like some of the others, had a way of resting a while from his labour on such hot days for reasons preternaturally small; of which cain pall's advent on a week-day in his sunday- clothes was one of the first magnitude. "twas a bad leg allowed me to read the pilgrim's progress, and mark clark learnt alifours in a whitlow." "ay, and my father put his arm out of joint to have time to go courting." said jan coggan, in an eclipsing tone, wiping his face with his shirt-sleeve and thrusting back his hat upon the nape of his neck. by this time cainy was nearing the group of harvesters, and was perceived to be carrying a large slice of bread and ham in one hand, from which he took mouthfuls as he ran, the other being wrapped in a bandage. when he came close, his mouth assumed the bell shape, and he began to cough violently. "now, cainy!" said gabriel, sternly. "how many more times must i tell you to keep from running so fast when you be eating? you'll choke yourself some day, that's what you'll do, cain ball." "hok-hok-hok!" replied cain. "a crumb of my victuals went the wrong way -- hok-hok!, that's what 'tis, mister oak! and i've been visiting to bath because i had a felon on my thumb; yes, and l've seen -- ahok-hok!" directly cain mentioned bath, they all threw down their hooks and forks and drew round him. un- fortunately the erratic crumb did not improve his narrative powers, and a supplementary hindrance was that of a sneeze, jerking from his pocket his rather large watch, which dangled in front of the young man pendulum-wise. "yes." he continued, directing his thoughts to bath and letting his eyes follow, "l've seed the world at last -- yes -- and i've seed our mis'ess -- ahok-hok-hok!" "bother the boy!" said gabriel." something is always going the wrong way down your throat, so that you can't tell what's necessary to be told." "ahok! there! please, mister oak, a gnat have just fleed into my stomach and brought the cough on again!" "yes, that's just it. your mouth is always open, you young rascal!" "'tis terrible bad to have a gnat fly down yer throat, pore boy!" said matthew moon. "well, at bath you saw -- --" prompted gabriel. "i saw our mistress." continued the junior shepherd, "and a sojer, walking along. and bymeby they got closer and closer, and then they went arm-in-crook, like courting complete -- hok-hok! like courting complete -- hok! -- courting complete -- -- " losing the thread of his narrative at this point simultaneously with his loss of breath, their informant looked up and down the field apparently for some clue to it. "well, i see our mis'ess and a soldier -- a-ha-a-wk!" "damn the boy!" said gabriel. "'tis only my manner, mister oak, if ye'll excuse it," said cain ball, looking reproachfully at oak, with eyes drenched in their own dew. !here's some cider for him -- that'll cure his throat," said jan coggan, lifting a flagon of cider, pulling out the cork, and applying the hole to cainy's mouth; joseph poorgrass in the meantime beginning to think apprehensively of the serious consequences that would follow cainy ball's strangulation in his cough, and the history of his bath adventures dying with him. "for my poor self, i always say "please god" afore i do anything." said joseph, in an unboastful voice; "and so should you, cain ball. "'tis a great safeguard, and might perhaps save you from being choked to death some day." mr. coggan poured the liquor with unstinted liber- ality at the suffering cain's circular mouth; half of it running down the side of the flagon, and half of what reached his mouth running down outside his throat, and half of what ran in going the wrong way, and being coughed and sneezed around the persons of the gathered reapers in the form of a cider fog, which for a moment hung in the sunny air like a small exhalation. "there's a great clumsy sneeze! why can't ye have better manners, you young dog!" said coggan, with- drawing the flagon. "the cider went up my nose!" cried cainy, as soon as he could speak; "and now 'tis gone down my neck, and into my poor dumb felon, and over my shiny buttons and all my best cloze!" "the poor lad's cough is terrible unfortunate." said matthew moon. "and a great history on hand, too. bump his back, shepherd." "'tis my nater." mourned cain. "mother says i always was so excitable when my feelings were worked up to a point!" "true, true." said joseph poorgrass. "the balls were always a very excitable family. i knowed the boy's grandfather -- a truly nervous and modest man, even to genteel refinery. 'twas blush, blush with him, almost as much as 'tis with me -- not but that 'tis a fault in me!" "not at all, master poorgrass." said coggan. "'tis a very noble quality in ye." "heh-heh! well, i wish to noise nothing abroad -- nothing at all." murmured poorgrass, diffidently. "but we be born to things -- that's true. yet i would rather my trifle were hid; though, perhaps, a high nater is a little high, and at my birth all things were possible to my maker, and he may have begrudged no gifts.... but under your bushel, joseph! under your bushel with "ee! a strange desire, neighbours, this desire to hide, and no praise due. yet there is a sermon on the mount with a calendar of the blessed at the head, and certain meek men may be named therein." "cainy's grandfather was a very clever man." said matthew moon. "invented a' apple-tree out of his own head, which is called by his name to this day -- the early ball. you know 'em, jan? a quarrenden grafted on a tom putt, and a rathe-ripe upon top o' that again. "'tis trew 'a used to bide about in a public-house wi' a woman in a way he had no business to by rights, but there -- 'a were a clever man in the sense of the term." "now then." said gabriel, impatiently, " what did you see, cain?" "i seed our mis'ess go into a sort of a park place, where there's seats, and shrubs and flowers, arm-in-crook with a sojer." continued cainy, firmly, and with a dim sense that his words were very effective as regarded gabriel's emotions. "and i think the sojer was sergeant troy. and they sat there together for more than half-an-hour, talking moving things, and she once was crying a'most to death. and when they came out her eyes were shining and she was as white as a lily; and they looked into one another's faces, as far-gone friendly as a man and woman can be." gabriel's features seemed to get thinner. "well, what did you see besides?" "oh, all sorts." "white as a lily? you are sure 'twas she? "yes." "well, what besides?" "great glass windows to the shops, and great clouds in the sky, full of rain, and old wooden trees in the country round." "you stun-poll! what will ye say next?" said coggan. "let en alone." interposed joseph poorgrass. "the boy's meaning is that the sky and the earth in the kingdom of bath is not altogether different from ours here. 'tis for our good to gain knowledge of strange cities, and as such the boy's words should be suffered, so to speak it." "and the people of bath." continued cain, "never need to light their fires except as a luxury, for the water springs up out of the earth ready boiled for use." "'tis true as the light." testified matthew moon." i've heard other navigators say the same thing." "they drink nothing else there." said cain," and seem to enjoy it, to see how they swaller it down." "well, it seems a barbarian practice enough to us, but i daresay the natives think nothing o' it." said matthew. "and don't victuals spring up as well as drink?" asked coggan, twirling his eye. "no-i own to a blot there in bath -- a true blot. god didn't provide 'em with victuals as well as (- and 'twas a drawback i couldn't get over at all." "well, 'tis a curious place, to say the least." observed moon; "and it must be a curious people that live therein. " "miss everdene and the soldier were walking about together, you say?" said gabriel, returning to the group. "ay, and she wore a beautiful gold-colour silk gown, trimmed with black lace, that would have stood alone 'ithout legs inside if required. 'twas a very winsome sight; and her hair was brushed splendid. and when the sun shone upon the bright gown and his red coat -- my! how handsome they looked. you could see 'em all the length of the street." "and what then?" murmured gabriel. "and then i went into griffin's to hae my boots hobbed, and then i went to riggs's batty-cake shop, and asked 'em for a penneth of the cheapest and nicest stales, that were all but blue-mouldy, but not quite. and whilst i was chawing 'em down i walked on and seed a clock with a face as big as a baking trendle -- -- " "but that's nothing to do with mistress!" "i'm coming to that, if you'll leave me alone, mister oak!" remonstrated cainy. "if you excites me, perhaps you'll bring on my cough, and then i shan't be able to tell ye nothing." "yes-let him tell it his own way." said coggan. gabriel settled into a despairing attitude of patience, and cainy went on: -- "and there were great large houses, and more people all the week long than at weatherbury club- walking on white tuesdays. and i went to grand churches and chapels. and how the parson would pray! yes; he would kneel down and put up his hands together, and make the holy gold rings on his fingers gleam and twinkle in yer eyes, that he'd earned by praying so excellent well! -- ah yes, i wish i lived there." "our poor parson thirdly can't get no money to buy such rings." said matthew moon, thoughtfully. "and as good a man as ever walked. i don't believe poor thirdly have a single one, even of humblest tin or copper. such a great ornament as they'd be to him on a dull afternoon, when he's up in the pulpit lighted by the wax candles! but 'tis impossible, poor man. ah, to think how unequal things be." "perhaps he's made of different stuff than to wear "em." said gabriel, grimly." well, that's enough of this. go on, cainy -- quick." "oh -- and the new style of parsons wear moustaches and long beards." continued the illustrious traveller, "and look like moses and aaron complete, and make we fokes in the congregation feel all over like the children of israel." "a very right feeling -- very." said joseph poorgrass. "and there's two religions going on in the nation now -- high church and high chapel. and, thinks i, i'll play fair; so i went to high church in the morning, and high chapel in the afternoon." "a right and proper boy." said joseph poorgrass. "well, at high church they pray singing, and worship all the colours of the rainbow; and at high chapel they pray preaching, and worship drab and whitewash only. and then-i didn't see no more of miss everdene at all." "why didn't you say so afore, then?" exclaimed oak, with much disappointment. "ah." said matthew moon, 'she'll wish her cake dough if so be she's over intimate with that man." "she's not over intimate with him." said gabriel, indignantly. "she would know better." said coggan. "our mis'ess has too much sense under they knots of black hair to do such a mad thing." "you see, he's not a coarse, ignorant man, for he was well brought up." said matthew, dubiously. "'twas only wildness that made him a soldier, and maids rather like your man of sin." "now, cain ball." said gabriel restlessly, "can you swear in the most awful form that the woman you saw was miss everdene?" "cain ball, you be no longer a babe and suckling," said joseph in the sepulchral tone the circumstances demanded, "and you know what taking an oath is. 'tis a horrible testament mind ye, which you say and seal with your blood-stone, and the prophet matthew tells us that on whomsoever it shall fall it will grind him to powder. now, before all the work-folk here assembled, can you swear to your words as the shep- herd asks ye?" "please no, mister oak!" said cainy, looking from one to the other with great uneasiness at the spiritual magnitude of the position. "i don't mind saying 'tis true, but i don't like to say 'tis damn true, if that's what you mane." "cain, cain, how can you!" asked joseph sternly. "you be asked to swear in a holy manner, and you swear like wicked shimei, the son of gera, who cursed as he came. young man, fie!" "no, i don't! 'tis you want to squander a pore boy's soul, joseph poorgrass -- that's what 'tis!" said cain, beginning to cry. "all i mane is that in common truth 'twas miss everdene and sergeant troy, but in the horrible so-help-me truth that ye want to make of it perhaps 'twas somebody else!" "there's no getting at the rights of it." said gabriel, turning to his work. "cain ball, you'll come to a bit of bread!" groaned joseph poorgrass. then the reapers' hooks were flourished again, and the old sounds went on. gabriel, without making any pretence of being lively, did nothing to show that he was particularly dull. however, coggan knew pretty nearly how the land lay, and when they were in a nook together he said -- "don't take on about her, gabriel. what difference does it make whose sweetheart she is, since she can't be yours?" "that's the very thing i say to myself." said gabriel. chapter xxxiv home again -- a trickster that same evening at dusk gabriel was leaning over coggan's garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest. a vehicle of some kind was softly creeping along the grassy margin of the lane. from it spread the tones of two women talking. the tones were natural and not at all suppressed. oak instantly knew the voices to he those of bathsheba and liddy. the carriage came opposite and passed by. it was miss everdene's gig, and liddy and her mistress were the only occupants of the seat. liddy was asking questions about the city of bath, and her companion was answering them listlessly and unconcernedly. both bathsheba and the horse seemed weary. the exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and sound, overpowered all reflection, and oak could only luxuriate in the sense of it. all grave reports were forgotten. he lingered and lingered on, till there was no difference between the eastern and western expanses of sky, and the timid hares began to limp courageously round the dim hillocks. gabriel might have been there an additional half-hour when a dark form walked slowly by. "good-night, gabriel." the passer said. it was boldwood. "good-night, sir." said gabriel. boldwood likewise vanished up the road, and oak shortly afterwards turned indoors to bed. farmer boldwood went on towards miss everdene's house. he reached the front, and approaching the entrance, saw a light in the parlour. the blind was not drawn down, and inside the room was bathsheba, looking over some papers or letters. her back was towards boldwood. he went to the door, knocked, and waited with tense muscles and an aching brow. boldwood had not been outside his garden since his meeting with bathsheba in the road to yalbury. silent and alone, he had remained in moody medita- tion on woman's ways, deeming as essentials of the whole sex the accidents of the single one of their number he had ever closely beheld. by degrees a more charitable temper had pervaded him, and this was the reason of his sally to-night. he had come to apologize and beg forgiveness of bathsheba with some- thing like a sense of shame at his violence, having but just now learnt that she had returned -- only from a visit to liddy, as he supposed, the bath escapade being quite unknown to him. he inquired for miss everdene. liddy's manner was odd, but he did not notice it. she went in, leaving him standing there, and in her absence the blind of the room containing bathsheba was pulled down. bold- wood augured ill from that sign. liddy came out. "my mistress cannot see you, sir." she said. the farmer instantly went out by the gate. he as unforgiven -- that was the issue of it all. he had seen her who was to him simultaneously a delight and a torture, sitting in the room he had shared with her as a peculiarly privileged guest only a little earlier in he summer, and she had denied him an entrance there now. boldwood did not hurry homeward. it was ten o'clock at least, when, walking deliberately through the lower part of weatherbury, he heard the carrier's spring van entering the village. the van ran to and from a town in a northern direction, and it was owned and driven by a weatherbury man, at the door of whose house it now pulled up. the lamp fixed to the head of the hood illuminated a scarlet and gilded form, who was the first to alight. "ah!" said boldwood to himself, "come to see her again." troy entered the carrier's house, which had been the place of his lodging on his last visit to his native place. boldwood was moved by a sudden determina- tion. he hastened home. in ten minutes he was back again, and made as if he were going to call upon troy at the carrier's. but as he approached, some one opened the door and came out. he heard this person say " good-night" to the inmates, and the voice was troy's. "this was strange, coming so immediately after his arrival. boldwood, however, hastened up to him. troy had what appeared to be a carpet-bag in his hand -- the same that he had brought with him. it seemed as if he were going to leave again this very night. troy turned up the hill and quickened his pace. boldwood stepped forward. "sergeant troy?" "yes-i'm sergeant troy." "just arrived from up the country, i think?"just arrived from bath." "i am william boldwood." "indeed." the tone in which this word was uttered was all that had been wanted to bring boldwood to the point. "i wish to speak a word with you." he said. "what about?" "about her who lives just ahead there -- and about a woman you have wronged." "i wonder at your impertinence." said troy, moving on. "now look here." said boldwood, standing in front of him, " wonder or not, you are going to hold a conver- sation with me." troy heard the dull determination in boldwood's voice, looked at his stalwart frame, then at the thick cudgel he carried in his hand. he remembered it was past ten o'clock. it seemed worth while to be civil to boldwood. "very well, i'll listen with pleasure." said troy, placing his bag on the ground, "only speak low, for somebody or other may overhear us in the farmhouse there." "well then -- i know a good deal concerning your fanny robin's attachment to you. i may say, too, that i believe i am the only person in the village, excepting gabriel oak, who does know it. you ought to marry her." "i suppose i ought. indeed, l wish to, but i cannot." "why?" troy was about to utter something hastily; he then checked himself and said, "i am too poor." his voice was changed. previously it had had a devil-may-care tone. it was the voice of a trickster now. boldwood's present mood was not critical enough to notice tones. he continued, "i may as well speak plainly; and understand, i don't wish to enter into the questions of right or wrong, woman's honour and shame, or to express any opinion on your conduct. i intend a business transaction with you." "i see." said troy. "suppose we sit down here." an old tree trunk lay under the hedge immediately opposite, and they sat down. the tone in which this word was uttered was all troy heard the dull determination in boldwood's voice, looked at his stalwart frame, then at the thick plainly; and understand, i don't wish to enter into the "i was engaged to be married to miss everdene," said boldwood, "but you came and -- -- " "not engaged." said troy. "as good as engaged." "if i had not turned up she might have become en- gaged to you." "hang might!"would, then." "if you had not come i should certainly -- yes, certainly -- have been accepted by this time. if you had not seen her you might have been married to fanny. well, there's too much difference between miss ever- dene's station and your own for this flirtation with her ever to benefit you by ending in marriage. so all i ask is, don't molest her any more. marry fanny. make it worth your while." "how will you?" "i'll pay you well now, i'll settle a sum of money upon her, and i'll see that you don't suffer from poverty in the future. i'll put it clearly. bathsheba is only playing with you: you are too poor for her as i said; so give up wasting your time about a great match you'll never make for a moderate and rightful match you may make to-morrow; take up your carpet-bag, turn about, leave weatherbury now, this night, and you shall take fifty pounds with you. fanny shall have fifty to enable her to prepare for the wedding, when you have told me where she is living, and she shall have five hundred paid down on her wedding-day." in making this statement boldwood's voice revealed only too clearly a consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims, and his method. his manner had lapsed quite from that of the firm and dignified bold- wood of former times; and such a scheme as he had now engaged in he would have condemned as childishly imbecile only a few months ago. we discern a grand force in the lover which he lacks whilst a free man; but there is a breadth of vision in the free man which in the lover we vainly seek. where there is much bias there must be some narrowness, and love, though added emotion, is subtracted capacity. boldwood exemplified this to an abnormal degree: he knew nothing of fanny robin's circumstances or whereabouts, he knew nothing of troy's possibilities, yet that was what he said. "i like fanny best." said troy; "and if, as you say, miss everdene is out of my reach, why i have all to gain by accepting your money, and marrying fan. but she's only a servant." "never mind -- do you agree to my arrangement?" "i do." "ah!" said boldwood, in a more elastic voice. "o, troy, if you like her best, why then did you step in here and injure my happiness?" "i love fanny best now." said troy. "but bathsh -- -- miss everdene inflamed me, and displaced fanny for a time. it is over now." "why should it be over so soon? and why then did you come here again?" "there are weighty reasons. fifty pounds at once, you said!" "i did." said boldwood, " and here they are -- fifty sovereigns." he handed troy a small packet. "you have everything ready -- it seems that you calculated on my accepting them." said the sergeant, taking the packet. "i thought you might accept them." said boldwood. "you've only my word that the programme shall be adhered to, whilst i at any rate have fifty pounds." "l had thought of that, and l have considered that if i can't appeal to your honour i can trust to your -- well, shrewdness we'll call it -- not to lose five hundred pounds in prospect, and also make a bitter enemy of a man who is willing to be an extremely useful friend." "stop, listen!" said troy in a whisper. a light pit-pat was audible upon the road just above them. "by george -- 'tis she." he continued. "i must go on and meet her." "she -- who?" "bathsheba." "bathsheba -- out alone at this time o' night!" said boldwood in amazement, and starting up." why must you meet her?" "she was expecting me to-night -- and i must now speak to her, and wish her good-bye, according to your wish. " "i don't see the necessity of speaking." "it can do no harm -- and she'll be wandering about looking for me if i don't. you shall hear all i say to her. it will help you in your love-making when i am gone." "your tone is mocking." "o no. and remember this, if she does not know what has become of me, she will think more about me than if i tell her flatly i have come to give her up." "will you confine your words to that one point? -- shall i hear every word you say?" "every word. now sit still there, and hold my" carpet bag for me, and mark what you hear." the light footstep came closer, halting occasionally, as if the walker listened for a sound. troy whistled a double note in a soft, fluty tone. "come to that, is it!" murmured boldwood, uneasily. "you promised silence." said troy. "i promise again." troy stepped forward. "frank, dearest, is that you?" the tones were bathsheba's. "o god!" said boldwood. "yes." said troy to her. "how late you are." she continued, tenderly. "did you come by the carrier? i listened and heard his wheels entering the village, but it was some time ago, and i had almost given you up, frank." "i was sure to come." said frank. "you knew i should, did you not?" "well, i thought you would." she said, playfully; "and, frank, it is so lucky! there's not a soul in my house but me to-night. i've packed them all off so nobody on earth will know of your visit to your lady's bower. liddy wanted to go to her grandfather's to tell him about her holiday, and i said she might stay with them till to-morrow -- when you'll be gone again." "capital." said troy." but, dear me, i. had better go back for my bag, because my slippers and brush and comb are in it; you run home whilst i fetch it, and i'll promise to be in your parlour in ten minutes." "yes." she turned and tripped up the hill again. during the progress of this dialogue there was a nervous twitching of boldwood's tightly closed lips, and his face became bathed in a clammy dew. he now started forward towards troy. troy turned to him and took up the bag. "shall i tell her i have come to give her up and cannot marry her?" said the soldier, mockingly. "no, no; wait a minute. i want to say more to you -- more to you!" said boldwood, in a hoarse whisper. "now." said troy," you see my dilemma. perhaps i am a bad man -- the victim of my impulses -- led away to do what i ought to leave undone. i can't, however, marry them both. and i have two reasons for- choosing fanny. first, i like her best upon the whole, and second, you make it worth my while." at the same instant boldwood sprang upon him, and held him by the neck. troy felt boldwood's grasp slowly tightening. the move was absolutely unexpected. "a moment." he gasped. "you are injuring her you love!" "well, what do you mean?" said the farmer. give me breath." said troy. boldwood loosened his hand, saying, "by heaven, i've a mind to kill you!" "and ruin her." "save her." "oh, how can she be saved now, unless i marry her?" boldwood groaned. he reluctantly released the soldier, and flung him back against the hedge. "devil, you torture me!" said he. troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to make a dash at the farmer; but he checked himself, saying lightly -- "it is not worth while to measure my strength with you. indeed it is a barbarous way of settling a quarrel. i shall shortly leave the army because of the same conviction. now after that revelation of how the land lies with bathsheba, 'twould be a mistake to kill me, would it not?" "'twould be a mistake to kill you." repeated boldwood, mechanically, with a bowed head. "better kill yourself." "far better." "i'm glad you see it." "troy, make her your wife, and don't act upon what i arranged just now. the alternative is dreadful, but take bathsheba; i give her up! she must love you indeed to sell soul and body to you so utterly as she has done. wretched woman -- deluded woman -- you are, bathsheba!" "but about fanny?" "bathsheba is a woman well to do." continued bold- wood, in nervous anxiety, and, troy, she will make a good wife; and, indeed, she is worth your hastening on your marriage with her! " "but she has a will-not to say a temper, and i shall be a mere slave to her. i could do anything with poor fanny robin." "troy." said boldwood, imploringly," i'll do anything for you, only don't desert her; pray don't desert her, troy." "which, poor fanny?" "no; bathsheba everdene. love her best! love her tenderly! how shall i get you to see how advan- tageous it will be to you to secure her at once?" "i don't wish to secure her in any new way." boldwood's arm moved spasmodically towards troy's person again. he repressed the instinct, and his form drooped as with pain. troy went on -- "i shall soon purchase my discharge, and then -- -- " "but i wish you to hasten on this marriage! it will be better for you both. you love each other, and you must let me help you to do it." "how?" "why, by settling the five hundred on bathsheba instead of fanny, to enable you to marry at once. no; she wouldn't have it of me. i'll pay it down to you on the wedding-day." troy paused in secret amazement at boldwood's wild infatuation. he carelessly said, "and am i to have anything now?" "yes, if you wish to. but i have not much additional money with me. i did not expect this; but all i have is yours." boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful man, pulled out the large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and searched it. "i have twenty-one pounds more with me." he said. "two notes and a sovereign. but before i leave you i must have a paper signed -- -- " "pay me the money, and we'll go straight to her parlour, and make any arrangement you please to secure my compliance with your wishes. but she must know nothing of this cash business." "nothing, nothing." said boldwood, hastily. "here is the sum, and if you'll come to my house we'll write out the agreement for the remainder, and the terms also." "first we'll call upon her." "but why? come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the surrogate's." "but she must be consulted; at any rate informed." "very well; go on." they went up the hill to bathsheba's house. when they stood at the entrance, troy said, "wait here a moment." opening the door, he glided inside, leaving the door ajar. boldwood waited. in two minutes a light appeared in the passage. boldwood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door. troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick. "what, did you think i should break in?" said boldwood, contemptuously. "oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure things. will you read this a moment? i'll hold the light." troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and doorpost, and put the candle close. "that's the paragraph." he said, placing his finger on a line. boldwood looked and read -- "marriages. "on the th inst., at st. ambrose's church, bath, by the rev. g. mincing, b.a., francis troy, only son of the late edward troy, esq., h.d., of weatherbury, and sergeant with dragoon guards, to bathsheba, only surviving daughter of the late mr, john everdene, of casterbridge." "this may be called fort meeting feeble, hey, boldwood?" said troy. a low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words. the paper fell from boldwood's hands. troy continued -- "fifty pounds to marry fanny, good. twenty-- one pounds not to marry fanny, but bathsheba. good. finale: already bathsheba's husband. now, boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends inter- ference between a man and his wife. and another word. bad as i am, i am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any woman a matter of huckster and sale. fanny has long ago left me. don't know where she is. i have searched everywhere. another word yet. you say you love bathsheba; yet on the merest apparent evidence you instantly believe in her dishonour. a fig for such love! now that i've taught you a lesson, take your money back again." "i will not; i will not!" said boldwood, in a hiss. "anyhow i won't have it." said troy, contemptuously. he wrapped the packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road. boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. "you juggler of satan! you black hound! but i'll punish you yet; mark me, i'll punish you yet!" another peal of laughter. troy then closed the door, and locked himself in. throughout the whole of that night boldwood's dark downs of weatherbury like an unhappy shade in the mournful fields by acheron. chapter xxxv at an upper window it was very early the next morning -- a time of sun and dew. the confused beginnings of many birds' songs spread into the healthy air, and the wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with thin webs of incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring day. all the lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all the shadows were attenuated as to form. the creeping plants about the old manor-house were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which had upon objects behind them the effect of minute lenses of high magnifying power. just before the clock struck five gabriel oak and coggan passed the village cross, and went on together to the fields. they were yet barely in view of their mistress's house, when oak fancied he saw the opening of a casement in one of the upper windows. the two men were at this moment partially screened by an elder bush, now beginning to be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before emerging from its shade. a handsome man leaned idly from the lattice. he looked east and then west, in the manner of one who makes a first morning survey. the man was sergeant troy. his red jacket was loosely thrown on, but not buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of a soldier taking his ease. coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window. "she has married him!" he said. gabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with his back turned, making no reply. "i fancied we should know something to-day." con- tinued coggan. "i heard wheels pass my door just after dark -- you were out somewhere."he glanced round upon gabriel. "good heavens above us, oak, how white your face is; you look like a corpse!" "do i?" said oak, with a faint smile. "lean on the gate: i'll wait a bit." "all right, all right." they stood by the gate awhile, gabriel listlessly staring at the ground. his mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in years of leisure the scenes o repentance that would ensue from this work of haste that they were married he had instantly decided. why had it been so mysteriously managed? it had become known that she had had a fearful journey to bath, owing to her miscalculating the distance: that the horse had broken down, and that she had been more than two days getting there. it was not bathsheba's way to do things furtively. with all her faults, she was candour itself. could she have been entrapped? the union was not only an unutterable grief to him: it amazed him, notwithstanding that he had passed the preceding week in a suspicion that such might be the issue of troy's meeting her away from home. her quiet return with liddy had to some extent dispersed the dread. just as that imperceptible motion which appears like stillness is infinitely divided in its properties from stili ness itself, so had his hope undistinguishable from despair differed from despair indeed. in a few minutes they moved on again towards the house. the sergeant still looked from the window. "morning, comrades!" he shouted, in a cheery voice, when they came up. coggan replied to the greeting. "bain't ye going to answer the man?" he then said to gabriel. "i'd say good morning -- you needn't spend a hapenny of meaning upon it, and yet keep the man civil." gabriel soon decided too that, since the deed was done, to put the best face upon the matter would be the greatest kindness to her he loved. "good morning, sergeant troy." he returned, in a ghastly voice. "a rambling, gloomy house this." said troy, smiling. "why -- they may not be married!" suggested coggan. "perhaps she's not there." gabriel shook his head. the soldier turned a little towards the east, and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow. "but it is a nice old house." responded gabriel. "yes -- i suppose so; but i feel like new wine in an old bottle here. my notion is that sash-windows should be put throughout, and these old wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared quite away, and the walls papered." "it would be a pity, i think." well, no. a philosopher once said in my hearing that the old builders, who worked when art was a living thing, had no respect for the work of builders who went before them, but pulled down and altered as they thought fit; and why shouldn't we?"'creation and preservation don't do well together." says he, "and a million of antiquarians can't invent a style." my mind exactly. i am for making this place more modern, that we may be cheerful whilst we can." the military man turned and surveyed the interior of the room, to assist his ideas of improvement in this direction. gabriel and coggan began to move on. "oh, coggan." said troy, as if inspired by a recollec- tion" do you know if insanity has ever appeared in mr. boldwood's family?" jan reflected for a moment. "i once heard that an uncle of his was queer in his head, but i don't know the rights o't." he said. "it is of no importance." said troy, lightly. "well, i shall be down in the fields with you some time this week; but i have a few matters to attend to first. so good-day to you. we shall, of course, keep on just as friendly terms as usual. i'm not a proud man: nobody is ever able to say that of sergeant troy. however, what is must be, and here's half-a-crown to drink my health, men." troy threw the coin dexterously across the front plot and over the fence towards gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his face turning to an angry red. coggan twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught the money in its ricochet upon the road. "very well-you keep it, coggan." said gabriel with disdain and almost fiercely. "as for me, i'll do with- out gifts from him!" "don't show it too much." said coggan, musingly. "for if he's married to her, mark my words, he'll buy his discharge and be our master here. therefore 'tis well to say `friend' outwardly, though you say `troublehouse' within." "well-perhaps it is best to be silent; but i can't go further than that. i can't flatter, and if my place here is only to be kept by smoothing him down, my place must be lost." a horseman, whom they had for some time seen in the distance, now appeared close beside them. "there's mr. boldwood." said oak." i wonder what troy meant by his question." coggan and oak nodded respectfully to the farmer, just checked their paces to discover if they were wanted, and finding they were not stood back to let him pass on. the only signs of the terrible sorrow boldwood had been combating through the night, and was combating now, were the want of colour in his well-defined face, the enlarged appearance of the veins in his forehead and temples, and the sharper lines about his mouth. the horse bore him away, and the very step of the animal seemed significant of dogged despair. gabriel, for a minute, rose above his own grief in noticing boldwood's. he saw the square figure sitting erect upon the horse, the head turned to neither side, the elbows steady by the hips, the brim of the hat level and undisturbed in its onward glide, until the keen edges of boldwood's shape sank by degrees over the hill. to one who knew the man and his story there was something more striking in this immobility than in a collapse. the clash of discord between mood and matter here was forced painfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there are more dreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness of this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry. chapter xxxvi wealth in jeopardy -- the revel one night, at the end of august, when bathsheba's experiences as a married woman were still new, and when the weather was yet dry and sultry, a man stood motionless in the stockyard of weatherbury upper farm, looking at the moon and sky. the night had a sinister aspect. a heated breeze from the south slowly fanned the summits of lofty objects, and in the sky dashes of buoyant cloud were sailing in a course at right angles to that of another stratum, neither of them in the direction of the breeze below. the moon, as seen through these films, had a lurid metallic look. the fields were sallow with the impure light, and all were tinged in monochrome, as if beheld through stained glass. the same evening the sheep had trailed homeward head to tail, the behaviour of the rooks had been confused, and the horses had moved with timidity and caution. thunder was imminent, and, taking some secondary appearances into consideration, it was likely to be followed by one of the lengthened rains which mark the close of dry weather for the season. before twelve hours had passed a harvest atmosphere would be a bygone thing. oak gazed with misgiving at eight naked and un- protected ricks, massive and heavy with the rich produce of one-half the farm for that year. he went on to the barn. this was the night which had been selected by sergeant troy -- ruling now in the room of his wife -- for giving the harvest supper and dance. as oak approached the building the sound of violins and a tambourine, and the regular jigging of many feet, grew more distinct. he came close to the large doors, one of which stood slightly ajar, and looked in. the central space, together with the recess at one end, was emptied of all incumbrances, and this area, covering about two-thirds of the whole, was appropriated for the gathering, the remaining end, which was piled to the ceiling with oats, being screened off with sail- cloth. tufts and garlands of green foliage decorated the walls, beams, and extemporized chandeliers, and immediately opposite to oak a rostrum had been erected, bearing a table and chairs. here sat three fiddlers, and beside them stood a frantic man with his hair on end, perspiration streaming down his cheeks, and a tambourine quivering in his hand. the dance ended, and on the black oak floor in the midst a new row of couples formed for another. "now, ma'am, and no offence i hope, i ask what dance you would like next?" said the first violin. "really, it makes no difference." said the clear voice of bathsheba, who stood at the inner end of the build- ing, observing the scene from behind a table covered with cups and viands. troy was lolling beside her. "then." said the fiddler, "i'll venture to name that the right and proper thing is "the soldier's joy" -- there being a gallant soldier married into the farm -- hey, my sonnies, and gentlemen all?" "it shall be "the soldier's joy," exclaimed a chorus. "thanks for the compliment." said the sergeant gaily, taking bathsheba by the hand and leading her to the top of the dance. "for though i have pur- chased my discharge from her most gracious majesty's regiment of cavalry the th dragoon guards, to attend to the new duties awaiting me here, i shall continue a soldier in spirit and feeling as long as i live." so the dance began. as to the merits of "the soldier's joy." there cannot be, and never were, two opinions. it has been observed in the musical circles of weatherbury and its vicinity that this melody, at the end of three-quarters of an hour of thunderous footing, still possesses more stimulative properties for the heel and toe than the majority of other dances at their first opening. "the soldier's joy" has, too, an additional charm, in being so admirably adapted to the tambourine aforesaid -- no mean instrument in the hands of a performer who understands the proper convulsions, spasms, st. vitus's dances, and fearful frenzies necessary when exhibiting its tones in their highest perfection. the immortal tune ended, a fine dd rolling forth from the bass-viol with the sonorousness of a cannonade, and gabriel delayed his entry no longer. he avoided bathsheba, and got as near as possible to the platform, where sergeant troy was now seated, drinking brandy- and-water, though the others drank without exception cider and ale. gabriel could not easily thrust himself within speaking distance of the sergeant, and he sent a message, asking him to come down for a moment. "the sergeant said he could not attend. "will you tell him, then." said gabriel, "that i only stepped ath'art to say that a heavy rain is sure to fall soon, and that something should be done to protect the ricks?" "m. troy says it will not rain." returned the messenger, "and he cannot stop to talk to you about such fidgets." in juxtaposition with troy, oak had a melancholy tendency to look like a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out again, thinking he would go home; for, under the circumstances, he had no heart for the scene in the barn. at the door he paused for a moment: troy was speaking. "friends, it is not only the harvest home that we are celebrating to-night; but this is also a wedding feast. a short time ago i had the happiness to lead to the altar this lady, your mistress, and not until now have we been able to give any public flourish to the event in weatherbury. that it may be thoroughly well done, and that every man may go happy to bed, i have ordered to be brought here some bottles of brandy and kettles of hot water. a treble-strong goblet will he handed round to each guest." bathsheba put her hand upon his arm, and, with upturned pale face, said imploringly," no -- don't give it to them -- pray don't, frank! it will only do them harm: they have had enough of everything." "true -- we don't wish for no more, thank ye." said one or two. "pooh!" said the sergeant contemptuously, and raised his voice as if lighted up by a new idea. "friends." he said," we'll send the women-folk home! 'tis time they were in bed. then we cockbirds will have a jolly carouse to ourselves! if any of the men show the white feather, let them look elsewhere for a winter's work." bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed by all the women and children. the musicians, not looking upon themselves as "company." slipped quietly away to their spring waggon and put in the horse. thus troy and the men on the farm were left sole occupants of the place. oak, not to appear unneces- sarily disagreeable, stayed a little while; then he, too, arose and quietly took his departure, followed by a friendly oath from the sergeant for not staying to a second round of grog. gabriel proceeded towards his home. in approach- ing the door, his toe kicked something which felt and sounded soft, leathery, and distended, like a boxing- glove. it was a large toad humbly travelling across the path. oak took it up, thinking it might be better to kill the creature to save it from pain; but finding it uninjured, he placed it again among the grass. he knew what this direct message from the great mother meant. and soon came another. when he struck a light indoors there appeared upon the table a thin glistening streak, as if a brush of varnish had been lightly dragged across it. oak's eyes followed the serpentine sheen to the other side, where it led up to a huge brown garden-slug, which had come indoors to-night for reasons of its own. it was nature's second way of hinting to him that he was to prepare for foul weather. oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour. during this time two black spiders, of the kind common in thatched houses, promenaded the ceiling, ultimately dropping to the floor. this reminded him that if there was one class of manifestation on this matter that he thoroughly understood, it was the instincts of sheep. he left the room, ran across two or three fields towards the flock, got upon a hedge, and looked over among them. they were crowded close together on the other side around some furze bushes, and the first peculiarity ob- servable was that, on the sudden appearance of oak's head over the fence, they did not stir or run away. they had now a terror of something greater than their terror of man. but this was not the most noteworthy feature: they were all grouped in such a way that their tails, without a single exception, were towards that half of the horizon from which the storm threatened. there was an inner circle closely huddled, and outside these they radiated wider apart, the pattern formed by the flock as a whole not being unlike a vandyked lace collar, to which the clump of furze-bushes stood in the position of a wearer's neck. opinion. he knew now that he was right, and that troy was wrong. every voice in nature was unanimous in bespeaking change. but two distinct translations attached to these dumb expressions. apparently there was to be a thunder-storm, and afterwards a cold con- tinuous rain. the creeping things seemed to know all about the later rain, hut little of the interpolated thunder-storm; whilst the sheep knew all about the thunder-storm and nothing of the later rain. this complication of weathers being uncommon, was all the more to be feared. oak returned to the stack-yard. all was silent here, and the conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly into the sky. there were five wheat-ricks in this yard, and three stacks of barley. the wheat when threshed would average about thirty quarters to each stack; the barley, at least forty. their value to bathsheba, and indeed to anybody, oak mentally estimated by the following simple calcula- tion: -- x = quarters= l. x = quarters= l. total . . l. seven hundred and fifty pounds in the divinest form that money can wear -- that of necessary food for man and beast: should the risk be run of deteriorating this bulk of corn to less than half its value, because of the instability of a woman?"never, if i can prevent it!" said gabriel. such was the argument that oak set outwardly before him. but man, even to himself, is a palimpsest, having an ostensible writing, and another beneath the lines. it is possible that there was this golden legend under the utilitarian one: "i will help to my last effort the woman i have loved so dearly." he went back to the barn to endeavour to obtain assistance for covering the ricks that very night. all was silent within, and he would have passed on in the belief that the party had broken up, had not a dim light, yellow as saffron by contrast with the greenish whiteness outside, streamed through a knot-hole in the folding doors. gabriel looked in. an unusual picture met his eye. the candles suspended among the evergreens had burnt down to their sockets, and in some cases the leaves tied about them were scorched. many of the lights had quite gone out, others smoked and stank, grease dropping from them upon the floor. here, under the table, and leaning against forms and chairs in every conceivable attitude except the perpendicular,!" were the wretched persons of all the work-folk, the hair of their heads at such low levels being suggestive of mops and brooms. in the midst of these shone red and distinct the figure of sergeant troy, leaning back in a chair. coggan was on his back, with his mouth open, huzzing forth snores, as were several others; the united breathings of the horizonal assemblage forming a subdued roar like london from a distance. joseph poorgrass was curled round in the fashion of a hedge- hog, apparently in attempts to present the least possible portion of his surface to the air; and behind him was dimly visible an unimportant remnant of william small- bury. the glasses and cups still stood upon the table, a water-jug being overturned, from which a small rill, after tracing its course with marvellous precision down the centre of the long table, fell into the neck of the unconscious mark clark, in a steady, monotonous drip, like the dripping of a stalactite in a cave. gabriel glanced hopelessly at the group, which, with one or two exceptions, composed all the able-bodied men upon the farm. he saw at once that if the ricks were to be saved that night, or even the next morning, he must save them with his own hands. a faint "ting-ting" resounded from under coggan's waistcoat. it was coggan's watch striking the hour of two. oak went to the recumbent form of matthew moon, who usually undertook the rough thatching of the home- stead, and shook him. the shaking was without effect. gabriel shouted in his ear, "where's your thatching- beetle and rick-stick and spars?" "under the staddles." said moon, mechanically, with the unconscious promptness of a medium. gabriel let go his head, and it dropped upon the floor like a bowl. he then went to susan tall's husband. "where's the key of the granary?" no answer. the question was repeated, with the same result. to be shouted to at night was evidently less of a novelty to susan tall's husband than to matthew moon. oak flung down tall's head into the corner again and turned away. to be just, the men were not greatly to blame for this painful and demoralizing termination to the evening's entertainment. sergeant troy had so strenu- ously insisted, glass in hand, that drinking should be the bond of their union, that those who wished to refuse hardly liked to be so unmannerly under the circum- stances. having from their youth up been entirely un- accustomed to any liquor stronger than cider or mild ale, it was no wonder that they had succumbed, one and all, with extraordinary uniformity, after the lapse of about an hour. gabriel was greatly depressed. this debauch boded ill for that wilful and fascinating mistress whom the faithful man even now felt within him as the embodi- ment of all that was sweet and bright and hopeless. he put out the expiring lights, that the barn might not be endangered, closed the door upon the men in their deep and oblivious sleep, and went again into the lone night. a hot breeze, as if breathed from the parted lips of some dragon about to swallow the globe, fanned him from the south, while directly opposite in the north rose a grim misshapen body of cloud, in the very teeth of the wind. so unnaturally did it rise that one could fancy it to be lifted by machinery from below. meanwhile the faint cloudlets had flown back into the south-east corner of the sky, as if in terror of the large cloud, like a young brood gazed in upon by some monster. going on to the village, oak flung a small stone against the window of laban tall's bedroom, expecting susan to open it; but nobody stirred. he went round to the back door, which had been left unfastened for laban's entry, and passed in to the foot of the stair- case. "mrs. tall, i've come for the key of the granary, to get at the rick-cloths." said oak, in a stentorian voice. "is that you?" said mrs. susan tall, half awake. "yes." said gabriel. "come along to bed, do, you drawlatching rogue -- keeping a body awake like this ." "it isn't laban -- 'tis gabriel oak. i want the key of the granary." "gabriel. what in the name of fortune did you pretend to be laban for?" "i didn't. i thought you meant -- -- " "yes you did! what do you want here?" "the key of the granary." "take it then. 'tis on the nail. people coming disturbing women at this time of night ought -- -- " gabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclusion of the tirade. ten minutes later his lonely figure might have been seen dragging four large water- proof coverings across the yard, and soon two of these heaps of treasure in grain were covered snug -- two cloths to each. two hundred pounds were secured. three wheat-stacks remained open, and there were no more cloths. oak looked under the staddles and found a fork. he mounted the third pile of wealth and began operating, adopting the plan of sloping the upper sheaves one over the other; and, in addition, filling the interstices with the material of some untied sheaves. so far all was well. by this hurried contrivance bathsheba's property in wheat was safe for at any rate a week or two, provided always that there was not much wind. next came the barley. this it was only possible to protect by systematic thatching. time went on, and the moon vanished not to reappear. it was the farewell of the ambassador previous to war. the night had a haggard look, like a sick thing; and there came finally an utter expiration of air from the whole heaven in the form of a slow breeze, which might have been likened to a death. and now nothing was heard in the yard but the dull thuds of the beetle which drove in the spars, and the rustle of thatch in the intervals. chapter xxxvii the storm -- the two together a light flapped over the scene, as if reflected from phosphorescent wings crossing the sky, and a rumble filled the air. it was the first move of the approaching storm. the second peal was noisy, with comparatively little visible lightning. gabriel saw a candle shining in bath- sheba's bedroom, and soon a shadow swept to and fro upon the blind. then there came a third flash. manoeuvres of a most extraordinary kind were going on in the vast firmamental hollows overhead. the lightning now was the colour of silver, and gleamed in the heavens like a mailed army. rumbles became rattles. gabriel from his elevated position could see over the landscape at least half-a-dozen miles in front. every hedge, bush, and tree was distinct as in a line engraving. in a paddock in the same direction was a herd of heifers, and the forms of these were visible at this moment in the act of galloping about in the wildest and maddest confusion, flinging their heels and tails high into the air, their heads to earth. a poplar in the immediate fore- ground was like an ink stroke on burnished tin. then the picture vanished, leaving the darkness so intense that gabriel worked entirely by feeling with his hands. he had stuck his ricking-rod, or poniard, as it was indifferently called -- a long iron lance, polished by handling -- into the stack, used to support the sheaves instead of the support called a groom used on houses, a blue light appeared in the zenith, and in some in- describable manner flickered down near the top of the rod. it was the fourth of the larger flashes. a moment later and there was a smack -- smart, clear, and short, gabriel felt his position to be anything but a safe one, and he resolved to descend. not a drop of rain had fallen as yet. he wiped his weary brow, and looked again at the black forms of the unprotected stacks. was his life so valuable to him after all? what were his prospects that he should be so chary of running risk, when important and urgent labour could not be carried on without such risk? he resolved to stick to the stack. how- ever, he took a precaution. under the staddles was a long tethering chain, used to prevent the escape of errant horses. this he carried up the ladder, and sticking his rod through the clog at one end, allowed the other end of the chain to trail upon the ground the spike attached to it he drove in. under the shadow of this extemporized lightning-conductor he felt himself comparatively safe. before oak had laid his hands upon his tools again out leapt the fifth flash, with the spring of a serpent and the shout of a fiend. it was green as an emerald, and the reverberation was stunning. what was this the light revealed to him? in the open ground before him, as he looked over the ridge of the rick, was a dark and apparently female form. could it be that of the only venturesome woman in the parish -- bathsheba? the form moved on a step: then he could see no more. "is that you, ma'am?" said gabriel to the darkness. "who is there?" said the voice of bathsheba, "gabriel. i am on the rick, thatching." "o, gabriel! -- and are you? i have come about them. the weather awoke me, and i thought of the corn. i am so distressed about it -- can we save it any- how? i cannot find my husband. is he with you?" he is not here." "do you know where he is?" "asleep in the barn." "he promised that the stacks should be seen to, and now they are all neglected! can i do anything to help? liddy is afraid to come out. fancy finding you here at such an hour! surely i can do something?" "you can bring up some reed-sheaves to me, one by one, ma'am; if you are not afraid to come up the ladder in the dark." said gabriel. "every moment is precious now, and that would save a good deal of time. it is not very dark when the lightning has been gone a bit." "i'll do anything!" she said, resolutely. she instantly took a sheaf upon her shoulder, clambered up close to his heels, placed it behind the rod, and descended for another. at her third ascent the rick suddenly brightened with the brazen glare of shining majolica -- every knot in every straw was visible. on the slope in front of him appeared two human shapes, black as jet. the rick lost its sheen -- the shapes vanished. gabriel turned his head. it had been the sixth flash which had come from the east behind him, and the two dark forms on the slope had been the shadows of himself and bathsheba. then came the peal. it hardly was credible that such a heavenly light could be the parent of such a diabolical sound. "how terrible!" she exclaimed, and clutched him by the sleeve. gabriel turned, and steadied her on her aerial perch by holding her arm. at the same moment, while he was still reversed in his attitude, there was more light, and he saw, as it were, a copy of the tall poplar tree on the hill drawn in black on the wall of the barn. it was the shadow of that tree, thrown across by a secondary flash in the west. the next flare came. bathsheba was on the ground now, shouldering another sheaf, and she bore its dazzle without flinching -- thunder and ali-and again ascended with the load. there was then a silence everywhere for four or five minutes, and the crunch of the spars, as gabriel hastily drove them in, could again be distinctly heard. he thought the crisis of the storm had passed. but there came a burst of light. "hold on!" said gabriel, taking the sheaf from her shoulder, and grasping her arm again. heaven opened then, indeed. the flash was almost too novel for its inexpressibly dangerous nature to be at once realized, and they could only comprehend the magnificence of its beauty. it sprang from east, west, north, south, and was a perfect dance of death. the forms of skeletons appeared in the air, shaped with blue fire for bones -- dancing, leaping, striding, racing around, and mingling altogether in unparalleled con- fusion. with these were intertwined undulating snakes of green, and behind these was a broad mass of lesser light. simultaneously came from every part of the tumbling sky what may be called a shout; since, though no shout ever came near it, it was more of the nature of a shout than of anything else earthly. in the meantime one of the grisly forms had alighted upon the point of gabriel's rod, to run invisibly down it, down the chain, and into the earth. gabriel was almost blinded, and he could feel bathsheba's warm arm tremble in his hand -- a sensation novel and thrilling enough; but love, life, everything human, seemed small and trifling in such close juxtaposition with an infuriated universe. oak had hardly time to gather up these impressions into a thought, and to see how strangely the red feather of her hat shone in this light, when the tall tree on the hill before mentioned seemed on fire to a white heat, and a new one among these terrible voices mingled with the last crash of those preceding. it was a stupefying blast, harsh and pitiless, and it fell upon their ears in a dead, flat blow, without that reverberation which lends the tones of a drum to more distant thunder. by the lustre reflected from every part of the earth and from the wide domical scoop above it, he saw that the tree was sliced down the whole length of its tall, straight stem, a huge riband of bark being apparently flung off. the other portion remained erect, and revealed the bared surface as a strip of white down the front. the lightning had struck the tree. a sulphurous smell filled the air; then all was silent, and black as a cave in hinnom. "we had a narrow escape!" said gabriel, hurriedly. "you had better go down." bathsheba said nothing; but he could distinctly hear her rhythmical pants, and the recurrent rustle of the sheaf beside her in response to her frightened pulsations. she descended the ladder, and, on second thoughts, he followed her. the darkness was now impenetrable by the sharpest vision. they both stood still at the bottom, side by side. bathsheba appeared to think only of the weather -- oak thought only of her just then. at last he said -- "the storm seems to have passed now, at any rate." "i think so too." said bathsheba. "though there are multitudes of gleams, look!" the sky was now filled with an incessant light, frequent repetition melting into complete continuity, as an unbroken sound results from the successive strokes on a gong. "nothing serious." said he. "i cannot understand no rain falling. but heaven be praised, it is all the better for us. i am now going up again." "gabriel, you are kinder than i deserve! i will stay and help you yet. o, why are not some of the others here!" "they would have been here if they could." said oak, in a hesitating way. "o, i know it all -- all." she said, adding slowly: "they are all asleep in the barn, in a drunken sleep, and my husband among them. that's it, is it not? don't think i am a timid woman and can't endure things." "i am not certain." said gabriel. "i will go and see," he crossed to the barn, leaving her there alone. he looked through the chinks of the door. all was in total darkness, as he had left it, and there still arose, as at the former time, the steady buzz of many snores. he felt a zephyr curling about his cheek, and turned. it was bathsheba's breath -- she had followed him, and was looking into the same chink. he endeavoured to put off the immediate and pain- ful subject of their thoughts by remarking gently, "if you'll come back again, miss -- ma'am, and hand up a few more; it would save much time." then oak went back again, ascended to the top, stepped off the ladder for greater expedition, and went on thatching. she followed, but without a sheaf "gabriel." she said, in a strange and impressive voice. oak looked up at her. she had not spoken since he left the barn. the soft and continual shimmer of the dying lightning showed a marble face high against the black sky of the opposite quarter. bathsheba was sitting almost on the apex of the stack, her feet gathered up beneath her, and resting on the top round of the ladder. "yes, mistress." he said. "i suppose you thought that when i galloped away to bath that night it was on purpose to be married?" "i did at last -- not at first." he answered, somewhat surprised at the abruptness with which this new subject was broached. "and others thought so, too?" "yes." "and you blamed me for it?" "well-a little." "i thought so. now, i care a little for your good opinion, and i want to explain something-i have longed to do it ever since i returned, and you looked so gravely at me. for if i were to die -- and i may die soon -- it would be dreadful that you should always think mistakenly of me. now, listen." gabriel ceased his rustling. "i went to bath that night in the full intention of breaking off my engagement to mr. troy. it was owing to circumstances which occurred after i got there that -- that we were married. now, do you see the matter in a new light?" "i do -- somewhat." "i must, i suppose, say more, now that i have begun. and perhaps it's no harm, for you are certainly under no delusion that i ever loved you, or that i can have any object in speaking, more than that object i have mentioned. well, i was alone in a strange city, and the horse was lame. and at last i didn't know what to do. i saw, when it was too late, that scandal might seize hold of me for meeting him alone in that way. but i was coming away, when he suddenly said he had that day seen a woman more beautiful than i, and that his constancy could not be counted on unless i at once became his.... and i was grieved and troubled -- --" she cleared her voice, and waited a moment, as if to gather breath. "and then, between jealousy and distraction, i married him!" she whispered with desperate impetuosity. gabriel made no reply. "he was not to blame, for it was perfectly true about -- about his seeing somebody else." she quickly added. "and now i don't wish for a single remark from you upon the subject -- indeed, i forbid it. i only wanted you to know that misunderstood bit of my history before a time comes when you could never know it. -- you want some more sheaves?" she went down the ladder, and the work proceeded. gabriel soon perceived a languor in the movements of his mistress up and down, and he said to her, gently as a mother -- "i think you had better go indoors now, you are tired. i can finish the rest alone. if the wind does not change the rain is likely to keep off." "if i am useless i will go." said bathsheba, in a flagging cadence. "but o, if your life should be lost!" "you are not useless; but i would rather not tire you longer. you have done well." "and you better!" she said, gratefully.! thank you for your devotion, a thousand times, gabriel! good- night-i know you are doing your very best for me." she diminished in the gloom, and vanished, and he heard the latch of the gate fall as she passed through. he worked in a reverie now, musing upon her story, and upon the contradictoriness of that feminine heart which had caused her to speak more warmly to him to-night than she ever had done whilst unmarried and free to speak as warmly as she chose. he was disturbed in his meditation by a grating noise from the coach-house. it was the vane on the roof turning round, and this change in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain. chapter xxxviii rain -- one solitary meets another it was now five o'clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues of drab and ash. the air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vigorously. cool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round oak's face. the wind shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger. in ten minutes every wind of heaven seemed to be roaming at large. some of the thatching on the wheat-stacks was now whirled fantas- tically aloft, and had to be replaced and weighted with some rails that lay near at hand. this done, oak slaved away again at the barley. a huge drop of rain smote his face, the wind snarled round every corner, the trees rocked to the bases of their trunks, and the twigs clashed in strife. driving in spars at any point and on any system, inch by inch he covered more and more safely from ruin this distracting impersonation of seven hundred pounds. "the rain came on in earnest, and oak soon felt the water to be tracking cold and clammy routes down his back. ultimately he was reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous sop, and the dyes of his clothes trickled down and stood in a pool at the foot of the ladder. the rain stretched obliquely through the dull atmo- sphere in liquid spines, unbroken in continuity between their beginnings in the clouds and their points in him. oak suddenly remembered that eight months before this time he had been fighting against fire in the same spot as desperately as he was fighting against water now -- and for a futile love of the same woman. as for her -- -- but oak was generous and true, and dis- missed his reflections. it was about seven o'clock in the dark leaden morning when gabriel came down from the last stack, and thankfully exclaimed, "it is done!" he was drenched, weary, and sad, and yet not so sad as drenched and weary, for he was cheered by a sense of success in a good cause. faint sounds came from the barn, and he looked that way. figures stepped singly and in pairs through the doors -- all walking awkwardly, and abashed, save the foremost, who wore a red jacket, and advanced with his hands in his pockets, whistling. the others shambled after with a conscience-stricken air: the whole procession was not unlike flaxman's group of the suitors tottering on towards the infernal regions under the conduct of mercury. the gnarled shapes passed into the village, troy, their leader, entering the farmhouse. not a single one of them had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently bestowed one thought upon their condition. soon oak too went homeward, by a different route from theirs. in front of him against the wet glazed surface of the lane he saw a person walking yet more slowly than himself under an umbrella. the man turned and plainly started; he was boldwood. "how are you this morning, sir?" said oak. "yes, it is a wet day. -- oh, i am well, very well, i thank you; quite well." "i am glad to hear it, sir." boldwood seemed to awake to the present by degrees. "you look tired and ill, oak." he said then, desultorily regarding his companion. "i am tired. you look strangely altered, sir." "i? not a bit of it: i am well enough. what put that into your head?" "i thought you didn't look quite so topping as you used to, that was all." "indeed, then you are mistaken." said boldwood, shortly. "nothing hurts me. my constitution is an iron one." "i've been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was barely in time. never had such a struggle in my life.... yours of course are safe, sir." "o yes." boldwood added, after an interval of silence: " what did you ask, oak?" "your ricks are all covered before this time?" "no." "at any rate, the large ones upon the stone staddles?" "they are not." "them under the hedge?" "no. i forgot to tell the thatcher to set about it." "nor the little one by the stile?"nor the little one by the stile. i overlooked the ricks this year." "then not a tenth of your corn will come to measure, sir." "possibly not. "overlooked them." repeated gabriel slowly to him- self. it is difficult to describe the intensely dramatic effect that announcement had upon oak at such a moment. all the night he had been feeling that the neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and isolated -- the only instance of the kind within the circuit of the county. yet at this very time, within the same parish, a greater waste had been going on, uncomplained of and disregarded. a few months earlier boldwood's forgetting his husbandry would have been as preposter- ous an idea as a sailor forgetting he was in a ship. oak was just thinking that whatever he himself might have suffered from bathsheba's marriage, here was a man who had suffered more, when boldwood spoke in a changed voice -- that of one who yearned to make a confidence and relieve his heart by an outpouring. "oak, you know as well as i that things have gone wrong with me lately. i may as well own it. i was going to get a little settled in life; but in some way my plan has come to nothing." "i thought my mistress would have married you," said gabriel, not knowing enough of the full depths of boldwood's love to keep silence on the farmer's account, and determined not to evade discipline by doing so on his own. "however, it is so sometimes, and nothing happens that we expect." he added, with the repose of a man whom misfortune had inured rather than sub- dued. "i daresay i am a joke about the parish." said bold- wood, as if the subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable lightness meant to express his indifference. "o no -- i don't think that." -- but the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as some fancy, any jilting on -- her part. no engagement ever existed between me and miss ever- dene. people say so, but it is untrue: she never promised me!" boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to oak. "o, gabriel." he continued, "i am weak and foolish, and i don't know what, and i can't fend off my miserable grief! ... i had some faint belief in the mercy of god till i lost that woman. yes, he prepared a gourd to shade me, and like the prophet i thanked him and was glad. but the next day he prepared a worm to smite the gourd and wither it; and i feel it is better to die than to live!" a silence followed. boldwood aroused himself from the momentary mood of confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again, resuming his usual reserve, "no, gabriel." he resumed, with a carelessness which was like the smile on the countenance of a skull: "it was made more of by other people than ever it was by us. i do feel a little regret occasionally, but no woman ever had power over me for any length of time. well, good morning; i can trust you not to mention to others what has passed between us two here." chapter xxxix coming home -- a cry on the turnpike road, between casterbridge and weatherbury, and about three miles from the former which pervade the highways of this undulating part of south wessex. i returning from market it is usual for the farmers and other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up. one saturday evening in the month of october bathsheba's vehicle was duly creeping up this incline. she was sitting listlessly in the second seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in farmer's marketing suit of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made young man. though on foot, he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed light cuts at the horse's ear with the end of the lash, as a recreation. this man was her husband, formerly sergeant troy, who, having bought his discharge with bathsheba's money, was gradually transforming himself into a farmer of a spirited and very modern school. people of unalter- able ideas still insisted upon calling him "sergeant" hen they met him, which was in some degree owing to his having still retained the well-shaped moustache of his military days, and the soldierly bearing insepar- able from his form and training. "yes, if it hadn't been for that wretched rain i should have cleared two hundred as easy as looking, my love." he was saying. "don't you see, it altered all the chances? to speak like a book i once read, wet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our country's history; now, isn't that true?" "but the time of year is come for changeable weather." "well, yes. the fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of everybody. never did i see such a day as 'twas! 'tis a wild open place, just out of budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like liquid misery. wind and rain -- good lord! dark? why, 'twas as black as my hat before the last race was run. 'twas five o'clock, and you couldn't see the horses till they were almost in, leave alone colours. the ground was as heavy as lead, and all judgment from a fellow's experi- ence went for nothing. horses, riders, people, were all blown about like ships at sea. three booths were blown over, and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon their hands and knees; and in the next field were as many as a dozen hats at one time. aye, pimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty yards off, and when i saw policy stepping on, it did knock my heart against the lining of my ribs, i assure you, my love!" "and you mean, frank." said bathsheba, sadly -- her voice was painfully lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous summer -- "that you have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful horse-racing? o, frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take away my money so. we shall have to leave the farm; that will be the end of it!" "humbug about cruel. now, there 'tis again -- turn on the waterworks; that's just like you." "but you'll promise me not to go to budmouth second meeting, won't you?" she implored. bathsheba was at the full depth for tears, but she maintained a dry eye. "i don't see why i should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day, i was thinking of taking you." "never, never! i'll go a hundred miles the other way first. i hate the sound of the very word!" "but the question of going to see the race or staying at home has very little to do with the matter. bets are all booked safely enough before the race begins, you may depend. whether it is a bad race for me or a good one, will have very little to do with our going there next monday." "but you don't mean to say that you have risked anything on this one too!" she exclaimed, with an agonized look. "there now, don't you be a little fool. wait till you are told. why, bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you formerly had, and upon my life if i had known what a chicken-hearted creature you were under all your boldness, i'd never have-i know what." a flash of indignation might have been seen in bathsheba's dark eyes as she looked resolutely ahead after this reply. they moved on without further speech, some early-withered leaves from the trees which hooded the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward across their path to the earth. a woman appeared on the brow of the hill. the ridge was in a cutting, so that she was very near the husband and wife before she became visible. troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and whilst putting his foot on the step-the woman passed behind him. though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide enveloped them in gloom, bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the extreme poverty of the woman's garb, and the sadness of her face. "please, sir, do you know at what time casterbridge union-house closes at night?" the woman said these words to troy over his shoulder. troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving way to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her. he said, slowly -- "i don't know." the woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the side of his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman's garb. her face was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both among its elements. she uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down. "o, poor thing!" exclaimed bathsheba, instantly preparing to alight. "stay where you are, and attend to the horse!" said troy, peremptorily throwing her the reins and the whip. "walk the horse to the top: i'll see to the woman." "but i -- " "do you hear? clk -- poppet!" the horse, gig, and bathsheba moved on. "how on earth did you come here? i thought you were miles away, or dead! why didn't you write to me?" said troy to the woman, in a strangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up. "i feared to." "have you any money?" "none." "good heaven -- i wish i had more to give you! here's -- wretched -- the merest trifle. it is every farthing i have left. i have none but what my wife gives me, you know, and i can't ask her now." he woman made no answer. "i have only another moment." continued troy; "and now listen. where are you going to-night? casterbridge union?" "yes; i thought to go there." "you shan't go there; yet, wait. yes, perhaps for to-night; i can do nothing better -- worse luck! sleep there to-night, and stay there to-morrow. monday is the first free day i have; and on monday morning, at ten exactly, meet me on grey's bridge just out of the town. i'll bring all the money i can muster. you shan't want-i'll see that, fanny; then i'll get you a lodging somewhere. good-bye till then. i am a brute -- but good-bye!" after advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the hill, bathsheba turned her head. the woman was upon her feet, and bathsheba saw her withdrawing from troy, and going feebly down the hill by the third milestone from casterbridge. troy then came on towards his wife, stepped into the gig, took the reins from her hand, and without making any observation whipped the horse into a trot. he was rather agitated. "do you know who that woman was?" said bath- sheba, looking searchingly into his face. "i do." he said, looking boldly back into hers. "i thought you did." said she, with angry hauteur, and still regarding him. "who is she?" he suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither of the women. "nothing to either of us." he said. "i know her by sight." "what is her name?" "how should i know her name?" "i think you do." "think if you will, and be -- -- " the sentence was completed by a smart cut of the whip round poppet's flank, which caused the animal to start forward at a wild pace. no more was said. chapter xl on casterbridge highway for a considerable time the woman walked on. her steps became feebler, and she strained her eyes to look afar upon the naked road, now indistinct amid the penumbrae of night. at length her onward walk dwindled to the merest totter, and she opened a gate within which was a haystack. underneath this she sat down and presently slept. when the woman awoke it was to find herself in the depths of a moonless and starless night. a heavy un- broken crust of cloud stretched across the sky, shutting out every speck of heaven; and a distant halo which hung over the town of casterbridge was visible against the black concave, the luminosity appearing the brighter by its great contrast with the circumscribing darkness. towards this weak, soft glow the woman turned her eyes. "if i could only get there!" she said. "meet him the day after to-morrow: god help me! perhaps i shall be in my grave before then." a manor-house clock from the far depths of shadow struck the hour, one, in a small, attenuated tone. after midnight the voice of a clock seems to lose in breadth as much as in length, and to diminish its sonorousness to a thin falsetto. afterwards a light -- two lights -- arose from the re- mote shade, and grew larger. a carriage rolled along the road, and passed the gate. it probably contained some late diners-out. the beams from one lamp shone for a moment upon the crouching woman, and threw her face into vivid relieff. the face was young in the groundwork, old in the finish; the general contours were flexuous and childlike, but the finer lineaments had begun to be sharp and thin. the pedestrian stood up, apparently with revived determination, and looked around. the road appeared to be familiar to her, and she carefully scanned the fence as she slowly walked along. presently there became visible a dim white shape; it was another milestone. she drew her fingers across its face to feel the marks. "two more!" she said. she leant against the stone as a means of rest for a short interval, then bestirred herself, and again pursued her way. for a slight distance she bore up bravely, afterwards flagging as before. this was beside a lone copsewood, wherein heaps of white chips strewn upon the leafy ground showed that woodmen had been faggoting and making hurdles during the day. now there was not a rustle, not a breeze, not the faintest clash of twigs to keep her company. the woman looked over the gate, opened it, and went in. close to the entrance stood a row of faggots, bound and un- bound, together with stakes of all sizes. for a few seconds the wayfarer stood with that tense stillness which signifies itself to be not the end but merely the suspension, of a previous motion. her attitude was that of a person who listens, either to the external world of sound, or to the imagined discourse of thought. a close criticism might have detected signs proving that she was intent on the latter alternative. moreover, as was shown by what followed, she was oddly exercising the faculty of invention upon the spe- ciality of the clever jacquet droz, the designer of auto- matic substitutes for human limbs. by the aid of the casterbridge aurora, and by feeling with her hands, the woman selected two sticks from the heaps. these sticks were nearly straight to the height of three or four feet, where each branched into a fork like the letter y. she sat down, snapped off the small upper twigs, and carried the remainder with her into the road. she placed one of these forks under each arm as a crutch, tested them, timidly threw her whole weight upon them -- so little that it was -- and swung herself forward. the girl had made for herself a material aid. the crutches answered well. the pat of her feet, and the tap of her sticks upon the highway, were all the sounds that came from the traveller now. she had passed the last milestone by a good long distance, and began to look wistfully towards the bank as if calculating upon another milestone soon. the crutches, though so very useful, had their limits of power. mechanism only transfers labour, being powerless to supersede it, and the original amount of exertion was not cleared away; it was thrown into the body and arms. she was exhausted, and each swing forward became fainter. at last she swayed sideways, and fell. here she lay, a shapeless heap, for ten minutes and more. the morning wind began to boom dully over the flats, and to move afresh dead leaves which had lain still since yesterday. the woman desperately turned round upon her knees, and next rose to her feet. steadying herself by the help of one crutch, she essayed a step, then another, then a third, using the crutches now as walking-sticks only. thus she pro- gressed till descending mellstock hill another milestone appeared, and soon the beginning of an iron-railed fence came into view. she staggered across to the first post, clung to it, and looked around. the casterbridge lights were now individually visible, it was getting towards morning, and vehicles might be hoped for, if not expected soon. she listened. there was not a sound of life save that acme and sublimation of all dismal sounds, the hark of a fox, its three hollow notes being rendered at intervals of a minute with the precision of a funeral bell. "less than a mile!" the woman murmured. "no; more." she added, after a pause. "the mile is to the county hall, and my resting-place is on the other side casterbridge. a little over a mile, and there i am!" after an interval she again spoke. "five or six steps to a yard -- six perhaps. i have to go seventeen hundred yards. a hundred times six, six hundred. seventeen times that. o pity me, lord!" holding to the rails, she advanced, thrusting one hand forward upon the rail, then the other, then leaning over it whilst she dragged her feet on beneath. this woman was not given to soliloquy; but ex- tremity of feeling lessens the individuality of the weak, as it increases that of the strong. she said again in the same tone, "i'll believe that the end lies five posts for- ward, and no further, and so get strength to pass them." this was a practical application of the principle that a half-feigned and fictitious faith is better than no faith at all. she passed five posts and held on to the fifth. "i'll pass five more by believing my longed-for spot is at the next fifth. i can do it." she passed five more. "it lies only five further." she passed five more. "but it is five further." she passed them. "that stone bridge is the end of my journey." she said, when the bridge over the froom was in view. she crawled to the bridge. during the effort each breath of the woman went into the air as if never to return again. "now for the truth of the matter." she said, sitting down. "the truth is, that i have less than half a mile." self-beguilement with what she had known all the time to be false had given her strength to come over half a mile that she would have been powerless to face in the lump. the artifice showed that the woman, by some mysterious intuition, had grasped the paradoxical truth that blindness may operate more vigorously than prescience, and the short-sighted effect more than the far-seeing; that limitation, and not comprehensiveness, is needed for striking a blow. the half-mile stood now before the sick and weary woman like a stolid juggernaut. it was an impassive king of her world. the road here ran across durnover moor, open to the road on either side. she surveyed the wide space, the lights, herself, sighed, and lay down against a guard-stone of the bridge. never was ingenuity exercised so sorely as the traveller here exercised hers. every conceivable aid, method, stratagem, mechanism, by which these last desperate eight hundred yards could be overpassed by a human being unperceived, was revolved in her busy brain, and dismissed as impracticable. she thought of sticks, wheels, crawling -- she even thought of rolling. but the exertion demanded by either of these latter two was greater than to walk erect. the faculty of con- trivance was worn out, hopelessness had come at last. "no further!" she whispered, and closed her eyes. from the stripe of shadow on the opposite side of the bridge a portion of shade seemed to detach itself and move into isolation upon the pale white of the road. it glided noiselessly towards the recumbent woman. she became conscious of something touching her hand; it was softness and it was warmth. she opened her eye's, and the substance touched her face. a dog was licking her cheek. he was huge, heavy, and quiet creature, standing darkly against the low horizon, and at least two feet higher than the present position of her eyes. whether newfoundland, mastiff, bloodhound, or what not, it was impossible to say. he seemed to be of too strange and mysterious a nature to belong to any variety among those of popular nomenclature. being thus assignable to no breed, he was the ideal embodiment of canine greatness -- a generalization from what was common to all. night, in its sad, solemn, and benevolent aspect, apart from its stealthy and cruel side, was personified in this form darkness endows the small and ordinary ones among mankind with poetical power, and even the suffering woman threw her idea into figure. in her reclining position she looked up to him just as in earlier times she had, when standing, looked up to a man. the animal, who was as homeless as she, respectfully withdrew a step or two when the woman moved, and, seeing that she did not repulse him, he licked her hand again. a thought moved within her like lightning. "perhaps i can make use of him -- i might do it then!" she pointed in the direction of casterbridge, and the dog seemed to misunderstand: he trotted on. then, finding she could not follow, he came back and whined. the ultimate and saddest singularity of woman's effort and invention was reached when, with a quickened breath- ing, she rose to a stooping posture, and, resting her two little arms upon the shoulders of the dog, leant firmly thereon, and murmured stimulating words. whilst she sorrowed in her heart she cheered with her voice, and what was stranger than that the strong should need encouragement from the weak was that cheerfulness should be so well stimulated by such utter dejection. her friend moved forward slowly, and she with small mincing steps moved forward beside him, half her weight being thrown upon the animal. sometimes she sank as she had sunk from walking erect, from the crutches, from the rails. the dog, who now thoroughly understood her desire and her incapacity, was frantic in his distress on these occasions; he would tug at her dress and run forward. she always called him back, and it was now to be observed that the woman listened for human sounds only to avoid them. it was evident that she had an object in keeping her presence on the road and her forlorn state unknown. their progress was necessarily very slow. they reached the bottom of the town, and the casterbridge lamps lay before them like fallen pleiads as they turned to the left into the dense shade of a deserted avenue of chestnuts, and so skirted the borough. thus the town was passed, and the goal was reached. on this much-desired spot outside the town rose a picturesque building. originally it had been a mere case to hold people. the shell had been so thin, so devoid of excrescence, and so closely drawn over the accommodation granted, that the grim character of what was beneath showed through it, as the shape of a body is visible under a winding-sheet. then nature, as if offended, lent a hand. masses of ivy grew up, completely covering the walls, till the place looked like an abbey; and it was discovered that the view from the front, over the casterbridge chimneys, was one of the most magnificent in the county. a neighbouring earl once said that he would give up a year's rental to have at his own door the view enjoyed by the inmates from theirs -- and very probably the inmates would have given up the view for his year's rental. this stone edifice consisted of a central mass and two wings, whereon stood as sentinels a few slim chimneys, now gurgling sorrowfully to the slow wind. in the wall was a gate, and by the gate a bellpull formed of a hanging wire. the woman raised herself as high as possible upon her knees, and could just reach the handle. she moved it and fell forwards in a bowed attitude, her face upon her bosom. it was getting on towards six o'clock, and sounds of movement were to be heard inside the building which was the haven of rest to this wearied soul. a little door by the large one was opened, and a man appeared inside. he discerned the panting heap of clothes, went back for a light, and came again. he entered a second time, and returned with two women. these lifted the prostrate figure and assisted her in through the doorway. the man then closed the door. how did she get here?" said one of the women. "the lord knows." said the other. there is a dog outside," murmured the overcome traveller. "where is he gone? he helped me." i stoned him away." said the man. the little procession then moved forward -- the man in front bearing the light, the two bony women next, supporting between them the small and supple one. thus they entered the house and disappeared. chapter xli suspicion -- fanny is sent for bathsheba said very little to her husband all that evening of their return from market, and he was not disposed to say much to her. he exhibited the un- pleasant combination of a restless condition with a silent tongue. the next day, which was sunday, passed nearly in the same manner as regarded their taciturnity, bathsheba going to church both morning and afternoon. this was the day before the budmouth races. in the evening troy said, suddenly -- "bathsheba, could you let me have twenty pounds?" her countenance instantly sank." twenty pounds? she said. "the fact is, i want it badly." the anxiety upon troy's face was unusual and very marked. lt was a culmination of the mood he had been in all the day. "ah! for those races to-morrow." troy for the moment made no reply. her mistake had its advantages to a man who shrank from having his mind inspected as he did now. "well, suppose i do want it for races?" he said, at last. "o, frank!" bathsheba replied, and there was such a volume of entreaty in the words. "only such a few weeks ago you said that i was far sweeter than all your other pleasures put together, and that you would give them all up for me; and now, won't you give up this one, which is more a worry than a pleasure? do, frank. come, let me fascinate you by all i can do -- by pretty words and pretty looks, and everything i can think of -- to stay at home. say yes to your wife -- say yes!" the tenderest and softest phases of bathsheba's nature were prominent now -- advanced impulsively for his acceptance, without any of the disguises and defences which the wariness of her character when she was cool too frequently threw over them. few men could have resisted the arch yet dignified entreaty of the beautiful face, thrown a little back and sideways in the well known attitude that expresses more than the words it accompanies, and which seems to have been designed for these special occasions. had the woman not been his wife, troy would have succumbed instantly; as it was, he thought he would not deceive her longer. "the money is not wanted for racing debts at all," he said. "what is it for?" she asked. "you worry me a great deal by these mysterious responsibilities, frank." troy hesitated. he did not now love her enough to allow himself to be carried too far by her ways. yet it was necessary to be civil. "you wrong me by such a suspicious manner, he said. "such strait-waistcoating as you treat me to is not becoming in you at so early a date." "i think that i have a right to grumble a little if i pay." she said, with features between a smile and a pout. exactly; and, the former being done, suppose we proceed to the latter. bathsheba, fun is all very well, but don't go too far, or you may have cause to regret something." she reddened. "i do that already." she said, quickly "what do you regret?" suspicion "that my romance has come to an end." "all romances end at marriage." "i wish you wouldn't talk like that. you grieve me to my soul by being smart at my expense." "you are dull enough at mine. i believe you hate me." "not you -- only your faults. i do hate them." "'twould be much more becoming if you set your- self to cure them. come, let's strike a balance with the twenty pounds, and be friends." she gave a sigh of resignation. "i have about that sum here for household expenses. if you must have it, take it." "very good. thank you. i expect i shall have gone away before you are in to breakfast to-morrow." "and must you go? ah! there was a time, frank, when it would have taken a good many promises to other people to drag you away from me. you used to call me darling, then. but it doesn't matter to you how my days are passed now." "i must go, in spite of sentiment." troy, as he spoke, looked at his watch, and, apparently actuated by non lucendo principles, opened the case at the back, revealing, snugly stowed within it, a small coil of hair. bathsheba's eyes had been accidentally lifted at that moment, and she saw the action and saw the hair. she flushed in pain and surprise, and some words escaped her before she had thought whether or not it was wise to utter them. "a woman's curl of hair!" she said. "o, frank, whose is that?" troy had instantly closed his watch. he carelessly replied, as one who cloaked some feelings that the sight had stirred." why, yours, of course. whose should it be? i had quite forgotten that i had it." "what a dreadful fib, frank!" "i tell you i had forgotten it!" he said, loudly. "i don't mean that -- it was yellow hair." "nonsense." "that's insulting me. i know it was yellow. now whose was it? i want to know." "very well i'll tell you, so make no more ado. it is the hair of a young woman i was going to marry before i knew you." "you ought to tell me her name, then." "i cannot do that." "is she married yet?" "no." "is she alive?" "yes." "is she pretty?" "yes." "it is wonderful how she can be, poor thing, under such an awful affliction!" "affliction -- what affliction?" he inquired, quickly. "having hair of that dreadful colour." "oh -- ho-i like that!" said troy, recovering him- self. "why, her hair has been admired by everybody who has seen her since she has worn it loose, which has not been long. it is beautiful hair. people used to turn their heads to look at it, poor girl!" "pooh! that's nothing -- that's nothing!" she ex- claimed, in incipient accents of pique. "if i cared for your love as much as i used to i could say people had turned to look at mine." "bathsheba, don't be so fitful and jealous. you knew what married life would be like, and shouldn't have entered it if you feared these contingencies." troy had by this time driven her to bitterness: her heart was big in her throat, and the ducts to her eyes were painfully full. ashamed as she was to show emotion, at last she burst out: -- "this is all i get for loving you so well! ah! when i married you your life was dearer to me than my own. i would have died for you -- how truly i can say that i would have died for you! and now you sneer at my foolishness in marrying you. o! is it kind to me to throw my mistake in my face? whatever opinion you may have of my wisdom, you should not tell me of it so mercilessly, now that i am in your power." "i can't help how things fall out." said troy; "upon my heart, women will be the death of me!" "well you shouldn't keep people's hair. you'll burn it, won't you, frank?" frank went on as if he had not heard her. "there are considerations even before my consideration for you; reparations to be made -- ties you know nothing of if you repent of marrying, so do i." trembling now, she put her hand upon his arm, saying, in mingled tones of wretchedness and coaxing, "i only repent it if you don't love me better than any woman in the world! i don't otherwise, frank. you don't repent because you already love somebody better than you love me, do you?" "i don't know. why do you say that?" "you won't burn that curl. you like the woman who owns that pretty hair -- yes; it is pretty -- more beautiful than my miserable black mane! well, it is no use; i can't help being ugly. you must like her best, if you will!" "until to-day, when i took it from a drawer, i have never looked upon that bit of hair for several months -- that i am ready to swear." "but just now you said "ties;" and then -- that woman we met?" "'twas the meeting with her that reminded me of the hair." "is it hers, then?" "yes. there, now that you have wormed it out of me, i hope you are content." "and what are the ties?" "oh! that meant nothing -- a mere jest." "a mere jest!" she said, in mournful astonishment. "can you jest when i am so wretchedly in earnest? tell me the truth, frank. i am not a fool, you know, although i am a woman, and have my woman's moments. come! treat me fairly." she said, looking honestly and fearlessly into his face. "i don't want much; bare justice -- that's all! ah! once i felt i could be content with nothing less than the highest homage from the husband i should choose. now, anything short of cruelty will content me. yes! the independent and spirited bathsheba is come to this!" "for heaven's sake don't be so desperate!"troy said, snappishly, rising as he did so, and leaving the room. directly he had gone, bathsheba burst into great sobs -- dry-eyed sobs, which cut as they came, without any softening by tears. but she determined to repress all evidences of feeling. she was conquered; but she would never own it as long as she lived. her pride was indeed brought low by despairing discoveries of her spoliation by marriage with a less pure nature than her own. she chafed to and fro in rebelliousness, like a caged leopard; her whole soul was in arms, and the blood fired her face. until she had met troy, bath- sheba had been proud of her position as a woman; it had been a glory to her to know that her lips had been touched by no man's on earth -- that her waist had never been encircled by a lover's arm. she hated herself now. in those earlier days she had always nourished a secret contempt for girls who were the slaves of the first goodlooking young fellow who should choose to salute them. she had never taken kindly to the idea of marriage in the abstract as did the majority of women she saw about her. in the turmoil of her anxiety for her lover she had agreed to marry him; but the perception that had accompanied her happiest hours on this account was rather that of self-sacrifice than of promotion and honour. although she scarcely knew the divinity's name, diana was the goddess whom bathsheba instinctively adored. that she had never, by look, word, or sign, encouraged a man to approach her -- that she had felt herself sufficient to herself, and had in the independence of her girlish heart fancied there was a certain degradation in renouncing the simplicity of a maiden existence to become the humbler half of an indifferent matrimonial whole -- were facts now bitterly remembered. o, if she had never stooped to folly of this kind, respectable as it was, and could only stand again, as she had stood on the hill at norcombe, and dare troy or any other man to pollute a hair of her head by his interference! the next morning she rose earlier than usual, and had the horse saddled for her ride round the farm in the customary way. when she came in at half-past eight -- their usual hour for breakfasting -- she was in- formed that her husband had risen, taken his breakfast, and driven off to casterbridge with the gig and poppet. after breakfast she was cool and collected -- quite herself in fact -- and she rambled to the gate, intending to walk to another quarter of the farm, which she still personally superintended as well as her duties in the house would permit, continually, however, finding her- self preceded in forethought by gabriel oak, for whom she began to entertain the genuine friendship of a sister. of course, she sometimes thought of him in the light of an old lover, and had momentary imaginings of what life with him as a husband would have been like; also of life with boldwood under the same conditions. but bathsheba, though she could feel, was not much given to futile dreaming, and her musings under this head were short and entirely confined to the times when troy's neglect was more than ordinarily evident. she saw coming up the road a man like mr. boldwood. it was mr. boldwood. bathsheba blushed painfully, and watched. the farmer stopped when still a long way off, and held up his hand to gabriel oak, who was in a footpath across the field. the two men then approached each other and seemed to engage in earnest conversation. thus they continued for a long time. joseph poor- grass now passed near them, wheeling a barrow of apples up the hill to bathsheba's residence. boldwood and gabriel called to him, spoke to him for a few minutes, and then all three parted, joseph immediately coming up the hill with his barrow. bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with some surprise, experienced great relief when boldwood turned back again. "well, what's the message, joseph?" she said. he set down his barrow, and, putting upon himself the refined aspect that a conversation with a lady re- quired, spoke to bathsheba over the gate. "you'll never see fanny robin no more -- use nor principal -- ma'am." "why?" "because she's dead in the union." "fanny dead -- never!" "yes, ma'am." "what did she die from?" "i don't know for certain; but i should be inclined to think it was from general weakness of constitution. she was such a limber maid that 'a could stand no hardship, even when i knowed her, and 'a went like a candle-snoff, so 'tis said. she was took bad in the morning, and, being quite feeble and worn out, she died in the evening. she belongs by law to our parish; and mr. boldwood is going to send a waggon at three this afternoon to fetch her home here and bury her." "indeed i shall not let mr. boldwood do any such thing-i shall do it! fanny was my uncle's servant, and, although i only knew her for a couple of days, fanny is sent for she belongs to me. how very, very sad this is! -- the idea of fanny being in a workhouse." bathsheba had begun to know what suffering was, and she spoke with real feeling.... "send across to mr. boldwood's, and say that mrs. troy will take upon herself the duty of fetching an old servant of the family.... we ought not to put her in a waggon; we'll get a hearse." "there will hardly be time, ma'am, will there?" "perhaps not." she said, musingly. "when did you say we must be at the door -- three o'clock?" "three o'clock this afternoon, ma'am, so to speak it." "very well-you go with it. a pretty waggon is better than an ugly hearse, after all. joseph, have the new spring waggon with the blue body and red wheels, and wash it very clean. and, joseph -- -- " "yes, ma'am." "carry with you some evergreens and flowers to put upon her coffin -- indeed, gather a great many, and completely bury her in them. get some boughs of laurustinus, and variegated box, and yew, and boy'siove; ay, and some hunches of chrysanthemum. and let old pleasant draw her, because she knew him so well."i will, ma'am. i ought to have said that the union, in the form of four labouring men, will meet me when i gets to our churchyard gate, and take her and bury her according to the rites of the board of guardians, as by law ordained." "dear me -- casterbridge union -- and is fanny come to this?" said bathsheba, musing. "i wish i had known of it sooner. i thought she was far away. how long has she lived there?" "on'y been there a day or two." "oh! -- then she has not been staying there as a regular inmate?" "no. she first went to live in a garrison-town t'other side o' wessex, and since then she's been picking up a living at seampstering in melchester for several months, at the house of a very respectable widow-woman who takes in work of that sort. she only got handy the union-house on sunday morning 'a b'lieve, and 'tis sup- posed here and there that she had traipsed every step of the way from melchester. why she left her place, i can't say, for i don't know; and as to a lie, why, i wouldn't tell it. that's the short of the story, ma'am." "ah-h!" no gem ever flashed from a rosy ray to a white one more rapidly than changed the young wife's counten- ance whilst this word came from her in a long-drawn breath. "did she walk along our turnpike-road?" she said, in a suddenly restless and eager voice. "i believe she did.... ma'am, shall i call liddy? you bain't well, ma'am, surely? you look like a lily -- so pale and fainty!" "no; don't call her; it is nothing. when did she pass weatherbury?" "last saturday night." "that will do, joseph; now you may go." certainly, ma'am." "joseph, come hither a moment. what was the colour of fanny robin's hair?" "really, mistress, now that 'tis put to me so judge- and-jury like, i can't call to mind, if ye'll believe me!" "never mind; go on and do what i told you. stop -- well no, go on." she turned herself away from him, that he might no longer notice the mood which had set its sign so visibly upon her, and went indoors with a distressing sense of faintness and a beating brow. about an hour after, she heard the noise of the waggon and went out, still with a painful consciousness of her bewildered and troubled look. joseph, dressed in his best suit of clothes, was putting in the horse to start. the shrubs and flowers were all piled in the waggon, as she had directed bathsheba hardly saw them now. "whose sweetheart did you say, joseph?" "i don't know, ma'am." "are you quite sure?" "yes, ma'am, quite sure."sure of what?" "i'm sure that all i know is that she arrived in the morning and died in the evening without further parley. what oak and mr. boldwood told me was only these few words. `little fanny robin is dead, joseph,' gabriel said, looking in my face in his steady old way. i was very sorry, and i said, `ah! -- and how did she come to die?' `well, she's dead in casterhridge union,' he said, `and perhaps 'tisn't much matter about how she came to die. she reached the union early sunday morning, and died in the afternoon -- that's clear enough.' then i asked what she'd been doing lately, and mr. boldwood turned round to me then, and left off spitting a thistle with the end of his stick. he told me about her having lived by seampstering in melchester, as i mentioned to you, and that she walked therefrom at the end of last week, passing near here saturday night in the dusk. they then said i had better just name a hint of her death to you, and away they went. her death might have been brought on by biding in the night wind, you know, ma'am; for people used to say she'd go off in a decline: she used to cough a good deal in winter time. however, 'tisn't much odds to us about that now, for 'tis all over." "have you heard a different story at all?' she looked at him so intently that joseph's eyes quailed. "not a word, mistress, i assure 'ee!" he said. "hardly anybody in the parish knows the news yet." "i wonder why gabriel didn't bring the message to me himself. he mostly makes a point of seeing me upon the most trifling errand." these words were merely murmured, and she was looking upon the ground. "perhaps he was busy, ma'am." joseph suggested. "and sometimes he seems to suffer from things upon his mind, connected with the time when he was better off than 'a is now. 'a's rather a curious item, but a very understanding shepherd, and learned in books." "did anything seem upon his mind whilst he was speaking to you about this?" "i cannot but say that there did, ma'am. he was terrible down, and so was farmer boldwood." "thank you, joseph. that will do. go on now, or you'll be late." bathsheba, still unhappy, went indoors again. in the course of the afternoon she said to liddy, who had been informed of the occurrence, " what was the colour of poor fanny robin's hair? do you know? i cannot recollect-i only saw her for a day or two." "it was light, ma'am; but she wore it rather short, and packed away under her cap, so that you would hardly notice it. but i have seen her let it down when she was going to bed, and it looked beautiful then. real golden hair." "her young man was a soldier, was he not?" "yes. in the same regiment as mr. troy. he says he knew him very well."what, mr. troy says so? how came he to say that?" "one day i just named it to him, and asked him if he knew fanny's young man. he said, "o yes, he knew the young man as well as he knew himself, and that there wasn't a man in the regiment he liked better." "ah! said that, did he?" "yes; and he said there was a strong likeness be- tween himself and the other young man, so that some- times people mistook them -- -- " "liddy, for heaven's sake stop your talking!" said bathsheba, with the nervous petulance that comes from worrying perceptions. chapter xlii joseph and his burden a wall bounded the site of casterbridge union- house, except along a portion of the end. here a high gable stood prominent, and it was covered like the front with a mat of ivy. in this gable was no window, chimney, ornament, or protuberance of any kind. the single feature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark green leaves, was a small door. the situation of the door was peculiar. the sill was three or four feet above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for an explanation of this exceptional altitude, till ruts immediately beneath sug- gested that the door was used solely for the passage of articles and persons to and from the level of a vehicle standing on the outside. upon the whole, the door seemed to advertise itself as a species of traitor's gate translated to another sphere. that entry and exit hereby was only at rare intervals became apparent on noting that tufts of grass were allowed to flourish undis- turbed in the chinks of the sill. as the clock over the south-street alms-house pointed to five minutes to three, a blue spring waggon, picked out with red, and containing boughs and flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards this side of the building. whilst the chimes were yet stammering out a shattered form of "malbrook." joseph poorgrass rang the bell, and received directions to back his waggon against the high door under the gable. the door then opened, and a plain elm coffin was slowly thrust forth, and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of the vehicle. one of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a lump of chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words in a large scrawling hand. (we believe that they do these things more tenderly now, and provide a plate.) he covered the whole with a black cloth, threadbare, but decent, the tailboard of the waggon was returned to its place, one of the men handed a certificate of registry to poorgrass, and both entered the door, closing it behind them. their connection with her, short as it had been, was over for ever. joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreens around the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the waggon contained; he smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral car crept down the hill, and along the road to weatherbury. the afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to the right towards the sea as he walked beside the horse, poor- grass saw strange clouds and scrolls of mist rolling over the long ridges which girt the landscape in that quarter. they came in yet greater volumes, and indolently crept across the intervening valleys, and around the withered papery flags of the moor and river brinks. then their dank spongy forms closed in upon the sky. it was a sudden overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which had their roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the time that horse, man, and corpse entered yalbury great wood, these silent workings of an invisible hand had reached them, and they were completely enveloped, this being the first arrival of the autumn fogs, and the first fog of the series. the air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. the waggon and its load rolled no longer on the horizontal division between clearness and opacity, but were imbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallor throughout. there was no perceptible motion in the air, not a visible drop of water fell upon a leaf of the beeches, birches, and firs composing the wood on either side. the trees stood in an attitude of intentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind to come and rock them. a startling quiet overhung all surrounding things -- so completely, that the crunching of the waggon- wheels was as a great noise, and small rustles, which had never obtained a hearing except by night, were dis- tinctly individualized. joseph poorgrass looked round upon his sad burden as it loomed faintly through the flowering laurustinus, then at the unfathomable gloom amid the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, and spectrelike in their monochrome of grey. he felt anything but cheer- ful, and wished he had the company even of a child or dog. stopping the home, he listened. not a footstep or wheel was audible anywhere around, and the dead silence was broken only by a heavy particle falling from a tree through the evergreens and alighting with a smart rap upon the coffin of poor fanny. the fog had by this time saturated the trees, and this was the first dropping of water from the overbrimming leaves. the hollow echo of its fall reminded the waggoner painfully of the grim leveller. then hard by came down another drop, then two or three. presently there was a continual tapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, the road, and the travellers. the nearer boughs were beaded with the mist to the greyness of aged men, and the rusty- red leaves of the beeches were hung with similar drops, like diamonds on auburn hair. at the roadside hamlet called roy-town, just beyond this wood, was the old inn buck's head. it was about a mile and a half from weatherbury, and in the meridian times of stage-coach travelling had been the place where many coaches changed and kept their relays of horses. all the old stabling was now pulled down, and little remained besides the habitable inn itself, which, standing a little way back from the road, sig- nified its existence to people far up and down the highway by a sign hanging from the horizontal bough of an elm on the opposite side of the way. travellers -- for the variety tourist had hardly developed into a distinct species at this date -- some- times said in passing, when they cast their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond of repre- senting the signboard hanging thus, but that they themselves had never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual working order. it was near this tree that the waggon was standing into which gabriel oak crept on his first journey to weatherbury; but, owing to the darkness, the sign and the inn had been un- observed. the manners of the inn were of the old-established type. indeed, in the minds of its frequenters they existed as unalterable formulae: e.g. -- rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor. for tobacco, shout. in calling for the girl in waiting, say, "maid!" ditto for the landlady, "old soul!" etc., etc. it was a relief to joseph's heart when the friendly signboard came in view, and, stopping his horse immediately beneath it, he proceeded to fulfil an intention made a long time before. his spirits were oozing out of him quite. he turned the horse's head to the green bank, and entered the hostel for a mug of ale. going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was a step below the passage, which in its turn was a step below the road outside, what should joseph see to gladden his eyes but two copper-coloured discs, in the form of the countenances of mr. jan coggan and mr. mark clark. these owners of the two most appreciative throats in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, were now sitting face to face over a threelegged circular table, having an iron rim to keep cups and pots from being accidentally elbowed off; they might have been said to resemble the setting sun and the full moon shining vis-a-vis across the globe. "why, 'tis neighbour poorgrass!" said mark clark. "i'm sure your face don't praise your mistress's table, joseph." "i've had a very pale companion for the last four miles." said joseph, indulging in a shudder toned down by resignation. "and to speak the truth, 'twas beginning to tell upon me. i assure ye, i ha'n't seed the colour of victuals or drink since breakfast time this morning, and that was no more than a dew-bit afield." "then drink, joseph, and don't restrain yourself!" said coggan, handing him a hooped mug three- quarters full. joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time, saying, as he lowered the jug, "'tis pretty drinking -- very pretty drinking, and is more than cheerful on my melancholy errand, so to speak it." "true, drink is a pleasant delight." said jan, as one who repeated a truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passage over his tongue; and, lifting the cup, coggan tilted his head gradually backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul might not be diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant surroundings. "well, i must be on again." said poorgrass. "not but that i should like another nip with ye; but the parish might lose confidence in me if i was seed here." "where be ye trading o't to to-day, then, joseph?" "back to weatherbury. i've got poor little fanny robin in my waggon outside, and i must be at the churchyard gates at a quarter to five with her." "ay-i've heard of it. and so she's nailed up in parish boards after all, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown." "the parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell shilling, because the bell's a luxery: but 'a can hardly do without the grave, poor body. however, i expect our mistress will pay all." "a pretty maid as ever i see! but what's yer hurry, joseph? the pore woman's dead, and you can't bring her to life, and you may as well sit down comfortable, and finish another with us." "i don't mind taking just the least thimbleful ye can dream of more with ye, sonnies. but only a few minutes, because 'tis as 'tis." "of course, you'll have another drop. a man's twice the man afterwards. you feel so warm and glorious, and you whop and slap at your work without any trouble, and everything goes on like sticks a- breaking. too much liquor is bad, and leads us to that horned man in the smoky house; but after all, many people haven't the gift of enjoying a wet, and since we be highly favoured with a power that way, we should make the most o't."true." said mark clark. "'tis a talent the lord has mercifully bestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. but, what with the parsons and clerks and schoolpeople and serious tea-parties, the merry old ways of good life have gone to the dogs -- upon my carcase, they have!" "well, really, i must be onward again now." said joseph. "now, now, joseph; nonsense! the poor woman is dead, isn't she, and what's your hurry?" "well, i hope providence won't be in a way with me for my doings." said joseph, again sitting down. "i've been troubled with weak moments lately, 'tis true. i've been drinky once this month already, and i did not go to church a-sunday, and i dropped a curse or two yesterday; so i don't want to go too far for my safety. your next world is your next world, and not to be squandered offhand." "i believe ye to be a chapelmember, joseph. that i do." "oh, no, no! i don't go so far as that." "for my part." said coggan, "i'm staunch church of england." "ay, and faith, so be i." said mark clark. "i won't say much for myself; i don't wish to," coggan continued, with that tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic of the barley-corn. "but i've never changed a single doctrine: i've stuck like a plaster to the old faith i was born in. yes; there's this to be said for the church, a man can belong to the church and bide in his cheerful old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. but to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and make yerself as frantic as a skit. not but that chapel members be clever chaps enough in their way. they can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all about their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper." "they can -- they can." said mark clark, with cor- roborative feeling; "but we churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or, dang it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer like the lord than babes unborn," "chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we." said joseph, thoughtfully. "yes." said coggan. "we know very well that if anybody do go to heaven, they will. they've worked hard for it, and they deserve to have it, such as 'tis. i bain't such a fool as to pretend that we who stick to the church have the same chance as they, because we know we have not. but i hate a feller who'll change his old ancient doctrines for the sake of getting to heaven. i'd as soon turn king's-evidence for the few pounds you get. why, neighbours, when every one of my taties were frosted, our parson thirdly were the man who gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly had one for his own use, and no money to buy 'em. if it hadn't been for him, i shouldn't hae had a tatie to put in my garden. d'ye think i'd turn after that? no, i'll stick to my side; and if we be in the wrong, so be it: i'll fall with the fallen!" "well said -- very well said." observed joseph. -- "however, folks, i must be moving now: upon my life i must. pa'son thirdly will be waiting at the church gates, and there's the woman a-biding outside in the waggon." "joseph poorgrass, don't be so miserable! pa'son thirdly won't mind. he's a generous man; he's found me in tracts for years, and i've consumed a good many in the course of a long and shady life; but he's never been the man to cry out at the expense. sit down." the longer joseph poorgrass remained, the less his spirit was troubled by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon. the minutes glided by uncounted, until the evening shades began perceptibly to deepen, and the eyes of the three were but sparkling points on the surface of darkness. coggan's repeater struck six from his pocket in the usual still small tones. at that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the door opened to admit the figure of gabriel oak, followed by the maid of the inn bearing a candle. he stared sternly at the one lengthy and two round faces of the sitters, which confronted him with the expressions of a fiddle and a couple of warming-pans. joseph poor- grass blinked, and shrank several inches into the back- ground. "upon my soul, i'm ashamed of you; 'tis disgraceful, joseph, disgraceful!" said gabriel, indignantly. "coggan, you call yourself a man, and don't know better than this." coggan looked up indefinitely at oak, one or other of his eyes occasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were not a member, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality. "don't take on so, shepherd!" said mark clark, looking reproachfully at the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interest for his eyes. "nobody can hurt a dead woman." at length said coggan, with the precision of a machine. "all that could be done for her is done -- she's beyond us: and why should a man put himself in a tearing hurry for lifeless clay that can neither feel nor see, and don't know what you do with her at all? if she'd been alive, i would have been the first to help her. if she now wanted victuals and drink, i'd pay for it, money down. but she's dead, and no speed of ours will bring her to life. the woman's past us -- time spent upon her is throwed away: why should we hurry to do what's not required? drink, shepherd, and be friends, for to-morrow we may be like her." "we may." added mark clark, emphatically, at once drinking himself, to run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alluded to, jan meanwhile merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in a song: -- to-mor-row, to-mor-row! and while peace and plen-ty i find at my board, with a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row, with my friends will i share what to-day may af-ford, and let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row. to-mor -- row', to-mor -- "do hold thy horning, jan!" said oak; and turning upon poorgrass, " as for you, joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holy ways, you are as drunk as you can stand." "no, shepherd oak, no! listen to reason, shepherd. all that's the matter with me is the affliction called a multiplying eye, and that's how it is i look double to you-i mean, you look double to me." a multiplying eye is a very bad thing." said mark clark. "it always comes on when i have been in a public -- house a little time." said joseph poorgrass, meekly. "yes; i see two of every sort, as if i were some holy man living in the times of king noah and entering into the ark.... y-y-y-yes." he added, becoming much affected by the picture of himself as a person thrown away, and shedding tears; "i feel too good for england: i ought to have lived in genesis by rights, like the other men of sacrifice, and then i shouldn't have b-b-been called a d-d-drunkard in such a way!" "i wish you'd show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whining there!" "show myself a man of spirit? ... ah, well! let me take the name of drunkard humbly-iet me be a man of contrite knees-iet it be! l know that i always do say "please god" afore i do anything, from my getting up to my going down of the same, and i be willing to take as much disgrace as there is in that holy act. hah, yes! ... but not a man of spirit? have i ever allowed the toe of pride to be lifted against my hinder parts without groaning manfully that i question the right to do so? i inquire that query boldly?" "we can't say that you have, hero poorgrass," admitted jan. "never have i allowed such treatment to pass un- questioned! yet the shepherd says in the face of that rich testimony that i be not a man of spirit! well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!" gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to cake charge of the waggon for the remainder of the journey, made no reply, but, closing the door again upon them, went across to where the vehicle stood, now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewy time. he pulled the horse's head from the large patch of turf it had eaten bare, readjusted the boughs over the coffin, and drove along through the unwholesome night. it had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to be brought and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunate fanny robin who had followed the eleventh from casterbridge through melchester and onwards. but, thanks to boldwood's reticence and oak's generosity, the lover she had followed had never been individualized as troy. gabriel hoped that the whole truth of the matter might not be published till at any rate the girl had been in her grave for a few days, when the interposing barriers of earth and time, and a sense that the events had been somewhat shut into oblivion, would deaden the sting that revelation and invidious remark would have for bathsheba just now. by the time that gabriel reached the old manor- house, her residence, which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark. a man came from the gate and said through the fog, which hung between them like blown flour -- "is that poorgrass with the corpse?" gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson. "the corpse is here, sir." said gabriel. "i have just been to inquire of mrs. troy if she could tell me the reason of the delay. i am afraid it is too late now for the funeral to be performed with proper decency. have you the registrar's certificate?" "no." said gabriel. "i expect poorgrass has that; and he's at the buck's head. i forgot to ask him for it." "then that settles the matter. we'll put off the funeral till to-morrow morning. the body may be brought on to the church, or it may be left here at the farm and fetched by the bearers in the morning. they waited more than an hour, and have now gone home." gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionable plan, notwithstanding that fanny had been an inmate of the farm-house for several years in the lifetime of bathsheba's uncle. visions of several unhappy contingencies which might arise from this delay flitted before him. but his will was not law, and he went indoors to inquire of his mistress what were her wishes on the subject. he found her in an unusual mood: her eyes as she looked up to him were suspicious and perplexed as with some antecedent thought. troy had not yet returned. at first bathsheba assented with a mien of indifference to his proposition that they should go on to the church at once with their burden; but immediately afterwards, following gabriel to the gate, she swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on fanny's account, and desired that the girl might be brought into the house. oak argued upon the convenience of leaving her in the waggon, just as she lay now, with her flowers and green leaves about her, merely wheeling the vehicle into the coach-house till the morning, but to no purpose, "it is unkind and unchristian." she said, "to leave the poor thing in a coach-house all night." very well, then." said the parson. "and i will arrange that the funeral shall take place early to- morrow. perhaps mrs. troy is right in feeling that we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature too thoughtfully we must remember that though she may have erred grievously in leaving her home, she is still our sister: and it is to be believed that god's uncovenanted mercies are extended towards her, and that she is a member of the flock of christ." the parson's words spread into the heavy air with a sad yet unperturbed cadence, and gabriel shed an honest tear. bathsheba seemed unmoved. mr. thirdly then left them, and gabriel lighted a lantern. fetching three other men to assist him, they bore the unconscious truant indoors, placing the coffin on two benches in the middle of a little sitting-room next the hall, as bathsheba directed. every one except gabriel oak then left the room. he still indecisively lingered beside the body. he was deeply troubled at the wretchedly ironical aspect that circumstances were putting on with regard to troy's wife, and at his own powerlessness to counteract them, (n spite of his careful manoeuvring all this day, the very worst event that could in any way have happened in connection with the burial had happened now. oak imagined a terrible discovery resulting from this after- noon's work that might cast over bathsheba's life a shade which the interposition of many lapsing years might but indifferently lighten, and which nothing at all might altogether remove. suddenly, as in a last attempt to save bathsheba from, at any rate, immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at the chalk writing upon the coffinlid. the scrawl was this simple one, " fanny robin and child." gabriel took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the two latter words, leaving visible the inscription "fanny robin" only. he then left the room, and went out quietly by the front door. chapter xliii fanny's revenge "do you want me any longer ma'am? " inquired liddy, at a later hour the same evening, standing by the door with a chamber candlestick in her hand and addressing bathsheba, who sat cheerless and alone in the large parlour beside the first fire of the season. "no more to-night, liddy." "i'll sit up for master if you like, ma'am. i am not at all afraid of fanny, if i may sit in my own room and have a candle. she was such a childlike, nesh young thing that her spirit couldn't appear to anybody if it tried, i'm quite sure." "o no, no! you go to bed. i'll sit up for him myself till twelve o'clock, and if he has not arrived by that time, i shall give him up and go to bed too." it is half-past ten now." "oh! is it?" why don't you sit upstairs, ma'am?" "why don't i?" said bathsheba, desultorily. "it isn't worth while -- there's a fire here, liddy." she suddenly exclaimed in an impulsive and excited whisper, have you heard anything strange said of fanny?" the words had no sooner escaped her than an expres- sion of unutterable regret crossed her face, and she burst into tears. "no -- not a word!" said liddy, looking at the weeping woman with astonishment. "what is it makes you cry so, ma'am; has anything hurt you?" she came to bathsheba's side with a face full of sympathy. "no, liddy-i don't want you any more. i can hardly say why i have taken to crying lately: i never used to cry. good-night." liddy then left the parlour and closed the door. bathsheba was lonely and miserable now; not lone- lier actually than she had been before her marriage; but her loneliness then was to that of the present time as the solitude of a mountain is to the solitude of a cave. and within the last day or two had come these disquieting thoughts about her husband's past. her wayward sentiment that evening concerning fanny's temporary resting-place had been the result of a strange complication of impulses in bathsheba's bosom. per- haps it would be more accurately described as a determined rebellion against her prejudices, a revulsion from a lower instinct of uncharitableness, which would have withheld all sympathy from the dead woman, be- cause in life she had preceded bathsheba in the atten- tions of a man whom bathsheba had by no means ceased from loving, though her love was sick to death just now with the gravity of a further misgiving. in five or ten minutes there was another tap at the door. liddy reappeared, and coming in a little way stood hesitating, until at length she said,!maryann has just heard something very strange, but i know it isn't true. and we shall be sure to know the rights of it in a day or two." "what is it?" "oh, nothing connected with you or us, ma'am. it is about fanny. that same thing you have heard." "i have heard nothing." "i mean that a wicked story is got to weatherbury within this last hour -- that -- --" liddy came close to her mistress and whispered the remainder of the sentence slowly into her ear, inclining her head as she spoke in the direction of the room where fanny lay. bathsheba trembled from head to foot. "i don't believe it!" she said, excitedly. "and there's only one name written on the coffin-cover." "nor i, ma'am. and a good many others don't; for we should surely have been told more about it if it had been true -- don't you think so, ma'am?" "we might or we might not." bathsheba turned and looked into the fire, that liddy might not see her face. finding that her mistress was going to say no more, liddy glided out, closed the door softly, and went to bed. bathsheba's face, as she continued looking into the fire that evening, might have excited solicitousness on her account even among those who loved her least. the sadness of fanny robin's fate did not make bath- sheba's glorious, although she was the esther to this poor vashti, and their fates might be supposed to stand in some respects as contrasts to each other. when liddy came into the room a second time the beautiful eyes which met hers had worn a listless, weary look- when she went out after telling the story they had ex- pressed wretchedness in full activity. her simple country nature, fed on old-fashioned principles, was troubled by that which would have troubled a woman of the world very little, both fanny and her child, if she had one, being dead. bathsheba had grounds for conjecturing a connection between her own history and the dimly suspected tragedy of fanny's end which oak and boldwood never for a moment credited her with possessing. the meeting with the lonely woman on the previous saturday night had been unwitnessed and unspoken of. oak may have had the best of intentions in withholding for as many days as possible the details of what had happened to fanny; but had he known that bathsheba's perceptions had already been exercised in the matter, he would have done nothing to lengthen the minutes of suspense she was now undergoing, when the certainty which must terminate it would be the worst fact suspected after all. she suddenly felt a longing desire to speak to some one stronger than herself, and so get strength to sustain her surmised position with dignity and her lurking doubts with stoicism. where could she find such a friend? nowhere in the house. she was by far the coolest of the women under her roof. patience and suspension of judgement for a few hours were what she wanted to learn, and there was nobody to teach her. might she but go to gabriel oak! -- but that could not be. what a way oak had, she thought, of enduring things. boldwood, who seemed so much deeper and higher and stronger in feeling than gabriel, had not yet learnt, any more than she herself, the simple lesson which oak showed a mastery of by every turn and look he gave -- that among the multitude of interests by which he was surrounded, those which affected his personal wellbeing were not the most absorbing and important in his eyes. oak meditatively looked upon the horizon of circumstances without any special regard to his own standpoint in the midst. that was how she would wish to be. but then oak was not racked by incertitude upon the inmost matter of his bosom, as she was at this moment. oak knew all about fanny that he wished to know -- she felt convinced of that. if she were to go to him now at once and say no more than these few words,!what is the truth of the story?" he would feel bound in honour to tell her. it would be an inexpressible relief. no further speech would need to be uttered. he knew her so well that no eccentricity of behaviour in her would alarm him. she flung a cloak round her, went to the door and opened it. every blade, every twig was still. the air was yet thick with moisture, though somewhat less dense than during the afternoon, and a steady smack of drops upon the fallen leaves under the boughs was almost musical in its soothing regularity. lt seemed better to be out of the house than within it, and bathsheba closed the door, and walked slowly down the lane till she came opposite to gabriel's cottage, where he now lived alone, having left coggan's house through being pinched for room. there was a light in one window only', and that was downstairs. the shutters were not closed, nor was any blind or curtain drawn over the window, neither robbery nor observation being a contingency which could do much injury to the occupant of the domicile. yes, it was gabriel himself who was sitting up: he was reading, from her standing-place in the road she could see him plainly, sitting quite still, his light curly head upon his hand, and only occasionally looking up to snuff the candle which stood beside him. at length he looked at the clock, seemed surprised at the lateness of the hour, closed his book, and arose. he was going to bed, she knew, and if she tapped it must be done at once. alas for her resolve! she felt she could not do it, not for worlds now could she give a hint about her misery to him, much less ask him plainly for information on the cause of fanny's death. she must suspect, and guess, and chafe, and bear it all alone. like a homeless wanderer she lingered by the bank, as if lulled and fascinated by the atmosphere of content which seemed to spread from that little dwelling, and was so sadly lacking in her own. gabriel appeared in an upper room, placed his light in the window-bench, and then -- knelt down to pray. the contrast of the picture with her rebellious and agitated existence at this same time was too much for her to bear to look upon longer. it was not for her to make a truce with trouble by any such means. she must tread her giddy distracting measure to its last note, as she had begun it. with a swollen heart she went again up the lane, and entered her own door. more fevered now by a reaction from the first feelings which oak's example had raised in her, she paused in the hall, looking at the door of the room wherein fanny lay. she locked her fingers, threw back her head, and strained her hot hands rigidly across her forehead, saying, with a hysterical sob, "would to god you would speak and tell me your secret, fanny! . , . o, i hope, hope it is not true that there are two of you! ... if i could only look in upon you for one little minute, i should know all!" a few moments passed, and she added, slowly, "and i will" bathsheba in after times could never gauge the mood which carried her through the actions following this murmured resolution on this memorable evening of her life. she went to the lumber-closet for a screw-driver. at the end of a short though undefined time she found herself in the small room, quivering with emotion, a mist before her eyes, and an excruciating pulsation in her brain, standing beside the uncovered coffin of the girl whose conjectured end had so entirely engrossed her, and saying to herself in a husky voice as she gazed within -- "it was best to know the worst, and i know it now!" she was conscious of having brought about this situation by a series of actions done as by one in an extravagant dream; of following that idea as to method, which had burst upon her in the hall with glaring obviousness, by gliding to the top of the stairs, assuring herself by listening to the heavy breathing of her maids that they were asleep, gliding down again, turning the handle of the door within which the young girl lay, and deliberately setting herself to do what, if she had antici- pated any such undertaking at night and alone, would have horrified her, but which, when done, was not so dreadful as was the conclusive proof of her husband's conduct which came with knowing beyond doubt the last chapter of fanny's story. bathsheba's head sank upon her bosom, and the breath which had been bated in suspense, curiosity, and interest, was exhaled now in the form of a whispered wail: "oh-h-h!" she said, and the silent room added length to her moan. her tears fell fast beside the unconscious pair in the coffin: tears of a complicated origin, of a nature inde- scribable, almost indefinable except as other than those of simple sorrow. assuredly their wonted fires must have lived in fanny's ashes when events were so shaped as to chariot her hither in this natural, unobtrusive, yet effectual manner. the one feat alone -- that of dying -- by which a mean condition could be resolved into a grand one, fanny had achieved. and to that had destiny subjoined this rencounter to-night, which had, in bathsheba's wild imagining, turned her companion's failure to success, her humiliation to triumph, her luck- lessness to ascendency; et had thrown over herself a garish light of mockery, and set upon all things about her an ironical smile. fanny's face was framed in by that yellow hair of hers; and there was no longer much room for doubt as to the origin of the curl owned by troy. in bath- sheba's heated fancy the innocent white countenance expressed a dim triumphant consciousness of the pain she was retaliating for her pain with all the merciless rigour of the mosaic law: "burning for burning; wound for wound: strife for strife. bathsheba indulged in contemplations of escape from her position by immediate death, which thought she, though it was an inconvenient and awful way, had limits to its inconvenience and awfulness that could not be overpassed; whilst the shames of life were measureless. yet even this scheme of extinction by death was out tamely copying her rival's method without the reasons which had glorified it in her rival's case. she glided rapidly up and down the room, as was mostly her habit hen excited, her hands hanging clasped in front of her, as she thought and in part expressed in broken words: o, i hate her, yet i don't mean that i hate her, for it is grievous and wicked; and yet i hate her a little! yes, my flesh insists upon hating her, whether my spirit is willing or no!... if she had only lived, i could ave been angry and cruel towards her with some justifi- cation; but to be vindictive towards a poor dead woman recoils upon myself. o god, have mercy,! i am miserable at all this!" bathsheba became at this moment so terrified at her own state of mind that she looked around for some sort of refuge from herself. the vision of oak kneeling down that night recurred to her, and with the imitative instinct which animates women she seized upon the idea, resolved to kneel, and, if possible, pray. gabriel had prayed; so would she. she knelt beside the coffin, covered her face with her hands, and for a time the room was silent as a tomb. whether from a purely mechanical, or from any other cause, when bathsheba arose it was with a quieted spirit, and a regret for the antagonistic instincts which had seized upon her just before. in her desire to make atonement she took flowers from a vase by the window, and began laying them around the dead girl's head. bathsheba knew no other way of showing kindness to persons departed than by giving them flowers. she knew not how long she remained engaged thus. she forgot time, life, where she was, what she was doing. a slamming together of the coach-house doors in the yard brought her to her- self again. an instant after, the front door opened and closed, steps crossed the hall, and her husband appeared at the entrance to the room, looking in upon her. he beheld it all by degrees, stared in stupefaction at the scene, as if he thought it an illusion raised by some fiendish incantation. bathsheba, pallid as a corpse on end, gazed back at him in the same wild way. so little are instinctive guesses the fruit of a legitimate induction, that at this moment, as he stood with the door in his hand, troy never once thought of fanny in connection with what he saw. his first confused idea was that somebody in the house had died. "well -- what?" said troy, blankly. "i must go! i must go!" said bathsheba, to herself more than to him. she came with a dilated eye towards the door, to push past him. "what's the matter, in god's name? who's dead?" said troy. "i cannot say; let me go out. i want air!" she continued. "but no; stay, i insist!" he seized her hand, and then volition seemed to leave her, and she went off into a state of passivity. he, still holding her, came up the room, and thus, hand in hand, troy and bathsheba approached the coffin's side. the candle was standing on a bureau close by them, and the light slanted down, distinctly enkindling the cold features of both mother and babe. troy looked in, dropped his wife's hand, knowledge of it all came over him in a lurid sheen, and he stood still. so still he remained that he could be imagined to have left in him no motive power whatever. the clashes of feeling in all directions confounded one another, produced a neutrality, and there was motion in none. "do you know her?" said bathsheba, in a small enclosed echo, as from the interior of a cell. "i do." said troy. "is it she?" "it is." he had originally stood perfectly erect. and now, in the wellnigh congealed immobility of his frame could be discerned an incipient movement, as in the darkest night may be discerned light after a while. he was gradually sinking forwards. the lines of his features softened, and dismay modulated to illimitable sadness. bathsheba was regarding him from the other side, still with parted lips and distracted eyes. capacity for intense feeling is proportionate to the general intensity of the nature ,and perhaps in all fanny's sufferings, much greater relatively to her strength, there never was a time she suffered in an absolute sense what bathsheba suffered now. what troy did was to sink upon his knees with an indefinable union of remorse and reverence upon his face, and, bending over fanny robin, gently kissed her, as one would kiss an infant asleep to avoid awakening it. at the sight and sound of that, to her, unendurable act, bathsheba sprang towards him. all the strong feelings which had been scattered over her existence since she knew what feeling was, seemed gathered together into one pulsation now. the revulsion from her indignant mood a little earlier, when she had meditated upon compromised honour, forestalment, eclipse in maternity by another, was violent and entire. all that was forgotten in the simple and still strong attachment of wife to husband. she had sighed for her self-completeness then, and now she cried aloud against the severance of the union she had deplored. she flung her arms round troy's neck, exclaiming wildly from the deepest deep of her heart -- "don't -- don't kiss them! o, frank, i can"t bear it-i can't! i love you better than she did: kiss me too, frank -- kiss me! you will, frank, kiss me too!" there was something so abnormal and startling in the childlike pain and simplicity of this appeal from a woman of bathsheba's calibre and independence, that troy, loosening her tightly clasped arms from his neck, looked at her in bewilderment. it was such and unex- pected revelation of all women being alike at heart, even those so different in their accessories as fanny and this one beside him, that troy could hardly seem to believe her to be his proud wife bathsheba. fanny's own spirit seemed to be animating her frame. but this was the mood of a few instants only. when the momentary "i will not kiss you!" he said pushing her away. had the wife now but gone no further. yet, perhaps. under the harrowing circumstances, to speak out was the one wrong act which can be better under- stood, if not forgiven in her, than the right and politic one, her rival being now but a corpse. all the feeling she had been betrayed into showing she drew back to herself again by a strenuous effort of self-command. "what have you to say as your reason?" she asked her bitter voice being strangely low -- quite that of another woman now. "i have to say that i have been a bad, black-hearted man." he answered. less than she." "ah! don't taunt me, madam. this woman is more to me, dead as she is, than ever you were, or are, or can be. if satan had not tempted me with that face of yours, and those cursed coquetries, i should have he turned to fanny then. "but never mind, darling, wife!" at these words there arose from bathsheba's lips a long, low cry of measureless despair and indignation, such a wail of anguish as had never before been heard within those old-inhabited walls. it was the product* of her union with troy. "if she's -- that, -- what -- am i?" she added, as a continuation of the same cry, and sobbing pitifully: and the rarity with her of such abandonment only made the condition more dire. "you are nothing to me -- nothing." said troy, heartlessly. "a ceremony before a priest doesn't make a marriage. i am not morally yours." a vehement impulse to flee from him, to run from this place, hide, and escape his words at any price, not stopping short of death itself, mastered bathsheba now. she waited not an instant, but turned to the door and ran out. chapter xliv under a tree -- reaction bathsheba went along the dark road, neither know- ing nor caring about the direction or issue of her flight. the first time that she definitely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leading into a thicket over- hung by some large oak and beech trees. on looking into the place, it occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on some previous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable thicket was in reality a brake of fern now withering fast. she could think of nothing better to do with her palpitating self than to go in here and hide; and entering, she lighted on a spot sheltered from the damp fog by a reclining trunk, where she sank down upon a tangled couch of fronds and stems. she mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to keep off the breezes, and closed her eyes. whether she slept or not that night bathsheba was not clearly aware. but it was with a freshened exist- ence and a cooler brain that, a long time afterwards, she became conscious of some interesting proceedings which were going on in the trees above her head and around. a coarse-throated chatter was the first sound. it was a sparrow just waking. next: "chee-weeze-weeze-weeze!" from another retreat. it was a finch. third: "tink-tink-tink-tink-a-chink!" from the hedge, it was a robin. "chuck-chuck-chuck!" overhead. a squirrel. then, from the road, "with my ra-ta-ta, and my rum-tum-tum!" it was a ploughboy. presently he came opposite, and she believed from his voice that he was one of the boys on her own farm. he was followed by a shambling tramp of heavy feet, and looking through the ferns bathsheba could just discern in the wan light of daybreak a team of her own horses. they stopped to drink at a pond on the other side of the way'. she watched them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up their heads, drinking again, the water dribbling from their lips in silver threads. there was another flounce, and they came out of the pond, and turned back again towards the farm. she looked further around. day was just dawning, and beside its cool air and colours her heated actions and resolves of the night stood out in lurid contrast. she perceived that in her lap, and clinging to her hair, were red and yellow leaves which had come down from the tree and settled silently upon her during her partial sleep. bathsheba shook her dress to get rid of them, when multitudes of the same family lying round about her rose and fluttered away in the breeze thus created, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing." there was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. from her feet, and between the beautiful yellowing ferns with their feathery arms, the ground sloped downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp, dotted with fungi. a morning mist hung over it now -- a fulsome yet magnificent silvery veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque -- the hedge behind it being in some measure hidden by its hazy luminousness. up the sides of this depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and there a peculiar species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the emerging sun, like scythes. but the general aspect of the swamp was malignant. from its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the essences of evil things in the earth, and in the waters under the earth. the fungi grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves and tree stumps, some exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy tops, others their oozing gills. some were marked with great splotches, red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and others tall and attenuated, with stems like macaroni. some were leathery and of richest browns. the hollow seemed a nursery of pestilences small and great, in the immediate neighbourhood of comfort and health, and bathsheba arose with a tremor at the thought of having passed the night on the brink of so dismal a place. "there were now other footsteps to be heard along the road. bathsheba's nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down out of sight again, and the pedes- trian came into view. he was a schoolboy, with a bag slung over his shoulder containing his dinner, and a hook in his hand. he paused by the gate, and, without looking up, continued murmuring words in tones quite loud enough to reach her ears. "o lord, o lord, o lord, o lord, o lord": -- that i know out o' book. "give us, give us, give us, give us, give us": -- that i know. "grace that, grace that, grace that, grace that": -- that i know." other words followed to the same effect. the boy was of the dunce class apparently; the book was a psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect. in the worst attacks of trouble there appears to be always a super- ficial film of consciousness which is left disengaged and open to the notice of trifles, and bathsheba was faintly amused at the boy's method, till he too passed on. by this time stupor had given place to anxiety, and anxiety began to make room for hunger and thirst. a form now appeared upon the rise on the other side of the swamp, half-hidden by the mist, and came towards bathsheba. the woman -- for it was a woman -- approached with her face askance, as if looking earnestly on all sides of her. when she got a little further round to the left, and drew nearer, bathsheba could see the newcomer's profile against the sunny sky', and knew the wavy sweep from forehead to chin, with neither angle nor decisive line anywhere about it, to be the familiar contour of liddy smallbury. bathsheba's heart bounded with gratitude in the thought that she was not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. "o, liddy!" she said, or attempted to say; but the words had only been framed by her lips; there came no sound. she had lost her voice by exposure to the clogged atmosphere all these hours of night. "o, ma'am! i am so glad i have found you." said the girl, as soon as she saw bathsheba. "you can't come across." bathsheba said in a whisper, which she vainly endeavoured to make loud enough to reach liddy's ears. liddy, not knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp, saying, as she did so, "it will bear me up, i think." bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of liddy crossing the swamp to her there in the morning light. iridescent bubbles of dank subter- ranean breath rose from the sweating sod beside the waiting maid's feet as she trod, hissing as they burst and expanded away to join the vapoury firmament above. liddy did not sink, as bathsheba had anticipated. she landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the beautiful though pale and weary face of her young mistress. "poor thing!" said liddy, with tears in her eyes, do hearten yourself up a little, ma'am. however did -- -- " "i can't speak above a whisper -- my voice is gone for the present." said bathsheba, hurriedly." i suppose the damp air from that hollow has taken it away liddy, don't question me, mind. who sent you -- anybody?" "nobody. i thought, when i found you were not at home, that something cruel had happened. i fancy i heard his voice late last night; and so, knowing something was wrong -- -- " "is he at home?" "no; he left just before i came out." "is fanny taken away?" "not yet. she will soon be -- at nine o'clock." "we won't go home at present, then. suppose we walk about in this wood?" liddy, without exactly understanding everything, or anything, in this episode, assented, and they walked together further among the trees. "but you had better come in, ma'am, and have something to eat. you will die of a chill!" "i shall not come indoors yet -- perhaps never." "shall i get you something to eat, and something else to put over your head besides that little shawl?" "if you will, liddy." liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned with a cloak, hat, some slices of bread and butter, a tea-cup, and some hot tea in a little china jug "is fanny gone?" said bathsheba. "no." said her companion, pouring out the tea. bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly. her voice was then a little clearer, and trifling colour returned to her face. "now we'll walk about again." she said. they wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, bathsheba replying in monosyllables to liddy's prattle, for her mind ran on one subject, and one only. she interrupted with -- "l wonder if fanny is gone by this time?" "i will go and see." she came back with the information that the men were just taking away the corpse; that bathsheba had been inquired for; that she had replied to the effect that her mistress was unwell and could not be seen. "then they think i am in my bedroom?" "yes." liddy then ventured to add:" you said when i first found you that you might never go home again -- you didn't mean it, ma'am?" "no; i've altered my mind. it is only women with no pride in them who run away from their husbands. there is one position worse than that of being found dead in your husband's house from his ill usage, and that is, to be found alive through having gone away to the house of somebody else. i've thought of it all this morning, and i've chosen my course. a runaway wife is an encumbrance to everybody, a burden to herself and a byword -- all of which make up a heap of misery greater than any that comes by staying at home -- though this may include the trifling items of insult, beating, and starvation. liddy, if ever you marry -- god forbid that you ever should! -- you'll find yourself in a fearful situation; but mind this, don't you flinch. stand your ground, and be cut to pieces. that's what i'm going to do." "o, mistress, don't talk so!" said liddy,-taking her hand; "but i knew you had too much sense to bide away. may i ask what dreadful thing it is that has happened between you and him?" "you may ask; but i may not tell." in about ten minutes they returned to the house by a circuitous route, entering at the rear. bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused attic, and her companion followed. "liddy." she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had begun to reassert themselves;" you are to be my confidante for the present -- somebody must be -- and i choose you. well, i shall take up my abode here for a while. will you get a fire lighted, put down a piece of carpet, and help me to make the place comfortable. afterwards, i want you and maryann to bring up that little stump bedstead in the small room, and the be belonging to it, and a table, and some other things. what shall i do to pass the heavy time away?" "hemming handkerchiefs is a very good thing." said liddy. "o no, no! i hate needlework-i always did." "knitting?" "and that, too." "you might finish your sampler. only the carna- tions and peacocks want filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside your aunt" ma'am." "samplers are out of date -- horribly countrified. no liddy, i'll read. bring up some books -- not new ones. i haven't heart to read anything new." "some of your uncle's old ones, ma'am?" "yes. some of those we stowed away in boxes." a faint gleam of humour passed over her face as she said: "bring beaumont and fletcher's maid's tragedy, and the mourning bride, and let me see -- night thoughts, and the vanity of human wishes." "and that story of the black man, who murdered his wife desdemona? it is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now." "now, liddy, you've been looking into my book without telling me; and i said you were not to! how do you know it would suit me? it wouldn't suit me a all." "but if the others do -- -- " "no, they don't; and i won't read dismal books. why should i read dismal books, indeed? bring me love in a village, and maid of the mill, and doctor syntax, and some volumes of the spectator." all that day bathsheba and liddy lived in the attic in a state of barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless as against troy, for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or trouble them at all. bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read, at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose, and listening without much interest to every sound. the sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud received its rays in the east. up against this dark background the west front of the church tower -- the only part of the edifice visible from the farm-house windows -- rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the summit bristling with rays. hereabouts, at six o'clock, the young men of the village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of prisoners' base. the spot had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time immemorial, the old stocks conveniently forming a base facing the boundary of the churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden hard and bare as a pavement by the players. she could see the brown and black heads of the young lads darting about right and left, their white shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun; whilst occasionally a shout and a peal of hearty laughter varied the stillness of the evening air. they continued playing for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and vanished round to the other side behind a yew-tree, which was also half behind a beech, now spreading in one mass of golden foliage, on which the branches traced black lines. "why did the base-players finish their game so suddenly?" bathsheba inquired, the next time that liddy entered the room. "i think 'twas because two men came just then from casterbridge and began putting up grand carved tombstone." said liddy. "the lads went to see whose it was." "do you know?" bathsheba asked. "i don't." said liddy. chapter xlv troy's romanticism when troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first act was to cover the dead from sight. this done he ascended the stairs, and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was, he waited miser- ably for the morning. fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four- and-twenty hours. his day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his intentions regard- ing it. there is always an inertia to be overcome in striking out a new line of conduct -- not more in our- selves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration. twenty pounds having been secured from bathsheba, he had managed to add to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account, which had been seven pounds ten. with this money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all, he had hastily driven from the gate that morning to keep his appointment with fanny robin. on reaching casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and at five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end of the town, and sat himself upon the parapet. the clocks struck the hour, and no fanny appeared. in fact, at that moment she was being robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the union poorhouse -- the first and last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever been honoured with. the quarter went, the half hour. a rush of recollection came upon troy as he waited: this was the second time she had broken a serious engagement with him in anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven o'clock, when he had lingered and watched the stone of the bridge till he knew every lichen upon their face and heard the chink of the ripples underneath till they oppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to the inn for his gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference con- cerning the past, and recklessness about the future, drove on to budmouth races. he reached the race-course at two o'clock, and re- mained either there or in the town till nine, but fanny's image, as it had appeared to him in the sombre shadows of that saturday evening, returned to his mind, backed up by bathsheba's reproaches. he vowed he would not bet, and he kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o'clock in the evening he had diminish his cash only to the extent of a few shillings. he trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that was struck for the first time with a thought that fanny had been really prevented by illness from keeping her promise. this time she could have made no mistake he regretted that he had not remained in casterbridge and made inquiries. reaching home he quietly un- harnessed the horse and came indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him. as soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, troy arose from the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference to bathsheba's whereabouts, a almost oblivious of her existence, he stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. his walk was towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found a newly dug unoccupied grave -- the grave dug the day before for fanny. the position of this having been marked, he hastened on to caster- bridge, only pausing whereon he had last seen fanny alive. reaching the town, troy descended into a side street and entered a pair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, "lester, stone and marble mason." within were lying about stones of all sizes and designs, inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons who had not yet died. troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the want of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. his method of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was that of an absolutely unpractised man. he could not bring him- self to consider, calculate, or economize. he waywardly wished for something, and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery. 'i want a good tomb." he said to the man who stood in a little office within the yard. "i want as good a one as you can give me for twenty- seven pounds," it was all the money he possessed. "that sum to include everything?" "everything. cutting the name, carriage to weather- bury, and erection. and i want it now at once ." "we could not get anything special worked this week. "if you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready immediately." "very well." said troy, impatiently. "let's see what you have." "the best i have in stock is this one," said the stone- cutter, going into a shed." here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with medallions beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone after the same pattern, and here's the coping to enclose the- grave. the slabs are the best of their kind, and i can warrant them "well, i could add the name, and put it up at visitor who wore not a shred of mourning. troy then settled the account and went away. in the afternoon almost done. he waited in the yard till the tomb was way to weatherbury, giving directions to the two men the grave of the person named in the inscription. bridge. he carried rather a heavy basket upon his occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited returning in the darkness, the men and the waggon the work was done, and, on being assured that it was, troy entered weatherbury churchyard about ten had marked the vacant grave early in the morning. it extent from the view of passers along the road -- a spot and bushes of alder, but now it was cleared and made the ground elsewhere. here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow- white and shapely in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border of marble-work uniting them. in the midst was mould, suitable for plants. troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few minutes. when he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst he read the inscription. he hung his lantern on the lowest bough of the yew-tree, and took from his basket flower- roots of several varieties. there were bundles of snow- drop, hyacinth and crocus bulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley, forget-me- not, summer's-farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for the later seasons of the year. troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an im- passive face set to work to plant them. the snowdrops were arranged in a line on the outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the grave. the crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of the summer flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and forget-me-nots over her heart. the remainder were dispersed in the spaces between these. troy, in his prostration at this time, had no percep- tion that in the futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity. deriving his idiosyn- crasies from both sides of the channel, he showed at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the englishman, together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on mawkishness, characteristic of the french. lt was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from troy's lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating power, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above. he felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one came and entered one of the holes of the lantern, whereupon the candle sputtered and went out- troy was weary and it being now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening to increase, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his labour until the day should break. he groped along the wall and over the graves in the dark till he found himself round at the north side. here he entered the porch, and, reclining upon the bench within, fell asleep. chapter xlvi the gurgoyle: its doings the tower of weatherbury church was a square erection of fourteenth-century date, having two stone gurgoyles on each of the four faces of its parapet. of these eight carved protuberances only two at this time continued to serve the purpose of their erection -- that of spouting the water from the lead roof within. one mouth in each front had been closed by bygone church- wardens as superfluous, and two others were broken away and choked -- a matter not of much consequence to the wellbeing of the tower, for the two mouths which still remained open and active were gaping enough to do all the work. it has been sometimes argued that there is no truer criterion of the vitality of any given art-period than the power of the master-spirits of that time in grotesque; and certainly in the instance of gothic art there is no disputing the proposition. weatherbury tower was a somewhat early instance of the use of an ornamental parapet in parish as distinct from cathedral churches, and the gurgoyles, which are the necessary correlatives of a parapet, were exceptionally prominent -- of the boldest cut that the hand could shape, and of the most original design that a human brain could conceive. there was, so to speak, that symmetry in their distortion which is less the characteristic of british than of continental grotesques of the period. all the eight were different from each other. a beholder was con- vinced that nothing on earth could be more hideous than those he saw on the north side until he went round to the south. of the two on this latter face, only that at the south-eastern corner concerns the story. it was too human to be called like a dragon, too impish to be like a man, too animal to be like a fiend, and not enough like a bird to be called a griffin. this horrible stone entity was fashioned as if covered with a wrinkled hide; it had short, erect ears, eyes starting from their sockets, and its fingers and hands were seizing the corners of its mouth, which they thus seemed to pull open to give free passage to the water it vomited. the lower row of teeth was quite washed away, though the upper still remained. here and thus, jutting a couple of feet from the wall against which its feet rested as a support, the creature had for four hundred years laughed at the surrounding landscape, voicelessly in dry weather, and in wet with a gurgling and snorting sound. troy slept on in the porch, and the rain increased outside. presently the gurgoyle spat. in due time a small stream began to trickle through the seventy feet of aerial space between its mouth and the ground, which the water-drops smote like duckshot in their accelerated velocity. the stream thickened in substance, and in- creased in power, gradually spouting further and yet further from the side of the tower. when the rain fell in a steady and ceaseless torrent the stream dashed downward in volumes. we follow its course to the ground at this point of time. the end of the liquid parabola has come forward from the wall, has advanced over the plinth mouldings, over a heap of stones, over the marble border, into the midst of fanny robin's grave. the force of the stream had, until very lately, been received upon some loose stones spread thereabout, which had acted as a shield to the soil under the onset. these during the summer had been cleared from the ground, and there was now nothing to resist the down- fall but the bare earth. for several years the stream had not spouted so far from the tower as it was doing on this night, and such a contingency had been over- looked. sometimes this obscure corner received no inhabitant for the space of two or three years, and then it was usually but a pauper, a poacher, or other sinner of undignified sins. the persistent torrent from the gurgoyle's jaws directed all its vengeance into the grave. the rich tawny mould was stirred into motion, and boiled like chocolate. the water accumulated and washed deeper down, and the roar of the pool thus formed spread into the night as the head and chief among other noises of the kind created by the deluging rain. the flowers so carefully planted by fanny's repentant lover began to move and writhe in their bed. the winter-violets turned slowly upside down, and became a mere mat of mud. soon the snowdrop and other bulbs danced in the boiling mass like ingredients in a cauldron. plants of the tufted species were loosened, rose to the surface, and floated of. troy did not awake from his comfortless sleep till it was broad day. not having been in bed for two nights his shoulders felt stiff his feet tender, and his head heavy. he remembered his position, arose, shivered, took the spade, and again went out. the rain had quite ceased, and the sun was shining through the green, brown, and yellow leaves, now sparkling and varnished by the raindrops to the bright- ness of similar effects in the landscapes of ruysdael and hobbema, and full of all those infinite beauties that arise from the union of water and colour with high lights. the air was rendered so transparent by the heavy fall of rain that the autumn hues of the middle distance were as rich as those near at hand, and the remote fields intercepted by the angle of the tower ap- peared in the same plane as the tower itself. he entered the gravel path which would take him behind the tower. the path, instead of being stony as it had been the night before, was browned over with a thin coating of mud. at one place in the path he saw a tuft of stringy roots washed white and clean as a bundle of tendons. he picked it up -- surely it could not be one of the primroses he had planted? he saw a bulb, another, and another as he advanced. beyond doubt they were the crocuses. with a face of perplexed dismay troy turned the corner and then beheld the wreck the stream had made. the pool upon the grave had soaked away into the ground, and in its place was a hollow. the disturbed earth was washed over the grass and pathway in the guise of the brown mud he had already seen, and it spotted the marble tombstone with the same stains. nearly all the flowers were washed clean out of the ground, and they lay, roots upwards, on the spots whither they had been splashed by the stream. troy's brow became heavily contracted. he set his teeth closely, and his compressed lips moved as those of one in great pain. this singular accident, by a strange confluence of emotions in him, was felt as the sharpest sting of all. troy's face was very expressive, and any observer who had seen him now would hardly have believed him to be a man who had laughed, and sung, and poured love-trifles into a woman's ear. to curse his miserable lot was at first his impulse, but even that lowest stage of rebellion needed an activity whose absence was necessarily antecedent to the existence of the morbid misery which wrung him. the sight, coming as it did, superimposed upon the other dark scenery of the previous days, formed a sort of climax to the whole panorama, and it was more than he could endure. sanguine by nature, troy had a power of eluding grief by simply adjourning it. he could put off the consideration of any particular spectre till the matter had become old and softened by time. the planting of flowers on fanny's grave had been perhaps but a species of elusion of the primary grief, and now it was as if his intention had been known and circumvented. almost for the first time in his life, troy, as he stood by this dismantled grave, wished himself another man. lt is seldom that a person with much animal spirit does not feel that the fact of his life being his own is the one qualification which singles it out as a more hopeful life than that of others who may actually resemble him in every particular. troy had felt, in his transient way, hundreds of times, that he could not envy other people their condition, because the possession of that condition would have necessitated a different personality, when he desired no other than his own. he had not minded the peculiarities of his birth, the vicissitudes of his life, the meteorlike uncertainty of all that related to him, because these appertained to the hero of his story, without whom there would have been no story at all for him; and it seemed to be only in the nature of things that matters would right themselves at some proper date and wind up well. this very morning the illusion completed its disappearance, and, as it were, all of a sudden, troy hated himself. the suddenness was probably more apparent than real. a coral reef which just comes short of the ocean surface is no more to the horizon than if it had never been begun, and the mere finishing stroke is what often appears to create an event which has long been potentially an accomplished thing. he stood and mediated -- a miserable man. whither should he go? " he that is accursed, let him be accursed still." was the pitiless anathema written in this spoliated effort of his new-born solicitousness. a man who has spent his primal strength in journeying in one direction has not much spirit left for reversing his course. troy had, since yesterday, faintly reversed his; but the merest opposition had disheartened him. to turn about would have been hard enough under the greatest providential encouragement; but to find that providence, far from helping him into a new course, or showing any wish that he might adopt one, actually jeered his first trembling and critical attempt in that kind, was more than nature could bear. he slowly withdrew from the grave. he did not attempt to fill up the hole, replace the flowers, or do anything at all. he simply threw up his cards and forswore his game for that time and always. going out of the churchyard silently and unobserved -- none of the villagers having yet risen -- he passed down some fields at the back, and emerged just as secretly upon the high road. shortly afterwards he had gone from the village. meanwhile, bathsheba remained a voluntary prisoner in the attic. the door was kept locked, except during the entries and exits of liddy, for whom a bed had been arranged in a small adjoining room. the light of troy's lantern in the churchyard was noticed about ten o'clock by the maid-servant, who casually glanced from the window in that direction whilst taking her supper, and she called bathsheba's attention to it. they looked curiously at the phenomenon for a time, until liddy was sent to bed. bathsheba did not sleep very heavily that night. when her attendant was unconscious and softly breath- ing in the next room, the mistress of the house was still looking out of the window at the faint gleam spreading from among the trees -- not in a steady shine, but blinking like a revolving coastlight, though this appearance failed to suggest to her that a person was passing and repassing in front of it. bathsheba sat here till it began to rain, and the light vanished, when she withdrew to lie restlessly in her bed and re-enact in a worn mind the lurid scene of yesternight. almost before the first faint sign of dawn appeared she arose again, and opened the window to obtain a full breathing of the new morning air, the panes being now wet with trembling tears left by the night rain, each one rounded with a pale lustre caught from primrose- hued slashes through a cloud low down in the awaken- ing sky. from the trees came the sound of steady dripping upon the drifted leaves under them, and from the direction of the church she could hear another noise -- peculiar, and not intermittent like the rest, the purl of water falling into a pool. liddy knocked at eight o'clock, and bathsheba un- locked the door. "what a heavy rain we've had in the night, ma'am!" said liddy, when her inquiries about breakfast had been made. "yes, very heavy." "did you hear the strange noise from the church yard?" "i heard one strange noise. i've been thinking it must have been the water from the tower spouts." "well, that's what the shepherd was saying, ma'am. he's now gone on to see." "oh! gabriel has been here this morning!" "only just looked in in passing -- quite in his old way, which i thought he had left off lately. but the tower spouts used to spatter on the stones, and we are puzzled, for this was like the boiling of a pot." not being able to read, think, or work, bathsheba asked liddy to stay and breakfast with her. the tongue of the more childish woman still ran upon recent events. "are you going across to the church, ma'am?" she asked. "not that i know of." said bathsheba. "i thought you might like to go and see where they have put fanny. the trees hide the place from your window." bathsheba had all sorts of dreads about meeting her husband. "has mr. troy been in to-night?" she said "no, ma'am; i think he's gone to budmouth. budmouth! the sound of the word carried with it a much diminished perspective of him and his deeds; there were thirteen miles interval betwixt them now. she hated questioning liddy about her husband's movements, and indeed had hitherto sedulously avoided doing so; but now all the house knew that there had been some dreadful disagreement between them, and it was futile to attempt disguise. bathsheba had reached a stage at which people cease to have any appreciative regard for public opinion. "what makes you think he has gone there?" she said. "laban tall saw him on the budmouth road this morning before breakfast." bathsheba was momentarily relieved of that wayward heaviness of the past twenty-four hours which had quenched the vitality of youth in her without sub- stituting the philosophy of maturer years, and the resolved to go out and walk a little way. so when breakfast was over, she put on her bonnet, and took a direction towards the church. it was nine o'clock, and the men having returned to work again from their first meal, she was not likely to meet many of them in the road. knowing that fanny had been laid in the reprobates' quarter of the graveyard, called in the parish "behind church." which was invisible from the road, it was impossible to resist the impulse to enter and look upon a spot which, from nameless feelings, she at the same time dreaded to see. she had been unable to overcome an impression that some connection existed between her rival and the light through the trees. bathsheba skirted the buttress, and beheld the hole and the tomb, its delicately veined surface splashed and stained just as troy had seen it and left it two hours earlier. on the other side of the scene stood gabriel. his eyes, too, were fixed on the tomb, and her arrival having been noiseless, she had not as yet attracted his attention. bathsheba did not at once perceive that the grand tomb and the disturbed grave were fanny's, and she looked on both sides and around for some humbler mound, earthed up and clodded in the usual way. then her eye followed oak's, and she read the words with which the inscription opened: -- "erected by francis troy in beloved memory of fanny robin." oak saw her, and his first act was to gaze inquiringly and learn how she received this knowledge of the authorship of the work, which to himself had caused considerable astonishment. but such discoveries did not much affect her now. emotional convulsions seemed to have become the commonplaces of her history, and she bade him good morning, and asked him to fill in the hole with the spade which was standing by. whilst oak was doing as she desired, bathsheba collected the flowers, and began planting them with that sympathetic manipulation of roots and leaves which is so conspicuous in a woman's gardening, and which flowers seem to understand and thrive upon. she requested oak to get the churchwardens to turn the leadwork at the mouth of the gurgoyle that hung gaping down upon them, that by this means the stream might be directed sideways, and a repetition of the accident prevented. finally, with the superfluous magnanimity of a woman whose narrower instincts have brought down bitterness upon her instead of love, she wiped the mud spots from the tomb as if she rather liked its words than otherwise, chapter xlvii adventures by the shore troy wandered along towards the south. a composite feeling, made up of disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer's life, gloomily images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general averseness to his wife's society, impelled him to seek a home in any place on earth save weatherbury. the sad accessories of fanny's end confronted him as vivid pictures which threatened to be indelible, and made life in bathsheba's house intolerable. at three in the afternoon he found himself at the foot of a slope more than a mile in length, which ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying parallel with the shore, and forming a monotonous barrier between the basin of cultivated country inland and the wilder scenery of the coast. up the hill stretched a road nearly straight and perfectly white, the two sides approaching each other in a gradual taper till they met the sky at the top about two miles off. through- out the length of this narrow and irksome inclined plane not a sign of life was visible on this garish afternoon troy toiled up the road with a languor and depression greater than any he had experienced for many a day and year before. the air was warm and muggy, and the top seemed to recede as he approached. at last he reached the summit, and a wide and novel prospect burst upon him with an effect almost like that of the pacific upon balboa's gaze. the broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had a semblance of being etched thereon to a degree not deep enough to disturb its general evenness, stretched the whole width of his front and round to the right, where, near the town and port of budmouth, the sun bristled down upon it, and banished all colour, to substitute in its place a clear oily polish. nothing moved in sky, land, or sea, except a frill of milkwhite foam along the nearer angles of the shore, shreds of which licked the contiguous stones like tongues. he descended and came to a small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs. troy's nature freshened within him; he thought he would rest and bathe here before going farther. he undressed and plunged in. inside the cove the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being smooth as a pond, and to get a little of the ocean swell, troy presently swam between the two projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of hercules to this miniature mediterranean. unfortunately for troy a current unknown to him existed outside, which, un- important to craft of any burden, was awkward for a swimmer who might be taken in it unawares. troy found himself carried to the left and then round in a swoop out to sea. he now recollected the place and its sinister character. many bathers had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and, like gonzalo also, had been unanswered; and troy began to deem it possible that he might be added to their number. not a boat of any kind was at present within sight, but far in the distance budmouth lay upon the sea, as it were quietly regarding his efforts, and beside the town the harbour showed its position by a dim meshwork of ropes and spars. after wellnigh exhausting himself in attempts to get back to the mouth of the cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper than was his wont, keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils, turning upon his back a dozen times over, swimming en papillon and so on, troy resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight incline, and so endeavour to reach the shore at any point, merely giving himself a gentle impetus inwards whilst carried on in the general direc- tion of the tide. this, necessarily a slow process, he found to be not altogether so difficult, and though there was no choice of a landing-place -- the objects on shore passing by him in a sad and slow procession -- he per- ceptibly approached the extremity of a spit of land yet further to the right, now well defined against the sunny portion of the horizon. while the swimmer's eye's were fixed upon the spit as his only means of salvation on this side of the unknown, a moving object broke the outline of the extremity, and immediately a ship's boat appeared manned with several sailor lads, her bows towards the sea. all troy's vigour spasmodically revived to prolong the struggle yet a little further. swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to hail them, splashing upon the waves, and shouting with all his might. from the position of the setting sun his white form was distinctly visible upon the now deep-hued bosom of the sea to the east of the boat, and the men saw him at once. backing their oars and putting the boat about, they pulled towards him with a will, and in five or six minutes from the time of his first halloo, two of the sailors hauled him in over the stern. they formed part of a brig's crew, and had come ashore for sand. lending him what little clothing they could spare among them as a slight protection against late they made again towards the roadstead where their and now night drooped slowly upon the wide watery levels in front; and at no great distance from them, where the shoreline curved round, and formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of points of yellow light began to start into existence, denoting the spot to be the site of budmouth, where the lamps were being lighted along the parade. the cluck of their oars was the only sound of any distinctness upon the sea, and as they laboured amid the thickening shades the lamplights grew larger, each appearing to send a flaming sword deep down into the waves before it, until there arose, among other dim shapes of the kind, the form of the vessel for which they were bound. chapter xlviii doubts arise -- doubts linger bathsheba underwent the enlargement of her husband's absence from hours to days with a slight feeling of surprise, and a slight feeling of relief; yet neither sensation rose at any time far above the level commonly designated as indifference. she belonged to him: the certainties of that position were so well defined, and the reasonable probabilities of its issue so bounded that she could not speculate on contingencies. taking no further interest in herself as a splendid woman, she acquired the indifferent feelings of an outsider in contem- plating her probable fate as a singular wretch; for bath- sheba drew herself and her future in colours that no reality could exceed for darkness. her original vigorous pride of youth had sickened, and with it had declined all her anxieties about coming years, since anxiety recognizes a better and a worse alternative, and bath- sheba had made up her mind that alternatives on any noteworthy scale had ceased for her. soon, or later -- and that not very late -- her husband would be home again. and then the days of their tenancy of the upper farm would be numbered. there had origin- ally been shown by the agent to the estate some distrust of bathsheba's tenure as james everdene's successor, on the score of her sex, and her youth, and her beauty; but the peculiar nature of her uncle's will, his own frequent testimony before his death to her cleverness in such a pursuit, and her vigorous marshalling of the numerous flocks and herds which came suddenly into her hands before negotiations were concluded, had won confidence in her powers, and no further objections had been raised. she had latterly been in great doubt as to what the legal effects of her marriage would be upon her position; but no notice had been taken as yet of her change of name, and only one point was clear -- that in the event of her own or her husband's inability to meet the agent at the forthcoming january rent-day, very little consideration would be shown, and, for that matter, very little would be deserved. once out of the farm, the approach of poverty would be sure. hence bathsheba lived in a perception that her purposes were broken of. she was not a woman who could hope on without good materials for the process, differing thus from the less far-sighted and energetic, though more petted ones of the sex, with whom hope goes on as a sort of clockwork which the merest food and shelter are sufficient to wind up; and perceiving clearly that her mistake had been a fatal one, she accepted her position, and waited coldly for the end. the first saturday after troy's departure she went to casterbridge alone, a journey she had not before taken since her marriage. on this saturday bathsheba was passing slowly on foot through the crowd of rural business-men gathered as usual in front of the market- house, who were as usual gazed upon by the burghers with feelings that those healthy lives were dearly paid for by exclusion from possible aldermanship, when a man, who had apparently been following her, said some words to another on her left hand. bathsheba's ears were keen as those of any wild animal, and she dis- tinctly heard what the speaker said, though her back was towards him "i am looking for mrs. troy. is that she there?" "yes; that's the young lady, i believe." said the the person addressed. "i have some awkward news to break to her. her husband is drowned." as if endowed with the spirit of prophecy, bathsheba gasped out, "no, it is not true; it cannot be true!" then she said and heard no more. the ice of self- command which had latterly gathered over her was broken, and the currents burst forth again, and over whelmed her. a darkness came into her eyes, and she fell. but not to the ground. a gloomy man, who had been observing her from under the portico of the old corn-exchange when she passed through the group without, stepped quickly to her side at the moment of her exclamation, and caught her in his arms as she sank down. "what is it?" said boldwood, looking up at the bringer of the big news, as he supported her. "her husband was drowned this week while bathing in lulwind cove. a coastguardsman found his clothes, and brought them into budmouth yesterday." thereupon a strange fire lighted up boldwood's eye, and his face flushed with the suppressed excitement of an unutterable thought. everybody's glance was now centred upon him and the unconscious bathsheba. he lifted her bodily off the ground, and smoothed down the folds of her dress as a child might have taken a storm-beaten bird and arranged its ruffled plumes, and bore her along the pavement to the king's arms inn. here he passed with her under the archway into a private room; and by the time he had deposited -- so lothly -- the precious burden upon a sofa, bathsheba had opened her eyes. remembering all that had occurred, she murmured, "i want to go home!" boldwood left the room. he stood for a moment in the passage to recover his senses. the experience had been too much for his consciousness to keep up with, and now that he had grasped it it had gone again. for those few heavenly, golden moments she had been in his arms. what did it matter about her not knowing it? she had been close to his breast; he had been close to hers. he started onward again, and sending a woman to her, went out to ascertain all the facts of the case. these appeared to be limited to what he had already heard. he then ordered her horse to be put into the gig, and when all was ready returned to inform her. he found that, though still pale and unwell, she had in the meantime sent for the budmouth man who brought the tidings, and learnt from him all there was to know. being hardly in a condition to drive home as she had driven to town, boldwood, with every delicacy of manner and feeling, offered to get her a driver, or to give her a seat in his phaeton, which was more com- fortable than her own conveyance. these proposals bathsheba gently declined, and the farmer at once de- parted. about half-an-hour later she invigorated herself by an effort, and took her seat and the reins as usual-in external appearance much as if nothing had happened. she went out of the town by a tortuous back street, and drove slowly along, unconscious of the road and the scene. the first shades of evening were showing them- selves when bathsheba reached home, where, silently alighting and leaving the horse in the hands of the boy, she proceeded at once upstairs. liddy met her on the landing. the news had preceded bathsheba to weather- bury by half-an-hour, and liddy looked inquiringly into her mistress's face. bathsheba had nothing to say. she entered her bedroom and sat by the window, and thought and thought till night enveloped her, and the extreme lines only of her shape were visible. somebody came to the door, knocked, and opened it. "well, what is it, liddy?" she said. "i was thinking there must be something got for you to wear." said liddy, with hesitation. "what do you mean?" "mourning." "no, no, no." said bathsheba, hurriedly. "but i suppose there must be something done for poor -- -- " "not at present, i think. it is not necessary." "why not, ma'am?" "because he's still alive." "how do you know that?" said liddy, amazed. "i don't know it. but wouldn't it have been different, or shouldn't i have heard more, or wouldn't they have found him, liddy? -- or-i don't know how it is, but death would have been different from how this is. i am perfectly convinced that he is still alive!" bathsheba remained firm in this opinion till monday, when two circumstances conjoined to shake it. the first was a short paragraph in the local newspaper, which, beyond making by a methodizing pen formidable pre- sumptive evidence of troy's death by drowning, con- tained the important testimony of a young mr. barker, m.d., of budmouth, who spoke to being an eyewitness of the accident, in a letter to the editor. in this he stated that he was passing over the cliff on the remoter side of the cove just as the sun was setting. at that time he saw a bather carried along in the current outside the mouth of the cove, and guessed in an instant that there was but a poor chance for him unless he should be possessed of unusual muscular powers. he drifted behind a projection of the coast, and mr. barker followed along the shore in the same direction. but by the time that he could reach an elevation sufficiently great to command a view of the sea beyond, dusk had set in, and nothing further was to be seen. the other circumstance was the arrival of his clothes, when it became necessary for her to examine and identify them -- though this had virtually been done long before by those who inspected the letters in his pockets. it was so evident to her in the midst of her agitation that troy had undressed in the full conviction of dressing again almost immediately, that the notion that anything but death could have prevented him was a perverse one to entertain. then bathsheba said to herself that others were assured in their opinion; strange that she should not be. a strange reflection occurred to her, causing her face to flush. suppose that troy had followed fanny into another world. had he done this intentionally, yet contrived to make his death appear like an accident? nevertheless, this thought of how the apparent might differ from the real-made vivid by her bygone jealousy of fanny, and the remorse he had shown that night -- did not blind her to the perception of a likelier difference, less tragic, but to herself far more disastrous. when alone late that evening beside a small fire, and much calmed down, bathsheba took troy's watch into her hand, which had been restored to her with the rest of the articles belonging to him. she opened the case as he had opened it before her a week ago. there was the little coil of pale hair which had been as the fuze to this great explosion. "he was hers and she was his; they should be gone together." she said. "i am nothing to either of them, and why should i keep her hair?" she took it in her hand, and held it over the fire." no-i'll not burn it -i'll keep it in memory of her, poor thing!" she added, snatching back her hand. chapter xlix oak's advancement -- a great hope the later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay thick upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods. bathsheba, having previously been living in a state of suspended feeling which was not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which was not precisely peacefulness. while she had known him to be alive she could have thought of his death with equanimity; but now that it might be she had lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still. she kept the farm going, raked in her profits without caring keenly about them, and expended money on ventures because she had done so in bygone days, which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitely removed from her present. she looked back upon that past over a great gulf, as if she were now a dead person, having the faculty of meditation still left in her, by means of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of the poet's story, she could sit and ponder what a gift life used to be. however, one excellent result of her general apathy was the long-delayed installation of oak as bailiff; but he having virtually exercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyond the substantial in- crease of wages it brought, was little more than a nominal one addressed to the outside world. boldwood lived secluded and inactive. much of his wheat and all his barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain. it sprouted, grew into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls. the strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste became the subject of whispered talk among all the people round; and it was elicited from one of boldwood's men that forgetfulness had nothing to do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to his corn as many times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do. the sight of the pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemed to arouse boldwood, and he one evening sent for oak. whether it was sug- gested by bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not, the farmer proposed at the interview that gabriel should undertake the superintendence of the lower farm as well as of bathsheba's, because of the necessity boldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibility of discovering a more trustworthy man. gabriel's malig- nant star was assuredly setting fast. bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal-for oak was obliged to consult her -- at first languidly objected. she considered that the two farms together were too extensive for the observation of one man. boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than commercial reasons, suggested that oak should be furnished with a horse for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty, the two farms lying side by side. boldwood did not directly communicate with her during these negotiations, only speaking to oak, who was the go-between throughout. all was harmoniously arranged at last, and we now see oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trotting the length breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit of surveillance, as if the crops belonged to him -- the actual mistress of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in their respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion. out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in the parish that gabriel oak was feathering his nest fast. "whatever d'ye think." said susan tall," gable oak is coming it quite the dand. he now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in 'em, two or three times a-week, and a tall hat a-sundays, and 'a hardly knows the name of smockfrock. when i see people strut enough to he cut up into bantam cocks, i stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!" it was eventually known that gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by bathsheba independent of the fluctua- tions of agricultural profits, had made an engagement with boldwood by which oak was to receive a share of the receipts -- a small share certainly, yet it was money of a higher quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that wages were not. some were beginning to consider oak a "near" man, for though his condition had thus far improved, he lived in no better style than before, occupying the same cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending his stockings, and sometimes even making his bed with his own hands. but as oak was not only provokingly indifferent to public opinion, but a man who clung persistently to old habits and usages, simply because they were old, there was room for doubt as to his motives. a great hope had latterly germinated in boldwood, whose unreasoning devotion to bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness which neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could weaken or destroy. this fevered hope had grown up again like a grain of mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecture that troy was drowned. he nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned the contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness of the dream. bathsheba having at last been persuaded to wear mourning, her appearance as she entered the church in that guise was in itself a weekly addition to his faith that a time was coming -- very far off perhaps, yet surely nearing -- when his waiting on events should have its reward. how long he might have to wait he had not yet closely considered. what he would try to recognize was that the severe schooling she had been subjected to had made bathsheba much more con- siderate than she had formerly been of the feelings of others, and he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in the future to marry any man at all, that man would be himself. there was a substratum of good feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injury she had thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a much greater extent than before her infatuation and disappointment. it would be possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature, and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them for fulfilment at some future day, keeping the passionate side of his desire entirely out of her sight. such was boldwood's hope. to the eyes of the middle-aged, bathsheba was perhaps additionally charming just now. her exuber- ance of spirit was pruned down; the original phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright for human nature's daily food, and she had been able to enter this second poetical phase without losing much of the first in the process. bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to her old aunt at norcombe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for inquiring directly after her -- now possibly in the ninth month of her widowhood -- and endeavouring to get a notion of her middle of the haymaking, and boldwood contrived to "i am glad to see you out of doors, lydia." he said she simpered, and wondered in her heart why he "i hope mrs. troy is quite well after her long the coldest-hearted neighbour could scarcely say less "she is quite well, sir. "yes, cheerful. "fearful, did you say?" "o no. i merely said she was cheerful." "tells you all her affairs?" "no, sir. "some of them?" "yes, sir. "mrs troy puts much confidence in you, lydia, and very wisely, perhaps." "she do, sir. i've been with her all through her troubles, and was with her at the time of mr. troy's going and all. and if she were to marry again i expect i should bide with her." "she promises that you shall -- quite natural." said the strategic lover, throbbing throughout him at the presumption which liddy's words appeared to warrant -- that his darling had thought of re-marriage. "no -- she doesn't promise it exactly. i merely judge on my own account. "yes, yes, i understand. when she alludes to the possibility of marrying again, you conclude -- -- " "she never do allude to it, sir." said liddy, thinking how very stupid mr. boldwood was getting. "of course not." he returned hastily, his hope falling again." you needn't take quite such long reaches with your rake, lydia -- short and quick ones are best. well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her freedom." "my mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that she supposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last year, if she cared to risk mr. troy's coming back and claiming her." "ah, six years from the present time. said that she might. she might marry at once in every reasonable person's opinion, whatever the lawyers may say to the contrary." "have you been to ask them?" said liddy, innocently. "not i." said boldwood, growing red." liddy, you needn't stay here a minute later than you wish, so mr, oak says. i am now going on a little farther. good" afternoon." he went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one time in his life done anything which could be called underhand. poor boldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he was uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and, what was worse, mean. but he had, after all, lighted upon one fact by way of repayment. it was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though not without its sadness it was pertinent and real. in little more than six years from this time bathsheba might certainly marry him. there was something definite in that hope, for admitting that there might have been no deep thought in her words to liddy about marriage, they showed at least her creed on the matter. this pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. six years were a long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for so long been obliged to endure! jacob had served twice seven years for rachel: what were six for such a woman as this? he tried to like the notion of waiting for her better than that of winning her at once. boldwood felt his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was pos- sible she had never yet known its full volume, and this patience in delay would afford him an opportunity of giving sweet proof on the point. he would annihilate the six years of his life as if they were minutes -- so little did he value his time on earth beside her love. he would let her see, all those six years of intangible ether- eal courtship, how little care he had for anything but as it bore upon the consummation. meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in which greenhill fair was held. this fair was frequently attended by the folk of weather- bury. chapter l the sheep fair -- troy touches his wife's hand greenhill was the nijni novgorod of south wessex; and the busiest, merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of the sheep fair. this yearly gathering was upon the summit of a hill which retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork, consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here and there. to each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a winding road ascended, and the level green space of ten or fifteen acres enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair. a few permanent erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their sojourn here. shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving their charges a few miles each day -- not more than ten or twelve -- and resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at pre- viously chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. the shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit for the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which he used as the staff of his pilgrimage. several of the sheep would get worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. to meet these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany the flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into which the weakly ones were taken for the remainder of the journey. the weatherbury farms, however, were no such long distance from the hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. but the large united flocks of bathsheba and farmer boldwood formed a valuable and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this account gabriel, in addition to boldwood's shepherd and cain ball, accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town of kings- bere, and upward to the plateau, -- old george the dog of course behind them. when the autumn sun slanted over greenhill this morning and lighted the dewy flat upon its crest, nebu- lous clouds of dust were to be seen floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect around in all directions. these gradually converged upon the base of the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the serpentine ways which led to the top. thus, in a slow procession, they entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after multitude, horned and hornless -- blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm. men were shouting, dogs were barking, with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in so long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors, though they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their experi- ences, a tall shepherd rising here and there in the midst of them, like a gigantic idol amid a crowd of prostrate devotees. the great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of south downs and the old wessex horned breeds, to the latter class bathsheba's and farmer boldwood's mainly belonged. these filed in about nine o'clock, their vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling under each horn. before and behind came other varieties, perfect leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lacking the spots. there were also a few of the oxfordshire breed, whose wool was beginning to curl like a child's flaxen hair, though surpassed in this respect by the effeminate leicesters, which were in turn less curly than the cots- wolds. but the most picturesque by far was a small flock of exmoors, which chanced to be there this year. their pied faces and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool hanging round their swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony of the flocks in that quarter. all these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and were penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to each flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. alleys for pedes- trians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with buyers and sellers from far and near. in another part of the hill an altogether different scene began to force itself upon the eye towards mid- day. a circular tent, of exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. as the day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the shep- herd's responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going on. "the royal hippodrome performance of turpin's ride to york and the death of black bess." replied the man promptly, without turning his eyes or leaving off trying. as soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly stimulating harmonies, and the announce- ment was publicly made, black bess standing in a con- spicuous position on the outside, as a living proof, if proof were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances from the stage over which the people were to enter. these were so convinced by such genuine appeals to heart and understanding both that they soon began to crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being visible jan coggan and joseph poorgrass, who were holiday keeping here to-day, "'that's the great ruffen pushing me!" screamed a woman in front of jan over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fiercest. "how can i help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?" said coggan, in a deprecating tone, turning without turning his body, which was jammed as in a vice. there was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth their echoing notes. the crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another lurch in which coggan and poorgrass were again thrust by those behind upon the women in front. "o that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of she swayed like a reed shaken by the wind. now." said coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades. "did ye ever hear such onreasonable woman as that? upon my carcase, neighbours, if i could only get out of this cheesewring, the damn women might eat the show for me!" "don't ye lose yer temper, jan!" implored joseph poorgrass, in a whisper." they might get their men to murder us, for i think by the shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind." jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to please a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder, poorgrass being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for admission, which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become so reeking hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the woman in spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with chalked face and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily dropped it again from a fear that some trick had been played to burn her fingers. so they all entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the eyes of an observer on the outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as we observe on a sack of potatoes, caused by the various human heads, backs, and elbows at high pressure within. at the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents. one of these, alloted to the male per- formers, was partitioned into halves by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on the grass, pull ing on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly recognise as sergeant troy. troy's appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for. the brig aboard which he was taken in budmouth roads was about to start on a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. troy read the articles and joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. he ultimately worked his passage to the united states, where he made a precarious living in various towns as professor of gymnastics, sword exercise, fencing, and pugilism. a few months were sufficient to give him a distaste for this kind of life. there was a certain animal form of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition might be whilst privations were easily warded off, it was dis- advantageously coarse when money was short. there was ever present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but chose to return to england and weatherbury farm. whether bathsheba thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious conjecture. to england he did return at last; but the but the fact of drawing nearer to weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his intention to enter his old groove at the place became modified. it was with gloom he con- sidered on landing at liverpool that if he were to go home his reception would be of a kind very unpleasant to con- template; for what troy had in the way of emotion was an occasional fitful sentiment which sometimes caused him as much inconvenience as emotion of a strong and healthy kind. bathsheba was not a women to be made a fool of, or a woman to suffer in silence; and how could he endure existence with a spirited wife to whom at first entering he would be beholden for food and lodging? moreover, it was not at all unlikely that his wife would fail at her farming, if she had not already done so; and he would then become liable for her maintenance: and what a life such a future of poverty with her would be, the spectre of fanny constantly be- tween them, harrowing his temper and embittering her words! thus, for reasons touching on distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his return from day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether if he could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which existed for him there. at this time -- the july preceding the september in which we find at greenhill fair -- he fell in with a travelling circus which was performing in the outskirts of a northern town. troy introduced himself to the manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe, hitting a suspended apple with pistol-- bullet fired from the animal's back when in full gallop, and other feats. for his merits in these -- all more or less based upon his ex- periences as a dragoon-guardsman -- troy was taken into the company, and the play of turpin was prepared with a view to his personation of the chief character. troy was not greatly elated by the appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought the engage- ment might afford him a few weeks for consideration. it was thus carelessly, and without having formed any definite plan for the future, that troy found himself at greenhill fair with the rest of the company on this day. and now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion the following incident had taken place. bathsheba -- who was driven to the fair that day by her odd man poorgrass -- had, like every one else, read or heard the announcement that mr. francis, the great cosmopolitan equestrian and roughrider, would enact the part of turpin, and she was not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curiosity to see him. this particular show was by far the largest and grandest in the fair, a horde of little shows grouping themselves under its shade like chickens around a hen. the crowd had passed in, and boldwood, who had been watching all the day for an opportunity of speaking to her, seeing her comparatively isolated, came up to her side. "i hope the sheep have done well to-day, mrs. troy?" he said, nervously. "o yes, thank you." said bathsheba, colour springing up in the centre of her cheeks. "i was fortunate enough to sell them all just as we got upon the hill, so we hadn't to pen at all." "and now you are entirely at leisure?" "yes, except that i have to see one more dealer in two hours' time: otherwise i should be going home. he was looking at this large tent and the announcement. have you ever seen the play of "turpin's ride to york?" turpin was a real man, was he not?" "o yes, perfectly true -- all of it. indeed, i think i've heard jan coggan say that a relation of his knew tom king, turpin's friend, quite well." "coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his relations, we must remember. i hope they can all be believed." "yes, yes; we know coggan. but turpin is true enough. you have never seen it played, i suppose?" "never. i was not allowed to go into these places when i was young. hark! what's that prancing? how they shout!" "black bess just started off, i suppose. am i right in supposing you would like to see the performance, mrs. troy? please excuse my mistake, if it is one; but if you would like to, i'll get a seat for you with pleasure." perceiving that she hesitated, he added, "i myself shall not stay to see it: i've seen it before." now bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only withheld her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone. she had been hoping that oak might appear, whose assistance in such cases was always accepted as an inalienable right, but oak was nowhere to be seen; and hence it was that she said, "then if you will just look in first, to see if there's room, i think i will go in for a minute or two." and so a short time after this bathsheba appeared in the tent with boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a "reserved" seat, again withdrew. this feature consisted of one raised bench in very conspicuous part of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece of carpet, and bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that she was the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of the crowded spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the borders of the arena, where they got twice as good a view of the performance for half the money. hence as many eyes were turned upon her, enthroned alone in this place of honour, against a scarlet back- ground, as upon the ponies and clown who were engaged in preliminary exploits in the centre, turpin not having yet appeared. once there, bathsheba was forced to make the best of it and remain: she sat down, spreading her skirts with some dignity over the unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving a new and feminine aspect to the pavilion. in a few minutes she noticed the fat red nape of coggan's neck among those standing just below her, and joseph poor- grass's saintly profile a little further on. the interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. the strange luminous semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes and divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust across the dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little lamps suspended there. troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. he started back in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually concealed his person- ality, he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize his voice. he had several times during the day thought of the possibility of some weatherbury person or other appearing and recognizing him; but he had taken the risk carelessly. if they see me, let them, he had said. but here was bathsheba in her own person; and the reality of the scene was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings that he felt he had not half enough considered the point. she looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about weatherbury people was changed. he had not expected her to exercise this power over him in the twinkling of an eye. should he go on, and care nothing? he could not bring himself to do that. beyond a politic wish to remain unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of shame at the possibility that his attractive young wife, who already despised him, should despise him more by discovering him in so mean a condition after so long a time. he actually blushed at the thought, and was vexed beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike towards weatherbury should have led him to dally about the country in this way. but troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his wit's end. he hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own little dressing space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now appeared as the individual called tom king as far down as his waist, and as the aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes. "here's the devil to pay!" said troy. "how's that?" "why, there's a blackguard creditor in the tent i don't want to see, who'll discover me and nab me as sure as satan if i open my mouth. what's to be done?" you must appear now, i think." "i can't." but the play must proceed." "do you give out that turpin has got a bad cold, and can't speak his part, but that he'll perform it just the same without speaking." the proprietor shook his head. "anyhow, play or no play, i won't open my mouth, said troy, firmly. "very well, then let me see. i tell you how we'll manage." said the other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his leading man just at this time. "i won't tell 'em anything about your keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods in the heroic places, you know. they'll never find out that the speeches are omitted." this seemed feasible enough, for turpin's speeches were not many or long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time black bess leapt into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators. at the turnpike scene, where bess and turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by the officers, and half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap denies that any horseman has passed, coggan uttered a broad-chested "well done!" which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating, and poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast between our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be let through. at the death of tom king, he could not refrain from seizing coggan by the hand, and whispering, with tears in his eyes, "of course he's not really shot, jan -- only seemingly!" and when the last sad scene came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful bess had to be carried out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from among the spectators, nothing could restrain poorgrass from lending a hand, exclaiming, as he asked jan to join him, "twill be something to tell of at warren's in future years, jan, and hand down to our children." for many a year in weatherbury, joseph told, with the air of a man who had had experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the hoof of bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder. if, as some thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others" memories, then did black bess become immortal that day if she never had done so before. meanwhile troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for the character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though he had felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis effected by judici- ously "lining" his face with a wire rendered him safe from the eyes of bathsheba and her men. nevertheless, he was relieved when it was got through. there a second performance in the evening, and the tent was lighted up. troy had taken his part very quietly this time, venturing to introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just concluding it when, whilst standing at the edge of the circle contiguous to the first row of spectators, he observed within a yard of him the eye of a man darted keenly into his side features. troy hastily shifted his position, after having recognized in sworn enemy, who still hung about the outskirts of at first troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances. that he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet there was room for a doubt. then the great objection he had felt to allowing news of his proximity to precede him to weatherbury in the event of his return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present occupation would discredit him still further in his wife's eyes, returned in full force. moreover, should he resolve not to return at all, a tale of his being alive and being in the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife's temporal affairs before deciding which to do. in this dilemma troy at once went out to recon- noitre. it occurred to him that to find pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible, would be a very wise act. he had put on a thick beard borrowed from the establishment, and this he wandered about the fair- field. it was now almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts and gigs ready to go home the largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an innkeeper from a neighbouring town. this was considered an unexceptionable place for obtaining the necessary food and rest: host trencher (as he was jauntily called by the local newspaper) being a sub- stantial man of high repute for catering through all the county round. the tent was divided into first and second-class compartments, and at the end of the first- class division was a yet further enclosure for the most exclusive, fenced of from the body of the tent by a luncheon-bar, behind which the host himself stood bustling about in white apron and shirt-sleeves, and look- ing as if he had never lived anywhere but under canvas all his life. in these penetralia were chairs and a table, which, on candles being lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious show, with an urn, plated tea and coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes. troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was frying pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a penny a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. he could see nothing of pennyways, but he soon discerned bathsheba through an opening into the reserved space at the further end. troy thereupon retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and listened. he could hear bathsheba's voice immediately inside the canvas; she was conversing with a man. a warmth overspread his face: surely she was not so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair! he wondered if, then, she reckoned upon his death as an absolute certainty. to get at the root of the matter, troy took a penknife from his pocket and softly made two little cuts crosswise in the cloth, which, by folding back the corners left a hole the size of a wafer. close to this he placed his face, withdrawing it again in a movement of surprise; for his eye had been within twelve inches of the top of bathsheba's head. lt was too near to be convenient. he made another hole a little to one side and lower down, in a shaded place beside her chair, from which it was easy and safe to survey her by looking horizontally'. troy took in the scene completely now. she was leaning back, sipping a cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male voice was boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her, bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the canvas that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact, as good as in troy's arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through the cloth as he gazed in. troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within him as they had been stirred earlier in the day. she was handsome as ever, and she was his. it was some minutes before he could counteract his sudden wish to go in, and claim her. then he thought how the proud girl who had always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him, would hate him on dis- covering him to be a strolling player. were he to make himself known, that chapter of his life must at all risks be kept for ever from her and from the weatherbury people, or his name would be a byword throughout the parish. he would be nicknamed "turpin" as long as he lived. assuredly before he could claim her these few past months of his existence must be entirely blotted out. "shall i get you another cup before you start, ma'am?" said farmer boldwood. i thank you," said bathsheba. "but i must be going at once. it was great neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. i should have gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. i had no idea of coming in here; but there's nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though i should never have got one if you hadn't helped me." troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her little ear. she took out her purse and was insisting to boldwood on paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment pennyways entered the tent. troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability endangered at once. he was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt to follow pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had recognized him, when he was arrested by the conversation, and found he was too late. "excuse me, ma'am." said pennyways; "i've some private information for your ear alone." i cannot hear it now." she said, coldly. that bathsheba could not endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to her with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at the expense of persons maligned. "i'll write it down." said pennyways, confidently. he stooped over the table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon the paper, in a round hand -- "your husband is here. i've seen him. who's the fool now?" this he folded small, and handed towards her. bathsheba would not read it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. pennyways, then, with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning away, left her. from the words and action of pennyways, troy, though he had not been able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment's doubt that the note referred to him. nothing that he could think of could be done to check the exposure. "curse my luck!" he whispered, and added imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind. meanwhile boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap -- "don't you wish to read it, mrs. troy? if not, i'll destroy it." "oh, well." said bathsheba, carelessly, "perhaps it is unjust not to read it; but i can guess what it is about. he wants me to recommend him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected with my work- people. he's always doing that." bathsheba held the note in her right hand. bold- wood handed towards her a plate of cut bread-and- butter; when, in order to take a slice, she put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding the purse, and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to the canvas. the moment had come for saving his game, and troy impulsively felt that he would play the card, for yet another time he looked at the fair hand, and saw the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of the wrist, encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings which she wore: how familiar it all was to him! then, with the lightning action in which he was such an adept, he noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the tent-cloth, which was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a little way, keeping his eye to the hole, snatched the note from her fingers, dropped the canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank and ditch, smiling at the scream of astonishment which burst from her. troy then slid down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in the bottom of the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards, ascended again, and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front entrance of the tent. his object was now to get to pennyways, and prevent a repetition of the announcement until such time as he should choose. troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there gathered, looked anxiously for pennyways, evidently not wishing to make himself prominent by inquiring for him. one or two men were speaking of a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young lady by lifting the canvas of the tent beside her. it was supposed that the rogue had imagined a slip of paper which she held in her hand to he a bank note, for he had seized it, and made off with it, leaving her purse behind. his chagrin and disappointment at dis- covering its worthlessness would be a good joke, it was said. however, the occurrence seemed to have become known to few, for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had lately begun playing by the door of the tent, nor the four bowed old men with grim countenances and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing "major malley's reel" to the tune. behind these stood pennyways. troy glided up to him, beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a mutual glance of concurrence the two men went into the night together. chapter li bathsheba talks with her outrider the arrangement for getting back again to weather- bury had been that oak should take the place of poor- grass in bathsheba's conveyance and drive her home, it being discovered late in the afternoon that joseph was suffering from his old complaint, a multiplying eye, and was, therefore, hardly trustworthy as coachman and protector to a woman. but oak had found himself so occupied, and was full of so many cares relative to those portions of boldwood's flocks that were not disposed of, that bathsheba, without telling oak or anybody, resolved to drive home herself, as she had many times done from casterbridge market, and trust to her good angel for performing the journey un- molested. but having fallen in with farmer boldwood accidentally (on her part at least) at the refreshment- tent, she found it impossible to refuse his offer to ride on horseback beside her as escort. it had grown twilight before she was aware, but boldwood assured her that there was no cause for uneasiness, as the moon would be up in half-an-hour. immediately after the incident in the tent, she had risen to go -- now absolutely alarmed and really grateful for her old lover's protection -- though regretting gabriel's absence, whose company she would have much preferred, as being more proper as well as more pleasant, since he was her own managing-man and servant. this, how- ever, could not be helped; she would not, on any consideration, treat boldwood harshly, having once already illused him, and the moon having risen, and the gig being ready, she drove across the hilltop in the wending way's which led downwards -- to oblivious obscurity, as it seemed, for the moon and the hill it flooded with light were in appearance on a level, the rest of the world lying as a vast shady concave between them. boldwood mounted his horse, and followed in close attendance behind. thus they descended into the lowlands, and the sounds of those left on the hill came like voices from the sky, and the lights were as those of a camp in heaven. they soon passed the merry stragglers in the immediate vicinity of the hill, traversed kingsbere, and got upon the high road. the keen instincts of bathsheba had perceived that the farmer's staunch devotion to herself was still un- diminished, and she sympathized deeply. the sight had quite depressed her this evening; had reminded her of her folly; she wished anew, as she had wished many months ago, for some means of making repara- tion for her fault. hence her pity for the man who so persistently loved on to his own injury and per- manent gloom had betrayed bathsheba into an injudi- cious considerateness of manner, which appeared almost like tenderness, and gave new vigour to the exquisite dream of a jacob's seven years service in poor boldwood's mind. he soon found an excuse for advancing from his position in the rear, and rode close by her side. they had gone two or three miles in the moonlight, speaking desultorily across the wheel of her gig concerning the fair, farming, oak's usefulness to them both, and other indifferent subjects, when boldwood said suddenly and simply -- "mrs. troy, you will marry again some day?" this point-blank query unmistakably confused her, it was not till a minute or more had elapsed that she said, "i have not seriously thought of any such subject." "i quite understand that. yet your late husband has been dead nearly one year, and -- " "you forget that his death was never absolutely proved, and may not have taken place; so that i may not be really a widow." she said, catching at the straw of escape that the fact afforded "not absolutely proved, perhaps, but it was proved circumstantially. a man saw him drowning, too. no reasonable person has any doubt of his death; nor have you, ma'am, i should imagine. "o yes i have, or i should have acted differently," she said, gently. "from the first, i have had a strange uaccountable feeling that he could not have perished, but i have been able to explain that in several ways since. even were i half persuaded that i shall see him no more, i am far from thinking of marriage with another. i should be very contemptible to indulge in such a thought." they were silent now awhile, and having struck into an unfrequented track across a common, the creaks of boldwood's saddle and gig springs were all the sounds to be heard. boldwood ended the pause. "do you remember when i carried you fainting in my arms into the king's arms, in casterbridge? every dog has his day: that was mine." "i know-i know it all." she said, hurriedly. "i, for one, shall never cease regretting that events so fell out as to deny you to me." "i, too, am very sorry." she said, and then checked herself. "i mean, you know, i am sorry you thought i -- " "i have always this dreary pleasure in thinking over those past times with you -- that i was something to you before he was anything, and that you belonged almost to me. but, of course, that's nothing. you never liked me." "i did; and respected you, too."do you now?" "yes." "which?" "how do you mean which?" "do you like me, or do you respect me?" "i don't know -- at least, i cannot tell you. it is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs. my treatment of you was thoughtless, inexcusable, wicked! i shall eternally regret it. if there had been anything i could have done to make amends i would most gladly have done it -- there was nothing on earth i so longed to do as to repair the error. but that was not possible." "don't blame yourself -- you were not so far in the wrong as you suppose. bathsheba, suppose you had real complete proof that you are what, in fact, you are -- a widow -- would you repair the old wrong to me by marrying me?" "i cannot say. i shouldn't yet, at any rate." "but you might at some future time of your life?" "o yes, i might at some time." "well, then, do you know that without further proof of any kind you may marry again in about six years from the present -- subject to nobody's objection or blame?" "o yes." she said, quickly. "i know all that. but don't talk of it -- seven or six years -- where may we all be by that time?" "they will soon glide by, and it will seem an astonishingly short time to look back upon when they are past -- much less than to look forward to now." "yes, yes; i have found that in my own experience." "now listen once more." boldwood pleaded. "if i wait that time, will you marry me? you own that you owe me amends -- let that be your way of making them." "but, mr. boldwood -- six years -- " "do you want to be the wife of any other man?" "no indeed! i mean, that i don't like to talk about this matter now. perhaps it is not proper, and i ought not to allow it. let us drop it. my husband may be living, as i said." "of course, i'll drop the subject if you wish. but propriety has nothing to do with reasons. i am a middle-aged man, willing to protect you for the remainder of our lives. on your side, at least, there is no passion or blamable haste -- on mine, perhaps, there is. but i can't help seeing that if you choose from a feeling of pity, and, as you say, a wish to make amends, to make a bargain with me for a far-ahead time -- an agreement which will set all things right and make me happy, late though it may be -- there is no fault to be found with you as a woman. hadn't i the first place beside you? haven't you been almost mine once already? surely you can say to me as much as this, you will have me back again should circumstances permit? now, pray speak! o bathsheba, promise -- it is only a little promise -- that if you marry again, you will marry me!" his tone was so excited that she almost feared him at this moment, even whilst she sympathized. it was a simple physical fear -- the weak of the strong; there no emotional aversion or inner repugnance. she said, with some distress in her voice, for she remembered vividly his outburst on the yalbury road, and shrank from a repetition of his anger: -- "i will never marry another man whilst you wish me to be your wife, whatever comes -- but to say more -- you have taken me so by surprise -- " "but let it stand in these simple words -- that in six years' time you will be my wife? unexpected accidents we'll not mention, because those, of course, must be given way to. now, this time i know you will keep your word." "that's why i hesitate to give it." "but do give it! remember the past, and be kind." she breathed; and then said mournfully: "o what shall i do? i don't love you, and i much fear that i never shall love you as much as a woman ought to love a husband. if you, sir, know that, and i can yet give you happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end of six years, if my husband should not come back, it is a great honour to me. and if you value such an act of friendship from a woman who doesn't esteem her- self as she did, and has little love left, why it will -- " "promise!" " -- consider, if i cannot promise soon." "but soon is perhaps never?" "o no, it is not! i mean soon. christmas, we'll say." "christmas!" he said nothing further till he added: "well, i'll say no more to you about it till that time." bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind, which showed how entirely the soul is the slave of the body, the ethereal spirit dependent for its quality upon the tangible flesh and blood. it is hardly too much to say that she felt coerced by a force stronger than her own will, not only into the act of promising upon this singularly remote and vague matter, but into the emo- tion of fancying that she ought to promise. when the weeks intervening between the night of this conversa- tion and christmas day began perceptibly to diminish, her anxiety and perplexity increased. one day she was led by an accident into an oddly confidential dialogue with gabriel about her difficulty it afforded her a little relief -- of a dull and cheerless kind. they were auditing accounts, and something occurred in the course of their labours which led oak to say, speaking of boldwood, " he'll never forget you, ma'am, never." then out came her trouble before she was aware; and she told him how she had again got into the toils; what boldwood had asked her, and how he was ex- pecting her assent. "the most mournful reason of all for my agreeing to it." she said sadly, "and the true reason why i think to do so for good or for evil, is this -- it is a thing i have not breathed to a living soul as yet-i believe that if i don't give my word, he'll go out of his mind." "really, do ye?" said gabriel, gravely. "i believe this." she continued, with reckless frank- ness; "and heaven knows i say it in a spirit the very reverse of vain, for i am grieved and troubled to my soul about it-i believe i hold that man's future in my hand. his career depends entirely upon my treatment of him. o gabriel, i tremble at my responsibility, for it is terrible!" "well, i think this much, ma'am, as i told you years ago." said oak, "that his life is a total blank whenever he isn't hoping for 'ee; but i can't suppose-i hope that nothing so dreadful hangs on to it as you fancy. his natural manner has always been dark and strange, you know. but since the case is so sad and oddlike, why don't ye give the conditional promise? i think i would." "but is it right? some rash acts of my past life have taught me that a watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only a very little credit, and i do want and long to be discreet in this! and six years -- why we may all be in our graves by that bathsheba talks with oak time, even if mr. troy does not come back again, which he may not impossibly do! such thoughts give a sort of absurdity to the scheme. now, isn't it preposterous, gabriel? however he came to dream of it, i cannot think. but is it wrong? you know -- you are older than i." "eight years older, ma'am." "yes, eight years -- and is it wrong?" "perhaps it would be an uncommon agreement for a man and woman to make: i don't see anything really wrong about it." said oak, slowly. "in fact the very thing that makes it doubtful if you ought to marry en under any condition, that is, your not caring about him -- for i may suppose -- -- " "yes, you may suppose that love is wanting." she said shortly. "love is an utterly bygone, sorry, worn- out, miserable thing with me -- for him or any one else." "well, your want of love seems to me the one thing that takes away harm from such an agreement with him. if wild heat had to do wi' it, making ye long to over- come the awkwardness about your husband's vanishing, it mid be wrong; but a cold-hearted agreement to oblige a man seems different, somehow. the real sin, ma'am in my mind, lies in thinking of ever wedding wi' a man you don't love honest and true." "that i'm willing to pay the penalty of." said bath- sheba, firmly. "you know, gabriel, this is what i can- not get off my conscience -- that i once seriously injured him in sheer idleness. if i had never played a trick upon him, he would never have wanted to marry me. o if i could only pay some heavy damages in money to him for the harm i did, and so get the sin off my soul that way!.. well, there's the debt, which can only be discharged in one way, and i believe i am bound to do it if it honestly lies in my power, without any consideration of my own future at all. when a rake gambles away his expectations, the fact that it is an inconvenient debt doesn't make him the less liable. i've been a rake, and the single point i ask you is, con- sidering that my own scruples, and the fact that in the eye of the law my husband is only missing, will keep any man from marrying me until seven years have passed -- am i free to entertain such an idea, even though 'tis a sort of penance -- for it will be that? i hate the act of marriage under such circumstances, and the class of women i should seem to belong to by doing it!" "it seems to me that all depends upon whe'r you think, as everybody else do, that your husband is dead." "i shall get to, i suppose, because i cannot help feeling what would have brought him back long before this time if he had lived." "well, then, in religious sense you will be as free to think o' marrying again as any real widow of one year's standing. but why don't ye ask mr. thirdly's advice on how to treat mr. boldwood?" "no. when i want a broad-minded opinion for general enlightenment, distinct from special advice, i never go to a man who deals in the subject pro- fessionally. so i like the parson's opinion on law, the lawyer's on doctoring, the doctor's on business, and my business-man's -- that is, yours -- on morals." "and on love -- -- " "my own." "i'm afraid there's a hitch in that argument." said oak, with a grave smile. she did not reply at once, and then saying, "good evening mr. oak." went away. she had spoken frankly, and neither asked nor ex- pected any reply from gabriel more satisfactory than that she had obtained. yet in the centremost parts of her complicated heart there existed at this minute a little pang of disappointment, for a reason she would not allow herself to recognize. oak had not once wished her free that he might marry her himself -- had not once said, "i could wait for you as well as he." that was the insect sting. not that she would have listened to any such hypothesis. o no -- for wasn't she saying all the time that such thoughts of the future were improper, and wasn't gabriel far too poor a man to speak sentiment to her? yet he might have just hinted about that old love of his, and asked, in a playful off-hand way, if he might speak of it. it would have seemed pretty and sweet, if no more; and then she would have shown how kind and inoffensive a woman's "no" can sometimes be. but to give such cool advice -- the very advice she had asked for -- it ruffled our heroine all the afternoon. chapter lii converging courses i christmas-eve came, and a party that boldwood was to give in the evening was the great subject of talk in weatherbury. it was not that the rarity of christmas parties in the parish made this one a wonder, but that boldwood should be the giver. the announcement had had an abnormal and incongruous sound, as if one should hear of croquet-playing in a cathedral aisle, or that some much-respected judge was going upon the stage. that the party was intended to be a truly jovial one there was no room for doubt. a large bough of mistletoe had been brought from the woods that day, and suspended in the hall of the bachelor's home. holly and ivy had followed in armfuls. from six that morning till past noon the huge wood fire in the kitchen roared and sparkled at its highest, the kettle, the saucepan, and the threelegged pot appearing in the midst of the flames like shadrach, meshach, and abednego; moreover, roasting and basting operations were continually carried on in front of the genial blaze. as it grew later the fire was made up in the large long hall into which the staircase descended, and all encumbrances were cleared out for dancing. the log which was to form the back-brand of the evening fire was the uncleft trunk of a tree, so unwieldy that it could be neither brought nor rolled to its place; and accord- ingly two men were to be observed dragging and heaving it in by chains and levers as the hour of assembly drew near. ii in spite of all this, the spirit of revelry was wanting in the atmosphere of the house. such a thing had never been attempted before by its owner, and it was now done as by a wrench. intended gaieties would insist upon appearing like solemn grandeurs, the organ- ization of the whole effort was carried out coldly, by hirelings, and a shadow seemed to move about the rooms, saying that the proceedings were unnatural to the place and the lone man who lived therein, and hence not good. bathsheba was at this time in her room, dressing for the event. she had called for candles, and liddy entered and placed one on each side of her mistress's glass. "don't go away, liddy." said bathsheba, almost timidly." i am foolishly agitated-i cannot tell why. i wish i had not been obliged to go to this dance; but there's no escaping now. i have not spoken to mr. boldwood since the autumn, when i promised to see him at christmas on business, but i had no idea there was to be anything of this kind." "but i would go now." said liddy, who was going with her; for boldwood had been indiscriminate in his invitations. "yes, i shall make my appearance, of course." said bathsheba." but i am the cause of the party, and that upsets me! -- don't tell, liddy." "o no, ma'am, you the cause of it, ma'am?" "yes. i am the reason of the party-i. if it had not been for me, there would never have been one. i can't explain any more -- there's no more to be explained. i wish i had never seen weatherbury." "that's wicked of you -- to wish to be worse off than you are." "no, liddy. i have never been free from trouble since i have lived here, and this party is likely to bring me more. now, fetch my black silk dress, and see how it sits upon me." "but you will leave off that, surely, ma'am? you have been a widowlady fourteen months, and ought to brighten up a little on such a night as this." "is it necessary? no; i will appear as usual, for if i were to wear any light dress people would say things about me, and i should seem to he rejoicing when i am solemn all the time. the party doesn't suit me a bit; but never mind, stay and help to finish me off." iii boldwood was dressing also at this hour. a tailor from casterbridge was with him, assisting him in the operation of trying on a new coat that had just been brought home. never had boldwood been so fastidious, unreasonable about the fit, and generally difficult to please. the tailor walked round and round him, tugged at the waist, pulled the sleeve, pressed out the collar, and for the first time in his experience boldwood was not bored- times had been when the farmer had exclaimed against all such niceties as childish, but now no philosophic or hasty rebuke whatever was provoked by this man for attaching as much importance to a crease in the coat as to an earthquake in south america. boldwood at last expressed himself nearly satisfied, and paid the bill, the tailor passing out of the door just as oak came in to report progress for the day. "oh, oak." said boldwood. "i shall of course see you here to-night. make yourself merry. i am deter- mined that neither expense nor trouble shall be spared." "i'll try to be here, sir, though perhaps it may not be very early." said gabriel, quietly. "i am glad indeed to see such a change in 'ee from what it used to be." "yes-i must own it-i am bright to-night: cheerful and more than cheerful-so much so that i am almost sad again with the sense that all of it is passing away. and sometimes, when i am excessively hopeful and blithe, a trouble is looming in the distance: so that i often get to look upon gloom in me with content, and to fear a happy mood. still this may be absurd-i feel that it is absurd. perhaps my day is dawning at last." "i hope it 'ill be a long and a fair one." "thank you -- thank you. yet perhaps my cheerful mess rests on a slender hope. and yet i trust my hope. it is faith, not hope. i think this time i reckon with my host. -- oak, my hands are a little shaky, or some- thing; i can't tie this neckerchief properly. perhaps you will tie it for me. the fact is, i have not been well lately, you know." "i am sorry to hear that, sir." "oh, it's nothing. i want it done as well as you can, please. is there any late knot in fashion, oak?" "i don't know, sir." said oak. his tone had sunk to sadness. boldwood approached gabriel, and as oak tied the neckerchief the farmer went on feverishly -- "does a woman keep her promise, gabriel?" "if it is not inconvenient to her she may." "-- or rather an implied promise." "i won't answer for her implying." said oak, with faint bitterness. "that's a word as full o' holes as a sieve with them." oak, don't talk like that. you have got quite cynical lately -- how is it? we seem to have shifted our positions: i have become the young and hopeful man, and you the old and unbelieving one. however, does a woman keep a promise, not to marry, but to enter on an engagement to marry at some time? now you know women better than i -- tell me." "i am afeard you honour my understanding too much. however, she may keep such a promise, if it is made with an honest meaning to repair a wrong." "it has not gone far yet, but i think it will soon -- yes, i know it will." he said, in an impulsive whisper. "i have pressed her upon the subject, and she inclines to be kind to me, and to think of me as a husband at a long future time, and that's enough for me. how can i expect more? she has a notion that a woman should not marry within seven years of her husband's disappearance -- that her own self shouldn't, i mean -- because his body was not found. it may be merely this legal reason which influences her, or it may be a religious one, but she is reluctant to talk on the point- yet she has promised -- implied -- that she will ratify an engagement to-night." "seven years." murmured oak. "no, no -- it's no such thing!" he said, with im- patience. five years, nine months, and a few days. fifteen months nearly have passed since he vanished, and is there anything so wonderful in an engagement of little more than five years?" "it seems long in a forward view. don't build too much upon such promises, sir. remember, you have once be'n deceived. her meaning may be good; but there -- she's young yet." "deceived? never!" said boldwood, vehemently. "she never promised me at that first time, and hence she did not break her promise! if she promises me, she'll marry me, bathsheba is a woman to her word." iv troy was sitting in a corner of the white hart tavern at casterbridge, smoking and drinking a steaming mixture from a glass. a knock was given at the door, and pennyways entered. "well, have you seen him?" troy inquired, pointing to a chair. "boldwood?" "no -- lawyer long." "he wadn' at home. i went there first, too." "that's a nuisance." "'tis rather, i suppose." "yet i don't see that, because a man appears to be drowned and was not, he should be liable for anything. i shan't ask any lawyer -- not i." "but that's not it, exactly. if a man changes his name and so forth, and takes steps to deceive the world and his own wife, he's a cheat, and that in the eye of the law is ayless a rogue, and that is ayless a lammocken vagabond; and that's a punishable situation." "ha-ha! well done, pennyways." troy had laughed, but it was with some anxiety that he said, "now, what i want to know is this, do you think there's really anything going on between her and boldwood? upon my soul, i should never have believed it! how she. must detest me! have you found out whether she has encouraged him?" "i haen't been able to learn. there's a deal of feeling on his side seemingly, but i don't answer for her. i didn't know a word about any such thing till yesterday, and all i heard then was that she was gwine to the party at his house to-night. this is the first time she has ever gone there, they say. and they say that she've not so much as spoke to him since they were at greenhill fair: but what can folk believe o't? how- ever, she's not fond of him -- quite offish and quite care less, i know." "i'm not so sure of that.... she's a handsome woman, pennyways, is she not? own that you never saw a finer or more splendid creature in your life. upon my honour, when i set eyes upon her that day i wondered what i could have been made of to be able to leave her by herself so long. and then i was hampered with that bothering show, which i'm free of at last, thank the stars." he smoked on awhile, and then added, "how did she look when you passed by yesterday?" "oh, she took no great heed of me, ye may well fancy; but she looked well enough, far's i know. just flashed her haughty eyes upon my poor scram body, and then let them go past me to what was yond, much as if i'd been no more than a leafless tree. she had just got off her mare to look at the last wring-down of cider for the year; she had been riding, and so her colours were up and her breath rather quick, so that her bosom plimmed and feli-plimmed and feli-every time plain to my eye. ay, and there were the fellers round her wringing down the cheese and bustling about and saying, ware o' the pommy, ma'am: 'twill spoil yer gown. "never mind me," says she. then gabe brought her some of the new cider, and she must needs go drinking it through a strawmote, and not in a nateral way at all. "liddy," says she, "bring indoors a few gallons, and i'll make some cider-wine." sergeant, i was no more to her than a morsel of scroffin the fuel house!" "i must go and find her out at once -- o yes, i see that-i must go. oak is head man still, isn't he?" "yes, 'a b'lieve. and at little weatherbury farm too. he manages everything." "twill puzzle him to manage her, or any other man of his compass!" "i don't know about that. she can't do without him, and knowing it well he's pretty independent. and she've a few soft corners to her mind, though i've never been able to get into one, the devil's in't!" "ah baily she's a notch above you, and you must own it: a higher class of animal-a finer tissue. how- ever, stick to me, and neither this haughty goddess, dashing piece of womanhood, juno-wife of mine (juno was a goddess, you know), nor anybody else shall hurt you. but all this wants looking into, i perceive. what with one thing and another, i see that my work is well cut out for me." v "how do i look to-night, liddy?" said bathsheba, giving a final adjustment to her dress before leaving the glass. "i never saw you look so well before. yes-i'll tell you when you looked like it -- that night, a year and a half ago, when you came in so wildlike, and scolded us for making remarks about you and mr. troy." "everybody will think that i am setting myself to captivate mr. boldwood, i suppose." she murmured. "at least they'll say so. can't my hair be brushed down a little flatter? i dread going -- yet i dread the risk of wounding him by staying away."anyhow, ma'am, you can't well be dressed plainer than you are, unless you go in sackcloth at once. 'tis your excitement is what makes you look so noticeable to-night." "i don't know what's the matter, i feel wretched at one time, and buoyant at another. i wish i could have continued quite alone as i have been for the last year or so, with no hopes and no fears, and no pleasure and no grief. "now just suppose mr. boldwood should ask you -- only just suppose it -- to run away with him, what would you do, ma'am?" "liddy -- none of that." said bathsheba, gravely. "mind, i won't hear joking on any such matter. do you hear?" "i beg pardon, ma'am. but knowing what rum things we women be, i just said -- however, i won't speak of it again." "no marrying for me yet for many a year; if ever, "twill be for reasons very, very different from those you think, or others will believe! now get my cloak, for it is time to go." vi "oak, said boldwood, "before you go i want to mention what has been passing in my mind lately -- that little arrangement we made about your share in the farm i mean. that share is small, too small, consider- ing how little i attend to business now, and how much time and thought you give to it. well, since the world is brightening for me, i want to show my sense of it by increasing your proportion in the partnership. i'll make a memorandum of the arrangement which struck me as likely to be convenient, for i haven't time to talk about it now; and then we'll discuss it at our leisure. my intention is ultimately to retire from the manage- ment altogether, and until you can take all the expendi- ture upon your shoulders, i'll be a sleeping partner in the stock. then, if i marry her -- and i hope-i feel i shall, why -- -- " "pray don't speak of it, sir." said oak, hastily. "we don't know what may happen. so many upsets may befall 'ee. there's many a slip, as they say -- and i would advise you-i know you'll pardon me this once -- not to be too sure." "i know, i know. but the feeling i have about in- creasing your share is on account of what i know of you oak, i have learnt a little about your secret: your interest in her is more than that of bailiff for an em- ployer. but you have behaved like a man, and i, as a sort of successful rival-successful partly through your goodness of heart -- should like definitely to show my sense of your friendship under what must have been a great pain to you." "o that's not necessary, thank 'ee." said oak, hurriedly. "i must get used to such as that; other men have, and so shall i." oak then left him. he was uneasy on boldwood's account, for he saw anew that this constant passion of the farmer made him not the man he once had been. as boldwood continued awhile in his room alone -- ready and dressed to receive his company -- the mood of anxiety about his appearance seemed to pass away, and to be succeeded by a deep solemnity. he looked out of the window, and regarded the dim outline of the trees upon the sky, and the twilight deepening to darkness. then he went to a locked closet, and took from a locked drawer therein a small circular case the size of a pillbox, and was about to put it into his pocket. but he lingered to open the cover and take a momentary glance inside. it contained a woman's finger-ring, set all the way round with small diamonds, and from its appearance had evidently been recently purchased. boldwood's eyes dwelt upon its many sparkles a long time, though that its material aspect concerned him little was plain from his manner and mien, which were those of a mind following out the presumed thread of that jewel's future history. the noise of wheels at the front of the house became audible. boldwood closed the box, stowed it away carefully in his pocket, and went out upon the landing. the old man who was his indoor factotum came at the same moment to the foot of the stairs. "they be coming, sir -- lots of 'em -- a-foot and a- driving!" "i was coming down this moment. those wheels i heard -- is it mrs. troy?" "no, sir -- 'tis not she yet." a reserved and sombre expression had returned to boldwood's face again, but it poorly cloaked his feel- ings when he pronounced bathsheba's name; and his feverish anxiety continued to show its existence by a galloping motion of his fingers upon the side of his thigh as he went down the stairs. vii "how does this cover me?" said troy to pennyways, "nobody would recognize me now, i'm sure." he was buttoning on a heavy grey overcoat of noachian cut, with cape and high collar, the latter being erect and rigid, like a girdling wall, and nearly reaching to the verge of travelling cap which was pulled down over his ears. pennyways snuffed the candle, and then looked up and deliberately inspected troy "you've made up your mind to go then?" he said. "made up my mind? yes; of course i have." "why not write to her? 'tis a very queer corner that you have got into, sergeant. you see all these things will come to light if you go back, and they won't sound well at all. faith, if i was you i'd even bide as you be -- a single man of the name of francis. a good wife is good, but the best wife is not so good as no wife at all. now that's my outspoke mind, and i've been called a long-headed feller here and there." "all nonsense!" said troy, angrily. "there she is with plenty of money, and a house and farm, and horses, and comfort, and here am i living from hand to mouth -- a needy adventurer. besides, it is no use talking now; it is too late, and i am glad of it; i've been seen and recognized here this very afternoon. i should have gone back to her the day after the fair, if it hadn't been for you talking about the law, and rubbish about getting a separation; and i don't put it off any longer. what the deuce put it into my head to run away at all, i can't think! humbugging sentiment -- that's what it was. but what man on earth was to know that his wife would be in such a hurry to get rid of his name!" "i should have known it. she's bad enough for anything." "pennyways, mind who you are talking to." "well, sergeant, all i say is this, that if i were you i'd go abroad again where i came from -- 'tisn't too late to do it now. i wouldn't stir up the business and get a bad name for the sake of living with her -- for all that about your play-acting is sure to come out, you know, although you think otherwise. my eyes and limbs, there'll be a racket if you go back just now -- in the middle of bold- wood's christmasing!" "h'm, yes. i expect i shall not be a very welcome guest if he has her there." said the sergeant, with a slight laugh. "a sort of alonzo the brave; and when i go in the guests will sit in silence and fear, and all laughter and pleasure will be hushed, and the lights in the chamber burn blue, and the worms -- ugh, horrible! -- ring for some more brandy, pennyways, i felt an awful shudder just then! well, what is there besides? a stick-i must have a walking-stick." pennyways now felt himself to be in something of a difficulty, for should bathsheba and troy become recon- ciled it would be necessary to regain her good opinion if he would secure the patronage of her husband. i sometimes think she likes you yet, and is a good woman at bottom." he said, as a saving sentence. "but there's no telling to a certainty from a body's outside. well, you'll do as you like about going, of course, sergeant, and as for me, i'll do as you tell me." "now, let me see what the time is." said troy, after emptying his glass in one draught as he stood. 'half- past six o'clock. i shall not hurry along the road, and shall be there then before nine." chapter liii concurritur -- horae momento outside the front of boldwood's house a group of men stood in the dark, with their faces towards the door, which occasionally opened and closed for the passage of some guest or servant, when a golden rod of light would stripe the ground for the moment and vanish again, leaving nothing outside but the glowworm shine of the pale lamp amid the evergreens over the door. "he was seen in casterbridge this afternoon -- so the boy said." one of them remarked in a whisper. "and l for one believe it. his body was never found, you know." "'tis a strange story." said the next. "you may depend upon't that she knows nothing about it." "not a word." "perhaps he don't mean that she shall." said another man. "if he's alive and here in the neighbourhood, he means mischief." said the first. "poor young thing: i do pity her, if 'tis true. he'll drag her to the dogs." "o no; he'll settle down quiet enough." said one disposed to take a more hopeful view of the case. "what a fool she must have been ever to have had anything to do with the man! she is so self-willed and independent too, that one is more minded to say it serves her right than pity her." "no, no. i don't hold with 'ee there. she was no otherwise than a girl mind, and how could she tell what the man was made of? if 'tis really true, 'tis too hard a punishment, and more than she ought to hae. -- hullo, who's that?" this was to some footsteps that were heard approaching. "william smallbury." said a dim figure in the shades, coming up and joining them. "dark as a hedge, to- night, isn't it? i all but missed the plank over the river ath'art there in the bottom -- never did such a thing before in my life. be ye any of boldwood's workfolk?" he peered into their faces. "yes -- all o' us. we met here a few minutes ago." "oh, i hear now -- that's sam samway: thought i knowed the voice, too. going in?" "presently. but i say, william." samway whispered, "have ye heard this strange tale?" "what -- that about sergeant troy being seen, d'ye mean, souls?" said smallbury, also lowering his voice. "ay: in casterbridge." "yes, i have. laban tall named a hint of it to me but now -- but i don't think it. hark, here laban comes himself, 'a b'lieve." a footstep drew near. "laban?" "yes, 'tis i." said tall. "have ye heard any more about that?" "no." said tall, joining the group. "and i'm in- clined to think we'd better keep quiet. if so be 'tis not true, 'twill flurry her, and do her much harm to repeat it; and if so be 'tis true, 'twill do no good to forestall her time o' trouble. god send that it mid be a lie, for though henery fray and some of 'em do speak against her, she's never been anything but fair to me. she's hot and hasty, but she's a brave girl who'll never tell a lie however much the truth may harm her, and i've no cause to wish her evil." "she never do tell women's little lies, that's true; and 'tis a thing that can be said of very few. ay, all the harm she thinks she says to yer face: there's nothing underhand wi' her." they stood silent then, every man busied with his own thoughts, during which interval sounds of merri- ment could be heard within. then the front door again opened, the rays streamed out, the wellknown form of boldwood was seen in the rectangular area of light, the door closed, and boldwood walked slowly down the path. "'tis master." one of the men whispered, as he neared them. "we'd better stand quiet -- he'll go in again directly. he would think it unseemly o' us to be loitering here. boldwood came on, and passed by the men without seeing them, they being under the bushes on the grass. he paused, leant over the gate, and breathed a long breath. they heard low words come from him. "i hope to god she'll come, or this night will be nothing but misery to me! o my darling, my darling, why do you keep me in suspense like this?" he said this to himself, and they all distinctly heard it. boldwood remained silent after that, and the noise from indoors was again just audible, until, a few minutes later, light wheels could be distinguished coming down the hill. they drew nearer, and ceased at the gate. boldwood hastened back to the door, and opened it; and the light shone upon bathsheba coming up the path. boldwood compressed his emotion to mere welcome: the men marked her light laugh and apology as she met him: he took her into the house; and the door closed again. "gracious heaven, i didn't know it was like that with him!" said one of the men. "i thought that fancy of his was over long ago. "you don't know much of master, if you thought that." said samway. "i wouldn't he should know we heard what 'a said for the world." remarked a third. "i wish we had told of the report at once." the first uneasily continued. "more harm may come of this than we know of. poor mr. boldwood, it will, be hard upon en. i wish troy was in -- -- well, god forgive me for such a wish! a scoundrel to play a poor wife such tricks. nothing has prospered in weatherbury since he came here. and now i've no heart to go in. let's look into warren's for a few minutes first, shall us, neighbours?" samway, tall, and smallbury agreed to go to warren's, and went out at the gate, the remaining ones entering the house. the three soon drew near the malt-house, approaching it from the adjoining orchard, and not by way of the street. the pane of glass was illuminated as usual. smallbury was a little in advance of the rest when, pausing, he turned suddenly to his companions and said, "hist! see there." the light from the pane was now perceived to be shining not upon the ivied wall as usual, but upon some object close to the glass. it was a human face. "let's come closer." whispered samway; and they approached on tiptoe. there was no disbelieving the report any longer. troy's face was almost close to the pane, and he was looking in. not only was he looking in, but he appeared to have been arrested by a conversation which was in progress in the malt-house, the voices of the interlocutors being those of oak and the maltster. "the spree is all in her honour, isn't it -- hey?" said the old man. "although he made believe 'tis only keeping up o' christmas?" "i cannot say." replied oak. "o 'tis true enough, faith. i cannot understand farmer boldwood being such a fool at his time of life as to ho and hanker after thik woman in the way 'a do, and she not care a bit about en." the men, after recognizing troy's features, withdrew across the orchard as quietly as they had come. the air was big with bathsheba's fortunes to-night: every word everywhere concerned her. when they were quite out of earshot all by one instinct paused. "it gave me quite a turn -- his face." said tall, breathing. "and so it did me." said samway. "what's to be done?" "i don't see that 'tis any business of ours." smallbury murmured dubiously. "but it is! 'tis a thing which is everybody's business, said samway. "we know very well that master's on a wrong tack, and that she's quite in the dark, and we should let 'em know at once. laban, you know her best -- you'd better go and ask to speak to her." "i bain't fit for any such thing." said laban, nervously. "i should think william ought to do it if anybody. he's oldest." "i shall have nothing to do with it." said smallbury. "'tis a ticklish business altogether. why, he'll go on to her himself in a few minutes, ye'll see." "we don't know that he will. come, laban." "very well, if i must i must, i suppose." tall reluct- antly answered. "what must i say?" "just ask to see master." "o no; i shan't speak to mr. boldwood. if i tell anybody, 'twill be mistress." "very well." said samway. laban then went to the door. when he opened it the hum of bustle rolled out as a wave upon a still strand -- the assemblage being immediately inside the hall-and was deadened to a murmur as he closed it again. each man waited intently, and looked around at the dark tree tops gently rocking against the sky and occasionally shivering in a slight wind, as if he took interest in the scene, which neither did. one of them began walking up and down, and then came to where he started from and stopped again, with a sense that walking was thing not worth doing now. "i should think laban must have seen mistress by this time." said smallbury, breaking the silence. "per- haps she won't come and speak to him." the door opened. tall appeared, and joined them "well?" said both. "i didn't like to ask for her after all." laban faltered out. "they were all in such a stir, trying to put a little spirit into the party. somehow the fun seems to hang fire, though everything's there that a heart can desire, and i couldn't for my soul interfere and throw damp upon it -- if 'twas to save my life, i couldn't!" "i suppose we had better all go in together." said samway, gloomily. "perhaps i may have a chance of saying a word to master." so the men entered the hall, which was the room selected and arranged for the gathering because of its size. the younger men and maids were at last just beginning to dance. bathsheba had been perplexed how to act, for she was not much more than a slim young maid herself, and the weight of stateliness sat heavy upon her. sometimes she thought she ought not to have come under any circumstances; then she considered what cold unkindness that would have been, and finally resolved upon the middle course of staying for about an hour only, and gliding off unobserved, having from the first made up her mind that she could on no account dance, sing, or take any active part in the proceedings. her allotted hour having been passed in chatting and looking on, bathsheba told liddy not to hurry her- self, and went to the small parlour to prepare for departure, which, like the hall, was decorated with holly and ivy, and well lighted up. nobody was in the room, but she had hardly been there a moment when the master of the house entered. "mrs. troy -- you are not going?" he said. "we've hardly begun!" "if you'll excuse me, i should like to go now." her manner was restive, for she remembered her promise, and imagined what he was about to say. "but as it is not late." she added, "i can walk home, and leave my man and liddy to come when they choose." "i've been trying to get an opportunity of speaking to you." said boldwood. "you know perhaps what i long to say?" bathsheba silently looked on the floor. "you do give it?" he said, eagerly. "what?" she whispered. "now, that's evasion! why, the promise. i don't want to intrude upon you at all, or to let it become known to anybody. but do give your word! a mere business compact, you know, between two people who are beyond the influence of passion." boldwood knew how false this picture was as regarded himself; but he had proved that it was the only tone in which she would allow him to approach her. "a promise to marry me at the end of five years and three-quarters. you owe it to me!" "i feel that i do." said bathsheba; "that is, if you demand it. but i am a changed woman -- an unhappy woman -- and not -- not -- -- " "you are still a very beautiful woman, said boldwood. honesty and pure conviction suggested the remark, unaccompanied by any perception that it might have been adopted by blunt flattery to soothe and win her. however, it had not much effect now, for for she said, in a passionless murmur which was in itself a proof of her words: "i have no feeling in the matter at all. and i don't at all know what is right to do in my diddicult position, and i have nobody to advise me. but i give my promise, if i must. i give it as the rendering of a debt, conditionally, of course, on my being a widow." "you'll marry me between five and six years hence?" "don't press me too hard. i'll marry nobody else." "but surely you will name the time, or there's nothing in the promise at all?" o, i don't know, pray let me go!" she said, her bosom beginning to rise. "i am afraid what to do! want to be just to you, and to be that seems to be wrong- ing myself, and perhaps it is breaking the commandments. there is considerable doubt of his death, and then it is dreadful; let me ask a solicitor, mr. boldwood, if i ought or no!" "say the words, dear one, and the subject shall be dismissed; a blissful loving intimacy of six years, and then marriage -- o bathsheba, say them!" he begged in a husky voice, unable to sustain the forms of mere friendship any longer. "promise yourself to me; i deserve it, indeed i do, for i have loved you more than anybody in the world! and if i said hasty words and showed uncalled-for heat of manner towards you, believe me, dear, i did not mean to distress you; i was in agony, bathsheba, and i did not know what i said. you wouldn't let a dog suffer what i have suffered, could you but know it! sometimes i shrink from your knowing what i have felt for you, and sometimes i am distressed that all of it you never will know. be gracious, and give up a little to me, when i would give up my life for you!" the trimmings of her dress, as they quivered against the light, showed how agitated she was, and at last she burst out crying. 'and you'll not -- press me -- about anything more -- if i say in five or six years?" she sobbed, when she had power to frame the words. "yes, then i'll leave it to time." "very well. if he does not return, i'll marry you in six years from this day, if we both live." she said solemnly. "and you'll take this as a token from me." boldwood had come close to her side, and now he clasped one of her hands in both his own, and lifted it to his breast. "what is it? oh i cannot wear a ring!" she ex- claimed, on seeing what he held; "besides, i wouldn't have a soul know that it's an engagement! perhaps it is improper? besides, we are not engaged in the usual sense, are we? don't insist, mr. boldwood -- don't!" in her trouble at not being able to get her hand away from him at once, she stamped passionately on the floor with one foot, and tears crowded to her eyes again. "it means simply a pledge -- no sentiment -- the seal of a practical compact." he said more quietly, but still retaining her hand in his firm grasp. "come, now!" and boldwood slipped the ring on her finger. "i cannot wear it." she said, weeping as if her heart would break. "you frighten me, almost. so wild a scheme! please let me go home!" "only to-night: wear it just to-night, to please me!" bathsheba sat down in a chair, and buried her face in her handkerchief, though boldwood kept her hand yet. at length she said, in a sort of hopeless whisper -- "very well, then, i will to-night, if you wish it so earnestly. now loosen my hand; i will, indeed i will wear it to-night." "and it shall be the beginning of a pleasant secret courtship of six years, with a wedding at the end?" "it must be, i suppose, since you will have it so!" she said, fairly beaten into non-resistance. boldwood pressed her hand, and allowed it to drop in her lap. "i am happy now." he said. "god bless you!" he left the room, and when he thought she might be sufficiently composed sent one of the maids to her bathsheba cloaked the effects of the late scene as she best could, followed the girl, and in a few moments came downstairs with her hat and cloak on, ready to go. to get to the door it was necessary to pass through the hall, and before doing so she paused on the bottom of the staircase which descended into one corner, to take a last look at the gathering. there was no music or dancing in progress just now. at the lower end, which had been arranged for the work- folk specially, a group conversed in whispers, and with clouded looks. boldwood was standing by the fireplace, and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arising from her promise that he scarcely saw anything, seemed at that moment to have observed their peculiar manner, and their looks askance. "what is it you are in doubt about, men?" he said. one of them turned and replied uneasily: "it was something laban heard of, that's all, sir." "news? anybody married or engaged, born or dead?" inquired the farmer, gaily. "tell it to us, tall. one would think from your looks and mysterious ways that it was something very dreadful indeed." "o no, sir, nobody is dead." said tall. "i wish somebody was." said samway, in a whisper. "what do you say, samway?" asked boldwood, some- what sharply. "if you have anything to say, speak out; if not, get up another dance." "mrs. troy has come downstairs." said samway to tall. "if you want to tell her, you had better do it now." "do you know what they mean?" the farmer asked bathsheba, across the room. "i don't in the least," said bathsheba. there was a smart rapping at the door. one of the men opened it instantly, and went outside. "mrs. troy is wanted." he said, on returning. "quite ready." said bathsheba. "though i didn't tell them to send." "it is a stranger, ma'am." said the man by the door. "a stranger?" she said. "ask him to come in." said boldwood. the message was given, and troy, wrapped up to his eyes as we have seen him, stood in the doorway. there was an unearthly silence, all looking towards the newcomer. those who had just learnt that he was in the neighbourhood recognized him instantly; those who did not were perplexed. nobody noted bathsheba. she was leaning on the stairs. her brow had heavily contracted; her whole face was pallid, her lips apart, her eyes rigidly staring at their visitor. boldwood was among those who did not notice that he was troy. "come in, come in!" he repeated, cheerfully, "and drain a christmas beaker with us, stranger!" troy next advanced into the middle of the room, took off his cap, turned down his coat-collar, and looked boldwood in the face. even then boldwood did not recognize that the impersonator of heaven's persistent irony towards him, who had once before broken in upon his bliss, scourged him, and snatched his delight away, had come to do these things a second time. troy began to laugh a mechanical laugh: boldwood recognized him now. troy turned to bathsheba. the poor girl's wretched- ness at this time was beyond all fancy or narration. she had sunk down on the lowest stair; and there she sat, her mouth blue and dry, and her dark eyes fixed vacantly upon him, as if she wondered whether it were not all a terrible illusion. then troy spoke. "bathsheba, i come here for you!" she made no reply. "come home with me: come! bathsheba moved her feet a little, but did not rise. troy went across to her. "come, madam, do you hear what i say?" he said, peremptorily. a strange voice came from the fireplace -- a voice sounding far off and confined, as if from a dungeon. hardly a soul in the assembly recognized the thin tones to be those of boldwood. sudden dispaire had trans- formed him. "bathsheba, go with your husband!" nevertheless, she did not move. the truth was that bathsheba was beyond the pale of activity -- and yet not in a swoon. she was in a state of mental gutta serena; her mind was for the minute totally deprived of light at the same time no obscuration was apparent from without. troy stretched out his hand to pull her her towards him, when she quickly shrank back. this visible dread of him seemed to irritate troy, and he seized her arm and pulled it sharply. whether his grasp pinched her, or whether his mere touch was the 'cause, was never known, but at the moment of his seizure she writhed, and gave a quick, low scream. the scream had been heard but a few seconds when it was followed by sudden deafening report that echoed through the room and stupefied them all. the oak partition shook with the concussion, and the place was filled with grey smoke. in bewilderment they turned their eyes to boldwood. at his back, as stood before the fireplace, was a gun- rack, as is usual in farmhouses, constructed to hold two guns. when bathsheba had cried out in her husband's grasp, boldwood's face of gnashing despair had changed. the veins had swollen, and a frenzied look had gleamed in his eye. he had turned quickly, taken one of the guns, cocked it, and at once discharged it at troy. troy fell. the distance apart of the two men was so small that the charge of shot did not spread in the least, but passed like a bullet into his body. he uttered a long guttural sigh -- there was a contraction -- an exten- sion -- then his muscles relaxed, and he lay still. boldwood was seen through the smoke to be now again engaged with the gun. it was double-barrelled, and he had, meanwhile, in some way fastened his hand- kerchief to the trigger, and with his foot on the other end was in the act of turning the second barrel upon himself. samway his man was the first to see this, and in the midst of the general horror darted up to him. boldwood had already twitched the handkerchief, and the gun exploded a second time, sending its contents, by a timely blow from samway, into the beam which crossed the ceiling. "well, it makes no difference!" boldwood gasped. "there is another way for me to die." then he broke from samway, crossed the room to bathsheba, and kissed her hand. he put on his hat, opened the door, and went into the darkness, nobody thinking of preventing him. chapter liv after the shock boldwood passed into the high road and turned in the direction of casterbridge. here he walked at an even, steady pace over yalbury hill, along the dead level beyond, mounted mellstock hill, and between eleven and twelve o'clock crossed the moor into the town. the streets were nearly deserted now, and the waving lamp-flames only lighted up rows of grey shop-shutters, and strips of white paving upon which his step echoed as his passed along. he turned to the right, and halted before an archway of heavy stonework, which was closed by an iron studded pair of doors. this was the entrance to the gaol, and over it a lamp was fixed, the light en- abling the wretched traveller to find a bellpull. the small wicket at last opened, and a porter appeared. boldwood stepped forward, and said some- thing in a low tone, when, after a delay, another man came. boldwood entered, and the door was closed behind him, and he walked the world no more. long before this time weatherbury had been thoroughly aroused, and the wild deed which had ter- minated boldwood's merrymaking became known to all. of those out of the house oak was one of the first to hear of the catastrophe, and when he entered the room, which was about five minutes after boldwood's exit, the scene was terrible. all the female guests were huddled aghast against the walls like sheep in a storm, and the men were bewildered as to what to do. as for bathsheba, she had changed. she was sitting on the floor beside the body of troy, his head pillowed in her lap, where she had herself lifted it. with one hand she held her handkerchief to his breast and covered the wound, though scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed, and with the other she tightly clasped one of his. the household convulsion had made her herself again. the temporary coma had ceased, and activity had come with the necessity for it. deeds of endur- ance, which seem ordinary in philosophy, are rare in conduct, and bathsheba was astonishing all around her now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she seldom thought practicable what she did not practise. she was of the stuff of which great men's mothers are made. she was indispensable to high generation, hated at tea parties, feared in shops, and loved at crises. troy recumbent in his wife's lap formed now the sole spectacle in the middle of the spacious room. "gabriel." she said, automatically, when he entered, turning up a face of which only the wellknown lines remained to tell him it was hers, all else in the picture having faded quite. "ride to casterbridge instantly for a surgeon. it is, i believe, useless, but go. mr. boldwood has shot my husband." her statement of the fact in such quiet and simple words came with more force than a tragic declamation, and had somewhat the effect of setting the distorted images in each mind present into proper focus. oak, almost before he had comprehended anything beyond the briefest abstract of the event, hurried out of the room, saddled a horse and rode away. not till he had ridden more than a mile did it occur to him that he would have done better by sending some other man on this errand, remaining himself in the house. what had become of boldwood? he should have been looked after. was he mad -- had there been a quarrel? then how had troy got there? where had he come from? how did this remarkable reappearance effect itself when he was supposed by many to be at the bottom of the sea? oak had in some slight measure been prepared for the presence of troy by hearing a rumour of his return just before entering boldwood's house; but before he had weighed that information, this fatal event had been superimposed. however, it was too late now to think of sending another messenger, and he rode on, in the excitement of these self-inquiries not discerning, when about three miles from caster- bridge, a square-figured pedestrian passing along under the dark hedge in the same direction as his own. the miles necessary to be traversed, and other hindrances incidental to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, delayed the arrival of mr, aldritch, the surgeon; and more than three hours passed between the time at which the shot was fired and that of his entering the house. oak was addition- ally detained in casterbridge through having to give notice to the authorities of what had happened; and he then found that boldwood had also entered the town, and delivered himself up. in the meantime the surgeon, having hastened into the hall at boldwood's, found it in darkness and quite deserted. he went on to the back of the house, where he discovered in the kitchen an old man, of whom he made inquiries. "she's had him took away to her own house, sir," said his informant. "who has?" said the doctor. "mrs. troy. 'a was quite dead, sir." this was astonishing information. "she had no right to do that." said the doctor. "there will have to be an inquest, and she should have waited to know what to do." "yes, sir; it was hinted to her that she had better wait till the law was known. but she said law was nothing to her, and she wouldn't let her dear husband's corpse bide neglected for folks to stare at for all the crowners in england." mr. aldritch drove at once back again up the hill to bathsheba's. the first person he met was poor liddy, who seemed literally to have dwindled smaller in these few latter hours. "what has been done?" he said. "i don't know, sir." said liddy, with suspended breath. "my mistress has done it all." "where is she?" "upstairs with him, sir. when he was brought home and taken upstairs, she said she wanted no further help from the men. and then she called me, and made me fill the bath, and after that told me i had better go and lie down because i looked so ill. then she locked herself into the room alone with him, and would not let a nurse come in, or anybody at all. but i thought i'd wait in the next room in case she should want me. i heard her moving about inside for more than an hour, but she only came out once, and that was for more candles, because hers had burnt down into the socket. she said we were to let her know when you or mr. thirdly came, sir." oak entered with the parson at this moment, and they all went upstairs together, preceded by liddy smallbury. everything was silent as the grave when they paused on the landing. liddy knocked, and bathsheba's dress was heard rustling across the room: the key turned in the lock, and she opened the door. her looks were calm and nearly rigid, like a slightly animated bust of melpomene. "oh, mr. aldritch, you have come at last." she murmured from her lips merely, and threw back the door. "ah, and mr. thirdly. well, all is done, and anybody in the world may see him now." she then passed by him, crossed the landing, and entered another room. looking into the chamber of death she had vacated they saw by the light of the candles which were on the drawers a tall straight shape lying at the further end of the bedroom, wrapped in white. everything around was quite orderly. the doctor went in, and after a few minutes returned to the landing again, where oak and the parson still waited. "it is all done, indeed, as she says." remarked mr. aldritch, in a subdued voice. "the body has been undressed and properly laid out in grave clothes. gracious heaven -- this mere girl! she must have the nerve of a stoic!" "the heart of a wife merely." floated in a whisper about the ears of the three, and turning they saw bathsheba in the midst of them. then, as if at that instant to prove that her fortitude had been more of will than of spontaneity, she silently sank down between them and was a shapeless heap of drapery on the floor. the simple consciousness that superhuman strain was no longer required had at once put a period to her power to continue it. they took her away into a further room, and the medical attendance which had been useless in troy's case was invaluable in bathsheba's, who fell into a series of fainting-fits that had a serious aspect for a time. the sufferer was got to bed, and oak, finding from the bulletins that nothing really dreadful was to be apprehended on her score, left the house. liddy kept watch in bathsheba's chamber, where she heard her mistress, moaning in whispers through the dull slow hours of that wretched night: "o it is my fault -- how can i live! o heaven, how can i live!" chapter lv the march following -- "bathsheba boldwood" we pass rapidly on into the month of march, to a breezy day without sunshine, frost, or dew. on yai*- bury hill, about midway between weatherbury and casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over the crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of the greater number being fre- quently stretched afar in a northerly direction. the groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of javelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one of which contained the high sheriff. with the idlers, many of whom had mounted to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several weatherbury men and boys -- among others poorgrass, coggan, and cain ball. at the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was seen in the expected quarter, and shortly after a travelling- carriage, bringing one of the two judges on the western circuit, came up the hill and halted on the top. the judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown by the big-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles and javelin-men, they all pro- ceeded towards the town, excepting the weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off returned home again to their work. "joseph, i seed you squeezing close to the carriage," said coggan, as they walked. "did ye notice my lord judge's face?" "i did." said poorgrass. "i looked hard at en, as if i would read his very soul; and there was mercy in his eyes -- or to speak with the exact truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was towards me." "well, i hope for the best." said coggan, though bad that must be. however, i shan't go to the trial, and i'd advise the rest of ye that bain't wanted to bide away. 'twill disturb his mind more than anything to see us there staring at him as if he were a show." "the very thing i said this morning." observed joseph, "justice is come to weigh him in the balances," i said in my reflectious way, "and if he's found wanting, so be it unto him," and a bystander said "hear, hear, a man who can talk like that ought to be heard." but i don't like dwelling upon it, for my few words are my few words, and not much; though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad as though by nature formed for such." "so 'tis, joseph. and now, neighbours, as i said, every man bide at home." the resolution was adhered to; and all waited anxiously for the news next day. their suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which was made in the afternoon, throwing more light on boldwood's conduct and condition than any details which had preceded it. that he had been from the time of greenhill fair until the fatal christmas eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had been intimate with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown in him unequivocal symptoms of the mental derange- ment which bathsheba and oak, alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily suspected. in a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary collection of articles. there were several sets of ladies" dresses in the piece, of sundry expensive materials; silks and satins, poplins and velvets, all of colours which from bathsheba's style of dress might have been judged to be her favourites. there were two muffs, sable and ermine. above all there was a case of jewellery, containing four heavy gold bracelets and several lockets and rings, all of fine quality and manu- facture. these things had been bought in bath and other towns from time to time, and brought home by stealth. they were all carefully packed in paper, and each package was labelled " bathsheba boldwood." a date being subjoined six years in advance in every instance. these somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love were the subject of discourse in warren's malt-house when oak entered from caster- bridge with tidings of the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale sufficiently well. boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death. the conviction that boldwood had not been morally responsible for his later acts now became general. facts elicited previous to the trial had pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the state of boldwood's mind. it was astonishing, now that a presumption of insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were remembered to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford the only explanation -- among others, the unprecedented neglect of his corn stacks in the previous summer. a petition was addressed to the home secretary, advancing the circumstances which appeared to justify a request for a reconsideration of the sentence. it was not "numerously signed" by the inhabitants of caster- bridge, as is usual in such cases, for boldwood had never made many friends over the counter. the shops thought it very natural that a man who, by importing direct from the producer, had daringly set aside the first great principle of provincial existence, namely that god made country villages to supply customers to county towns, should have confused ideas about the decalogue. the prompters were a few merciful men who had perhaps too feelingly considered the facts latterly unearthed, and the result was that evidence was taken which it was hoped might remove the crime in a moral point of view, out of the category of wilful murder, and lead it to be regarded as a sheer outcome of madness. the upshot of the petition was waited for in weather- bury with solicitous interest. the execution had been fixed for eight o'clock on a saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was passed, and up to friday afternoon no answer had been received. at that time gabriel came from casterbridge gaol, whither he had been to wish boldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the town. when past the last house he heard a hammering, and lifting his bowed head he looked back for a moment. over the chimneys he could see the upper part of the gaol entrance, rich and glowing in the afternoon sun, and some moving figures were there. they were carpenters lifting a post into a vertical position within the parapet. he with- drew his eyes quickly, and hastened on. it was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to meet him. "no tidings." gabriel said, wearily. "and i'm afraid there's no hope. i've been with him more than two hours." "do ye think he really was out of his mind when he did it?" said smallbury. "i can't honestly say that i do." oak replied. "how- ever, that we can talk of another time. has there been any change in mistress this afternoon?" "none at all." "is she downstairs?" "no. and getting on so nicely as she was too. she's but very little better now again than she was at christmas. she keeps on asking if you be come, and if there's news, till one's wearied out wi' answering her. shall i go and say you've come?" "no." said oak. "there's a chance yet; but i couldn't stay in town any longer -- after seeing him too, so laban -- laban is here, isn't he?" "yes." said tall. "what i've arranged is, that you shall ride to town the last thing to-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home about twelve. if nothing has been received by eleven to-night, they say there's no chance at all." "i do so hope his life will be spared." said liddy. "if it is not, she'll go out of her mind too. poor thing; her sufferings have been dreadful; she deserves any- body's pity." "is she altered much?" said coggan. "if you haven't seen poor mistress since christmas, you wouldn't know her." said liddy. "her eyes are so miserable that she's not the same woman. only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she's this!" laban departed as directed, and at eleven o'clock that night several of the villagers strolled along the road to casterbridge and awaited his arrival-among them oak, and nearly all the rest of bathsheba's men. gabriel's anxiety was great that boldwood might be saved, even though in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had been qualities in the farmer which oak loved. at last, when they all were weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance -- first dead, as if on turf it trode, then, clattering on the village road in other pace than forth he yode. "we shall soon know now, one way or other." said coggan, and they all stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into the road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them. "is that you, laban?" said gabriel. "yes -- 'tis come. he's not to die. 'tis confine- ment during her majesty's pleasure." "hurrah!" said coggan, with a swelling heart. "god's above the devil yet!" chapter lvi beauty in loneliness -- after all bathsheba revived with the spring. the utter prostration that had followed the low fever from which she had suffered diminished perceptibly when all un- certainty upon every subject had come to an end. but she remained alone now for the greater part of her time, and stayed in the house, or at furthest went into the garden. she shunned every one, even liddy, and could be brought to make no confidences, and to ask for no sympathy. as the summer drew on she passed more of her time in the open air, and began to examine into farming matters from sheer necessity, though she never rode out or personally superintended as at former times. one friday evening in august she walked a little way along the road and entered the village for the first time since the sombre event of the preceding christmas. none of the old colour had as yet come to her cheek, and its absolute paleness was heightened by the jet black of her gown, till it appeared preternatural. when she reached a little shop at the other end of the place, which stood nearly opposite to the churchyard, bath- sheba heard singing inside the church, and she knew that the singers were practising. she crossed the road, opened the gate, and entered the graveyard, the high sills of the church windows effectually screening her from the eyes of those gathered within. her stealthy walk was to the nook wherein troy had worked at planting flowers upon fanny robin's grave, and she came to the marble tombstone. a motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as she read the complete inscription. first came the words of troy himself: -- erected by francis troy in beloved memory of fanny robin, who died october , -- , aged years. underneath this was now inscribed in new letters: -- in the same grave lie the remains of the aforesaid francis troy, who died december th, -- , whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones of the organ began again in the church, and she went with the same light step round to the porch and listened. the door was closed, and the choir was learning a new hymn. bathsheba was stirred by emotions which latterly she had assumed to be altogether dead within her. the little attenuated voices of the children brought to her ear in destinct utterance the words they sang without thought or comprehension -- lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, lead thou me on. bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent de- pendent upon her whim, as is the case with many other women. something big came into her throat and an uprising to her eyes -- and she thought that she would allow the imminent tears to flow if they wished. they did flow and plenteously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her. once that she had begun to cry for she hardly knew what, she could not leave off for crowd- ing thoughts she knew too well. she would have given anything in the world to be, as those children were, un- concerned at the meaning of their words, because too innocent to feel the necessity for any such expression. all the impassioned scenes of her brief expenence seemed to revive with added emotion at that moment, and those scenes which had been without emotion during enactment had emotion then. yet grief came to her rather as a luxury than as the scourge of former times. owing to bathsheba's face being buried in her hands she did not notice a form which came quietly into the porch, and on seeing her, first moved as if to retreat, then paused and regarded her. bathsheba did not raise her head for some time, and when she looked round her face was wet, and her eyes drowned and dim. "mr. oak." exclaimed she, disconcerted, " how long have you been here?" "a few minutes, ma'am." said oak, respectfully. "are you going in?" said bathsheba; and there came from within the church as from a prompter -- l loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, pride ruled my will: remember not past years. "i was." said gabriel. "i am one of the bass singers, you know. i have sung bass for several months. "indeed: i wasn't aware of that. i'll leave you, then." which i have loved long since, and lost awhile, sang the children. "don't let me drive you away, mistress. i think i won't go in to-night." "o no -- you don't drive me away. then they stood in a state of some embarrassment bathsheba trying to wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his noticing her. at length oak said, i've not seen you-i mean spoken to you -- since ever so long, have i?" but he feared to bring distress- ing memories back, and interrupted himself with: "were you going into church?" "no." she said. i came to see the tombstone privately -- to see if they had cut the inscription as i wished mr. oak, you needn't mind speaking to me, if you wish to, on the matter which is in both our minds at this moment." "and have they done it as you wished?" said oak. "yes. come and see it, if you have not already." so together they went and read the tomb. "eight months ago!" gabriel murmured when he saw the date. "it seems like yesterday to me." and to me as if it were years ago-long years, and i had been dead between. and now i am going home, mr. oak." oak walked after her. "i wanted to name a small matter to you as soon as i could." he said, with hesitation. "merrily about business, and i think i may just mention it now, if you'll allow me." "o yes, certainly." it is that i may soon have to give up the manage- ment of your farm, mrs. troy. the fact is, i am think- ing of leaving england -- not yet, you know -- next spring. " "leaving england!" she said, in surprise and genuine disappointment." why, gabriel, what are you going to do that for?" "well, i've thought it best." oak stammered out. "california is the spot i've had in my mind to try." "but it is understood everywhere that you are going to take poor mr. boldwood's farm on your own account." "i've had the refusal o' it 'tis true; but nothing is settled yet, and i have reasons for giving up. i shall finish out my year there as manager for the trustees, but no more." "and what shall i do without you? oh, gabriel, i don't think you ought to go away. you've been with me so long -- through bright times and dark times -- such old friends that as we are -- that it seems unkind almost. i had fancied that if you leased the other farm as master, you might still give a helping look across at mine. and now going away!" "i would have willingly." "yet now that i am more helpless than ever you go away!" "yes, that's the ill fortune o' it." said gabriel, in a distressed tone. "and it is because of that very help- lessness that i feel bound to go. good afternoon, ma'am" he concluded, in evident anxiety to get away, and at once went out of the churchyard by a path she could follow on no pretence whatever. bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble, which being rather harassing than deadly was calculated to do good by diverting her from the chronic gloom of her life. she was set thinking a great deal about oak and of his which to shun her; and there occurred to bathsheba several incidents of latter in- tercourse with him, which, trivial when singly viewed amounted together to a perceptible disinclination for her society. it broke upon her at length as a great pain that her last old disciple was about to forsake her and flee. he who had believed in her and argued on her side when all the rest of the world was against her, had at last like the others become weary and neglectful of the old cause, and was leaving her to fight her battles alone. three weeks went on, and more evidence of his want of interest in her was forthcoming. she noticed that instead of entering the small parlour or office where the farm accounts were kept, and waiting, or leaving a memorandum as he had hitherto done during her seclusion, oak never came at all when she was likely to be there, only entering at unseasonable hours when her presence in that part of the house was least to be expected. whenever he wanted directions he sent a message, or note with neither heading nor signature, to which she was obliged to reply in the same off-hand style. poor bathsheba began to suffer now from the most torturing sting of ali-a sensation that she was despised. the autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholy conjectures, and christmas-day came, com- pleting a year of her legal widowhood, and two years and a quarter of her life alone. on examining her heart it appeared beyond measure strange that the sub- ject of which the season might have been supposed suggestive -- the event in the hall at boldwood's -- was not agitating her at all; but instead, an agonizing con- viction that everybody abjured her -- for what she could not tell -- and that oak was the ringleader of the recusants. coming out of church that day she looked round in hope that oak, whose bass voice she had heard rolling out from the gallery overhead in a most unconcerned manner, might chance to linger in her path in the old way. there he was, as usual, coming down the path behind her. but on seeing bathsheba turn, he looked aside, and as soon as he got beyond the gate, and there was the barest excuse for a divergence, he made one, and vanished. the next morning brought the culminating stroke; she had been expecting it long. it was a formal notice by letter from him that he should not renew his engage- ment with her for the following lady-day. bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most bitterly. she was aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love from gabriel, which she had after all grown to regard as her inalienable right for life, should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this way. she was bewildered too by the prospect of having to rely on her own resources again: it seemed to herself that she never could again acquire energy sufficient to go to market, barter, and sell. since troy's death oak had attended all sales and fairs for her, transacting her business at the same time with his own. what should she do now? her life was becoming a desolation. so desolate was bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute hunger for pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she appeared to have outlived the only true friend- ship she had ever owned, she put on her bonnet and cloak and went down to oak's house just after sunset, guided on her way by the pale primrose rays of a crescent moon a few days old. a lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was visible in the room. she tapped nervously, and then thought it doubtful if it were right for a single woman to call upon a bachelor who lived alone, although he was her manager, and she might be supposed to call on business without any real impropriety. gabriel opened the door, and the moon shone upon his fore- haad. "mr. oak." said bathsheba, faintly. "yes; i am mr. oak." said gabriel. "who have i the honour -- o how stupid of me, not to know you, mistress!" "i shall not be your mistress much longer, shall i gabriel?" she said, in pathetic tones. "well, no. i suppose -- but come in, ma'am. oh -- and i'll get a light." oak replied, with some awkwardness. "no; not on my account." "it is so seldom that i get a lady visitor that i'm afraid i haven't proper accommodation. will you sit down, please? here's a chair, and there's one, too. i am sorry that my chairs all have wood seats, and are rather hard, but i was thinking of getting some new ones." oak placed two or three for her. "they are quite easy enough for me." so down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancing in their faces, and upon the old furniture all a-sheenen wi' long years o' handlen, that formed oak's array of household possessions, which sent back a dancing reflection in reply. it was very odd to these two persons, who knew each other passing well, that the mere circumstance of their meeting in a new place and in a new way should make them so awkward and constrained. in the fields, or at her house, there had never been any embarrassment; but now that oak had become the entertainer their lives seemed to be moved back again to the days when they were strangers. "you'll think it strange that i have come, but -- " "o no; not at all." "but i thought -- gabriel, i have been uneasy in the belief that i have offended you, and that you are going away on that account. it grieved me very much and i couldn't help coming." "offended me! as if you could do that, bathsheba!" "haven't i?" she asked, gladly. "but, what are you going away for else?" "i am not going to emigrate, you know; i wasn't aware that you would wish me not to when i told 'ee or i shouldn't ha' thought of doing it." he said, simply. "i have arranged for little weatherbury farm and shall have it in my own hands at lady-day. you know i've had a share in it for some time. still, that wouldn't prevent my attending to your business as before, hadn't it been that things have been said about us." "what?" said bathsheba, in surprise. "things said about you and me! what are they?" "i cannot tell you." "it would be wiser if you were to, i think. you have played the part of mentor to me many times, and i don't see why you should fear to do it now." "it is nothing that you have done, this time. the top and tail o't is this -- that i am sniffing about here, and waiting for poor boldwood's farm, with a thought of getting you some day." "getting me! what does that mean?" "marrying o' 'ee, in plain british. you asked me to tell, so you mustn't blame me." bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had been discharged by her ear, which was what oak had expected. "marrying me! i didn't know it was that you meant." she said, quietly. "such a thing as that is too absurd -- too soon -- to think of, by far!" "yes; of course, it is too absurd. i don't desire any such thing; i should think that was plain enough by this time. surely, surely you be the last person in the world i think of marrying. it is too absurd, as you say "too -- s-s-soon" were the words i used." "i must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said, "too absurd," and so do i." "i beg your pardon too! she returned, with tears in her eyes. ""too soon" was what i said. but it doesn't matter a bit -- not at ali-but i only meant, "too soon" indeed, i didn't, mr. oak, and you must believe me!" gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelight being faint there was not much to be seen. "bathsheba," he said, tenderly and in surprise, and coming closer: "if i only knew one thing -- whether you would allow me to love you and win you, and marry you after ali-if i only knew that!" "but you never will know." she murmured. "why?" "because you never ask. "oh -- oh!" said gabriel, with a low laugh of joyous- ness. "my own dear -- " "you ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this morning." she interrupted. "it shows you didn't care a bit about me, and were ready to desert me like all the rest of them! it was very cruel of you, consider- ing i was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and you were the first i ever had; and i shall not forget it!" "now, bathsheba, was ever anybody so provoking he said, laughing. "you know it was purely that i, as an unmarried man, carrying on a business for you as a very taking young woman, had a proper hard part to play -- more particular that people knew i had a sort of feeling for'ee; and i fancied, from the way we were mentioned together, that it might injure your good name. nobody knows the heat and fret i have been caused by it." "and was that all?" "all." "oh, how glad i am i came!" she exclaimed, thank- fully, as she rose from her seat. "i have thought so much more of you since i fancied you did not want even to see me again. but i must be going now, or i shall be missed. why gabriel." she said, with a slight laugh, as they went to the door, "it seems exactly as if i had come courting you -- how dreadful!" "and quite right too." said oak. "i've danced at your skittish heels, my beautiful bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a long day; and it is hard to be- grudge me this one visit." he accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his forthcoming tenure of the other farm. they spoke very little of their mutual feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably un- necessary between such tried friends. theirs was that substantial affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each other's character, and not the best till further on, the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. this good-fellowship -- camaraderie -- usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. where, however, happy circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is strong as death -- that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as steam. chapter lvii a foggy night and morning -- conclusion "the most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to have." those had been bathsheba's words to oak one evening, some time after the event of the preceding chapter, and he meditated a full hour by the clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter. "a licence -- o yes, it must be a licence." he said to himself at last. "very well, then; first, a license." on a dark night, a few days later, oak came with mysterious steps from the surrogate's door, in caster- bridge. on the way home he heard a heavy tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to be coggan. they walked together into the village until they came to a little lane behind the church, leading down to the cottage of laban tall, who had lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and was yet in mortal terror at church on sundays when he heard his lone voice among certain hard words of the psalms, whither no man ventured to follow him. "well, good-night, coggan." said oak, "i'm going down this way." "oh!" said coggan, surprised; "what's going on to- night then, make so bold mr. oak?" it seemed rather ungenerous not to tell coggan, under the circumstances, for coggan had been true as steel all through the time of gabriel's unhappiness about bathsheba, and gabriel said, " you can keep a secret, coggan?" "you've proved me, and you know." "yes, i have, and i do know. well, then, mistress and i mean to get married to-morrow morning." "heaven's high tower! and yet i've thought of such a thing from time to time; true, i have. but keeping it so close! well, there, 'tis no consarn of amine, and i wish 'ee joy o' her." "thank you, coggan. but i assure 'ee that this great hush is not what i wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished if it hadn't been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem hardly the thing. bathsheba has a great wish that all the parish shall not be in church, looking at her -- she's shylike and nervous about it, in fact -- so i be doing this to humour her." "ay, i see: quite right, too, i suppose i must say. and you be now going down to the clerk." "yes; you may as well come with me." "i am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed away." said coggan, as they walked along. "labe tall's old woman will horn it all over parish in half-an-hour. " "so she will, upon my life; i never thought of that." said oak, pausing. "yet i must tell him to- night, i suppose, for he's working so far off, and leaves early." "i'll tell 'ee how we could tackle her." said coggan. "i'll knock and ask to speak to laban outside the door, you standing in the background. then he'll come out, and you can tell yer tale. she'll never guess what i want en for; and i'll make up a few words about the farm-work, as a blind." this scheme was considered feasible; and coggan advanced boldly, and rapped at mrs. tall's door. mrs. tall herself opened it. "i wanted to have a word with laban." "he's not at home, and won't be this side of eleven o'clock. he've been forced to go over to yalbury since shutting out work. i shall do quite as well." "i hardly think you will. stop a moment;" and coggan stepped round the corner of the porch to consult oak. "who's t'other man, then?" said mrs. tall. "only a friend." said coggan. "say he's wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch to-morrow morning at ten." said oak, in a whisper. "that he must come without fail, and wear his best clothes." "the clothes will floor us as safe as houses!" said coggan. "it can't be helped said oak. "tell her." so coggan delivered the message. "mind, het or wet, blow or snow, he must come, added jan. "'tis very particular, indeed. the fact is, 'tis to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares wi' another farmer for a long span o' years. there, that's what 'tis, and now i've told 'ee, mother tall, in a way i shouldn't ha' done if i hadn't loved 'ee so hopeless well." coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they called at the vicar's in a manner which excited no curiosity at all. then gabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow. "liddy." said bathsheba, on going to bed that night, "i want you to call me at seven o'clock to-morrow, in case i shouldn't wake." "but you always do wake afore then, ma'am." "yes, but i have something important to do, which i'll tell you of when the time comes, and it's best to make sure." conclusion bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by any contrivance get to sleep again. about six, being quite positive that her watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer. she went and tapped at liddy's door, and after some labour awoke her. "but i thought it was i who had to call you?" said the bewildered liddy. "and it isn't six yet." indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, liddy? i know it must be ever so much past seven. come to my room as soon as you can; i want you to give my hair a good brushing." when liddy came to bathsheba's room her mistress was already waiting. liddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness. "whatever is going on, ma'am?" she said. "well, i'll tell you." said bathsheba, with a mischiev- ous smile in her bright eyes. "farmer oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!" "farmer oak -- and nobody else? -- you two alone?" "yes." "but is it safe, ma'am, after what's been said?" asked her companion, dubiously. "a woman's good name is such a perishable article that -- -- " bathsheba laughed with a flushed cheek, and whispered in liddy's ear, although there was nobody present. then liddy stared and exclaimed, " souls alive, what news! it makes my heart go quite bumpity-bump" "it makes mine rather furious, too." said bathsheba. "however, there's no getting out of it now!" it was a damp disagreeable morning. nevertheless, at twenty minutes to ten o'clock, oak came out of his house, and went up the hill side with that sort of stride a man puts out when walking in search of a bride, and knocked bathsheba's door. ten minutes later a large and a smaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, and through the mist along the road to the church. the distance was not more than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed it unnecessary to drive. an observer must have been very close indeed to discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of oak and bathsheba, arm-in- arm for the first time in their lives, oak in a greatcoat extending to his knees, and bathsheba in a cloak that reached her clogs. yet, though so plainly dressed there was a certain rejuvenated appearance about her: -- as though a rose should shut and be a bud again. repose had again incarnadined her cheeks; and having, at gabriel's request, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago on norcombe hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl of that fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only three or four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful. in the church were tall, liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably short space of time the deed was done. the two sat down very quietly to tea in bathsheba's parlour in the evening of the same day, for it had been arranged that farmer oak should go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house, nor furniture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards them, whilst bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of all three. just as bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were greeted by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a tremendous blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house. "there!" said oak, laughing, "i knew those fellows were up to something, by the look on their face; " oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by bathsheba with a shawl over her head. the rays fell upon a group of male figures gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the newly-married couple in the porch, set up a loud "hurrah!" and at the same moment bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by a hideous clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent, hautboy, tenor- viol, and double-bass -- the only remaining relics of the true and original weatherbury band -- venerable worm- eaten instruments, which had celebrated in their own persons the victories of marlhorough, under the fingers of the forefathers of those who played them now. the performers came forward, and marched up to the front. "those bright boys, mark clark and jan, are at the bottom of all this." said oak. "come in, souls, and have something to eat and drink wi' me and my wife." "not to-night." said mr. clark, with evident self- denial. "thank ye all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time. however, we couldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration of some sort. if ye could send a drop of som'at down to warren's, why so it is. here's long life and happiness to neighbour oak and his comely bride!" "thank ye; thank ye all." said gabriel. "a bit and a drop shall be sent to warren's for ye at once. i had a thought that we might very likely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and i was saying so to my wife but now." "faith." said coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions, "the man hev learnt to say "my wife" in a wonderful naterel way, considering how very youth- ful he is in wedlock as yet -- hey, neighbours all?" "i never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years" standing pipe "my wife" in a more used note than 'a did." said jacob smallbury. "it might have been a little more true to nater if't had been spoke a little chillier, but that wasn't to be expected just now. "that improvement will come wi' time." said jan, twirling his eye. then oak laughed, and bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily now), and their friends turned to go. "yes; i suppose that's the size o't." said joseph poorgrass with a cheerful sigh as they moved away; "and i wish him joy o' her; though i were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy hosea, in my scripture manner, which is my second nature. "ephraim is joined to idols: let him alone." but since 'tis as 'tis why, it might have been worse, and i feel my thanks accordingly." the end the solitary summer by elizabeth von arnim to the man of wrath with some apologies and much love may may nd.--last night after dinner, when we were in the garden, i said, "i want to be alone for a whole summer, and get to the very dregs of life. i want to be as idle as i can, so that my soul may have time to grow. nobody shall be invited to stay with me, and if any one calls they will be told that i am out, or away, or sick. i shall spend the months in the garden, and on the plain, and in the forests. i shall watch the things that happen in my garden, and see where i have made mistakes. on wet days i will go into the thickest parts of the forests, where the pine needles are everlastingly dry, and when the sun shines i'll lie on the heath and see how the broom flares against the clouds. i shall be perpetually happy, because there will be no one to worry me. out there on the plain there is silence, and where there is silence i have discovered there is peace." "mind you do not get your feet damp," said the man of wrath, removing his cigar. it was the evening of may day, and the spring had taken hold of me body and soul. the sky was full of stars, and the garden of scents, and the borders of wallflowers and sweet, sly pansies. all day there had been a breeze, and all day slow masses of white clouds had been sailing across the blue. now it was so still, so motionless, so breathless, that it seemed as though a quiet hand had been laid on the garden, soothing and hushing it into silence. the man of wrath sat at the foot of the verandah steps in that placid after-dinner mood which suffers fools, if not gladly, at least indulgently, and i stood in front of him, leaning against the sun-dial. "shall you take a book with you?" he asked. "yes, i shall," i replied, slightly nettled by his tone. "i am quite ready to admit that though the fields and flowers are always ready to teach, i am not always in the mood to learn, and sometimes my eyes are incapable of seeing things that at other times are quite plain." "and then you read?" "and then i read. well, dear sage, what of that?" but he smoked in silence, and seemed suddenly absorbed by the stars. "see," he said, after a pause, during which i stood looking at him and wishing he would use longer sentences, and he looked at the sky and did not think about me at all, "see how bright the stars are to-night. almost as though it might freeze." "it isn't going to freeze, and i won't look at anything until you have told me what you think of my idea. wouldn't a whole lovely summer, quite alone, be delightful? wouldn't it be perfect to get up every morning for weeks and feel that you belong to yourself and to nobody else?" and i went over to him and put a hand on each shoulder and gave him a little shake, for he persisted in gazing at the stars just as though i had not been there. "please, man of wrath, say something long for once," i entreated; "you haven't said a good long sentence for a week." he slowly brought his gaze from the stars down to me and smiled. then he drew me on to his knee. "don't get affectionate," i urged; "it is words, not deeds, that i want. but i'll stay here if you'll talk." "well then, i will talk. what am i to say? you know you do as you please, and i never interfere with you. if you do not want to have any one here this summer you will not have any one, but you will find it a very long summer." "no, i won't." "and if you lie on the heath all day, people will think you are mad." "what do i care what people think?" "no, that is true. but you will catch cold, and your little nose will swell." "let it swell." "and when it is hot you will be sunburnt and your skin spoilt." "i don't mind my skin." "and you will be dull." "dull?" it often amuses me to reflect how very little the man of wrath really knows me. here we have been three years buried in the country, and i as happy as a bird the whole time. i say as a bird, because other people have used the simile to describe absolute cheerfulness, although i do not believe birds are any happier than any one else, and they quarrel disgracefully. i have been as happy then, we will say, as the best of birds, and have had seasons of solitude at intervals before now during which dull is the last word to describe my state of mind. everybody, it is true, would not like it, and i had some visitors here a fortnight ago who left after staying about a week and clearly not enjoying themselves. they found it dull, i know, but that of course was their own fault; how can you make a person happy against his will? you can knock a great deal into him in the way of learning and what the schools call extras, but if you try for ever you will not knock any happiness into a being who has not got it in him to be happy. the only result probably would be that you knock your own out of yourself. obviously happiness must come from within, and not from without; and judging from my past experience and my present sensations, i should say that i have a store just now within me more than sufficient to fill five quiet months. "i wonder," i remarked after a pause, during which i began to suspect that i too must belong to the serried ranks of the femmes incomprises, "why you think i shall be dull. the garden is always beautiful, and i am nearly always in the mood to enjoy it. not quite always, i must confess, for when those schmidts were here" (their name was not schmidt, but what does that matter?) "i grew almost to hate it. whenever i went into it there they were, dragging themselves about with faces full of indignant resignation. do you suppose they saw one of those blue hepaticas overflowing the shrubberies? and when i drove with them into the woods, where the fairies were so busy just then hanging the branches with little green jewels, they talked about berlin the whole time, and the good savouries their new chef makes." "well, my dear, no doubt they missed their savouries. your garden, i acknowledge, is growing very pretty, but your cook is bad. poor schmidt sometimes looked quite ill at dinner, and the beauty of your floral arrangements in no way made up for the inferior quality of the food. send her away." "send her away? be thankful you have her. a bad cook is more effectual a great deal than kissingen and carlsbad and homburg rolled into one, and very much cheaper. as long as i have her, my dear man, you will be comparatively thin and amiable. poor schmidt, as you call him, eats too much of those delectable savouries, and then looks at his wife and wonders why he married her. don't let me catch you doing that." "i do not think it is very likely," said the man of wrath; but whether he meant it prettily, or whether he was merely thinking of the improbability of his ever eating too much of the local savouries, i cannot tell. i object, however, to discussing cooks in the garden on a starlight night, so i got off his knee and proposed that we should stroll round a little. it was such a sweet evening, such a fitting close to a beautiful may day, and the flowers shone in the twilight like pale stars, and the air was full of fragrance, and i envied the bats fluttering through such a bath of scent, with the real stars above and the pansy stars beneath, and themselves so fashioned that even if they wanted to they could not make a noise and disturb the prevailing peace. a great deal that is poetical has been written by english people about may day, and the impression left on the foreign mind is an impression of posies, and garlands, and village greens, and youths and maidens much be-ribboned, and lambs, and general friskiness. i was in england once on a may day, and we sat over the fire shivering and listening blankly to the north- east wind tearing down the street and the rattling of the hail against the windows, and the friends with whom i was staying said it was very often so, and that they had never seen any lambs and ribbons. we germans attach no poetical significance to it at all, and yet we well might, for it is almost invariably beautiful; and as for garlands, i wonder how many villages full of young people could have been provided with them out of my garden, and nothing be missed. it is to-day a garden of wallflowers, and i think i have every colour and sort in cultivation. the borders under the south windows of the house, so empty and melancholy this time last year, are crammed with them, and are finished off in front by a broad strip from end to end of yellow and white pansies. the tea rose beds round the sun-dial facing these borders are sheets of white, and golden, and purple, and wine-red pansies, with the dainty red shoots of the tea roses presiding delicately in their midst. the verandah steps leading down into this pansy paradise have boxes of white, and pink, and yellow tulips all the way up on each side, and on the lawn, behind the roses, are two big beds of every coloured tulip rising above a carpet of forget-me-nots. how very much more charming different-coloured tulips are together than tulips in one colour by itself! last year, on the recommendation of sundry writers about gardens, i tried beds of scarlet tulips and forget-me-nots. they were pretty enough; but i wish those writers could see my beds of mixed tulips. i never saw anything so sweetly, delicately gay. the only ones i exclude are the rose-coloured ones; but scarlet, gold, delicate pink, and white are all there, and the effect is infinitely enchanting. the forget-me-nots grow taller as the tulips go off, and will presently tenderly engulf them altogether, and so hide the shame of their decay in their kindly little arms. they will be left there, clouds of gentle blue, until the tulips are well withered, and then they will be taken away to make room for the scarlet geraniums that are to occupy these two beds in the summer and flare in the sun as much as they like. i love an occasional mass of fiery colour, and these two will make the lilies look even whiter and more breathless that are to stand sentinel round the semicircle containing the precious tea roses. the first two years i had this garden, i was determined to do exactly as i chose in it, and to have no arrangements of plants that i had not planned, and no plants but those i knew and loved; so, fearing that an experienced gardener would profit by my ignorance, then about as absolute as it could be, and thrust all his bedding nightmares upon me, and fill the place with those dreadful salad arrangements so often seen in the gardens of the indifferent rich, i would only have a meek man of small pretensions, who would be easily persuaded that i knew as much as, or more than, he did himself. i had three of these meek men one after the other, and learned what i might long ago have discovered, that the less a person knows, the more certain he is that he is right, and that no weapons yet invented are of any use in a struggle with stupidity. the first of these three went melancholy mad at the end of a year; the second was love-sick, and threw down his tools and gave up his situation to wander after the departed siren who had turned his head; the third, when i inquired how it was that the things he had sown never by any chance came up, scratched his head, and as this is a sure sign of ineptitude, i sent him away. then i sat down and thought. i had been here two years and worked hard, through these men, at the garden; i had done my best to learn all i could and make it beautiful; i had refused to have more than an inferior gardener because of his supposed more perfect obedience, and one assistant, because of my desire to enjoy the garden undisturbed; i had studied diligently all the gardening books i could lay hands on; i was under the impression that i am an ordinarily intelligent person, and that if an ordinarily intelligent person devotes his whole time to studying a subject he loves, success is very probable; and yet at the end of two years what was my garden like? the failures of the first two summers had been regarded with philosophy; but that third summer i used to go into it sometimes and cry. as far as i was concerned i had really learned a little, and knew what to buy, and had fairly correct notions as to when and in what soil to sow and plant what i had bought; but of what use is it to buy good seeds and plants and bulbs if you are forced to hand them over to a gardener who listens with ill-concealed impatience to the careful directions you give him, says jawohl a great many times, and then goes off and puts them in in the way he has always done, which is invariably the wrong way? my hands were tied because of the unfortunate circumstance of sex, or i would gladly have changed places with him and requested him to do the talking while i did the planting, and as he probably would not have talked much there would have been a distinct gain in the peace of the world, which would surely be very materially increased if women's tongues were tied instead of their hands, and those that want to could work with them without collecting a crowd. and is it not certain that the more one's body works the fainter grow the waggings of one's tongue? i sometimes literally ache with envy as i watch the men going about their pleasant work in the sunshine, turning up the luscious damp earth, raking, weeding, watering, planting, cutting the grass, pruning the trees--not a thing that they do from the first uncovering of the roses in the spring to the november bonfires but fills my soul with longing to be up and doing it too. a great many things will have to happen, however, before such a state of popular large-mindedness as will allow of my digging without creating a sensation is reached, so i have plenty of time for further grumblings; only i do very much wish that the tongues inhabiting this apparently lonely and deserted countryside would restrict their comments to the sins, if any, committed by the indigenous females (since sins are fair game for comment) and leave their harmless eccentricities alone. after having driven through vast tracts of forest and heath for hours, and never meeting a soul or seeing a house, it is surprising to be told that on such a day you took such a drive and were at such a spot; yet this has happened to me more than once. and if even this is watched and noted, with what lightning rapidity would the news spread that i had been seen stalking down the garden path with a hoe over my shoulder and a basket in my hand, and weeding written large on every feature! yet i should love to weed. i think it was the way the weeds flourished that put an end at last to my hesitations about taking an experienced gardener and giving him a reasonable number of helpers, for i found that much as i enjoyed privacy, i yet detested nettles more, and the nettles appeared really to pick out those places to grow in where my sweetest things were planted, and utterly defied the three meek men when they made periodical and feeble efforts to get rid of them. i have a large heart in regard to things that grow, and many a weed that would not be tolerated anywhere else is allowed to live and multiply undisturbed in my garden. they are such pretty things, some of them, such charmingly audacious things, and it is so particularly nice of them to do all their growing, and flowering, and seed-bearing without any help or any encouragement. i admit i feel vexed if they are so officious as to push up among my tea roses and pansies, and i also prefer my paths without them; but on the grass, for instance, why not let the poor little creatures enjoy themselves quietly, instead of going out with a dreadful instrument and viciously digging them up one by one? once i went into the garden just as the last of the three inept ones had taken up his stand, armed with this implement, in the middle of the sheet of gold and silver that is known for convenience' sake as the lawn, and was scratching his head, as he looked round, in a futile effort to decide where he should begin. i saved the dandelions and daisies on that occasion, and i like to believe they know it. they certainly look very jolly when i come out, and i rather fancy the dandelions dig each other in their little ribs when they see me, and whisper, "here comes elizabeth; she's a good sort, ain't she?"--for of course dandelions do not express themselves very elegantly. but nettles are not to be tolerated. they settled the question on which i had been turning my back for so long, and one fine august morning, when there seemed to be nothing in the garden but nettles, and it was hard to believe that we had ever been doing anything but carefully cultivating them in all their varieties, i walked into the man of wrath's den. "my dear man," i began, in the small caressing voice of one who has long been obstinate and is in the act of giving in, "will you kindly advertise for a head gardener and a proper number of assistants? nearly all the bulbs and seeds and plants i have squandered my money and my hopes on have turned out to be nettles, and i don't like them. i have had a wretched summer, and never want to see a meek gardener again." "my dear elizabeth," he replied, "i regret that you did not take my advice sooner. how often have i pointed out the folly of engaging one incapable person after the other? the vegetables, when we get any, are uneatable, and there is never any fruit. i do not in the least doubt your good intentions, but you are wanting in judgment. when will you learn to rely on my experience?" i hung my head; for was he not in the pleasant position of being able to say, "i told you so"?--which indeed he has been saying for the last two years. "i don't like relying," i murmured, "and have rather a prejudice against somebody else's experience. please will you send the advertisement to-day?" they came in such shoals that half the population must have been head gardeners out of situations. i took all the likely ones round the garden, and i do not think i ever spent a more chastening week than that week of selection. their remarks were, naturally, of the frankest nature, as i had told them i had had practically only gardeners' assistants since i lived here, and they had no idea, when they were politely scoffing at some arrangement, that it happened to be one of my own. the hot-beds in the kitchen garden with which i had taken such pains were objects of special derision. it appeared that they were all wrong--measurements, preparation, soil, manure, everything that could be wrong, was. certainly the only crop we had from them was weeds. but i began about half way through the week to grow sceptical, because on comparing their criticisms i found they seldom agreed, and so took courage again. finally i chose a nice, trim young man, with strikingly intelligent eyes and quick movements, who had shown himself less concerned with the state of chaos existing than with considerations of what might eventually be made of the place. he is very deaf, so he wastes no time in words, and is exceedingly keen on gardening, and knows, as i very soon discovered, a vast amount more than i do, in spite of my three years' application. moreover, he is filled with that humility and eagerness to learn which is only found in those who have already learned more than their neighbours. he enters into my plans with enthusiasm, and makes suggestions of his own, which, if not always quite in accordance with what are perhaps my peculiar tastes, at least plainly show that he understands his business. we had a very busy winter together altering all the beds, for they none of them had been given a soil in which plants could grow, and next autumn i intend to have all the so-called lawns dug up and levelled, and shall see whether i cannot have decent turf here. i told him he must save the daisy and dandelion roots, and he looked rather crestfallen at that, but he is young, and can learn to like what i like, and get rid of his only fault, a nursery- gardener attitude towards all flowers that are not the fashion. "i shall want a great many daffodils next spring," i shouted one day at the beginning of our acquaintance. his eyes gleamed. "ah yes," he said with immediate approval, "they are _sehr modern." i was divided between amusement at the notion of spenser's daffadowndillies being _modern_, and indignation at hearing exactly the same adjective applied to them that the woman who sells me my hats bestows on the most appalling examples of her stock. "they are to be in troops on the grass," i said; whereupon his face grew doubtful. "that is indeed _sehr modern_," i shouted. but he had grown suddenly deafer--a phenomenon i have observed to occur every time my orders are such as he has never been given before. after a time he will, i think, become imbued with my unorthodoxy in these matters; and meanwhile he has the true gardening spirit and loves his work, and love, after all, is the chief thing. i know of no compost so good. in the poorest soil, love alone, by itself, will work wonders. down the garden path, past the copse of lilacs with their swelling dark buds, and the great three-cornered bed of tea roses and pansies in front of it, between the rows of china roses and past the lily and foxglove groups, we came last night to the spring garden in the open glade round the old oak; and there, the first to flower of the flowering trees, and standing out like a lovely white naked thing against the dusk of the evening, was a double cherry in full bloom, while close beside it, but not so visible so late, with all their graceful growth outlined by rosy buds, were two japanese crab apples. the grass just there is filled with narcissus, and at the foot of the oak a colony of tulips consoles me for the loss of the purple crocus patches, so lovely a little while since. "i must be by myself for once a whole summer through," i repeated, looking round at these things with a feeling of hardly being able to bear their beauty, and the beauty of the starry sky, and the beauty of the silence and the scent--"i must be alone, so that i shall not miss one of these wonders, and have leisure really to _live_." "very well, my dear," replied the man of wrath, "only do not grumble afterwards when you find it dull. you shall be solitary if you choose, and, as far as i am concerned, i will invite no one. it is always best to allow a woman to do as she likes if you can, and it saves a good deal of bother. to have what she desired is generally an effective punishment." "dear sage," i cried, slipping my hand through his arm, "don't be so wise! i promise you that i won't be dull, and i won't be punished, and i will be happy." and we sauntered slowly back to the house in great contentment, discussing the firmament and such high things, as though we knew all about them. may th.--there is a dip in the rye-fields about half a mile from my garden gate, a little round hollow like a dimple, with water and reeds at the bottom, and a few water-loving trees and bushes on the shelving ground around. here i have been nearly every morning lately, for it suits the mood i am in, and i like the narrow footpath to it through the rye, and i like its solitary dampness in a place where everything is parched, and when i am lying on the grass and look down i can see the reeds glistening greenly in the water, and when i look up i can see the rye-fringe brushing the sky. all sorts of beasts come and stare at me, and larks sing above me, and creeping things crawl over me, and stir in the long grass beside me; and here i bring my book, and read and dream away the profitable morning hours, to the accompaniment of the amorous croakings of innumerable frogs. thoreau has been my companion for some days past, it having struck me as more appropriate to bring him out to a pond than to read him, as was hitherto my habit, on sunday mornings in the garden. he is a person who loves the open air, and will refuse to give you much pleasure if you try to read him amid the pomp and circumstance of upholstery; but out in the sun, and especially by this pond, he is delightful, and we spend the happiest hours together, he making statements, and i either agreeing heartily, or just laughing and reserving my opinion till i shall have more ripely considered the thing. he, of course, does not like me as much as i like him, because i live in a cloud of dust and germs produced by wilful superfluity of furniture, and have not the courage to get a match and set light to it: and every day he sees the door-mat on which i wipe my shoes on going into the house, in defiance of his having told me that he had once refused the offer of one on the ground that it is best to avoid even the beginnings of evil. but my philosophy has not yet reached the acute stage that will enable me to see a door-mat in its true character as a hinderer of the development of souls, and i like to wipe my shoes. perhaps if i had to live with few servants, or if it were possible, short of existence in a cave, to do without them altogether, i should also do without door-mats, and probably in summer without shoes too, and wipe my feet on the grass nature no doubt provides for this purpose; and meanwhile we know that though he went to the woods, thoreau came back again, and lived for the rest of his days like other people. during his life, i imagine he would have refused to notice anything so fatiguing as an ordinary german woman, and never would have deigned discourse to me on the themes he loved best; but now his spirit belongs to me, and all he thought, and believed, and felt, and he talks as much and as intimately to me here in my solitude as ever he did to his dearest friends years ago in concord. in the garden he was a pleasant companion, but in the lonely dimple he is fascinating, and the morning hours hurry past at a quite surprising rate when he is with me, and it grieves me to be obliged to interrupt him in the middle of some quaint sentence or beautiful thought just because the sun is touching a certain bush down by the water's edge, which is a sign that it is lunch-time and that i must be off. back we go together through the rye, he carefully tucked under one arm, while with the other i brandish a bunch of grass to keep off the flies that appear directly we emerge into the sunshine. "oh, my dear thoreau," i murmur sometimes, overcome by the fierce heat of the little path at noonday and the persistence of the flies, "did you have flies at walden to exasperate you? and what became of your philosophy then?" but he never notices my plaints, and i know that inside his covers he is discoursing away like anything on the folly of allowing oneself to be overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, which is situated in the meridian shallows, and of the necessity, if one would keep happy, of sailing by it looking another way, tied to the mast like ulysses. but he gets grimly carried back for all that, and is taken into the house and put on his shelf and left there, because i still happen to have a body attached to my spirit, which, if not fed at the ordinary time, becomes a nuisance. yet he is right; luncheon is a snare of the tempter, and i would perhaps try to sail by it like ulysses if i had a biscuit in my pocket to comfort me, but there are the babies to be fed, and the man of wrath, and how can a respectable wife and mother sail past any meridian shallows in which those dearest to her have stuck? so i stand by them, and am punished every day by that two-o'clock-in-the-afternoon feeling to which i so much object, and yet cannot avoid. it is mortifying, after the sunshiny morning hours at my pond, when i feel as though i were almost a poet, and very nearly a philosopher, and wholly a joyous animal in an ecstasy of love with life, to come back and live through those dreary luncheon- ridden hours, when the soul is crushed out of sight and sense by cutlets and asparagus and revengeful sweet things. my morning friend turns his back on me when i reenter the library; nor do i ever touch him in the afternoon. books have their idiosyncrasies as well as people, and will not show me their full beauties unless the place and time in which they are read suits them. if, for instance, i cannot read thoreau in a drawing-room, how much less would i ever dream of reading boswell in the grass by a pond! imagine carrying him off in company with his great friend to a lonely dell in a rye-field, and expecting them to be entertaining. "nay, my dear lady," the great man would say in mighty tones of rebuke, "this will never do. lie in a rye-field? what folly is that? and who would converse in a damp hollow that can help it?" so i read and laugh over my boswell in the library when the lamps are lit, buried in cushions and surrounded by every sign of civilisation, with the drawn curtains shutting out the garden and the country solitude so much disliked by both sage and disciple. indeed, it is bozzy who asserts that in the country the only things that make one happy are meals. "i was happy," he says, when stranded at a place called corrichatachin in the island of skye, and unable to get out of it because of the rain,--"i was happy when tea came. such i take it is the state of those who live in the country. meals are wished for from the cravings of vacuity of mind, as well as from the desire of eating." and such is the perverseness of human nature that boswell's wisdom delights me even more than johnson's, though i love them both very heartily. in the afternoon i potter in the garden with goethe. he did not, i am sure, care much really about flowers and gardens, yet he said many lovely things about them that remain in one's memory just as persistently as though they had been inspired expressions of actual feelings; and the intellect must indeed have been gigantic that could so beautifully pretend. ordinary blunderers have to feel a vast amount before they can painfully stammer out a sentence that will describe it; and when they have got it out, how it seems to have just missed the core of the sensation that gave it birth, and what a poor, weak child it is of what was perhaps a mighty feeling! i read goethe on a special seat, never departed from when he accompanies me, a seat on the south side of an ice-house, and thus sheltered from the north winds sometimes prevalent in may, and shaded by the low-hanging branches of a great beech-tree from more than flickering sunshine. through these branches i can see a group of giant poppies just coming into flower, flaming out beyond the trees on the grass, and farther down a huge silver birch, its first spring green not yet deepened out of delicacy, and looking almost golden backed by a solemn cluster of firs. here i read goethe-- everything i have of his, both what is well known and what is not; here i shed invariable tears over werther, however often i read it; here i wade through wilhelm meister, and sit in amazement before the complications of the wahlverwandschaften; here i am plunged in wonder and wretchedness by faust; and here i sometimes walk up and down in the shade and apostrophise the tall firs at the bottom of the glade in the opening soliloquy of iphigenia. every now and then i leave the book on the seat and go and have a refreshing potter among my flower beds, from which i return greatly benefited, and with a more just conception of what, in this world, is worth bothering about, and what is not. in the evening, when everything is tired and quiet, i sit with walt whitman by the rose beds and listen to what that lonely and beautiful spirit has to tell me of night, sleep, death, and the stars. this dusky, silent hour is his; and this is the time when i can best hear the beatings of that most tender and generous heart. such great love, such rapture of jubilant love for nature, and the good green grass, and trees, and clouds, and sunlight; such aching anguish of love for all that breathes and is sick and sorry; such passionate longing to help and mend and comfort that which never can be helped and mended and comforted; such eager looking to death, delicate death, as the one complete and final consolation--before this revelation of yearning, universal pity, every-day selfishness stands awe-struck and ashamed. when i drive in the forests, keats goes with me; and if i extend my drive to the baltic shores, and spend the afternoon on the moss beneath the pines whose pink stems form the framework of the sea, i take spenser; and presently the blue waves are the ripples of the idle lake, and a tiny white sail in the distance is phaedria's shallow ship, bearing cymochles swiftly away to her drowsy little nest of delights. how can i tell why keats has never been brought here, and why spenser is brought again and again? who shall follow the dark intricacies of the elementary female mind? it is safer not to attempt to do so, but by simply cataloguing them collectively under the heading instinct, have done with them once and for all. what a blessing it is to love books. everybody must love something, and i know of no objects of love that give such substantial and unfailing returns as books and a garden. and how easy it would have been to come into the world without this, and possessed instead of an all-consuming passion, say, for hats, perpetually raging round my empty soul! i feel i owe my forefathers a debt of gratitude, for i suppose the explanation is that they too did not care for hats. in the centre of my library there is a wooden pillar propping up the ceiling, and preventing it, so i am told, from tumbling about our ears; and round this pillar, from floor to ceiling, i have had shelves fixed, and on these shelves are all the books that i have read again and again, and hope to read many times more--all the books, that is, that i love quite the best. in the bookcases round the walls are many that i love, but here in the centre of the room, and easiest to get at, are those i love the _best_--the very elect among my favourites. they change from time to time as i get older, and with years some that are in the bookcases come here, and some that are here go into the bookcases, and some again are removed altogether, and are placed on certain shelves in the drawing-room which are reserved for those that have been weighed in the balance and found wanting, and from whence they seldom, if ever, return. carlyle used to be among the elect. that was years ago, when my hair was very long, and my skirts very short, and i sat in the paternal groves with _sartor resartus_, and felt full of wisdom and _weltschmerz_; and even after i was married, when we lived in town, and the noise of his thunderings was almost drowned by the rattle of droschkies over the stones in the street below, he still shone forth a bright, particular star. now, whether it is age creeping upon me, or whether it is that the country is very still and sound carries, or whether my ears have grown sensitive, i know not; but the moment i open him there rushes out such a clatter of denunciation, and vehemence, and wrath, that i am completely deafened; and as i easily get bewildered, and love peace, and my chief aim is to follow the apostle's advice and study to be quiet, he has been degraded from his high position round the pillar and has gone into retirement against the wall, where the accident of alphabet causes him to rest in the soothing society of one carina, a harmless gentleman, whose book on the _bagni di lucca_ is on his left, and a frenchman of the name of charlemagne, whose soporific comedy written at the beginning of the century and called _le testament de l'oncle_, _ou les lunettes cassees_, is next to him on his right. two works of his still remain, however, among the elect, though differing in glory--his _frederick the great_, fascinating for obvious reasons to the patriotic german mind, and his _life of sterling_, a quiet book on the whole, a record of an uneventful life, in which the natural positions of subject and biographer are reversed, the man of genius writing the life of the unimportant friend, and the fact that the friend was exceedingly lovable in no way lessening one's discomfort in the face of such an anomaly. carlyle stands on an eminence altogether removed from sterling, who stands, indeed, on no eminence at all, unless it be an eminence, that (happily) crowded bit of ground, where the bright and courageous and lovable stand together. we germans have all heard of carlyle, and many of us have read him with due amazement, our admiration often interrupted by groans at the difficulties his style places in the candid foreigner's path; but without carlyle which of us would ever have heard of sterling? and even in this comparatively placid book mines of the accustomed vehemence are sprung on the shrinking reader. to the prosaic german, nourished on a literature free from thunderings and any marked acuteness of enthusiasm, carlyle is an altogether astonishing phenomenon. and here i feel constrained to inquire sternly who i am that i should talk in this unbecoming manner of carlyle? to which i reply that i am only a humble german seeking after peace, devoid of the least real desire to criticise anybody, and merely anxious to get out of the way of geniuses when they make too much noise. all i want is to read quietly the books that i at present prefer. carlyle is shut up now and therefore silent on his comfortable shelf; yet who knows but what in my old age, when i begin to feel really young, i may not once again find comfort in him? what a medley of books there is round my pillar! here is jane austen leaning against heine--what would she have said to that, i wonder?--with miss mitford and _cranford_ to keep her in countenance on her other side. here is my goethe, one of many editions i have of him, the one that has made the acquaintance of the ice-house and the poppies. here are ruskin, lubbock, white's _selborne_, izaak walton, drummond, herbert spencer (only as much of him as i hope i understand and am afraid i do not), walter pater, matthew arnold, thoreau, lewis carroll, oliver wendell holmes, hawthorne, _wuthering heights_, lamb's _essays_, johnson's _lives_, marcus aurelius, montaigne, gibbon, the immortal pepys, the egregious boswell, various american children's books that i loved as a child and read and love to this day; various french children's books, loved for the same reason; whole rows of german children's books, on which i was brought up, with their charming woodcuts of quaint little children in laced bodices, and good housemothers cutting bread and butter, and descriptions of the atmosphere of fearful innocence and pure religion and swift judgments and rewards in which they lived, and how the _finger gottes_ was impressed on everything that happened to them; all the poets; most of the dramatists; and, i verily believe, every gardening book and book about gardens that has been published of late years. these gardening books are an unfailing delight, especially in winter, when to sit by my blazing peat fire with the snow driving past the windows and read the luscious descriptions of roses and all the other summer glories is one of my greatest pleasures. and then how well i get to know and love those gardens whose gradual development has been described by their owners, and how happily i wander in fancy down the paths of certain specially charming ones in lancashire, berkshire, surrey, and kent, and admire the beautiful arrangement of bed and border, and the charming bits in unexpected corners, and all the evidences of untiring love! any book i see advertised that treats of gardens i immediately buy, and thus possess quite a collection of fascinating and instructive garden literature. a few are feeble, and get shunted off into the drawing-room; but the others stay with me winter and summer, and soon lose the gloss of their new coats, and put on the comfortable look of old friends in every-day clothes, under the frequent touch of affection. they are such special friends that i can hardly pass them without a nod and a smile at the well-known covers, each of which has some pleasant association of time and place to make it still more dear. my spirit too has wandered in one or two french gardens, but has not yet heard of a german one loved beyond everything by its owner. it is, of course, possible that my countrymen do love them and keep quiet about them, but many things are possible that are not probable, and experience compels me to the opinion that this is one of them. we have the usual rich man who has fine gardens laid out regardless of expense, but those are not gardens in the sense i mean; and we have the poor man with his bit of ground, hardly ever treated otherwise than as a fowl-run or a place dedicated to potatoes; and as for the middle class, it is too busy hurrying through life to have time or inclination to stop and plant a rose. how glad i am i need not hurry. what a waste of life, just getting and spending. sitting by my pansy beds, with the slow clouds floating leisurely past, and all the clear day before me, i look on at the hot scramble for the pennies of existence and am lost in wonder at the vulgarity that pushes, and cringes, and tramples, untiring and unabashed. and when you have got your pennies, what then? they are only pennies, after all--unpleasant, battered copper things, without a gold piece among them, and never worth the degradation of self, and the hatred of those below you who have fewer, and the derision of those above you who have more. and as i perceive i am growing wise, and what is even worse, allegorical, and as these are tendencies to be fought against as long as possible, i'll go into the garden and play with the babies, who at this moment are sitting in a row on the buttercups, singing what appear to be selections from popular airs. june june rd.--the man of wrath, i observe, is laying traps for me and being deep. he has prophesied that i will find solitude intolerable, and he is naturally desirous that his prophecy should be fulfilled. he knows that continuous rain depresses me, and he is awaiting a spell of it to bring me to a confession that i was wrong after all, whereupon he will make that remark so precious to the married heart, "my dear, i told you so." he begins the day by tapping the barometer, looking at the sky, and shaking his head. if there are any clouds he remarks that they are coming up, and if there are none he says it is too fine to last. he has even gone the length once or twice of starting off to the farm on hot, sunny mornings in his mackintosh, in order to impress on me beyond all doubt that the weather is breaking up. he studiously keeps out of my way all day, so that i may have every opportunity of being bored as quickly as possible, and in the evenings he retires to his den directly after dinner, muttering something about letters. when he has finally disappeared, i go out to the stars and laugh at his transparent wiles. but how would it be if we did have a spell of wet weather? i do not quite know. as long as it is fine, rainy days in the future do not seem so very terrible, and one, or even two really wet ones are quite enjoyable when they do come--pleasant times that remind one of the snug winter now so far off, times of reading, and writing, and paying one's bills. i never pay bills or write letters on fine summer days. not for any one will i forego all that such a day rightly spent out of doors might give me; so that a wet day at intervals is almost as necessary for me as for my garden. but how would it be if there were many wet days? i believe a week of steady drizzle in summer is enough to make the stoutest heart depressed. it is to be borne in winter by the simple expedient of turning your face to the fire; but when you have no fire, and very long days, your cheerfulness slowly slips away, and the dreariness prevailing out of doors comes in and broods in the blank corners of your heart. i rather fancy, however, that it is a waste of energy to ponder over what i should do if we had a wet summer on such a radiant day as this. i prefer sitting here on the verandah and looking down through a frame of leaves at all the rosebuds june has put in the beds round the sun-dial, to ponder over nothing, and just be glad that i am alive. the verandah at two o'clock on a summer's afternoon is a place in which to be happy and not decide anything, as my friend thoreau told me of some other tranquil spot this morning. the chairs are comfortable, there is a table to write on, and the shadows of young leaves flicker across the paper. on one side a crimson rambler is thrusting inquisitive shoots through the wooden bars, being able this year for the first time since it was planted to see what i am doing up here, and next to it a jackmanni clematis clings with soft young fingers to anything it thinks likely to help it up to the goal of its ambition, the roof. i wonder which of the two will get there first. down there in the rose beds, among the hundreds of buds there is only one full-blown rose as yet, a marie van houtte, one of the loveliest of the tea roses, perfect in shape and scent and colour, and in my garden always the first rose to flower; and the first flowers it bears are the loveliest of its own lovely flowers, as though it felt that the first of its children to see the sky and the sun and the familiar garden after the winter sleep ought to put on the very daintiest clothes they can muster for such a festal occasion. through the open schoolroom windows i can hear the two eldest babies at their lessons. the village schoolmaster comes over every afternoon and teaches them for two hours, so that we are free from governesses in the house, and once those two hours are over they are free for twenty-four from anything in the shape of learning. the schoolroom is next to the verandah, and as two o'clock approaches their excitement becomes more and more intense, and they flutter up and down the steps, looking in their white dresses like angels on a jacob's ladder, or watch eagerly among the bushes for a first glimpse of him, like miniature and perfectly proper isoldes. he is a kind giant with that endless supply of patience so often found in giants, especially when they happen to be village schoolmasters, and judging from the amount of laughter i hear, the babies seem to enjoy their lessons in a way they never did before. every day they prepare bouquets for him, and he gets more of them than a _prima donna_, or at any rate a more regular supply. the first day he came i was afraid they would be very shy of such a big strange man, and that he would extract nothing from them but tears; but the moment i left them alone together and as i shut the door, i heard them eagerly informing him, by way of opening the friendship, that their heads were washed every saturday night, and that their hair-ribbons did not match because there had not been enough of the one sort to go round. i went away hoping that they would not think it necessary to tell him how often my head is washed, or any other news of a personal nature about me; but i believe by this time that man knows everything there is to know about the details of my morning toilet, which is daily watched with the greatest interest by the three. i hope he will be more successful than i was in teaching them bible stories. i never got farther than noah, at which stage their questions became so searching as to completely confound me; and as no one likes being confounded, and it is especially regrettable when a parent is placed in such a position, i brought the course to an abrupt end by assuming that owl-like air of wisdom peculiar to infallibility in a corner, and telling them that they were too young to understand these things for the present; and they, having a touching faith in the truth of every word i say, gave three contented little purrs of assent, and proposed that we should play instead at rolling down the grass bank under the south windows--which i did not do, i am glad to remember. but the schoolmaster, after four weeks' teaching, has got them as far as moses, and safely past the noah's ark on which i came to grief, and if glibness is a sign of knowledge then they have learned the story very thoroughly. yesterday, after he had gone, they emerged into the verandah fresh from moses and bursting with eagerness to tell me all about it. "herr schenk told us to-day about moses," began the april baby, making a rush at me. "oh?" "yes, and a _boser_, _boser konig_ who said every boy must be deaded, and moses was the _allerliebster_." "talk english, my _dear_ baby, and not such a dreadful mixture," i besought. "he wasn't a cat." "a cat?" "yes, he wasn't a cat, that moses--a boy was he." "but of course he wasn't a cat," i said with some severity; "no one ever supposed he was." "yes, but mummy," she explained eagerly, with much appropriate hand- action, "the cook's moses _is_ a cat." "oh, i see. well?" "and he was put in a basket in the water, and that did swim. and then one time they comed, and she said--" "who came? and who said?" "why, the ladies; and the _konigstochter_ said, _'ach hormal_, _da_ _schreit so etwas_.'" "in german?" "yes, and then they went near, and one must take off her shoes and stockings and go in the water and fetch that tiny basket, and then they made it open, and that _kind_ did cry and cry and _strampel_ so"--here both the babies gave such a vivid illustration of the _strampeln_ that the verandah shook--"and see! it is a tiny baby. and they fetched somebody to give it to eat, and the _konigstochter_ can keep that boy, and further it doesn't go." "do you love moses, mummy?" asked the may baby, jumping into my lap, and taking my face in both her hands--one of the many pretty, caressing little ways of a very pretty, caressing little creature. "yes," i replied bravely, "i love him." "then i too!" they cried with simultaneous gladness, the seal having thus been affixed to the legitimacy of their regard for him. to be of such authority that your verdict on every subject under heaven is absolute and final is without doubt to be in a proud position, but, like all proud positions, it bristles with pitfalls and drawbacks to the weak-kneed; and most of my conversations with the babies end in a sudden change of subject made necessary by the tendency of their remarks and the unanswerableness of their arguments. happily, yesterday the moses talk was brought to an end by the april baby herself, who suddenly remembered that i had not yet seen and sympathised with her dearest possession, a dutch doll called mary jane, since a lamentable accident had bereft it of both its legs; and she had dived into the schoolroom and fished it out of the dark corner reserved for the mangled and thrust it in my face before i had well done musing on the nature and extent of my love for moses--for i try to be conscientious--and bracing myself to meet the next question. "see this poor mary jane," she said, her voice and hand quivering with tenderness as she lifted its petticoats to show me the full extent of the calamity, "see, mummy, no legs--only twowsers and nothing further." i wish they would speak english a little better. the pains i take to correct them and weed out the german words that crop up in every sentence are really untiring, and the results discouraging. indeed, as they get older the german asserts itself more and more, and is threatening to swallow up the little english they have left entirely. i talk english steadily with them, but everybody else, including a small french nurse lately imported, nothing but german. somebody told me the thing to do was to let children pick up languages when they were babies, at which period they absorb them as easily as food and drink, and are quite unaware that they are learning anything at all; whereupon i immediately introduced this french girl into the family, forgetting how little english they have absorbed, and the result has been that they pass their days delightfully in teaching her german. they were astonished at first on discovering that she could not understand a word they said, and soon set about altering such an uncomfortable state of things; and as they are three to one and very zealous, and she is a meek little person with a profile like a teapot with a twisted black handle of hair, their success was practically certain from the beginning, and she is getting on quite nicely with her german, and has at least already thoroughly learned all the mistakes. she wanders in the garden with a surprised look on her face as of one who is moving about in worlds not realised; and the three cling to her skirts and give her enthusiastic lessons all day long. poor seraphine! what courage to weigh anchor at eighteen and go into a foreign country, to a place where you are among utter strangers, without a friend, unable to speak a word of the language, and not even sure before you start whether you will be given enough to eat. either it is that saddest of courage forced on the timid by necessity, or, as doctor johnson would probably have said, it is stark insensibility; and i am afraid when i look at her i silently agree with the apostle of common sense, and take it for granted that she is incapable of deep feeling, for the altogether inadequate reason that she has a certain resemblance to a teapot. now is it not hard that a person may have a soul as beautiful as an angel's, a dwelling-place for all sweet sounds and harmonies, and if nature has not thought fit to endow his body with a chin the world will have none of him? the vulgar prejudice is in favour of chins, and who shall escape its influence? i, for one, cannot, though theoretically i utterly reject the belief that the body is the likeness of the soul; for has not each of us friends who, we know, love beyond everything that which is noble and good, and who by no means themselves look noble and good? and what about all the beautiful persons who love nothing on earth except themselves? yet who in the world cares how perfect the nature may be, how humble, how sweet, how gracious, that dwells in a chinless body? nobody has time to inquire into natures, and the chinless must be content to be treated in something of the same good-natured, tolerant fashion in which we treat our poor relations until such time as they shall have grown a beard; and those who by their sex are for ever shut out from this glorious possibility will have to take care, should they be of a bright intelligence, how they speak with the tongues of men and of angels, nothing being more droll than the effect of high words and poetic ideas issuing from a face that does not match them. i wish we were not so easily affected by each other's looks. sometimes, during the course of a long correspondence with a friend, he grows to be inexpressibly dear to me; i see how beautiful his soul is, how fine his intellect, how generous his heart, and how he already possesses in great perfection those qualities of kindness, and patience, and simplicity, after which i have been so long and so vainly striving. it is not i clothing him with the attributes i love and wandering away insensibly into that sweet land of illusions to which our footsteps turn whenever they are left to themselves, it is his very self unconsciously writing itself into his letters, the very man as he is without his body. then i meet him again, and all illusions go. he is what i had always found him when we were together, good and amiable; but some trick of manner, some feature or attitude that i do not quite like, makes me forget, and be totally unable to remember, what i know from his letters to be true of him. he, no doubt, feels the same thing about me, and so between us there is a thick veil of something fixed, which, dodge as we may, we never can get round. "well, and what do you conclude from all that?" said the man of wrath, who had been going out by the verandah door with his gun and his dogs to shoot the squirrels before they had eaten up too many birds, and of whose coat-sleeve i had laid hold as he passed, keeping him by me like a second wedding guest, and almost as restless, while i gave expression to the above sentiments. "i don't know," i replied, "unless it is that the world is very evil and the times are waxing late, but that doesn't explain anything either, because it isn't true." and he went down the steps laughing and shaking his head and muttering something that i could not quite catch, and i am glad i could not, for the two words i did hear were women and nonsense. he has developed an unexpected passion for farming, much to my relief, and though we came down here at first only tentatively for a year, three have passed, and nothing has been said about going back to town. nor will anything be said so long as he is not the one to say it, for no three years of my life can come up to these in happiness, and not even those splendid years of childhood that grow brighter as they recede were more full of delights. the delights are simple, it is true, and of the sort that easily provoke a turning up of the worldling's nose; but who cares for noses that turn up? i am simple myself, and never tire of the blessed liberty from all restraints. even such apparently indifferent details as being able to walk straight out of doors without first getting into a hat and gloves and veil are full of a subtle charm that is ever fresh, and of which i can never have too much. it is clear that i was born for a placid country life, and placid it certainly is; so much so that the days are sometimes far more like a dream than anything real, the quiet days of reading, and thinking, and watching the changing lights, and the growth and fading of the flowers, the fresh quiet days when life is so full of zest that you cannot stop yourself from singing because you are so happy, the warm quiet days lying on the grass in a secluded corner observing the procession of clouds--this being, i admit, a particularly undignified attitude, but think of the edification! each morning the simple act of opening my bedroom windows is the means of giving me an ever-recurring pleasure. just underneath them is a border of rockets in full flower, at that hour in the shadow of the house, whose gables lie sharply defined on the grass beyond, and they send up their good morning of scent the moment they see me leaning out, careful not to omit the pretty german custom of morning greeting. i call back mine, embellished with many endearing words, and then their fragrance comes up close, and covers my face with gentlest little kisses. behind them, on the other side of the lawn on this west side of the house, is a thick hedge of lilac just now at its best, and what that best is i wish all who love lilac could see. a century ago a man lived here who loved his garden. he loved, however, in his younger years, travelling as well, but in his travels did not forget this little corner of the earth belonging to him, and brought back the seeds of many strange trees such as had never been seen in these parts before, and tried experiments with them in the uncongenial soil, and though many perished, a few took hold, and grew, and flourished, and shade me now at tea-time. what flowers he had, and how he arranged his beds, no one knows, except that the eleven beds round the sun-dial were put there by him; and of one thing he seems to have been inordinately fond, and that was lilac. we have to thank him for the surprising beauty of the garden in may and early june, for he it was who planted the great groups of it, and the banks of it, and massed it between the pines and firs. wherever a lilac bush could go a lilac bush went; and not common sorts, but a variety of good sorts, white, and purple, and pink, and mauve, and he must have planted it with special care and discrimination, for it grows here as nothing else will, and keeps his memory, in my heart at least, for ever gratefully green. on the wall behind our pew in church there is his monument, he having died here full of years, in the peace that attends the last hours of a good man who has loved his garden; and to the long latin praises of his virtues and eminence i add, as i pass beneath it on sundays, a heartiest amen. who would not join in the praises of a man to whom you owe your lilacs, and your spanish chestnuts, and your tulip trees, and your pyramid oaks? "he was a good man, for he loved his garden"--that is the epitaph i would have put on his monument, because it gives one a far clearer sense of his goodness and explains it better than any amount of sonorous latinities. how could he be anything _but_ good since he loved a garden--that divine filter that filters all the grossness out of us, and leaves us, each time we have been in it, clearer, and purer, and more harmless? june th.--yesterday morning i got up at three o'clock and stole through the echoing passages and strange dark rooms, undid with trembling hands the bolts of the door to the verandah, and passed out into a wonderful, unknown world. i stood for a few minutes motionless on the steps, almost frightened by the awful purity of nature when all the sin and ugliness is shut up and asleep, and there is nothing but the beauty left. it was quite light, yet a bright moon hung in the cloudless grey-blue sky; the flowers were all awake, saturating the air with scent; and a nightingale sat on a hornbeam quite close to me, in loud raptures at the coming of the sun. there in front of me was the sun- dial, there were the rose bushes, there was the bunch of pansies i had dropped the night before still lying on the path, but how strange and unfamiliar it all looked, and how holy--as though god must be walking there in the cool of the day. i went down the path leading to the stream on the east side of the garden, brushing aside the rockets that were bending across it drowsy with dew, the larkspurs on either side of me rearing their spikes of heavenly blue against the steely blue of the sky, and the huge poppies like splashes of blood amongst the greys and blues and faint pearly whites of the innocent, new-born day. on the garden side of the stream there is a long row of silver birches, and on the other side a rye-field reaching across in powdery grey waves to the part of the sky where a solemn glow was already burning. i sat down on the twisted, half-fallen trunk of a birch and waited, my feet in the long grass and my slippers soaking in dew. through the trees i could see the house with its closed shutters and drawn blinds, the people in it all missing, as i have missed day after day, the beauty of life at that hour. just behind me the border of rockets and larkspurs came to an end, and, turning my head to watch a stealthy cat, my face brushed against a wet truss of blossom and got its first morning washing. it was wonderfully quiet, and the nightingale on the hornbeam had everything to itself as i sat motionless watching that glow in the east burning redder; wonderfully quiet, and so wonderfully beautiful because one associates daylight with people, and voices, and bustle, and hurryings to and fro, and the dreariness of working to feed our bodies, and feeding our bodies that we may be able to work to feed them again; but here was the world wide awake and yet only for me, all the fresh pure air only for me, all the fragrance breathed only by me, not a living soul hearing the nightingale but me, the sun in a few moments coming up to warm only me, and nowhere a single hard word being spoken, or a single selfish act being done, nowhere anything that could tarnish the blessed purity of the world as god has given it us. if one believed in angels one would feel that they must love us best when we are asleep and cannot hurt each other; and what a mercy it is that once in every twenty-four hours we are too utterly weary to go on being unkind. the doors shut, and the lights go out, and the sharpest tongue is silent, and all of us, scolder and scolded, happy and unhappy, master and slave, judge and culprit, are children again, tired, and hushed, and helpless, and forgiven. and see the blessedness of sleep, that sends us back for a space to our early innocence. are not our first impulses on waking always good? do we not all know how in times of wretchedness our first thoughts after the night's sleep are happy? we have been dreaming we are happy, and we wake with a smile, and stare still smiling for a moment at our stony griefs before with a stab we recognise them. there were no clouds, and presently, while i watched, the sun came up quickly out of the rye, a great, bare, red ball, and the grey of the field turned yellow, and long shadows lay upon the grass, and the wet flowers flashed out diamonds. and then as i sat there watching, and intensely happy as i imagined, suddenly the certainty of grief, and suffering, and death dropped like a black curtain between me and the beauty of the morning, and then that other thought, to face which needs all our courage--the realisation of the awful solitariness in which each of us lives and dies. often i could cry for pity of our forlornness, and of the pathos of our endeavours to comfort ourselves. with what an agony of patience we build up the theories of consolation that are to protect, in times of trouble, our quivering and naked souls! and how fatally often the elaborate machinery refuses to work at the moment the blow is struck. i got up and turned my face away from the unbearable, indifferent brightness. myriads of small suns danced before my eyes as i went along the edge of the stream to the seat round the oak in my spring garden, where i sat a little, looking at the morning from there, drinking it in in long breaths, and determining to think of nothing but just be happy. what a smell of freshly mown grass there was, and how the little heaps into which it had been raked the evening before sparkled with dewdrops as the sun caught them. and over there, how hot the poppies were already beginning to look--blazing back boldly in the face of the sun, flashing back fire for fire. i crossed the wet grass to the hammock under the beech on the lawn, and lay in it awhile trying to swing in time to the nightingale's tune; and then i walked round the ice-house to see how goethe's corner looked at such an hour; and then i went down to the fir wood at the bottom of the garden where the light was slanting through green stems; and everywhere there was the same mystery, and emptiness, and wonder. when four o'clock drew near i set off home again, not desiring to meet gardeners and have my little hour of quiet talked about, still less my dressing-gown and slippers; so i picked a bunch of roses and hurried in, and just as i softly bolted the door, dreadfully afraid of being taken for a burglar, i heard the first water-cart of the day creaking round the corner. fearfully i crept up to my room, and when i awoke at eight o'clock and saw the roses in a glass by my side, i remembered what had happened as though it had been years ago. now here i have had an experience that i shall not soon forget, something very precious, and private, and close to my soul; a feeling as though i had taken the world by surprise, and seen it as it really is when off its guard--as though i had been quite near to the very core of things. the quiet holiness of that hour seems all the more mysterious now, because soon after breakfast yesterday the wind began to blow from the northwest, and has not left off since, and looking out of the window i cannot believe that it is the same garden, with the clouds driving over it in black layers, and angry little showers every now and then bespattering its harassed and helpless inhabitants, who cannot pull their roots up out of the ground and run for their lives, as i am sure they must long to do. how discouraging for a plant to have just proudly opened its loveliest flowers, the flowers it was dreaming about all the winter and working at so busily underground during the cold weeks of spring, and then for a spiteful shower of five minutes' duration to come and pelt them down, and batter them about, and cover the tender, delicate things with irremediable splashes of mud! every bed is already filled with victims of the gale, and those that escape one shower go down before the next; so i must make up my mind, i suppose, to the wholesale destruction of the flowers that had reached perfection--that head of white rockets among them that washed my face a hundred years ago--and look forward cheerfully to the development of the younger generation of buds which cannot yet be harmed. i know these gales. we get them quite suddenly, always from the north- west, and always cold. they ruin my garden for a day or two, and in the summer try my temper, and at all seasons try my skin; yet they are precious because of the beautiful clear light they bring, the intensity of cold blue in the sky and the terrific purple blackness of the clouds one hour and their divine whiteness the next. they fly screaming over the plain as though ten thousand devils with whips were after them, and in the sunny intervals there is nothing in any of nature's moods to equal the clear sharpness of the atmosphere, all the mellowness and indistinctness beaten out of it, and every leaf and twig glistening coldly bright. it is not becoming, a north-westerly gale; it treats us as it treats the garden, but with opposite results, roughly rubbing the softness out of our faces, as i can see when i look at the babies, and avoid the further proof of my own reflection in the glass. but there is life in it, glowing, intense, robust life, and when in october after weeks of serene weather this gale suddenly pounces on us in all its savageness, and the cold comes in a gust, and the trees are stripped in an hour, what a bracing feeling it is, the feeling that here is the first breath of winter, that it is time to pull ourselves together, that the season of work, and discipline, and severity is upon us, the stern season that forces us to look facts in the face, to put aside our dreams and languors, and show what stuff we are made of. no one can possibly love the summer, the dear time of dreams, more passionately than i do; yet i have no desire to prolong it by running off south when the winter approaches and so cheat the year of half its lessons. it is delightful and instructive to potter among one's plants, but it is imperative for body and soul that the pottering should cease for a few months, and that we should be made to realise that grim other side of life. a long hard winter lived through from beginning to end without shirking is one of the most salutary experiences in the world. there is no nonsense about it; you could not indulge in vapours and the finer sentiments in the midst of its deadly earnest if you tried. the thermometer goes down to twenty degrees of frost reaumur, and down you go with it to the realities, to that elementary state where everything is big--health and sickness, delight and misery, ecstasy and despair. it makes you remember your poorer neighbours, and sends you into their homes to see that they too are fitted out with the armour of warmth and food necessary in the long fight; and in your own home it draws you nearer than ever to each other. out of doors it is too cold to walk, so you run, and are rewarded by the conviction that you cannot be more than fifteen; or you get into your furs, and dart away in a sleigh over the snow, and are sure there never was music so charming as that of its bells; or you put on your skates, and are off to the lake to which you drove so often on june nights, when it lay rosy in the reflection of the northern glow, and all alive with myriads of wild duck and plovers, and which is now, but for the swish of your skates, so silent, and but for your warmth and jollity, so forlorn. nor would i willingly miss the early darkness and the pleasant firelight tea and the long evenings among my books. it is then that i am glad i do not live in a cave, as i confess i have in my more godlike moments wished to do; it is then that i feel most capable of attending to the man of wrath's exhortations with an open mind; it is then that i actually like to hear the shrieks of the wind, and then that i give my heartiest assent, as i warm my feet at the fire, to the poet's proposition that all which we behold is full of blessings. but what dreariness can equal the dreariness of a cold gale at midsummer? i have been chilly and dejected all day, shut up behind the streaming window-panes, and not liking to have a fire because of its dissipated appearance in the scorching intervals of sunshine. once or twice my hand was on the bell and i was going to order one, when out came the sun and it was june again, and i ran joyfully into the dripping, gleaming garden, only to be driven in five minutes later by a yet fiercer squall. i wandered disconsolately round my pillar of books, looking for the one that would lend itself best to the task of entertaining me under the prevailing conditions, but they all looked gloomy, and reserved, and forbidding. so i sat down in a very big chair, and reflected that if there were to be many days like this it might be as well to ask somebody cheerful to come and sit opposite me in all those other big chairs that were looking so unusually gigantic and empty. when the man of wrath came in to tea there were such heavy clouds that the room was quite dark, and he peered about for a moment before he saw me. i suppose in the gloom of the big room i must have looked rather lonely, and smaller than usual buried in the capacious chair, for when he finally discovered me his face widened into an inappropriately cheerful smile. "well, my dear," he said genially, "how very cold it is." "did you come in to say that?" i asked. "this tempest is very unusual in the summer," he proceeded; to which i made no reply of any sort. "i did not see you at first amongst all these chairs and cushions. at least, i saw you, but it is so dark i thought you were a cushion." now no woman likes to be taken for a cushion, so i rose and began to make tea with an icy dignity of demeanour. "i am afraid i shall be forced to break my promise not to invite any one here," he said, watching my face as he spoke. my heart gave a distinct leap--so small is the constancy and fortitude of woman. "but it will only be for one night." my heart sank down as though it were lead. "and i have just received a telegram that it will be to-night." up went my heart with a cheerful bound. "who is it?" i inquired. and then he told me that it was the least objectionable of the candidates for the living here, made vacant by our own parson having been appointed superintendent, the highest position in the lutheran church; and the gale must have brought me low indeed for the coming of a solitary parson to give me pleasure. the entire race of lutheran parsons is unpleasing to me,--whether owing to their fault or to mine, it would ill become me to say,--and the one we are losing is the only one i have met that i can heartily respect, and admire, and like. but he is quite one by himself in his extreme godliness, perfect simplicity, and real humility, and though i knew it was unlikely we should find another as good, and i despised myself for the eagerness with which i felt i was looking forward to seeing a new face, i could not stop myself from suddenly feeling cheerful. such is the weakness of the female mind, and such the unexpected consequences of two months' complete solitude with forty-eight hours' gale at the end of them. we have had countless applications during the last few weeks for the living, as it is a specially fat one for this part of the country, with a yearly income of six thousand marks, and a good house, and several acres of land. the man of wrath has been distracted by the difficulties of choice. according to the letters of recommendation, they were all wonderful men with unrivalled powers of preaching, but on closer inquiry there was sure to be some drawback. one was too old, another not old enough; another had twelve children, and the parsonage only allows for eight; one had a shrewish wife, and another was of liberal tendencies in politics--a fatal objection; one was in money difficulties because he would spend more than he had, which was not surprising when one heard what he did have; and another was disliked in his parish because he and his wife were too close-fisted and would not spend at all; and at last, the man of wrath explained, the moment having arrived when if he did not himself appoint somebody his right to do so would lapse, he had written to the one who was coming, and invited him down that he might look at him, and ask him searching questions as to the faith which is in him. i forgot my gloom, and my half-formed desperate resolve to break my vow of solitude and fill the house with the frivolous, as i sat listening to the cheerful talk of the little parson this evening. he was so cheerful, yet it was hard to see any cause for it in the life he was leading, a life led by the great majority of the german clergy, fat livings being as rare here as anywhere else. he told us with pleasant frankness all about himself, how he lived on an income of two thousand marks with a wife and six children, and how he was often sorely put to it to keep decent shoes on their feet. "i am continually drawing up plans of expenditure," he said, "but the shoemaker's bill is always so much more than i had expected that it throws my calculations completely out." his wife, of course, was ailing, but already his eldest child, a girl of ten, took a great deal of the work off her mother's shoulders, poor baby. he was perfectly natural, and said in the simplest way that if the choice were to fall on him it would relieve him of many grinding anxieties; whereupon i privately determined that if the choice did not fall on him the man of wrath and i would be strangers from that hour. "have you been worrying him with questions about his principles?" i asked, buttonholing the man of wrath as he came out from a private conference with him. "principles? my dear elizabeth, how can he have any on that income?" "if he is not a conservative will you let that stand in his way, and doom that little child to go on taking work off other people's shoulders?" "my dear elizabeth," he protested, "what has my decision for or against him to do with dooming little children to go on doing anything? i really cannot be governed by sentiment." "if you don't give it to him--" and i held up an awful finger of warning as he retreated, at which he only laughed. when the parson came to say good-night and good-bye, as he was leaving very early in the morning, i saw at once by his face that all was right. he bent over my hand, stammering out words of thanks and promises of devotion and invocations of blessings in such quantities that i began to feel quite pleased with myself, and as though i had been doing a virtuous deed. this feeling i saw reflected on the man of wrath's face, which made me consider that all we had done was to fill the living in the way that suited us best, and that we had no cause whatever to look and feel so benevolent. still, even now, while the victorious candidate is dreaming of his trebled income and of the raptures of his home-coming to-morrow, the glow has not quite departed, and i am dwelling with satisfaction on the fact that we have been able to raise eight people above those hideous cares that crush all the colour out of the lives of the genteel poor. i am glad he has so many children, because there will be more to be made happy. they will be rich on the little income, and will no doubt dismiss the wise and willing eldest baby to appropriate dolls and pinafores; and everybody will have what they never yet have had, a certain amount of that priceless boon, leisure--leisure to sit down and look at themselves, and inquire what it is they really mean, and really want, and really intend to do with their lives. and this, i may observe, is a beneficial process wholly impossible on pounds a year divided by eight. but i wonder whether they will be thin-skinned enough ever to discover that other and less delightful side of life only seen by those who have plenty of leisure. sordid cares may be very terrible to the sensitive, and make them miss the best of everything, but as long as they have them and are busy from morning till night keeping up appearances, they miss also the burden of those fears, and dreads, and realisations that beset him who has time to think. when in the morning i go into my sausage-room and give out sausages, i never think of anything but sausages. my horizon is bounded by them, every faculty is absorbed by them, and they engross me, while i am with them, to the exclusion of the whole world. not that i love them; as far as that goes, unlike the effect they produce on most of my country-men, they leave me singularly cold; but it is one of my duties to begin the day with sausages, and every morning for the short time i am in the midst of their shining rows, watching my _mamsell_ dexterously hooking down the sleekest with an instrument like a boat-hook, i am practically dead to every other consideration in heaven or on earth. what are they to me, love, life, death, all the mysteries? the one thing that concerns me is the due distribution to the servants of sausages; and until that is done, all obstinate questionings and blank misgivings must wait. if i were to spend my days in their entirety doing such work i should never have time to think, and if i never thought i should never feel, and if i never felt i should never suffer or rapturously enjoy, and so i should grow to be something very like a sausage myself, and not on that account, i do believe, any the less precious to the man of wrath. i know what i would do if i were both poor and genteel--the gentility should go to the place of all good ilities, including utility, respectability, and imbecility, and i would sit, quite frankly poor, with a piece of bread, and a pot of geraniums, and a book. i conclude that if i did without the things erroneously supposed necessary to decency i might be able to afford a geranium, because i see them so often in the windows of cottages where there is little else; and if i preferred such inexpensive indulgences as thinking and reading and wandering in the fields to the doubtful gratification arising from kept- up appearances (always for the bedazzlement of the people opposite, and therefore always vulgar), i believe i should have enough left over to buy a radish to eat with my bread; and if the weather were fine, and i could eat it under a tree, and give a robin some crumbs in return for his cheeriness, would there be another creature in the world so happy? i know there would not. july july st.--i think that after roses sweet-peas are my favourite flowers. nobody, except the ultra-original, denies the absolute supremacy of the rose. she is safe on her throne, and the only question to decide is which are the flowers that one loves next best. this i have been a long while deciding, though i believe i knew all the time somewhere deep down in my heart that they were sweet-peas; and every summer when they first come out, and every time, going round the garden, that i come across them, i murmur involuntarily, "oh yes, _you_ are the sweetest, you dear, dear little things." and what a victory this is, to be ranked next the rose even by one person who loves her garden. think of the wonderful beauty triumphed over--the lilies, the irises, the carnations, the violets, the frail and delicate poppies, the magnificent larkspurs, the burning nasturtiums, the fierce marigolds, the smooth, cool pansies. i have a bed at this moment in the full glory of all these things, a little chosen plot of fertile land, about fifteen yards long and of irregular breadth, shutting in at its broadest the east end of the walk along the south front of the house, and sloping away at the back down to a moist, low bit by the side of a very tiny stream, or rather thread of trickling water, where, in the dampest corner, shining in the sun, but with their feet kept cool and wet, is a colony of japanese irises, and next to them higher on the slope madonna lilies, so chaste in looks and so voluptuous in smell, and then a group of hollyhocks in tenderest shades of pink, and lemon, and white, and right and left of these white marguerites and evening primroses and that most exquisite of poppies called shirley, and a little on one side a group of metallic blue delphiniums beside a towering white lupin, and in and out and everywhere mignonette, and stocks, and pinks, and a dozen other smaller but not less lovely plants. i wish i were a poet, that i might properly describe the beauty of this bit as it sparkles this afternoon in the sunshine after rain; but of all the charming, delicate, scented groups it contains, none to my mind is so lovely as the group of sweet-peas in its north-west corner. there is something so utterly gentle and tender about sweet-peas, something so endearing in their clinging, winding, yielding growth; and then the long straight stalk, and the perfect little winged flower at the top, with its soft, pearly texture and wonderful range and combination of colours--all of them pure, all of them satisfying, not an ugly one, or even a less beautiful one among them. and in the house, next to a china bowl of roses, there is no arrangement of flowers so lovely as a bowl of sweet-peas, or a delf jar filled with them. what a mass of glowing, yet delicate colour it is! how prettily, the moment you open the door, it seems to send its fragrance to meet you! and how you hang over it, and bury your face in it, and love it, and cannot get away from it. i really am sorry for all the people in the world who miss such keen pleasure. it is one that each person who opens his eyes and his heart may have; and indeed, most of the things that are really worth having are within everybody's reach. any one who chooses to take a country walk, or even the small amount of trouble necessary to get him on to his doorstep and make him open his eyes, may have them, and there are thousands of them thrust upon us by nature, who is for ever giving and blessing, at every turn as we walk. the sight of the first pale flowers starring the copses; an anemone held up against the blue sky with the sun shining through it towards you; the first fall of snow in the autumn; the first thaw of snow in the spring; the blustering, busy winds blowing the winter away and scurrying the dead, untidy leaves into the corners; the hot smell of pines--just like blackberries--when the sun is on them; the first february evening that is fine enough to show how the days are lengthening, with its pale yellow strip of sky behind the black trees whose branches are pearled with raindrops; the swift pang of realisation that the winter is gone and the spring is coming; the smell of the young larches a few weeks later; the bunch of cowslips that you kiss and kiss again because it is so perfect, because it is so divinely sweet, because of all the kisses in the world there is none other so exquisite--who that has felt the joy of these things would exchange them, even if in return he were to gain the whole world, with all its chimney-pots, and bricks, and dust, and dreariness? and we know that the gain of a world never yet made up for the loss of a soul. one day, in going round the head inspector's garden with his wife, whose care it is, i remarked with surprise that she had no sweet-peas. i called them _lathyrus odoratus_, and she, having little latin, did not understand. then i called them _wohlriechende wicken_, the german rendering of that which sounds so pretty in english, and she said she had never heard of them. the idea of an existence in a garden yet without sweet-peas, so willing, so modest, and so easily grown, had never presented itself as possible to my imagination. ever since i can remember, my summers have been filled with them; and in the days when i sat in my own perambulator and they were three times as tall as i was, i well recollect a certain waving hedge of them in the garden of my childhood, and how i stared up longingly at the flowers so far beyond my reach, inaccessibly tossing against the sky. when i grew bigger and had a small garden of my own, i bought their seeds to the extent of twenty pfennings, and trained the plants over the rabbit-hutch that was the chief feature in the landscape. there were other seeds in that garden seeds on which i had laid out all my savings and round which played my fondest hopes, but the sweet-peas were the only ones that came up. the same thing happened here in my first summer, my gardening knowledge not having meanwhile kept pace with my years, and of the seeds sown that first season sweet-peas again were the only ones that came up. i should say they were just the things for people with very little time and experience at their disposal to grow. a garden might be made beautiful with sweet-peas alone, and, with hardly any labour, except the sweet labour of picking to prolong the bloom, be turned into a fairy bower of delicacy and refinement. yet the frau inspector not only had never heard of them, but, on my showing her a bunch, was not in the least impressed, and led me in her garden to a number of those exceedingly vulgar red herbaceous peonies growing among her currant bushes, and announced with conviction that they were her favourite flower. it was on the tip of my tongue to point out that in these days of tree-peonies, and peonies so lovely in their silvery faint tints that they resemble gigantic roses, it is absolutely wicked to suffer those odious red ones to pervert one's taste; that a person who sees nothing but those every time he looks out of his window very quickly has his nice perception for true beauty blunted; that such a person would do well to visit my garden every day during the month of may, and so get himself cured by the sight of my peony bushes covered with huge scented white and blush flowers; and that he would, i was convinced, at the end of the cure, go home and pitch his own on to the dust-heap. but of what earthly use would it have been? pointing out the difference between what is beautiful and what misses beauty to a frau inspector of forty, whose chief business it is to make butter, is likely to be singularly unprolific of good results; and, further, experience has taught me that whenever anything is on the tip of my tongue the best thing to do is to keep it there. i wonder why a woman always wants to interfere. it is a pity, nevertheless, that this lady should be so wanting in the aesthetic instinct, for her garden is full of possibilities. it lies due south, sheltered on the north, east, and west by farm buildings, and is rich in those old fruit-trees and well-seasoned gooseberry bushes that make such a good basis for the formation of that most delightful type of little garden, the flower-and-fruit-and-vegetable-mixed sort. she has, besides, an inestimable slimy, froggy pond, a perpetual treasure of malodorous water, much pined after by thirsty flowers; and then does she not live in the middle of a farmyard flowing with fertilising properties that only require a bucket and a shovel to transform them into roses? the way in which people miss their opportunities is melancholy. this pond of hers, by the way, is an object of the liveliest interest to the babies. they do not seem to mind the smell, and they love the slime, and they had played there for several days in great peace before the unfortunate accident of the june baby's falling in and being brought back looking like a green and speckled frog herself, revealed where it was they had persuaded seraphine to let them spend their mornings. then there was woe and lamentation, for i was sure they would all have typhoid fever, and i put them mercilessly to bed, and dosed them, as a preliminary, with castor oil--that oil of sorrow, as carlyle calls it. it was no use sending for the doctor because there is no doctor within reach; a fact which simplifies life amazingly when you have children. during the time we lived in town the doctor was never out of the house. hardly a day passed but one or other of the three had a spot, or, as the expressive german has it, a _pickel_, and what parent could resist sending for a doctor when one lived round the corner? but doctors are like bad habits--once you have shaken them off you discover how much better you are without them; and as for the babies, since they inhabit a garden, prompt bed and the above-mentioned simple remedy have been all that is necessary to keep them robust. i admit i was frightened when i heard where they had been playing, for when the wind comes from that quarter even sitting by my rose beds i have been reminded of the existence of the pond; and i kept them in bed for three days, anxiously awaiting symptoms, and my head full of a dreadful story i had heard of a little boy who had drunk seltzer water and thereupon been seized with typhoid fever and had died, and if, i asked myself with a power of reasoning unusual in a woman, you die after seltzer water, what will you not do after frog-pond? but they did nothing, except be uproarious, and sing at the top of their voices, and clamour for more dinner than i felt would be appropriate for babies who were going to be dangerously ill in a few hours; and so, after due waiting, they were got up and dressed and turned loose again, and from that day to this no symptoms have appeared. the pond was at first strictly forbidden as a playground, but afterwards i made concessions, and now they are allowed to go to a deserted little burying-ground on the west side of it when the wind is in the west; and there at least they can hear the frogs, and sometimes, if they are patient, catch a delightful glimpse of them. the graveyard is in the middle of a group of pines that bounds the frau inspector's garden on that side, and has not been used within the memory of living man. the people here love to make their little burying-grounds in the heart of a wood if they can, and they are often a long way away from the church to which they belong because, while every hamlet has its burying-ground, three or four hamlets have to share a church; and indeed the need for churches is not so urgent as that for graves, seeing that, though we may not all go to church, we all of us die and must be buried. some of these little cemeteries are not even anywhere near a village, and you come upon them unexpectedly in your drives through the woods-- bits of fenced-in forest, the old gates dropping off their hinges, the paths green from long disuse, the unchecked trees casting black, impenetrable shadows across the poor, meek, pathetic graves. i try sometimes, pushing aside the weeds, to decipher the legend on the almost speechless headstones; but the voice has been choked out of them by years of wind, and frost, and snow, and a few stray letters are all that they can utter--a last stammering protest against oblivion. the man of wrath says all women love churchyards. he is fond of sweeping assertions, and is sometimes curiously feminine in his tendency to infer a general principle from a particular instance. the deserted little forest burying-grounds interest and touch me because they are so solitary, and humble, and neglected, and forgotten, and because so many long years have passed since tears were shed over the newly made graves. nobody cries now for the husband, or father, or brother buried there; years and years ago the last tear that would ever be shed for them was dried--dried probably before the gate was reached on the way home--and they were not missed. love and sorrow appear to be flowers of civilisation, and most to flourish where life has the broadest margin of leisure and abundance. the primary instincts are always there, and must first be satisfied; and if to obtain the means of satisfying them you have to work from morning till night without rest, who shall find time and energy to sit down and lament? i often go with the babies to the enclosure near the frau inspector's pond, and it seems just as natural that they should play there as that the white butterflies should chase each other undisturbed across the shadows. and then the place has a soothing influence on them, and they sober down as we approach it, and on hot afternoons sit quietly enough as close to the pond as they may, content to watch for the chance appearance of a frog while talking to me about angels. this is their favourite topic of conversation in this particular place. just as i have special times and places for certain books, so do they seem to have special times and places for certain talk. the first time i took them there they asked me what the mounds were, and by a series of adroit questions extracted the information that the people who had been buried there were now angels (i am not a specialist, and must take refuge in telling them what i was told in my youth), and ever since then they refuse to call it a graveyard, and have christened it the angel- yard, and so have got into the way of discussing angels in all their bearings, sometimes to my confusion, whenever we go there. "but what _are_> angels, mummy?" said the june baby inconsequently this afternoon, after having assisted at the discussions for several days and apparently listening with attention. "_such_ a silly baby!" cried april, turning upon her with contempt, "don't you know they are _lieber gott's_ little girls?" now i protest i had never told those babies anything of the sort. i answer their questions to the best of my ability and as conscientiously as i can, and then, when i hear them talking together afterwards, i am staggered by the impression they appear to have received. they live in a whole world of independent ideas in regard to heaven and the angels, ideas quite distinct from other people's, and, as far as i can make out, believe that the being they call _lieber gott_ pervades the garden, and is identical with, among other things, the sunshine and the air on a fine day. i never told them so, nor, i am sure, did seraphine, and still less seraphine's predecessor miss jones, whose views were wholly material; yet if, on bright mornings, i forget to immediately open all the library windows on coming down, the april baby runs in, and with quite a worried look on her face cries, "mummy, won't you open the windows and let the _lieber gott_ come in?" if they were less rosy and hungry, or if i were less prosaic, i might have gloomy forebodings that such keen interest in things and beings celestial was prophetic of a short life; and in books, we know, the children who talk much on these topics invariably die, after having given their reverential parents a quantity of advice. fortunately such children are confined to books, and there is nothing of the ministering child--surely a very uncomfortable form of infant--about my babies. indeed, i notice that in their conversations together on such matters a healthy spirit of contradiction prevails, and this afternoon, after having accepted april's definition of angels with apparent reverence, the june baby electrified the other two (always more orthodox and yielding) by remarking that she hoped she would never go to heaven. i pretended to be deep in my book and not listening; april and may were sitting on the grass sewing ("needling" they call it) fearful-looking woolwork things for seraphine's birthday, and june was leaning idly against a pine trunk, swinging a headless doll round and round by its one remaining leg, her heels well dug into the ground, her sun-bonnet off, and all the yellow tangles of her hair falling across her sunburnt, grimy little face. "no," she repeated firmly, with her eyes fixed on her sisters' startled faces, "i don't want to. there's nothing there for babies to play with." "nothing to play with?" exclaimed the other two in a breath--and throwing down their needle-work they made a simultaneous rush for me. "mummy, did you hear? june says she doesn't want to go into the _himmel_!" cried april, horror-stricken. "because there's nothing to play with there, she says," cried may, breathlessly; and then they added with one voice, as though the subject had long ago been threshed out and settled between them, "why, she can play at ball there with all the _sternleins_ if she likes!" the idea of the june baby striding across the firmament and hurling the stars about as carelessly as though they were tennis-balls was so magnificent that it sent shivers of awe through me as i read. "but if you break all your dolls," added april, turning severely to june, and eyeing the distorted remains in her hand, "i don't think _lieber gott_ will let you in at all. when you're big and have tiny junes--real live junes--i think you'll break them too, and _lieber_ _gott_ doesn't love mummies what breaks their babies." "but i _must_ break my dolls," cried june, stung into indignation by what she evidently regarded as celestial injustice; "_lieber gott_ made me that way, so i can't help doing it, can i, mummy?" on these occasions i keep my eyes fixed on my book, and put on an air of deep abstraction; and indeed, it is the only way of keeping out of theological disputes in which i am invariably worsted. july th.--yesterday, as it was a cool and windy afternoon and not as pleasant in my garden as it has lately been, i thought i would go into the village and see how my friends the farm hands were getting on. philanthropy is intermittent with me as with most people, only they do not say so, and seize me like a cold in the head whenever the weather is chilly. on warm days my bump of benevolence melts away entirely, and grows bigger in proportion as the thermometer descends. when the wind is in the east it is quite a decent size, and about january, in a north- easterly snowstorm, it is plainly visible to the most casual observer. for a few weeks from then to the end of february i can hold up my head and look our parson in the face, but during the summer, if i see him coming my mode of progression in getting out of the way is described with perfect accuracy by the verb "to slink." the village consists of one street running parallel to the outer buildings of the farm, and the cottages are one-storied, each with rooms for four families--two in front, looking on to the wall of the farmyard, which is the fashionable side, and two at the back, looking on to nothing more exhilarating than their own pigstyes. each family has one room and a larder sort of place, and shares the kitchen with the family on the opposite side of the entrance; but the women prefer doing their cooking at the grate in their own room rather than expose the contents of their pots to the ill-natured comments of a neighbour. on the fashionable side there is a little fenced-in garden for every family, where fowls walk about pensively and meditate beneath the scarlet- runners (for all the world like me in my garden), and hollyhocks tower above the drying linen, and fuel, stolen from our woods, is stacked for winter use; but on the other side you walk straight out of the door on to manure heaps and pigs. the street did not look very inviting yesterday, with a lowering sky above, and the wind blowing dust and bits of straw and paper into my face and preventing me from seeing what i knew to be there, a consoling glimpse of green fields and fir woods down at the other end; but i had not been for a long while--we have had such a lovely summer--and something inside me had kept on saying aggressively all the morning, "elizabeth, don't you know you are due in the village? why don't you go then? when are you going? don't you know you _ought_ to go? don't you feel you _must_? elizabeth, pull yourself together and _go_" strange effect of a grey sky and a cool wind! for i protest that if it had been warm and sunny my conscience would not have bothered about me at all. we had a short fight over it, in which i got all the knocks, as was evident by the immediate swelling of the bump alluded to above, and then i gave in, and by two o'clock in the afternoon was lifting the latch of the first door and asking the woman who lived behind it what she had given the family for dinner. this, i was instructed on my first round by the frau inspector, is the proper thing to ask; and if you can follow it up by an examination of the contents of the saucepan, and a gentle sniff indicative of your appreciation of their savouriness, so much the better. i was diffident at first about this, but the gratification on their faces at the interest displayed is so unmistakable that i never now omit going through the whole business. this woman, the wife of one of the men who clean and feed the cows, has arrived at that enviable stage of existence when her children have all been confirmed and can go out to work, leaving her to spend her days in her clean and empty room in comparative dignity and peace. the children go to school till they are fourteen, then they are confirmed, are considered grown up, and begin to work for wages; and her three strapping daughters were out in the fields yesterday reaping. the mother has a keen, shrewd face, and everything about her was neat and comfortable. her floor was freshly strewn with sand, her cups and saucers and spoons shone bright and clean from behind the glass door of the cupboard, and the two beds, one for herself and her husband and the other for her three daughters, were more mountainous than any i afterwards saw. the size and plumpness of her feather beds, the frau inspector tells me, is a woman's chief claim to consideration from the neighbours. she who can pile them up nearest to the ceiling becomes the principal personage in the community, and a flat bed is a social disgrace. it is a mystery to me, when i see the narrowness of the bedsteads, how so many people can sleep in them. they are rather narrower than what are known as single beds, yet father and mother and often a baby manage to sleep very well in one, and three or four children in the opposite corner of the room in another. the explanation no doubt is that they do not know what nerves are, and what it is to be wakened by the slightest sound or movement in the room and lie for hours afterwards, often the whole night, totally unable to fall asleep again, staring out into the darkness with eyes that refuse to shut. no nerves, and a thick skin--what inestimable blessings to these poor people! and they never heard of either. i stood a little while talking, not asked to sit down, for that would be thought a liberty, and hearing how they had had potatoes and bacon for dinner, and how the eldest girl bertha was going to be married at michaelmas, and how well her baby was getting through its teething. "her baby?" i echoed, "i have not heard of a baby?" the woman went to one of the beds and lifted up a corner of the great bag of feathers, and there, sure enough, lay a round and placid baby, sleeping as sweetly and looking as cherubic as the most legitimate of its contemporaries. "and he is going to marry her at michaelmas?" i asked, looking as sternly as i could at the grandmother. "oh yes," she replied, "he is a good young man, and earns eighteen marks a week. they will be very comfortable." "it is a pity," i said, "that the baby did not make its appearance after michaelmas instead of before. don't you see yourself what a pity it is, and how everything has been spoilt?" she stared at me for a moment with a puzzled look, and then turned away and carefully covered the cherub again. "they will be very comfortable," she repeated, seeing that i expected an answer; "he earns eighteen marks a week." what was there to be said? if i had told her her daughter was a grievous sinner she might perhaps have felt transiently uncomfortable, but as soon as i had gone would have seen for herself, with those shrewd eyes of hers, that nothing had been changed by my denunciations, that there lay the baby, dimpled and healthy, that her daughter was making a good match, that none of her set saw anything amiss, and that all the young couples in the district had prefaced their marriages in this way. our parson is troubled to the depths of his sensitive soul by this custom. he preaches, he expostulates, he denounces, he implores, and they listen with square stolid faces and open mouths, and go back to their daily work among their friends and acquaintances, with no feeling of shame, because everybody does it, and public opinion, the only force that could stop it, is on their side. the parson looks on with unutterable sadness at the futility of his efforts; but the material is altogether too raw for successful manipulation by delicate fingers. "poor things," i said one day, in answer to an outburst of indignation from him, after he had been marrying one of our servants at the eleventh hour, "i am so sorry for them. it is so pitiful that they should always have to be scolded on their wedding day. such children--so ignorant, so uncontrolled, so frankly animal--what do they know about social laws? they only know and follow nature, and i would from my heart forgive them all." "it is _sin_" he said shortly. "then the forgiveness is sure." "not if they do not seek it." i was silent, for i wished to reply that i believed they would be forgiven in spite of themselves, that probably they were forgiven whether they sought it or not, and that you cannot limit things divine; but who can argue with a parson? these people do not seek forgiveness because it never enters their heads that they need it. the parson tells them so, it is true, but they regard him as a person bound by his profession to say that sort of thing, and are sharp enough to see that the consequences of their sin, foretold by him with such awful eloquence, never by any chance come off. no girl is left to languish and die forsaken by her betrayer, for the betrayer is a worthy young man who marries her as soon as he possibly can; no finger of scorn is pointed at the fallen one, for all the fingers in the street are attached to women who began life in precisely the same fashion; and as for that problematical day of judgment of which they hear so much on sundays, perhaps they feel that that also may be one of the things which after all do not happen. the servant who had been married and scolded that morning was a groom, aged twenty, and he had met his little wife, she being then seventeen, in the place he was in before he came to us. she was a housemaid there, and must have been a pretty thing, though there were few enough traces of it, except the beautiful eyes, in the little anxious face that i saw for the first time immediately after the wedding, and just before the weary and harassed parson came in to talk things over. i had never heard of her existence until, about ten days previously, the groom had appeared, bathed in tears, speechlessly holding out a letter from her in which she said she could not bear things any longer and was going to kill herself. the wretched young man was at his wit's end, for he had not yet saved enough to buy any furniture and set up housekeeping, and she was penniless after so many months out of a situation. he did not know any way out of it, he had no suggestions to offer, no excuses to make, and just stood there helplessly and sobbed. i went to the man of wrath, and we laid our heads together. "we do not want another married servant," he said. "no, of course we don't," said i. "and there is not a room empty in the village." "no, not one." "and how can we give him furniture? it is not fair to the other servants who remain virtuous, and wait till they can buy their own." "no, certainly it isn't fair." there was a pause. "he is a good boy," i murmured presently. "a very good boy." "and she will be quite ruined unless somebody--" "i'll tell you what we can do, elizabeth," he interrupted; "we can buy what is needful and let him have it on condition that he buys it back gradually by some small monthly payment." "so we can." "and i think there is a room over the stables that is empty." "so there is." "and he can go to town and get what furniture he needs and bring the girl back with him and marry her at once. the sooner the better, poor girl." and so within a fortnight they were married, and came hand in hand to me, he proud and happy, holding himself very straight, she in no wise yet recovered from the shock and misery of the last few hopeless months, looking up at me with eyes grown much too big for her face, eyes in which there still lurked the frightened look caught in the town where she had hidden herself, and where fingers of scorn could not have been wanting, and loud derision, and utter shame, besides the burden of sickness, and hunger, and miserable pitiful youth. they stood hand in hand, she in a decent black dress, and both wearing very tight white kid gloves that refused to hide entirely the whole of the rough red hands, and they looked so ridiculously young, and the whole thing was so wildly improvident, that no words of exhortation would come to my lips as i gazed at them in silence, between laughter and tears. i ought to have told them they were sinners; i ought to have told them they were reckless; i ought to have told them by what a narrow chance they had escaped the just punishment of their iniquity, and instead of that i found myself stretching out hands that were at once seized and kissed, and merely saying with a cheerful smile, "_nun_ _kinder_, _liebt euch_, _und seid brav_." and so they were dismissed, and then the parson came, in a fever at this latest example of deadly sin, while i, with the want of moral sense so often observable in woman, could only think with pity of their childishness. the baby was born three days later, and the mother very nearly slipped through our fingers; but she was a country girl, and she fought round, and by and by grew young again in the warmth of married respectability; and i met her the other day airing her baby in the sun, and holding her head as high as though she were conscious of a whole row of feather beds at home, every one of which touched the ceiling. in the next room i went into an old woman lay in bed with her head tied up in bandages. the room had not much in it, or it would have been untidier; it looked neglected and gloomy, and some dirty plates, suggestive of long-past dinners, were piled on the table. "oh, such headaches!" groaned the old woman when she saw me, and moved her head from side to side on the pillow. i could see she was not undressed, and had crept under her feather bag as she was. i went to the bedside and felt her pulse--a steady pulse, with nothing of feverishness in it. "oh, such draughts!" moaned the old woman, when she saw i had left the door open. "a little air will make you feel better," i said; the atmosphere in the shut-up room was so indescribable that my own head had begun to throb. "oh, oh!" she moaned, in visible indignation at being forced for a moment to breathe the pure summer air. "i have something at home that will cure your headache," i said, "but there is nobody i can send with it to-day. if you feel better later on, come round and fetch it. i always take it when i have a headache"-- ("why, elizabeth, you know you never have such things!" whispered my conscience, appalled. "you just keep quiet," i whispered back, "i have had enough of you for one day.")--"and i have some grapes i will give you when you come, so that if you possibly can, do." "oh, i can't move," groaned the old woman, "oh, oh, oh!" but i went away laughing, for i knew she would appear punctually to fetch the grapes, and a walk in the air was all she needed to cure her. how the whole village hates and dreads fresh air! a baby died a few days ago, killed, i honestly believe, by the exceeding love of its mother, which took the form of cherishing it so tenderly that never once during its little life was a breath of air allowed to come anywhere near it. she is the watchman's wife, a gentle, flabby woman, with two rooms at her disposal, but preferring to live and sleep with her four children in one, never going into the other except for the christenings and funerals which take place in her family with what i cannot but regard as unnecessary frequency. this baby was born last september in a time of golden days and quiet skies, and when it was about three weeks old i suggested that she should take it out every day while the fine weather lasted. she pointed out that it had not yet been christened, and remembering that it is the custom in their class for both mother and child to remain shut up and invisible till after the christening, i said no more. three weeks later i was its godmother, and it was safely got into the fold of the church. as i was leaving, i remarked that now she would be able to take it out as much as she liked. the following march, on a day that smelt of violets, i met her near the house. i asked after the baby, and she began to cry. "it does not thrive," she wept, "and its arms are no thicker than my finger." "keep it out in the sun as much as you can," i said; "this is the very weather to turn weak babies into strong ones." "oh, i am so afraid it will catch cold if i take it out," she cried, her face buried in what was once a pocket-handkerchief. "when was it out last?" "oh--" she stopped to blow her nose, very violently, and, as it seemed to me, with superfluous thoroughness. i waited till she had done, and then repeated my question. "oh--" a fresh burst of tears, and renewed exhaustive nose-blowing. i began to suspect that my question, put casually, was of more importance than i had thought, and repeated it once more. "i--can't t-take it out," she sobbed, "i know it--it would die." "but has it not been out at all, then?" she shook her head. "not once since it was born? six months ago?" she shook her head. "_poor_ baby!" i exclaimed; and indeed from my heart i pitied the little thing, perishing in a heap of feathers, in one close room, with four people absorbing what air there was. "i am afraid," i said, "that if it does not soon get some fresh air it will not live. i wonder what would happen to my children if i kept them in one hot room day and night for six months. you see how they are out all day, and how well they are." "they are so strong," she said, with a doleful sniff, "that they can stand it." i was confounded by this way of looking at it, and turned away, after once more begging her to take the child out. she plainly regarded the advice as brutal, and i heard her blowing her nose all down the drive. in june the father told me he would like the doctor; the child grew thinner every day in spite of all the food it took. a doctor was got from the nearest town, and i went across to hear what he ordered. he ordered bottles at regular intervals instead of the unbroken series it had been having, and fresh air. he could find nothing the matter with it, except unusual weakness. he asked if it always perspired as it was doing then, and himself took off the topmost bag of feathers. early in july it died, and its first outing was to the cemetery in the pine woods three miles off. "i took such care of it," moaned the mother, when i went to try and comfort her after the funeral; "it would never have lived so long but for the care i took of it." "and what the doctor ordered did no good?" i ventured to ask, as gently as i could. "oh, i did not take it out--how could i--it would have killed it at once--at least i have kept it alive till now." and she flung her arms across the table, and burying her head in them wept bitterly. there is a great wall of ignorance and prejudice dividing us from the people on our place, and in every effort to help them we knock against it and cannot move it any more than if it were actual stone. like the parson on the subject of morals, i can talk till i am hoarse on the subject of health, without at any time producing the faintest impression. when things are very bad the doctor is brought, directions are given, medicines made up, and his orders, unless they happen to be approved of, are simply not carried out. orders to wash a patient and open windows are never obeyed, because the whole village would rise up if, later on, the illness ended in death, and accuse the relatives of murder. i suppose they regard us and our like who live on the other side of the dividing wall as persons of fantastic notions which, when carried into effect among our own children, do no harm because of the vast strength of the children accumulated during years of eating in the quantities only possible to the rich. their idea of happiness is eating, and they naturally suppose that everybody eats as much as he can possibly afford to buy. some of them have known hunger, and food and strength are coupled together in their experience--the more food the greater the strength; and people who eat roast meat (oh, bliss ineffable!) every day of their lives can bear an amount of washing and airing that would surely kill such as themselves. but how useless to try and discover what their views really are. i can imagine what i like about them, and am fairly certain to imagine wrong. i have no real conception of their attitude towards life, and all i can do is to talk to them kindly when they are in trouble, and as often as i can give them nice things to eat. shocked at the horrors that must surround the poor women at the birth of their babies, i asked the man of wrath to try and make some arrangement that would ensure their quiet at those times. he put aside a little cottage at the end of the street as a home for them in their confinements, and i furnished it, and made it clean and bright and pretty. a nurse was permanently engaged, and i thought with delight of the unspeakable blessing and comfort it was going to be. not a baby has been born in that cottage, for not a woman has allowed herself to be taken there. at the end of a year it had to be let out again to families, and the nurse dismissed. "_why_ wouldn't they go?" i asked the frau inspector, completely puzzled. she shrugged her shoulders. "they like their husband and children round them," she said, "and are afraid something will be done to them away from home--that they will be washed too often, perhaps. the gracious lady will never get them to leave their homes." "the gracious lady gives it up," i muttered. when i opened the next door i was bewildered by the crowd in the room. a woman stood in the middle at a wash-tub which took up most of the space. every now and then she put out a dripping hand and jerked a perambulator up and down for a moment, to calm the shrieks of the baby inside. on a wooden bench at the foot of one of the three beds a very old man sat and blinked at nothing. crouching in a corner were two small boys of pasty complexion, playing with a guinea-pig and coughing violently. the loveliest little girl i have seen for a very long while lay in the bed nearest the door, quite silent, with her eyes closed and her mouth shut tight, as though she were trying hard to bear something. as i pulled the door open the first thing i saw, right up against it, was this set young face framed in tossed chestnut hair. "why, _frauchen_," i said to the woman at the tub, "so many of you at home to-day? are you all ill?" there was hardly standing room for an extra person, and the room was full of steam. "they have all got the cough i had," she answered, without looking up, "and lotte there is very bad." i took lotte's rough little hand--so different from the delicate face-- and found she was in a fever. "we must get the doctor," i said. "oh, the doctor--" said the mother with a shrug, "he's no use." "you must do what he tells you, or he cannot help you." "that last medicine he sent me all but killed me," she said, washing vigorously. "i'll never take any more of his, nor shall any child of mine." "what medicine was it?" she wiped her hand on her apron, and reaching across to the cupboard took out a little bottle. "i was in bed two days after it," she said, handing it to me--"as though i were dead, not knowing what was going on round me." the bottle had contained opium, and there were explicit directions written on it as to the number of drops to be taken and the length of the intervals between the taking. "did you do exactly what is written here?" i asked. "i took it all at once. there wasn't much of it, and i was feeling bad." "but then of course it nearly killed you. i wonder it didn't quite. what good is it our taking all the trouble we do to send that long distance for the doctor if you don't do as he orders?" "i'll take no more of his medicine. if it had been any good and able to cure me, the more i took the quicker i ought to have been cured." and she scrubbed and thumped with astounding energy, while lotte lay with her little ashen face a shade more set and suffering. the wash-tub, though in the middle of the room, was quite close to lotte's bed, because the middle of the room was quite close to every other part of it, and each extra hard maternal thump must have hit the child's head like a blow from a hammer. she was, you see, only thirteen, and her skin had not had time to turn into leather. "has this child eaten anything to-day?" "she won't." "is she not thirsty?" "she won't drink coffee or milk." "i'll send her something she may like, and i shall send, too, for the doctor." "i'll not give her his stuff." "let me beg you to do as he tells you." "i'll not give her his stuff." "was it absolutely necessary to wash to-day?" "it's the day." "my good woman," said i to myself, gazing at her with outward blandness, "i'd like exceedingly to tip you up into your wash-tub and thump you as thoroughly as you are thumping those unfortunate clothes." aloud i said in flute-like tones of conciliation, "good afternoon." "good afternoon," said she without looking up. washing days always mean tempers, and i ought to have fled at the first sight of that tub, but then there was lotte in her little yellow flannel night-gown, suffering as only children can suffer, helpless, forced to patience, forced to silent endurance of any banging and vehemence in which her mother might choose to indulge. no wonder her mouth was shut like a clasp and she would not open her eyes. her eyebrows were reddish like her hair, and very straight, and her eyelashes lay dusky and long on her white face. at least i had discovered lotte and could help her a little, i thought, as i departed down the garden path between the rows of scarlet-runners; but the help that takes the form of jelly and iced drinks is not of a lasting nature, and i have but little sympathy with a benevolence that finds its highest expression in gifts of the kind. there have been women within my experience who went down into the grave accompanied by special pastoral encomiums, and whose claims to lady- bountifulness, on closer inquiry, rested solely on a foundation of jelly. yet nothing in the world is easier than ordering jelly to be sent to the sick, except refraining from ordering it. what more, however, could i do for lotte than this? i could not take her up in my arms and run away with her and nurse her back to health, for she would probably object to such a course as strongly as her mother; and later on, when she gets well again, she will go back to school, and grow coarse and bouncing and leathery like the others, affording the parson, in three or four years' time, a fresh occasion for grief over deadly sin. "if one could only get hold of the children!" i sighed, as i went up the steps into the schoolhouse; "catch them young, and put them in a garden, with no older people of their own class for ever teaching them by example what is ugly, and unworthy, and gross." afternoon school was going on, and the assistant teacher was making the children read aloud in turns. in winter, when they would be glad of a warm, roomy place in which to spend their afternoons, school is only in the morning; and in summer, when the thirstiest after knowledge are apt to be less keen, it is both morning and afternoon. the arrangement is so mysterious that it must be providential. herr schenk, the head master, was away giving my babies their daily lessons, and his assistant, a youth in spectacles but yet of pugnacious aspect, was sitting in the master's desk, exercising a pretty turn for sarcasm in his running comments on the reading. a more complete waste of breath and brilliancy can hardly be imagined. he is not yet, however, married, and marriage is a great chastener. the children all stood up when i came in, and the teacher ceased sharpening his wits on a dulness that could not feel, and with many bows put a chair for me and begged me to sit on it. i did sit on it, and asked that they might go on with the lesson, as i had only come in for a minute on my way down the street. the reading was accordingly resumed, but unaccompanied this time by sarcasms. what faces! what dull, apathetic, low, coarse faces! on one side sat those from ten to fourteen, with not a hopeful face among them, and on the other those from six to ten, with one single little boy who looked as though he could have no business among the rest, so bright was he, so attentive, so curiously dignified. poor children--what could the parson hope to make of beings whose expressions told so plainly of the sort of nature within? those that did not look dull looked cunning, and all the girls on the older side had the faces of women. i began to feel dreadfully depressed. "see what you have done," i whispered angrily to my conscience--"made me wretched without doing anybody else any good." "the old woman with the headache is happy in the hopes of grapes," it replied, seeking to justify itself, "and lotte is to have some jelly." "grapes! jelly! futility unutterable. i can't bear this, and am going home." the teacher inquired whether the children should sing something to my graciousness; perhaps he was ashamed of their reading, and indeed i never heard anything like it. "oh yes," i said, resigned, but outwardly smiling kindly with the self-control natural to woman. they sang, or rather screamed, a hymn, and so frightfully loud and piercingly that the very windows shook. "my dear," explained the man of wrath, when i complained one sunday on our way home from church of the terrible quality and volume of the music, "it frightens satan away." our numerous godchildren were not in school because, as we have only lived here three years, they are not yet old enough to share in the blessings of education. i stand godmother to the girls, and the man of wrath to the boys, and as all the babies are accordingly named after us the village swarms with tiny elizabeths and boys of wrath. a hunchbacked woman, unfit for harder work, looks after the babies during the day in a room set apart for that purpose, so that the mothers may not be hampered in their duties at the farm; they have only to carry the babies there in the morning, and fetch them away again in the evening, and can feel that they are safe and well looked after. but many of them, for some reason too cryptic to fathom, prefer to lock them up in their room, exposed to all the perils that surround an inquiring child just able to walk, and last winter one little creature was burnt to death, sacrificed to her mother's stupidity. this mother, a fair type of the intelligence prevailing in the village, made a great fire in her room before going out, so that when she came back at noon there would still be some with which to cook the dinner, left a baby in a perambulator, and a little elizabeth of three loose in the room, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and went off to work. when she came back to get the dinner ready, the baby was still crowing placidly in its perambulator, and the little elizabeth, with all the clothes burnt off her body, was lying near the grate dead. of course the mother was wild with grief, distracted, raving, desperate, and of course all the other women were shocked and horrified; but point the moral as we might, we could not bring them to see that it was an avoidable misfortune with nothing whatever to do with the _finger gottes_, and the mothers who preferred locking their babies up alone to sending them to be looked after, went on doing so as undisturbed as though what had occurred could in no wise be a lesson to themselves. "pray, _herr lehrer_, why are those two little boys sitting over there on that seat all by themselves and not singing?" i asked at the conclusion of the hymn. "that, gracious lady, is the vermin bench. it is necessary to keep--" "oh yes, yes--i quite understand--good afternoon. good-bye, children, you have sung very nicely indeed." "now," said i to myself, when i was safely out in the street again, "i am going home." "oh, not yet," at once protested my unmanageable conscience; "your favourite old woman lives in the next cottage, and surely you are not going to leave her out?" "i see plainly," i replied, "that i shall never be quite comfortable till i have got rid of _you_" and in i went to the next house. the entrance was full of three women--the entrances here are narrow, and the women wide--and they all looked more cheerful than seemed reasonable. they stood aside to let me pass, and when i opened the door i found the room equally full of women, looking equally happy, and talking eagerly. "why, what is happening?" i asked the nearest one. "is there a party?" she turned round, grinning broadly in obvious delight. "the old lady died in her sleep," she said, "and was found this morning dead in her bed. i was in here only yesterday, and she said--" i turned abruptly and went out again. all those gloating women, hovering round the poor body that was clothed on a sudden by death with a wonderful dignity and nobleness, made me ashamed of being a woman. not a man was there,-- clearly a superior race of beings. in the entrance i met the frau inspector coming in to arrange matters, and she turned and walked with me a little way. "the old lady was better off than we thought," she remarked, "and has left a very good black silk dress to be buried in." "a black silk dress?" i repeated. "and everything to match in goodness--nice leather shoes, good stockings, under-things all trimmed with crochet, real whalebone corsets, and a quite new pair of white kid gloves. she must have saved for a long time to have it all so nice." "but," i said, "i don't understand. i have never had anything to do yet with death, and have not thought of these things. are not people, then, just buried in a shroud?" "a shroud?" it was her turn not to understand. "a sheet sort of thing." she smiled in a highly superior manner. "oh dear, no," she said, "we are none of us quite so poor as that." i glanced down at her as she walked beside me. she is a short woman, and carries weight. she was smiling almost pityingly at my ignorance of what is due, even after death, to ourselves and public opinion. "the very poorest," she said, "manage to scrape a whole set of clothes together for their funerals. a very poor couple came here a few months ago, and before the man had time to earn anything he died. the wife came to me (the gracious lady was absent), and on her knees implored me to give her a suit for him--she had only been able to afford the _sterbehemd_, and was frantic at the thought of what the neighbours would say if he had nothing on but that, and said she would be haunted by shame and remorse all the rest of her life. we bought a nice black suit, and tie, and gloves, and he really looked very well. she will be dressed to-night," she went on, as i said nothing; "the dressers come with the coffin, and it will be a nice funeral. i used to wonder what she did with her pension money, and never could persuade her to buy herself a bit of meat. but of course she was saving for this. they are beautiful corsets." "what utter waste!" i ejaculated. "waste?" "yes--utter waste and foolishness. foolishness, not to have bought a few little comforts, waste of the money, and waste of the clothes. is there any meaning, sense, or use whatever in burying a good black silk dress?" "it would be a scandal not to be buried decently," she replied, manifestly surprised at my warmth, "and the neighbours respect her much more now that they know what nice clothes she had bought for her funeral. nothing is wanting. i even found a box with a gold brooch in it, and a bracelet." "i suppose, then, as many of her belongings as will go into the coffin will be buried too, in order to still further impress the neighbours?" i asked--"her feather bed, for instance, and anything else of use and value?" "no, only what she has on, and the brushes and combs and towels that were used in dressing her." "how ugly and how useless!" i said with a shiver of disgust. "it is the custom," was her tranquil reply. suddenly an unpleasant thought struck me, and i burst out emphatically, "nothing but a shroud is to be put on me." "oh no," she said, looking up at me with a face meant to be full of the most reassuring promises of devotion, "the gracious lady may be quite certain that if i am still here she will have on her most beautiful ball dress and finest linen, and that the whole neighbourhood shall see for themselves how well _herrschaften_ know what is due to them." "i shall give directions," i repeated with increased energy, "that there is only to be a shroud." "oh no, no," she protested, smiling as though she were humouring a spoilt and eccentric child, "such a thing could never be permitted. what would our feelings be when we remembered that the gracious lady had not received her dues, and what would the neighbours say?" "i'll have nothing but a shroud!" i cried in great wrath--and then stopped short, and burst out laughing. "what an absurd and gruesome conversation," i said, holding out my hand. "good-bye, frau inspector, i am sure you are wanted in that cottage." she made me a curtsey and turned back. i walked out of the village and through the fir wood and the meadow as quickly as i could, opened the gate into my garden, went down the most sheltered path, flung myself on the grass in a quiet nook, and said aloud "ugh!" it is a well-known exclamation of disgust, and is thus inadequately expressed in writing. august august th.--august has come, and has clothed the hills with golden lupins, and filled the grassy banks with harebells. the yellow fields of lupins are so gorgeous on cloudless days that i have neglected the forests lately and drive in the open, so that i may revel in their scent while feasting my eyes on their beauty. the slope of a hill clothed with this orange wonder and seen against the sky is one of those sights which make me so happy that it verges on pain. the straight, vigorous flower- spikes are something like hyacinths, but all aglow with a divine intensity of brightness that a yellow hyacinth never yet possessed and never will; and then they are not waxy, but velvety, and their leaves are not futile drooping things, but delicate, strong sprays of an exquisite grey-green, with a bloom on them that throws a mist over the whole field; and as for the perfume, it surely is the perfume of paradise. the plant is altogether lovely--shape, growth, flower, and leaf, and the horses have to wait very patiently once we get among them, for i can never have enough of sitting quite still in those fair fields of glory. not far from here there is a low series of hills running north and south, absolutely without trees, and at the foot of them, on the east side, is a sort of road, chiefly stones, but yet with patience to be driven over, and on the other side of this road a plain stretches away towards the east and south; and hills and plain are now one sheet of gold. i have driven there at all hours of the day--i cannot keep away--and i have seen them early in the morning, and at mid-day, and in the afternoon, and i have seen them in the evening by moonlight, when all the intensity was washed out of the colour and into the scent; but just as the sun drops behind the little hills is the supreme moment, when the splendour is so dazzling that you feel as though you must have reached the very gates of heaven. so strong was this feeling the other day that i actually got out of the carriage, being impulsive, and began almost involuntarily to climb the hill, half expecting to see the glories of the new jerusalem all spread out before me when i should reach the top; and it came with quite a shock of disappointment to find there was nothing there but the prose of potato-fields, and a sandy road with home-going calves kicking up its dust, and in the distance our neighbour's _schloss_, and the new jerusalem just as far off as ever. it is a relief to me to write about these things that i so much love, for i do not talk of them lest i should be regarded as a person who rhapsodizes, and there is no nuisance more intolerable than having somebody's rhapsodies thrust upon you when you have no enthusiasm of your own that at all corresponds. i know this so well that i generally succeed in keeping quiet; but sometimes even now, after years of study in the art of holding my tongue, some stray fragment of what i feel does occasionally come out, and then i am at once pulled up and brought to my senses by the well-known cold stare of utter incomprehension, or the look of indulgent superiority that awaits any exposure of a feeling not in the least understood. how is it that you should feel so vastly superior whenever you do not happen to enter into or understand your neighbour's thoughts when, as a matter of fact, your not being able to do so is less a sign of folly in your neighbour than of incompleteness in yourself? i am quite sure that if i were to take most or any of my friends to those pleasant yellow fields they would notice nothing except the exceeding joltiness of the road; and if i were so ill-advised as to lift up a corner of my heart, and let them see how full it was of wonder and delight, they would first look blank, and then decide mentally that they were in the unpleasant situation of driving over a stony road with that worst form of idiot, a bore, and so fall into the mood of self- commiseration which is such a solace to us in our troubles. yet it is painful being suppressed for ever and ever, and i believe the torments of such a state, when unduly prolonged, are more keenly felt by a woman than a man, she having, in spite of her protestations, a good deal of the ivy nature still left in her, and an unhealthy craving for sympathy and support. when i drive to the lupins and see them all spread out as far as eye can reach in perfect beauty of colour and scent and bathed in the mild august sunshine, i feel i must send for somebody to come and look at them with me, and talk about them to me, and share in the pleasure; and when i run over the list of my friends and try to find one who would enjoy them, i am frightened once more at the solitariness in which we each of us live. i have, it is true, a great many friends-- people with whom it is pleasant to spend an afternoon if such afternoons are not repeated often, and if you are careful not to stir more than the surface of things, but among them all there is only one who has, roughly, the same tastes that i have; and even her sympathies have limitations, and she declares for instance with emphasis that she would not at all like to be a goose-girl. i wonder why. our friendship nearly came to an end over the goose-girl, so unexpectedly inflaming did the subject turn out to be. of all professions, if i had liberty of choice, i would choose to be a gardener, and if nobody would have me in that capacity i would like to be a goose-girl, and sit in the greenest of fields minding those delightfully plump, placid geese, whiter and more leisurely than the clouds on a calm summer morning, their very waddle in its lazy deliberation soothing and salutary to a fretted spirit that has been too long on the stretch. the fields geese feed in are so specially charming, so green and low-lying, with little clumps of trees and bushes, and a pond or boggy bit of ground somewhere near, and a profusion of those delicate field flowers that look so lovely growing and are so unsatisfactory and fade so quickly if you try to arrange them in your rooms. for six months of the year i would be happier than any queen i ever heard of, minding the fat white things. i would begin in april with the king-cups, and leave off in september with the blackberries, and i would keep one eye on the geese, and one on the volume of wordsworth i should have with me, and i would be present in this way at the procession of the months, the first three all white and yellow, and the last three gorgeous with the lupin fields and the blues and purples and crimsons that clothe the hedges and ditches in a wonderful variety of shades, and dye the grass near the water in great patches. then in october i would shut up my wordsworth, go back to civilised life, and probably assist at the eating of the geese one after the other, with a proper thankfulness for the amount of edification i had from first to last extracted from them. i believe in england goose eating is held to be of doubtful refinement, and is left to one's servants. here roast goose stuffed with apples is a dish loved quite openly and simply by people who would consider that the number of their quarterings raises them above any suspicion as to the refinement of their tastes, however many geese they may eat, and however much they may enjoy them; and i remember one lady, whose ancestors, probably all having loved goose, reached back up to a quite giddy antiquity, casting a gloom over a dinner table by removing as much of the skin or crackling of the goose as she could when it came to her, remarking, amidst a mournful silence, that it was her favourite part. no doubt it was. the misfortune was that it happened also to be the favourite part of the line of guests who came after her, and who saw themselves forced by the hard laws of propriety to affect an indifferent dignity of bearing at the very moment when their one feeling was a fierce desire to rise up and defend at all costs their right to a share of skin. she had, i remember, very pretty little white hands like tiny claws, and wore beautiful rings, and sitting opposite her, and free myself from any undue passion for goose, i had leisure to watch the rapid way in which she disposed of the skin, her rings and the whiteness of her hands flashing up and down as she used her knife and fork with the awful dexterity only seen in perfection in the fatherland. i am afraid that as a nation we think rather more of our eating and drinking than is reasonable, and this no doubt explains why so many of us, by the time we are thirty, have lost the original classicality of our contour. walking in the streets of a town you are almost sure to catch the word _essen_ in the talk of the passers-by; and _das essen_, combined, of course, with the drinking made necessary by its exaggerated indulgence, constitutes the chief happiness of the middle and lower classes. any story-book or novel you take up is full of feeling descriptions of what everybody ate and drank, and there are a great many more meals than kisses; so that the novel-reader who expects a love-tale, finds with disgust that he is put off with _menus_. the upper classes have so many other amusements that _das essen_ ceases to be one, and they are as thin as all the rest of the world; but if the curious wish to see how very largely it fills the lives, or that part of their lives that they reserve for pleasure, of the middle classes, it is a good plan to go to seaside places during the months of july and august, when the schools close, and the _bourgeoisie_ realises the dream in which it has been indulging the whole year, of hotel life with a tremendous dinner every day at one o'clock. the april baby was a weak little creature in her first years, and the doctor ordered as specially bracing a seaside resort frequented solely by the middle classes, and there for three succeeding years i took her; and while she rolled on the sands and grew brown and lusty, i was dull, and fell to watching the other tourists. their time, it appeared, was spent in ruminating over the delights of the meal that was eaten, and in preparing their bodies by gentlest exercise for the delights of the meal that was to come. they passed their mornings on the sands, the women doing fancy work in order that they might look busy, and the men strolling aimlessly about near them with field-glasses, and nautical caps, and long cloaks of a very dreadful pattern reaching to their heels and making them look like large women, called havelocks,--all of them waiting with more or less open eagerness for one o'clock, the great moment to which they had been looking forward ever since the day before, to arrive. they used to file in when the bell rang with a sort of silent solemnity, a contemplative collectedness, which is best described by the word _recueillement_, and ate all the courses, however many there were, in a hot room full of flies and sunlight. the dinner lasted a good hour and a half, and at the end of that time they would begin to straggle out again, flushed and using toothpicks as they strolled to the tables under the trees, where the exhausted waiters would presently bring them breakfast-cups of coffee and cakes. they lingered about an hour over this, and then gradually disappeared to their rooms, where they slept, i suppose, for from then till about six a death-like stillness reigned in the place and april and i had it all to ourselves. towards six, slow couples would be seen crawling along the path by the shore and panting up into the woods, this being the only exercise of the day, and necessary if they would eat their suppers with appreciation; and april and i, peering through the bracken out of the nests of moss we used to make in the afternoons, could see them coming up through the trees after the climb up the cliff, the husband with his havelock over his arm, a little in front, wiping his face and gasping, the wife in her tight silk dress, her bonnet strings undone, a cloak and an umbrella, and very often a small mysterious basket as well to carry, besides holding up her dress, very stout and very uncomfortable and very breathless, panting along behind; and however much she had to carry, and however fat and helpless she was, and however steep the hill, and however much dinner she had eaten, the idea that her husband might have taken her cloak and her umbrella and her basket and carried them for her would never have struck either of them. if it had by some strange chance entered his head, he would have reasoned that he was as stout as she was, that he had eaten as much dinner, that he was several years older, and that it was her cloak. logic is so irresistible. to go on eating long after you have ceased to be hungry has fascinations, apparently, that are difficult to withstand, and if it gives you so much pleasure that the resulting inability to move without gasping is accepted with the meekness of martyrs, who shall say that you are wrong? my not myself liking a large dinner at one o'clock is not a reason for my thinking i am superior to those who do. their excesses, it is true, are not my excesses, but then neither are mine theirs; and what about the days of idleness i spend, doing nothing from early till late but lie on the grass watching clouds? if i were to murmur gluttons, could not they, from their point of view, retort with conviction fool? all those maxims about judging others by yourself, and putting yourself in another person's place, are not, i am afraid, reliable. i had them dinned into me constantly as a child, and i was constantly trying to obey them, and constantly was astonished at the unexpected results i arrived at; and now i know that it is a proof of artlessness to suppose that other people will think and feel and hope and enjoy what you do and in the same way that you do. if an officious friend had stood in that breathless couple's path and told them in glowing terms how much happier they would be if they lived their life a little more fully and from its other sides, how much more delightful to stride along gaily together in their walks, with wind enough for talk and laughter, how pleasant if the man were muscular and in good condition and the woman brisk and wiry, and that they only had to do as he did and live on cold meat and toast, and drink nothing, to be as blithe as birds, do you think they would have so much as understood him? cold meat and toast? instead of what they had just been enjoying so intensely? miss that soup made of the inner mysteries of geese, those eels stewed in beer, the roast pig with red cabbage, the venison basted with sour cream and served with beans in vinegar and cranberry jam, the piled-up masses of vanilla ice, the pumpernickel and cheese, the apples and pears on the top of that, and the big cups of coffee and cakes on the top of the apples and pears? really a quick walk over the heather with a wiry wife would hardly make up for the loss of such a dinner; and besides, might not a wiry wife turn out to be a questionable blessing? and so they would pity the nimble friend who wasted his life in taking exercise and missed all its pleasures, and the man of toast and early rising would regard them with profound disgust if simple enough to think himself better than they, and, if he possessed an open mind, would merely return their pity with more of his own; so that, i suppose, everybody would be pleased, for the charm of pitying one's neighbour, though subtle, is undeniable. i remember when i was at the age when people began to call me _backfisch_, and my mother dressed me in a little scarlet coat with big pearl buttons, and my eyes turned down because i was shy, and my nose turned up because i was impudent, one summer at the seaside with my governess we noticed in our walks a solitary lady of dignified appearance, who spoke to no one, and seemed for ever wrapped in distant and lofty philosophic speculations. "she's thinking about kant and the nebular hypothesis," i decided to myself, having once heard some men with long beards talking of both those things, and they all had had that same far-away look in their eyes. "_qu'est-ce que c'est une_ _hypothese nebuleuse_, _mademoiselle_?" i said aloud. "_tenez-vous bien_, _et marchez d'une facon convenable_," she replied sharply. "_qu'est-ce que c'est une hypothese_--" "_vous etes trap jeune pour comprendre ces choses_." "_oh alors vous ne savez pas vous-meme_!" i cried triumphantly, "_sans cela vous me diriez_." "_elisabeth_, _vous ecrirez_, _des que nous rentrons_, _leverbe_ _prier le bon dieu de m'aider a ne plus etre si_ _impertinente_." she was an ingenious young woman, and the verbs i had to write as punishments were of the most elaborate and complicated nature-- _demander pardon pour avoir siffle comme un gamin_ _quelconque_, _vouloir ne plus oublier de nettoyer mes_ _ongles_, _essayer de ne pas tant aimer les poudings_, are but a few examples of her achievements in this particular branch of discipline. that very day at the _table d'hote_ the abstracted lady sat next to me. a _ragout_ of some sort was handed round, and after i had taken some she asked me, before helping herself, what it was. "snails," i replied promptly, wholly unchastened by the prayers i had just been writing out in every tense. "snails! _ekelig_." and she waved the waiter loftily away, and looked on with much superciliousness at the rest of us enjoying ourselves. "what! you do not eat this excellent _ragout_?" asked her other neighbour, a hot man, as he finished clearing his plate and had time to observe the emptiness of hers. "you do not like calves' tongues and mushrooms? _sonderbar._" i still can see the poor lady's face as she turned on me more like a tigress than the impassive person she had been a moment before. "_sie_ _unverschamter backfisch_!" she hissed. "my favourite dish--i have you to thank for spoiling my repast--my day!" and in a frenzy of rage she gripped my arm as though she would have shaken me then and there in the face of the multitude, while i sat appalled at the consequences of indulging a playful fancy at the wrong time. which story, now i come to think of it, illustrates less the tremendous importance of food in our country than the exceeding odiousness of _backfisch_ in scarlet coats. august th.--my idea of a garden is that it should be beautiful from end to end, and not start off in front of the house with fireworks, going off at its farthest limit into sheer sticks. the standard reached beneath the windows should at least be kept up, if it cannot be surpassed, right away through, and the german popular plan in this matter quite discarded of concentrating all the available splendour of the establishment into the supreme effort of carpet-bedding and glass balls on pedestals in front of the house, in the hope that the stranger, carefully kept in that part, and on no account allowed to wander, will infer an equal magnificence throughout the entire domain; whereas he knows very well all the time that the landscape round the corner consists of fowls and dust-bins. disliking this method, i have tried to make my garden increase in loveliness, if not in tidiness, the farther you get into it; and the visitor who thinks in his innocence as he emerges from the shade of the verandah that he sees the best before him, is artfully conducted from beauty to beauty till he beholds what i think is the most charming bit, the silver birch and azalea plantation down at the very end. this is the boundary of my kingdom on the south side, a blaze of colour in may and june, across which you see the placid meadows stretching away to a distant wood; and from its contemplation the ideal visitor returns to the house a refreshed and better man. that is the sort of person one enjoys taking round--the man (or woman) who, loving gardens, would go any distance to see one; who comes to appreciate, and compare, and admire; who has a garden of his own that he lives in and loves; and whose talk and criticisms are as dew to the thirsty gardening soul, all too accustomed in this respect to droughts. he knows as well as i do what work, what patience, what study and watching, what laughter at failures, what fresh starts with undiminished zeal, and what bright, unalterable faith are represented by the flowers in my garden. he knows what i have done for it, and he knows what it has done for me, and how it has been and will be more and more a place of joys, a place of lessons, a place of health, a place of miracles, and a place of sure and never-changing peace. living face to face with nature makes it difficult for one to be discouraged. moles and late frosts, both of which are here in abundance, have often grieved and disappointed me, but even these, my worst enemies, have not succeeded in making me feel discouraged. not once till now have i got farther in that direction than the purely negative state of not being encouraged; and whenever i reach that state i go for a brisk walk in the sunshine and come back cured. it makes one so healthy to live in a garden, so healthy in mind as well as body, and when i say moles and late frosts are my worst enemies, it only shows how i could not now if i tried sit down and brood over my own or my neighbour's sins, and how the breezes in my garden have blown away all those worries and vexations and bitternesses that are the lot of those who live in a crowd. the most severe frost that ever nipped the hopes of a year is better to my thinking than having to listen to one malignant truth or lie, and i would rather have a mole busy burrowing tunnels under each of my rose trees and letting the air get at their roots than face a single greeting where no kindness is. how can you help being happy if you are healthy and in the place you want to be? a man once made it a reproach that i should be so happy, and told me everybody has crosses, and that we live in a vale of woe. i mentioned moles as my principal cross, and pointed to the huge black mounds with which they had decorated the tennis-court, but i could not agree to the vale of woe, and could not be shaken in my belief that the world is a dear and lovely place, with everything in it to make us happy so long as we walk humbly and diet ourselves. he pointed out that sorrow and sickness were sure to come, and seemed quite angry with me when i suggested that they too could be borne perhaps with cheerfulness. "and have not even such things their sunny side?" i exclaimed. "when i am steeped to the lips in diseases and doctors, i shall at least have something to talk about that interests my women friends, and need not sit as i do now wondering what i shall say next and wishing they would go." he replied that all around me lay misery, sin, and suffering, and that every person not absolutely blinded by selfishness must be aware of it and must realise the seriousness and tragedy of existence. i asked him whether my being miserable and discontented would help any one or make him less wretched; and he said that we all had to take up our burdens. i assured him i would not shrink from mine, though i felt secretly ashamed of it when i remembered that it was only moles, and he went away with a grave face and a shaking head, back to his wife and his eleven children. i heard soon afterwards that a twelfth baby had been born and his wife had died, and in dying had turned her face with a quite unaccountable impatience away from him and to the wall; and the rumour of his piety reached even into my garden, and how he had said, as he closed her eyes, "it is the will of god." he was a missionary. but of what use is it telling a woman with a garden that she ought really to be ashamed of herself for being happy? the fresh air is so buoyant that it lifts all remarks of that sort away off you and leaves you laughing. they get wafted away on the scent of the stocks, and you stand in the sun looking round at your cheerful flowers, and more than ever persuaded that it is a good and blessed thing to be thankful. oh a garden is a sweet, sane refuge to have! whether i am tired because i have enjoyed myself too much, or tired because i have lectured the servants too much, or tired because i have talked to missionaries too much, i have only to come down the verandah steps into the garden to be at once restored to quiet, and serenity, and my real and natural self. i could almost fancy sometimes that as i come down the steps, gentle hands of blessing have been laid on my head. i suppose i feel so because of the hush that descends on my soul when i get out of the close, restless house into that silent purity. sometimes i sit for hours in the south walk by the verandah just listening and watching. it is so private there, though directly beneath the windows, that it is one of my favourite places. there are no bedrooms on that side of the house, only the man of wrath's and my day-rooms, so that servants cannot see me as i stand there enjoying myself. if they did or could, i should simply never go there, for nothing is so utterly destructive to meditation as to know that probably somebody inquisitive is eyeing you from behind a curtain. the loveliest garden i know is spoilt to my thinking by the impossibility of getting out of sight of the house, which stares down at you, argus-eyed and unblinking, into whatever corner you may shuffle. perfect house and perfect garden, lying in that land of lovely gardens, england, the garden just the right size for perfection, not a weed ever admitted, every dandelion and daisy--those friends of the unaspiring-- routed out years ago, the borders exquisite examples of taste, the turf so faultless that you hardly like to walk on it for fear of making it dusty, and the whole quite uninhabitable for people of my solitary tendencies because, go where you will, you are overlooked. since i have lived in this big straggling place, full of paths and copses where i am sure of being left alone, with wide fields and heath and forests beyond, and so much room to move and breathe in, i feel choked, oppressed, suffocated, in anything small and perfect. i spent a very happy afternoon in that little english paradise, but i came away quite joyfully, and with many a loving thought of my own dear ragged garden, and all the corners in it where the anemones twinkle in the spring like stars, and where there is so much nature and so little art. it will grow i know sweeter every year, but it is too big ever to be perfect and to get to look so immaculate that the diseased imagination conjures up visions of housemaids issuing forth each morning in troops and dusting every separate flower with feather brushes. nature herself is untidy, and in a garden she ought to come first, and art with her brooms and clipping-shears follow humbly behind. art has such a good time in the house, where she spreads herself over the walls, and hangs herself up gorgeously at the windows, and lurks in the sofa cushions, and breaks out in an eruption of pots wherever pots are possible, that really she should be content to take the second place out of doors. and how dreadful to meet a gardener and a wheelbarrow at every turn--which is precisely what happens to one in the perfect garden. my gardener, whose deafness is more than compensated for by the keenness of his eyesight, very soon remarked the scowl that distorted my features whenever i met one of his assistants in my favourite walks, and i never meet them now. i think he must keep them chained up to the cucumber-frames, so completely have they disappeared, and he only lets them loose when he knows i am driving, or at meals, or in bed. but is it not irritating to be sitting under your favourite tree, pencil in hand, and eyes turned skywards expectant of the spark from heaven that never falls, and then to have a man appear suddenly round the corner who immediately begins quite close to you to tear up the earth with his fangs? no one will ever know the number of what i believe are technically known as winged words that i have missed bringing down through interruptions of this kind. indeed, as i look through these pages i see i must have missed them all, for i can find nothing anywhere with even a rudimentary approach to wings. sometimes when i am in a critical mood and need all my faith to keep me patient, i shake my head at the unshornness of the garden as gravely as the missionary shook his head at me. the bushes stretch across the paths, and, catching at me as i go by, remind me that they have not been pruned; the teeming plant life rejoices on the lawns free from all interference from men and hoes; the pinks are closely nibbled off at the beginning of each summer by selfish hares intent on their own gratification; most of the beds bear the marks of nocturnal foxes; and the squirrels spend their days wantonly biting off and flinging down the tender young shoots of the firs. then there is the boy who drives the donkey and water-cart round the garden, and who has an altogether reprehensible habit of whisking round corners and slicing off bits of the lawn as he whisks. "but you can't alter these things, my good soul," i say to myself. "if you want to get rid of the hares and foxes, you must consent to have wire-netting, which is odious, right round your garden. and you are always saying you like weeds, so why grumble at your lawns? and it doesn't hurt you much if the squirrels do break bits off your firs--the firs must have had that happening to them years and years before you were born, yet they still flourish. as for boys, they certainly are revolting creatures. can't you catch this one when he isn't looking and pop him in his own water-barrel and put the lid on?" i asked the june baby, who had several times noticed with indignation the culpable indifference of this boy in regard to corners, whether she did not think that would be a good way of disposing of him. she is a great disciplinarian, and was loud in her praise of the plan; but the other two demurred. "he might go dead in there," said the may baby, apprehensively. "and he is such a naughty boy," said april, who had watched his reckless conduct with special disgust, "that if he once went dead he'd go straight to the _holle_ and stay all the time with the _diable_." that was the first french word i have heard them say: strange and sulphureous first-fruits of seraphine's teaching! we were going round the garden in a procession, i with a big pair of scissors, and the three with baskets, into one of which i put fresh flowers, and into the others flowers that were beginning to seed, dead flowers, and seed-pods. the garden was quivering in heat and light; rain in the morning had brought out all the snails and all the sweetness, and we were very happy, as we always are, i when i am knee-deep in flowers, and the babies when they can find new sorts of snails to add to their collections. these collections are carried about in cardboard boxes all day, and at night each baby has hers on the chair beside her bed. sometimes the snails get out and crawl over the beds, but the babies do not mind. once when april woke in the morning she was overjoyed by finding a friendly little one on her cheek. clearly babies of iron nerves and pellucid consciences. "so you do know some french," i said as i snipped off poppy-heads; "you have always pretended you don't." "oh, keep the poppies, mummy," cried april, as she saw them tumbling into her basket; "if you picks them and just leaves them, then they ripes and is good for such a many things." "tell me about the _diable_" i said, "and you shall keep the poppies." "he isn't nice, that _diable_," she said, starting off at once with breathless eloquence. "seraphine says there was one time a girl and a boy who went for a walk, and there were two ways, and one way goes where stones is, but it goes to the _lieber gott_; and the girl went that way till she came to a door, and the _lieber gott_ made the door opened and she went in, and that's the _himmel_." "and the boy?" "oh, he was a naughty boy and went the other way where there is a tree, and on the tree is written, 'don't go this way or you'll be dead,' and he said, 'that is one _betise_,' and did go in the way and got to the _holle_, and there he gets whippings when he doesn't make what the _diable_ says." "that's because he was so naughty," explained the may baby, holding up an impressive finger, "and didn't want to go to the _himmel_ and didn't love glory." "all boys are naughty," said june, "and i don't love them." "_nous allons parler francais_" i announced, desirous of finding out whether their whole stock was represented by _diable_ and _betise_; "i believe you can all speak it quite well." there was no answer. i snipped off sweet-pea pods and began to talk french at a great rate, asking questions as i snipped, and trying to extract answers, and getting none. the silence behind me grew ominous. presently i heard a faint sniff, and the basket being held up to me began to shake. i bent down quickly and looked under april's sun-bonnet. she was crying great dreadful tears, and rubbing her eyes hard with her one free hand. "why, you most blessed of babies," i exclaimed, kneeling down and putting my arms round her, "what in the world is the matter?" she looked at me with grieved and doubting eyes. "such a mother to talk french to her child!" she sobbed. i threw down the scissors, picked her up, and carried her up and down the path, comforting her with all the soft words i knew and suppressing my desire to smile. "that's not french, is it?" i whispered at the end of a long string of endearments, beginning, i believe, with such flights of rhetoric as priceless blessing and angel baby, and ending with a great many kisses. "no, no," she answered, patting my face and looking infinitely relieved, "that is pretty, and how mummies always talks. proper mummies never speak french--only seraphines." and she gave me a very tight hug, and a kiss that transferred all her tears to my face; and i set her down and, taking out my handkerchief, tried to wipe off the traces of my attempt at governessing from her cheeks. i wonder how it is that whenever babies cry, streaks of mud immediately appear on their faces. i believe i could cry for a week, and yet produce no mud. "i'll tell you what i'll do, babies," i said, anxious to restore complete serenity on such a lovely day, and feeling slightly ashamed of my uncalled-for zeal--indeed, april was right, and proper mothers leave lessons and torments to somebody else, and devote all their energies to petting--"i'll give a ball after tea." "_yes_!" shouted three exultant voices, "and invite all the babies!" "so now you must arrange what you are going to wear. i suppose you'd like the same supper as usual? run away to seraphine and tell her to get you ready." they seized their baskets and their boxes of snails and rushed off into the bushes, calling for seraphine with nothing but rapture in their voices, and french and the _diable_ quite forgotten. these balls are given with great ceremony two or three times a year. they last about an hour, during which i sit at the piano in the library playing cheerful tunes, and the babies dance passionately round the pillar. they refuse to waltz together, which is perhaps a good thing, for if they did there would always be one left over to be a wallflower and gnash her teeth; and when they want to dance squares they are forced by the stubbornness of numbers to dance triangles. at the appointed hour they knock at the door, and come in attired in the garments they have selected as appropriate (at this last ball the april baby wore my shooting coat, the may baby had a muff, and the june baby carried seraphine's umbrella), and, curtseying to me, each one makes some remark she thinks suitable to the occasion. "how's your husband?" june asked me last time, in the defiant tones she seems to think proper at a ball. "very well, thank you." "oh, that is nice." "mine isn't vely well," remarked april, cheerfully. "indeed?" "no, he has got some tummy-aches." "dear me!" "he was coming else, and had such fine twowsers to wear--pink ones with wibbons." after a little more graceful conversation of this kind the ball begins, and at the end of an hour's dancing, supper, consisting of radishes and lemonade, is served on footstools; and when they have cleared it up even to the leaves and stalks of the radishes, they rise with much dignity, express in proper terms their sense of gratitude for the entertainment, curtsey, and depart to bed, where they spend a night of horror, the prey of the awful dreams naturally resulting from so unusual a combination as radishes and babies. that is why my balls are rare festivals--the babies will insist on having radishes for the supper, and i, as a decent parent with a proper sense of my responsibilities, am forced accordingly to restrict my invitations to two, at the most three, in a year. when this last one was over i felt considerably exhausted, and had hardly sufficient strength to receive their thanks with civility. an hour's jig-playing with the thermometer at leaves its marks on the most robust; and when they were in bed, and the supper beginning to do its work, i ordered the carriage and the kettle with a view to seeking repose in the forest, taking the opportunity of escaping before the man of wrath should come in to dinner. the weather has been very hot for a long time, but the rain in the morning had had a wonderful effect on my flowers, and as i drove away i could not help noticing how charming the borders in front of the house were looking, with their white hollyhocks, and white snapdragons, and fringe of feathery marigolds. this gardener has already changed the whole aspect of the place, and i believe i have found the right man at last. he is very young for a head gardener, but on that account all the more anxious to please me and keep his situation; and it is a great comfort to have to do with somebody who watches and interprets rightly every expression of one's face and does not need much talking to. he makes mistakes sometimes in the men he engages, just as i used to when i did the engaging, and he had one poor young man as apprentice who very soon, like the first of my three meek gardeners, went mad. his madness was of a harmless nature and took a literary form; indeed, that was all they had against him, that he would write books. he used to sit in the early morning on my special seats in the garden, and strictly meditate the thankless muse when he ought to have been carting manure; and he made his fellow-apprentices unspeakably wretched by shouting extracts from schiller at them across the intervening gooseberry bushes. let me hasten to say that i had never spoken to him, and should not even have known what he was like if he had not worn eyeglasses, so that the man of wrath's insinuation that i affect the sanity of my gardeners is entirely without justification. the eyeglasses struck me as so odd on a gardener that i asked who he was, and was told that he had been studying for the bar, but could not pass the examinations, and had taken up gardening in the hope of getting back his health and spirits. i thought this a very sensible plan, and was beginning to feel interested in him when one day the post brought me a registered packet containing a manuscript play he had written called "the lawyer as gardener," dedicated to me. the man of wrath and i were both in it, the man of wrath, however, only in the list of characters, so that he should not feel hurt, i suppose, for he never appeared on the scenes at all. as for me, i was represented as going about quoting tolstoi in season and out of season to the gardeners--a thing i protest i never did. the young man was sent home to his people, and i have been asking myself ever since what there is about this place that it should so persistently produce books and lunacy? on the outskirts of the forest, where shafts of dusty sunlight slanted through the trees, children were picking wortleberries for market as i passed last night, with hands and faces and aprons smudged into one blue stain. i had decided to go to a water-mill belonging to the man of wrath which lies far away in a clearing, so far away and so lonely and so quiet that the very spirit of peace seems to brood over it for ever; and all the way the wortleberry carpet was thick and unbroken. never were the pines more pungent than after the long heat, and their rosy stems flushed pinker as i passed. presently i got beyond the region of wortleberry-pickers, the children not caring to wander too far into the forest so late, and i jolted over the roots into the gathering shadows more and more pervaded by that feeling that so refreshes me, the feeling of being absolutely alone. a very ancient man lives in the mill and takes care of it, for it has long been unused, a deaf old man with a clean, toothless face, and no wife to worry him. he informed me once that all women are mistakes, especially that aggravated form called wives, and that he was thankful he had never married. i felt a certain delicacy after that about intruding on his solitude with the burden of my sex and wifehood heavy upon me, but he always seems very glad to see me, and runs at once to his fowlhouse to look for fresh eggs for my tea; so perhaps he regards me as a pleasing exception to the rule. on this last occasion he brought a table out to the elm-tree by the mill stream, that i might get what air there was while i ate my supper; and i sat in great peace waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the sun dropping behind the sharp forest me, and all the little pools and currents into which the stream just there breaks as it flows over mud banks, ablaze with the red reflection of the sky. the pools are clothed with water-lilies and inhabited by eels, and i generally take a netful of writhing eels back with me to the man of wrath to pacify him after my prolonged absence. in the lily time i get into the miller's punt and make them an excuse for paddling about among the mud islands, and even adventurously exploring the river as it winds into the forest, and the old man watches me anxiously from under the elm. he regards my feminine desire to pick water-lilies with indulgence, but is clearly uneasy at my affection for mud banks, and once, after i had stuck on one, and he had run up and down in great agitation for half an hour shouting instructions as to getting off again, he said when i was safely back on shore that people with petticoats (his way of expressing woman) were never intended for punts, and their only chance of safety lay in dry land and keeping quiet. i did not this time attempt the punt, for i was tired, and it was half full of water, probably poured into it by a miller weary of the ways of women; and i drank my tea quietly, going on at the same time with my interrupted afternoon reading of the _sorrows of werther_, in which i had reached a part that has a special fascination for me every time i read it--that part where werther first meets lotte, and where, after a thunderstorm; they both go to the window, and she is so touched by the beauties of nature that she lays her hand on his and murmurs "klopstock,"--to the complete dismay of the reader, though not of werther, for he, we find, was so carried away by the magic word that he flung himself on to her hand and kissed it with tears of rapture. i looked up from the book at the quiet pools and the black line of trees, above which stars were beginning to twinkle, my ears soothed by the splashing of the mill stream and the hooting somewhere near of a solitary owl, and i wondered whether, if the man of wrath were by my side, it would be a relief to my pleasurable feelings to murmur "klopstock," and whether if i did he would immediately shed tears of joy over my hand. the name is an unfortunate one as far as music goes, and goethe's putting it into his heroine's mouth just when she was most enraptured, seems to support the view i sometimes adopt in discoursing to the man of wrath that he had no sense of humour. but here i am talking about goethe, our great genius and idol, in a way that no woman should. what do german women know of such things? quite untrained and uneducated, how are we to judge rightly about anybody or anything? all we can do is to jump at conclusions, and, when we have jumped, receive with meekness the information that we have jumped wrong. sitting there long after it was too dark to read, i thought of the old miller's words, and agreed with him that the best thing a woman can do in this world is to keep quiet. he came out once and asked whether he should bring a lamp, and seemed uneasy at my choosing to sit there in the dark. i could see the stars in the black pools, and a line of faint light far away above the pines where the sun had set. every now and then the hot air from the ground struck up in my face, and afterwards would come a cooler breath from the water. of what use is it to fight for things and make a noise? nature is so clear in her teaching that he who has lived with her for any time can be in little doubt as to the "better way." keep quiet and say one's prayers--certainly not merely the best, but the only things to do if one would be truly happy; but, ashamed of asking when i have received so much, the only form of prayer i would use would be a form of thanksgiving. september september th--i have been looking in the dictionary for the english word for _einquartierung_, because that is what is happening to us just now, but i can find nothing satisfactory. my dictionary merely says ( ) the quartering, ( ) soldiers quartered, and then relapses into irrelevancy; so that it is obvious english people do without the word for the delightful reason that they have not got the thing. we have it here very badly; an epidemic raging at the end of nearly every summer, when cottages and farms swarm with soldiers and horses, when all the female part of the population gets engaged to be married and will not work, when all the male part is jealous and wants to fight, and when my house is crowded with individuals so brilliant and decorative in their dazzling uniforms that i wish sometimes i might keep a bunch of the tallest and slenderest for ever in a big china vase in a corner of the drawing-room. this year the manoeuvres are up our way, so that we are blest with more than our usual share of attention, and wherever you go you see soldiers, and the holy calm that has brooded over us all the summer has given place to a perpetual running to and fro of officers' servants, to meals being got ready at all hours, to the clanking of spurs and all those other mysterious things on an officer that do clank whenever he moves, and to the grievous wailings of my unfortunate menials, who are quite beside themselves, and know not whither to turn for succour. we have had one week of it already, and we have yet another before us. there are five hundred men with their horses quartered at the farm, and thirty officers with their servants in our house, besides all those billeted on the surrounding villages who have to be invited to dinner and cannot be allowed to perish in peasant houses; so that my summer has for a time entirely ceased to be solitary, and whenever i flee distracted to the farthest recesses of my garden and begin to muse, according to my habit, on man, on nature, and on human life, lieutenants got up in the most exquisite flannels pursue me and want to play tennis with me, a game i have always particularly disliked. there is no room of course for all those extra men and horses at the farm, and when a few days before their arrival (sometimes it is only one, and sometimes only a few hours) an official appears and informs us of the number to be billeted on us, the man of wrath has to have temporary sheds run up, some as stables, some as sleeping-places, and some as dining-rooms. nor is it easy to cook for five hundred people more than usual, and all the ordinary business of the farm comes to a stand-still while the hands prepare barrowfuls of bacon and potatoes, and stir up the coffee and milk and sugar together with a pole in a tub. part of the regimental band is here, the upper part. the base instruments are in the next village; but that did not deter an enthusiastic young officer from marching his men past our windows on their arrival at six in the morning, with colours flying, and what he had of his band playing their tunes as unconcernedly as though all those big things that make such a noise were giving the fabric its accustomed and necessary base. we are paid six pfennings a day for lodging a common soldier, and six pfennings for his horse--rather more than a penny in english money for the pair of them; only unfortunately sheds and carpentry are not quite so cheap. eighty pfennings a day is added for the soldier's food, and for this he has to receive two pounds of bread, half a pound of meat, a quarter of a pound of bacon, and either a quarter of a pound of rice or barley or three pounds of potatoes. officers are paid for at the rate of two marks fifty a day without wine; we are not obliged to give them wine, and if we do they are regarded as guests, and behave accordingly. the thirty we have now do not, as i could have wished, all go out together in the morning and stay out till the evening, but some go out as others come in, and breakfast is not finished till lunch begins, and lunch drags on till dinner, and all day long the dining-room is full of meals and officers, and we ceased a week ago to have the least feeling that the place, after all, belongs to us. now really it seems to me that i am a much-tried woman, and any peace i have enjoyed up to now is amply compensated for by my present torments. i believe even my stern friend the missionary would be satisfied if he could know how swiftly his prediction that sorrow and suffering would be sure to come, has been fulfilled. all day long i am giving out table linen, ordering meals, supporting the feeble knees of servants, making appropriate and amiable remarks to officers, presiding as gracefully as nature permits at meals, and trying to look as though i were happy; while out in the garden--oh, i know how it is looking out in the garden this golden weather, how the placid hours are slipping by in unchanged peace, how strong the scent of roses and ripe fruit is, how the sleepy bees drone round the flowers, how warmly the sun shines in that corner where the little spanish chestnut is turning yellow--the first to turn, and never afterwards surpassed in autumn beauty; i know how still it is down there in my fir wood, where the insects hum undisturbed in the warm, quiet air; i know what the plain looks like from the seat under the oak, how beautiful, with its rolling green waves burning to gold under the afternoon sky; i know how the hawks circle over it, and how the larks sing above it, and i edge as near to the open window as i can, straining my ears to hear them, and forgetting the young men who are telling me of all the races their horses win as completely as though they did not exist. i want to be out there on that golden grass, and look up into that endless blue, and feel the ecstasy of that song through all my being, and there is a tearing at my heart when i remember that i cannot. yet they are beautiful young men; all are touchingly amiable, and many of the older ones even charming--how is it, then, that i so passionately prefer larks? we have every grade of greatness here, from that innocent being the ensign, a creature of apparent modesty and blushes, who is obliged to stand up and drain his glass each time a superior chooses to drink to him, and who sits on the hardest chairs and looks for the balls while we play tennis, to the general, invariably delightful, whose brains have carried him triumphantly through the annual perils of weeding out, who is as distinguished in looks and manners as he is in abilities, and has the crowning merit of being manifestly happy in the society of women. nothing lower than a colonel is to me an object of interest. the lower you get the more officers there are, and the harder it is to see the promising ones in the crowd; but once past the rank of major the air gets very much cleared by the merciless way they have been weeded out, and the higher officers are the very flower of middle-aged german males. as for those below, a lieutenant is a bright and beautiful being who admires no one so much as himself; a captain is generally newly married, having reached the stage of increased pay which makes a wife possible, and, being often still in love with her, is ineffective for social purposes; and a major is a man with a yearly increasing family, for whose wants his pay is inadequate, a person continually haunted by the fear of approaching weeding, after which his career is ended, he is poorer than ever, and being no longer young and only used to a soldier's life, is almost always quite incapable of starting afresh. even the children of light find it difficult to start afresh with any success after forty, and the retired officer is never a child of light; if he were, he would not have been weeded out. you meet him everywhere, shorn of the glories of his uniform, easily recognisable by the bad fit of his civilian clothes, wandering about like a ship without a rudder; and as time goes on he settles down to the inevitable, and passes his days in a fourth-floor flat in the suburbs, eats, drinks, sleeps, reads the _kreuzzeitung_ and nothing else, plays at cards in the day-time, grows gouty, and worries his wife. it would be difficult to count the number of them that have answered the man of wrath's advertisements for book- keepers and secretaries--always vainly, for even if they were fit for the work, no single person possesses enough tact to cope successfully with the peculiarities of such a situation. i hear that some english people of a hopeful disposition indulge in ladies as servants; the cases are parallel, and the tact required to meet both superhuman. of all the officers here the only ones with whom i can find plenty to talk about are the generals. on what subject under heaven could one talk to a lieutenant? i cannot discuss the agility of ballet-dancers or the merits of jockeys with him, because these things are as dust and ashes to me; and when forced for a few moments by my duties as hostess to come within range of his conversation i feel chilly and grown old. in the early spring of this year, in those wonderful days of hope when nature is in a state of suppressed excitement, and when any day the yearly recurring miracle may happen of a few hours' warm rain changing the whole world, we got news that a lieutenant and two men with their horses were imminent, and would be quartered here for three nights while some occult military evolutions were going on a few miles off. it was specially inopportune, because the man of wrath would not be here, but he comforted me as i bade him good-bye, my face no doubt very blank, by the assurance that the lieutenant would be away all day, and so worn out when he got back in the evening that he probably would not appear at all. but i never met a more wide-awake young man. not once during those three days did he respond to my pressing entreaties to go and lie down, and not all the desperate eloquence of a woman at her wit's end could persuade him that he was very tired and ought to try and get some sleep. i had intended to be out when he arrived, and to remain out till dinner time, but he came unexpectedly early, while the babies and i were still at lunch, the door opening to admit the most beautiful specimen of his class that i have ever seen, so beautiful indeed in his white uniform that the babies took him for an angel--visitant of the type that visited abraham and sarah, and began in whispers to argue about wings. he was not in the least tired after his long ride he told me, in reply to my anxious inquiries, and, rising to the occasion, at once plunged into conversation, evidently realising how peculiarly awful prolonged pauses under the circumstances would be. i took him for a drive in the afternoon, after having vainly urged him to rest, and while he told me about his horses, and his regiment, and his brother officers, in what at last grew to be a decidedly intermittent prattle, i amused myself by wondering what he would say if i suddenly began to hold forth on the themes i love best, and insist that he should note the beauty of the trees as they stood that afternoon expectant, with all their little buds only waiting for the one warm shower to burst into the glory of young summer. perhaps he would regard me as the german variety of a hyena in petticoats--the imagination recoils before the probable fearfulness of such an animal--or, if not quite so bad as that, at any rate a creature hysterically inclined; and he would begin to feel lonely, and think of his comrades, and his pleasant mess, and perhaps even of his mother, for he was very young and newly fledged. therefore i held my peace, and restricted my conversation to things military, of which i know probably less than any other woman in germany, so that my remarks must have been to an unusual degree impressive. he talked down to me, and i talked down to him, and we reached home in a state of profoundest exhaustion--at least i know i did, but when i looked at him he had not visibly turned a hair. i went upstairs trying to hope that he had felt it more than he showed, and that during the remainder of his stay he would adopt the suggestion so eagerly offered of spending his spare time in his room resting. at dinner, he and i, quite by ourselves, were both manifestly convinced of the necessity, for the sake of the servants, of not letting the conversation drop. i felt desperate, and would have said anything sooner than sit opposite him in silence, and with united efforts we got through that fairly well. after dinner i tried gossip, and encouraged him to tell me some, but he had such an unnatural number of relations that whoever i began to talk about happened to be his cousin, or his brother- in-law, or his aunt, as he hastily informed me, so that what i had intended to say had to be turned immediately into loud and unqualified praise; and praising people is frightfully hard work--you give yourself the greatest pains over it, and are aware all the time that it is not in the very least carrying conviction. does not everybody know that one's natural impulse is to tear the absent limb from limb? at half-past nine i got up, worn out in mind and body, and told him very firmly that it had been a custom in my family from time immemorial to be in bed by ten, and that i was accordingly going there. he looked surprised and wider awake than ever, but nothing shook me, and i walked away, leaving him standing on the hearthrug after the manner of my countrymen, who never dream of opening a door for a woman. the next day he went off at five in the morning, and was to be away, as he had told me, till the evening. i felt as though i had been let out of prison as i breakfasted joyfully on the verandah, the sun streaming through the creeperless trellis on to the little meal, and the first cuckoo of the year calling to me from the fir wood. of the dinner and evening before me i would not think; indeed i had a half-formed plan in my head of going to the forest after lunch with the babies, taking wraps and provisions, and getting lost till well on towards bedtime; so that when the angel-visitant should return full of renewed strength and conversation, he would find the casket empty and be told the gem had gone out for a walk. after i had finished breakfast i ran down the steps into the garden, intent on making the most of every minute and hardly able to keep my feet from dancing. oh, the blessedness of a bright spring morning without a lieutenant! and was there ever such a hopeful beginning to a day, and so full of promise for the subsequent right passing of its hours, as breakfast in the garden, alone with your teapot and your book! any cobwebs that have clung to your soul from the day before are brushed off with a neatness and expedition altogether surprising; never do tea and toast taste so nice as out there in the sun; never was a book so wise and full of pith as the one lying open before you; never was woman so clean outside and in, so refreshed, so morally and physically well-tubbed, as she who can start her day in this fashion. as i danced down the garden path i began to think cheerfully even of lieutenants. it was not so bad; he would be away till dark, and probably on the morrow as well; i would start off in the afternoon, and by coming back very late would not see him at all that day--might not, if providence were kind, see him again ever; and this last thought was so exhilarating that i began to sing. but he came back just as we had finished lunch. "the _herr lieutenant_ is here," announced the servant, "and has gone to wash his hands. the _herr lieutenant_ has not yet lunched, and will be down in a moment." "i want the carriage at once," i ordered--i could not and would not spend another afternoon _tete-a-tete_ with that young man,--"and you are to tell the _herr lieutenant_ that i am sorry i was obliged to go out, but i had promised the pastor to take the children there this afternoon. see that he has everything he wants." i gathered the babies together and fled. i could hear the lieutenant throwing things about overhead, and felt there was not a moment to lose. the servant's face showed plainly that he did not believe about the pastor, and the babies looked up at me wonderingly. what is a woman to do when driven into a corner? the father of lies inhabits corners--no doubt the proper place for such a naughty person. we ran upstairs to get ready. there was only one short flight on which we could meet the lieutenant, and once past that we were safe; but we met him on that one short flight. he was coming down in a hurry, giving his moustache a final hasty twist, and looking fresher, brighter, lovelier, than ever. "oh, good morning. you have got back much sooner than you expected, have you not?" i said lamely. "yes, i managed to get through my part quickly," he said with a briskness i did not like. "but you started so early--you must be very tired?" "oh, not in the least, thank you." then i repeated the story about the expectant parson, adding to my guilt by laying stress on the inevitability of the expedition owing to its having been planned weeks before. april and may stood on the landing above, listening with surprised faces, and june, her mind evidently dwelling on feathers, intently examined his shoulders from the step immediately behind. and we did get away, leaving him to think what he liked, and to smoke, or sleep, or wander as he chose, and i could not but believe he must feel relieved to be rid of me; but the afternoon clouded over, and a sharp wind sprang up, and we were very cold in the forest, and the babies began to sneeze and ask where the parson was, and at last, after driving many miles, i said it was too late to go to the parson's and we would turn back. it struck me as hard that we should be forced to wander in cold forests and leave our comfortable home because of a lieutenant, and i went back with my heart hardened against him. that second evening was worse a great deal than the first. we had said all we ever meant to say to each other, and had lauded all our relations with such hearty goodwill that there was nothing whatever to add. i sat listening to the slow ticking of the clock and asking questions about things i did not in the least want to know, such as the daily work and rations and pay of the soldiers in his regiment, and presently--we having dined at the early hour usual in the country--the clock struck eight. could i go to bed at eight? no, i had not the courage, and no excuse ready. more slow ticking, and more questions and answers about rations and pipeclay. what a clock! for utter laziness and dull deliberation there surely never was its equal--it took longer to get to the half-hour than any clock i ever met, but it did get there at last and struck it. could i go? could i? no, still no excuse ready. we drifted from pipeclay to a discussion on bicycling for women--a dreary subject. was it becoming? was it good for them? was it ladylike? ought they to wear skirts or--? in paris they all wore--. our bringing-up here is so excellent that if we tried we could not induce ourselves to speak of any forked garments to a young man, so we make ourselves understood, when we desire to insinuate such things, by an expressive pause and a modest downward flicker of the eyelids. the clock struck nine. nothing should keep me longer. i sprang to my feet and said i was exhausted beyond measure by the sharp air driving, and that whenever i had spent an afternoon out, it was my habit to go to bed half an hour earlier than other evenings. again he looked surprised, but rather less so than the night before, and he was, i think, beginning to get used to me. i retired, firmly determined not to face another such day and to be very ill in the morning and quite unable to rise, he having casually remarked that the next one was an off day; and i would remain in bed, that last refuge of the wretched, as long as he remained here. i sat by the window in my room till late, looking out at the moonlight in the quiet garden, with a feeling as though i were stuffed with sawdust--a very awful feeling--and thinking ruefully of the day that had begun so brightly and ended so dismally. what a miserable thing not to be able to be frank and say simply, "my good young man, you and i never saw each other before, probably won't see each other again, and have no interests in common. i mean you to be comfortable in my house, but i want to be comfortable too. let us, therefore, keep out of each other's way while you are obliged to be here. do as you like, go where you like, and order what you like, but don't expect me to waste my time sitting by your side and making small-talk. i too have to get to heaven, and have no time to lose. you won't see me again. good-bye." i believe many a harassed _hausfrau_ would give much to be able to make some such speech when these young men appear, and surely the young men themselves would be grateful; but simplicity is apparently quite beyond people's strength. it is, of all the virtues, the one i prize the most; it is undoubtedly the most lovable of any, and unspeakably precious for its power of removing those mountains that confine our lives and prevent our seeing the sky. certain it is that until we have it, the simple spirit of the little child, we shall in no wise discover our kingdom of heaven. these were my reflections, and many others besides, as i sat weary at the window that cold spring night, long after the lieutenant who had occasioned them was slumbering peacefully on the other side of the house. thoughts of the next day, and enforced bed, and the bowls of gruel to be disposed of if the servants were to believe in my illness, made my head ache. eating gruel _pour la galerie_ is a pitiable state to be reduced to--surely no lower depths of humiliation are conceivable. and then, just as i was drearily remembering how little i loved gruel, there was a sudden sound of wheels rolling swiftly round the corner of the house, a great rattling and trampling in the still night over the stones, and tearing open the window and leaning out, there, sitting in a station fly, and apparelled to my glad vision in celestial light, i beheld the man of wrath, come home unexpectedly to save me. "oh, dear man of wrath," i cried, hanging out into the moonlight with outstretched arms, "how much nicer thou art than lieutenants! i never missed thee more--i never longed for thee more--i never loved thee more --come up here quickly that i may kiss thee!--" october st.--last night after dinner, when we were in the library, i said, "now listen to me, man of wrath." "well?" he inquired, looking up at me from the depths of his chair as i stood before him. "do you know that as a prophet you are a failure? five months ago to-day you sat among the wallflowers and scoffed at the idea of my being able to enjoy myself alone a whole summer through. is the summer over?" "it is," he assented, as he heard the rain beating against the windows. "and have i invited any one here?" "no, but there were all those officers." "they have nothing whatever to do with it." "they helped you through one fortnight." "they didn't. it was a fortnight of horror." "well. go on." "you said i would be punished by being dull. have i been dull?" "my dear, as though if you had been you would ever confess it." "that's true. but as a matter of fact let me tell you that i never spent a happier summer." he merely looked at me out of the corners of his eyes. "if i remember rightly," he said, after a pause, "your chief reason for wishing to be solitary was that your soul might have time to grow. may i ask if it did?" "not a bit." he laughed, and, getting up, came and stood by my side before the fire. "at least you are honest," he said, drawing my hand through his arm. "it is an estimable virtue." "and strangely rare in woman." "now leave woman alone. i have discovered you know nothing really of her at all. but _i_ know all about her." "you do? my dear, one woman can never judge the others." "an exploded tradition, dear sage." "her opinions are necessarily biassed." "venerable nonsense, dear sage." "because women are each other's natural enemies." "obsolete jargon, dear sage." "well, what do you make of her?" "why, that she's a dear, and that you ought to be very happy and thankful to have got one of her always with you." "but am i not?" he asked, putting his arm round me and looking affectionate; and when people begin to look affectionate i, for one, cease to take any further interest in them. and so the man of wrath and i fade away into dimness and muteness, my head resting on his shoulder, and his arm encircling my waist; and what could possibly be more proper, more praiseworthy, or more picturesque? colonel quaritch, v.c. by h. rider haggard first published . etext prepared by john bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz and dagny, dagnypg@yahoo.com colonel quaritch, v.c. a tale of country life by h. rider haggard i dedicate this tale of country life to my friend and fellow-sportsman, charles j. longman preparer's note this text was prepared from an edition published by longmans, green and co., printed by kelly and co., gate street, lincoln's inn fields, w.c.; and middle mill, kingston-on-thames. colonel quaritch, v.c. a tale of country life chapter i harold quaritch meditates there are things and there are faces which, when felt or seen for the first time, stamp themselves upon the mind like a sun image on a sensitized plate and there remain unalterably fixed. to take the instance of a face--we may never see it again, or it may become the companion of our life, but there the picture is just as we _first_ knew it, the same smile or frown, the same look, unvarying and unvariable, reminding us in the midst of change of the indestructible nature of every experience, act, and aspect of our days. for that which has been, is, since the past knows no corruption, but lives eternally in its frozen and completed self. these are somewhat large thoughts to be born of a small matter, but they rose up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly-looking man who, on the particular evening when this history opens, was leaning over a gate in an eastern county lane, staring vacantly at a field of ripe corn. he was a peculiar and rather battered looking individual, apparently over forty years of age, and yet bearing upon him that unmistakable stamp of dignity and self-respect which, if it does not exclusively belong to, is still one of the distinguishing attributes of the english gentleman. in face he was ugly, no other word can express it. here were not the long mustachios, the almond eyes, the aristocratic air of the colonel of fiction--for our dreamer was a colonel. these were--alas! that the truth should be so plain--represented by somewhat scrubby sandy-coloured whiskers, small but kindly blue eyes, a low broad forehead, with a deep line running across it from side to side, something like that to be seen upon the busts of julius caesar, and a long thin nose. one good feature, however, he did possess, a mouth of such sweetness and beauty that set, as it was, above a very square and manly-looking chin, it had the air of being ludicrously out of place. "umph," said his old aunt, mrs. massey (who had just died and left him what she possessed), on the occasion of her first introduction to him five-and-thirty years before, "umph! nature meant to make a pretty girl of you, and changed her mind after she had finished the mouth. well, never mind, better be a plain man than a pretty woman. there, go along, boy! i like your ugly face." nor was the old lady peculiar in this respect, for plain as the countenance of colonel harold quaritch undoubtedly was, people found something very taking about it, when once they became accustomed to its rugged air and stern regulated expression. what that something was it would be hard to define, but perhaps the nearest approach to the truth would be to describe it as a light of purity which, notwithstanding the popular idea to the contrary, is quite as often to be found upon the faces of men as upon those of women. any person of discernment looking on colonel quaritch must have felt that he was in the presence of a good man--not a prig or a milksop, but a man who had attained by virtue of thought and struggle that had left their marks upon him, a man whom it would not be well to tamper with, one to be respected by all, and feared of evildoers. men felt this, and he was popular among those who knew him in his service, though not in any hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. but among women he was not popular. as a rule they both feared and disliked him. his presence jarred upon the frivolity of the lighter members of their sex, who dimly realised that his nature was antagonistic, and the more solid ones could not understand him. perhaps this was the reason why colonel quaritch had never married, had never even had a love affair since he was five-and-twenty. and yet it was of a woman that he was thinking as he leant over the gate, and looked at the field of yellowing corn, undulating like a golden sea beneath the pressure of the wind. colonel quaritch had twice before been at honham, once ten, and once four years ago. now he was come to abide there for good. his old aunt, mrs. massey, had owned a place in the village--a very small place--called honham cottage, or molehill, and on those two occasions he visited her. mrs. massey was dead and buried. she had left him the property, and with some reluctance, he had given up his profession, in which he saw no further prospects, and come to live upon it. this was his first evening in the place, for he had arrived by the last train on the previous night. all day he had been busy trying to get the house a little straight, and now, thoroughly tired, he was refreshing himself by leaning over a gate. it is, though a great many people will not believe it, one of the most delightful and certainly one of the cheapest refreshments in the world. and then it was, as he leant over the gate, that the image of a woman's face rose before his mind as it had continually risen during the last five years. five years had gone since he saw it, and those five years he spent in india and egypt, that is with the exception of six months which he passed in hospital--the upshot of an arab spear thrust in the thigh. it had risen before him in all sorts of places and at all sorts of times; in his sleep, in his waking moments, at mess, out shooting, and even once in the hot rush of battle. he remembered it well--it was at el teb. it happened that stern necessity forced him to shoot a man with his pistol. the bullet cut through his enemy, and with a few convulsions he died. he watched him die, he could not help doing so, there was some fascination in following the act of his own hand to its dreadful conclusion, and indeed conclusion and commencement were very near together. the terror of the sight, the terror of what in defence of his own life he was forced to do, revolted him even in the heat of the fight, and even then, over that ghastly and distorted face, another face spread itself like a mask, blotting it out from view--that woman's face. and now again it re-arose, inspiring him with the rather recondite reflections as to the immutability of things and impressions with which this domestic record opens. five years is a good stretch in a man's journey through the world. many things happen to us in that time. if a thoughtful person were to set to work to record all the impressions which impinge upon his mind during that period, he would fill a library with volumes, the mere tale of its events would furnish a shelf. and yet how small they are to look back upon. it seemed but the other day that he was leaning over this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl dressed in black, who, with a spray of honeysuckle thrust in her girdle, and carrying a stick in her hand, was walking leisurely down the lane. there was something about the girl's air that had struck him while she was yet a long way off--a dignity, a grace, and a set of the shoulders. then as she came nearer he saw the soft dark eyes and the waving brown hair that contrasted so strangely and effectively with the pale and striking features. it was not a beautiful face, for the mouth was too large, and the nose was not as straight as it might have been, but there was a power about the broad brow, and a force and solid nobility stamped upon the features which had impressed him strangely. just as she came opposite to where he was standing, a gust of wind, for there was a stiff breeze, blew the lady's hat off, taking it over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, scrambled into the field and fetched it for her, and she had thanked him with a quick smile and a lighting up of the brown eyes, and then passed on with a bow. yes, with a little bow she had passed on, and he watched her walking down the long level drift, till her image melted into the stormy sunset light, and was gone. when he returned to the cottage he had described her to his old aunt, and asked who she might be, to learn that she was ida de la molle (which sounded like a name out of a novel), the only daughter of the old squire who lived at honham castle. next day he had left for india, and saw miss de la molle no more. and now he wondered what had become of her. probably she was married; so striking a person would be almost sure to attract the notice of men. and after all what could it matter to him? he was not a marrying man, and women as a class had little attraction for him; indeed he disliked them. it has been said that he had never married, and never even had a love affair since he was five-and-twenty. but though he was not married, he once--before he was five-and-twenty--very nearly took that step. it was twenty years ago now, and nobody quite knew the history, for in twenty years many things are fortunately forgotten. but there was a history, and a scandal, and the marriage was broken off almost on the day it should have taken place. and after that it leaked out in the neighbourhood that the young lady, who by the way was a considerable heiress, had gone off her head, presumably with grief, and been confined in an asylum, where she was believed still to remain. perhaps it was the thought of this one woman's face, the woman he had once seen walking down the drift, her figure limned out against the stormy sky, that led him to think of the other face, the face hidden in the madhouse. at any rate, with a sigh, or rather a groan, he swung himself round from the gate and began to walk homeward at a brisk pace. the drift that he was following is known as the mile drift, and had in ancient times formed the approach to the gates of honham castle, the seat of the ancient and honourable family of de la molle (sometimes written "delamol" in history and old writings). honham castle was now nothing but a ruin, with a manor house built out of the wreck on one side of its square, and the broad way that led to it from the high road which ran from boisingham,[*] the local country town, was a drift or grass lane. [*] said to have been so named after the boissey family, whose heiress a de la molle married in the fourteenth century. as, however, the town of boisingham is mentioned by one of the old chroniclers, this does not seem very probable. no doubt the family took their name from the town or hamlet, not the town from the family. colonel quaritch followed this drift till he came to the high road, and then turned. a few minutes' walk brought him to a drive opening out of the main road on the left as he faced towards boisingham. this drive, which was some three hundred yards long, led up a rather sharp slope to his own place, honham cottage, or molehill, as the villagers called it, a title calculated to give a keen impression of a neat spick and span red brick villa with a slate roof. in fact, however, it was nothing of the sort, being a building of the fifteenth century, as a glance at its massive flint walls was sufficient to show. in ancient times there had been a large abbey at boisingham, two miles away, which, the records tell, suffered terribly from an outbreak of the plague in the fifteenth century. after this the monks obtained ten acres of land, known as molehill, by grant from the de la molle of the day, and so named either on account of their resemblance to a molehill (of which more presently) or after the family. on this elevated spot, which was supposed to be peculiarly healthy, they built the little house now called honham cottage, whereto to fly when next the plague should visit them. and as they built it, so, with some slight additions, it had remained to this day, for in those ages men did not skimp their flint, and oak, and mortar. it was a beautiful little spot, situated upon the flat top of a swelling hill, which comprised the ten acres of grazing ground originally granted, and was, strange to say, still the most magnificently-timbered piece of ground in the country side. for on the ten acres of grass land there stood over fifty great oaks, some of them pollards of the most enormous antiquity, and others which had, no doubt, originally grown very close together, fine upstanding trees with a wonderful length and girth of bole. this place, colonel quaritch's aunt, old mrs. massey, had bought nearly thirty years before when she became a widow, and now, together with a modest income of two hundred a year, it had passed to him under her will. shaking himself clear of his sad thoughts, harold quaritch turned round at his own front door to contemplate the scene. the long, single-storied house stood, it has been said, at the top of the rising land, and to the south and west and east commanded as beautiful a view as is to be seen in the county. there, a mile or so away to the south, situated in the midst of grassy grazing grounds, and flanked on either side by still perfect towers, frowned the massive gateway of the old norman castle. then, to the west, almost at the foot of molehill, the ground broke away in a deep bank clothed with timber, which led the eye down by slow descents into the beautiful valley of the ell. here the silver river wound its gentle way through lush and poplar-bordered marshes, where the cattle stand knee-deep in flowers; past quaint wooden mill-houses, through boisingham old common, windy looking even now, and brightened here and there with a dash of golden gorse, till it was lost beneath the picturesque cluster of red-tiled roofs that marked the ancient town. look which way he would, the view was lovely, and equal to any to be found in the eastern counties, where the scenery is fine enough in its own way, whatever people may choose to say to the contrary, whose imaginations are so weak that they require a mountain and a torrent to excite them into activity. behind the house to the north there was no view, and for a good reason, for here in the very middle of the back garden rose a mound of large size and curious shape, which completely shut out the landscape. what this mound, which may perhaps have covered half an acre of ground, was, nobody had any idea. some learned folk write it down a saxon tumulus, a presumption to which its ancient name, "dead man's mount," seemed to give colour. other folk, however, yet more learned, declared it to be an ancient british dwelling, and pointed triumphantly to a hollow at the top, wherein the ancient britishers were supposed to have moved, lived, and had their being--which must, urged the opposing party, have been a very damp one. thereon the late mrs. massey, who was a british dwellingite, proceeded to show with much triumph _how_ they had lived in the hole by building a huge mushroom-shaped roof over it, and thereby turning it into a summer-house, which, owing to unexpected difficulties in the construction of the roof, cost a great deal of money. but as the roof was slated, and as it was found necessary to pave the hollow with tiles and cut surface drains in it, the result did not clearly prove its use as a dwelling place before the roman conquest. nor did it make a very good summer house. indeed it now served as a store place for the gardener's tools and for rubbish generally. chapter ii the colonel meets the squire as colonel quaritch was contemplating these various views and reflecting that on the whole he had done well to come and live at honham cottage, he was suddenly startled by a loud voice saluting him from about twenty yards distance with such peculiar vigour that he fairly jumped. "colonel quaritch, i believe," said, or rather shouted, the voice from somewhere down the drive. "yes," answered the colonel mildly, "here i am." "ah, i thought it was you. always tell a military man, you know. excuse me, but i am resting for a minute, this last pull is an uncommonly stiff one. i always used to tell my dear old friend, mrs. massey, that she ought to have the hill cut away a bit just here. well, here goes for it," and after a few heavy steps his visitor emerged from the shadow of the trees into the sunset light which was playing on the terrace before the house. colonel quaritch glanced up curiously to see who the owner of the great voice might be, and his eyes lit upon as fine a specimen of humanity as he had seen for a long while. the man was old, as his white hair showed, seventy perhaps, but that was the only sign of decay about him. he was a splendid man, broad and thick and strong, with a keen, quick eye, and a face sharply chiselled, and clean shaved, of the stamp which in novels is generally known as aristocratic, a face, in fact, that showed both birth and breeding. indeed, as clothed in loose tweed garments and a gigantic pair of top boots, his visitor stood leaning on his long stick and resting himself after facing the hill, harold quaritch thought that he had never seen a more perfect specimen of the typical english country gentleman--as the english country gentleman used to be. "how do you do, sir, how do you do--my name is de la molle. my man george, who knows everybody's business except his own, told me that you had arrived here, so i thought i would walk round and do myself the honour of making your acquaintance." "that is very kind of you," said the colonel. "not at all. if you only knew how uncommonly dull it is down in these parts you would not say that. the place isn't what it used to be when i was a boy. there are plenty of rich people about, but they are not the same stamp of people. it isn't what it used to be in more ways than one," and the old squire gave something like a sigh, and thoughtfully removed his white hat, out of which a dinner napkin and two pocket-handkerchiefs fell to the ground, in a fashion that reminded colonel quaritch of the climax of a conjuring trick. "you have dropped some--some linen," he said, stooping down to pick the mysterious articles up. "oh, yes, thank you," answered his visitor, "i find the sun a little hot at this time of the year. there is nothing like a few handkerchiefs or a towel to keep it off," and he rolled the mass of napery into a ball, and cramming it back into the crown, replaced the hat on his head in such a fashion that about eight inches of white napkin hung down behind. "you must have felt it in egypt," he went on --"the sun i mean. it's a bad climate, that egypt, as i have good reason to know," and he pointed again to his white hat, which harold quaritch now observed for the first time was encircled by a broad black band. "ah, i see," he said, "i suppose that you have had a loss." "yes, sir, a very heavy loss." now colonel quaritch had never heard that mr. de la molle had more than one child, ida de la molle, the young lady whose face remained so strongly fixed in his memory, although he had scarcely spoken to her on that one occasion five long years ago. could it be possible that she had died in egypt? the idea sent a tremor of fear through him, though of course there was no real reason why it should. deaths are so common. "not--not miss de la molle?" he said nervously, adding, "i had the pleasure of seeing her once, a good many years ago, when i was stopping here for a few days with my aunt." "oh, no, not ida, she is alive and well, thank god. her brother james. he went all through that wretched war which we owe to mr. gladstone, as i say, though i don't know what your politics are, and then caught a fever, or as i think got touched by the sun, and died on his way home. poor boy! he was a fine fellow, colonel quaritch, and my only son, but very reckless. only a month or so before he died, i wrote to him to be careful always to put a towel in his helmet, and he answered, in that flippant sort of way he had, that he was not going to turn himself into a dirty clothes bag, and that he rather liked the heat than otherwise. well, he's gone, poor fellow, in the service of his country, like many of his ancestors before him, and there's an end of him." and again the old man sighed, heavily this time. "and now, colonel quaritch," he went on, shaking off his oppression with a curious rapidity that was characteristic of him, "what do you say to coming up to the castle for your dinner? you must be in a mess here, and i expect that old mrs. jobson, whom my man george tells me you have got to look after you, will be glad enough to be rid of you for to-night. what do you say?--take the place as you find it, you know. i believe that there is a leg of mutton for dinner if there is nothing else, because instead of minding his own business i saw george going off to boisingham to fetch it this morning. at least, that is what he said he was going for; just an excuse to gossip and idle, i fancy." "well, really," said the colonel, "you are very kind; but i don't think that my dress clothes are unpacked yet." "dress clothes! oh, never mind your dress clothes. ida will excuse you, i daresay. besides, you have no time to dress. by jove, it's nearly seven o'clock; we must be off if you are coming." the colonel hesitated. he had intended to dine at home, and being a methodical-minded man did not like altering his plans. also, he was, like most military men, very punctilious about his dress and personal appearance, and objected to going out to dinner in a shooting coat. but all this notwithstanding, a feeling that he did not quite understand, and which it would have puzzled even an american novelist to analyse--something between restlessness and curiosity, with a dash of magnetic attraction thrown in--got the better of his scruples, and he accepted. "well, thank you," he said, "if you are sure that miss de la molle will not mind, i will come. just allow me to tell mrs. jobson." "that's right," halloaed the squire after him, "i'll meet you at the back of the house. we had better go through the fields." by the time that the colonel, having informed his housekeeper that he should not want any dinner, and hastily brushed his not too luxuriant locks, had reached the garden which lay behind the house, the squire was nowhere to be seen. presently, however, a loud halloa from the top of the tumulus-like hill announced his whereabouts. wondering what the old gentleman could be doing there, harold quaritch walked up the steps that led to the summit of the mound, and found him standing at the entrance to the mushroom-shaped summer-house, contemplating the view. "there, colonel," he said, "there's a perfect view for you. talk about scotland and the alps! give me a view of the valley of ell from the top of dead man's mount on an autumn evening, and i never want to see anything finer. i have always loved it from a boy, and always shall so long as i live--look at those oaks, too. there are no such trees in the county that i know of. the old lady, your aunt, was wonderfully fond of them. i hope--" he went on in a tone of anxiety--"i hope that you don't mean to cut any of them down." "oh no," said the colonel, "i should never think of such a thing." "that's right. never cut down a good tree if you can help it. i'm sorry to say, however," he added after a pause, "that i have been forced to cut down a good many myself. queer place this, isn't it?" he continued, dropping the subject of the trees, which was evidently a painful one to him. "dead man's mount is what the people about here call it, and that is what they called it at the time of the conquest, as i can prove to you from ancient writings. i always believed that it was a tumulus, but of late years a lot of these clever people have been taking their oath that it is an ancient british dwelling, as though ancient britons, or any one else for that matter, could live in a kind of drainhole. but they got on the soft side of your old aunt--who, by the way, begging your pardon, was a wonderfully obstinate old lady when once she hammered an idea into her head--and so she set to work and built this slate mushroom over the place, and one way and another it cost her two hundred and fifty pounds. dear me! i shall never forget her face when she saw the bill," and the old gentleman burst out into a titanic laugh, such as harold quaritch had not heard for many a long day. "yes," he answered, "it is a queer spot. i think that i must have a dig at it one day." "by jove," said the squire, "i never thought of that. it would be worth doing. hulloa, it is twenty minutes past seven, and we dine at half past. i shall catch it from ida. come on, colonel quaritch; you don't know what it is to have a daughter--a daughter when one is late for dinner is a serious thing for any man," and he started off down the hill in a hurry. very soon, however, he seemed to forget the terrors in store, and strolled along, stopping now and again to admire some particular oak or view; chatting all the while in a discursive manner, which, though somewhat aimless, was by no means without its charm. he made a capital companion for a silent man like harold quaritch who liked to hear other people talk. in this way they went down the slope, and crossing a couple of wheat fields came to a succession of broad meadows, somewhat sparsely timbered. through these the footpath ran right up to the grim gateway of the ancient castle, which now loomed before them, outlined in red lines of fire against the ruddy background of the sunset sky. "ay, it's a fine old place, colonel, isn't it?" said the squire, catching the exclamation of admiration that broke from his companion's lips, as a sudden turn brought them into line with the norman ruin. "history--that's what it is; history in stone and mortar; this is historic ground, every inch of it. those old de la molles, my ancestors, and the boisseys before them, were great folk in their day, and they kept up their position well. i will take you to see their tombs in the church yonder on sunday. i always hoped to be buried beside them, but i can't manage it now, because of the act. however, i mean to get as near to them as i can. i have a fancy for the companionship of those old barons, though i expect that they were a roughish lot in their lifetimes. look how squarely those towers stand out against the sky. they always remind me of the men who built them--sturdy, overbearing fellows, setting their shoulders against the sea of circumstance and caring neither for man nor devil till the priests got hold of them at the last. well, god rest them, they helped to make england, whatever their faults. queer place to choose for a castle, though, wasn't it? right out in an open plain." "i suppose that they trusted to their moat and walls, and the hagger at the bottom of the dry ditch," said the colonel. "you see there is no eminence from which they could be commanded, and their archers could sweep all the plain from the battlements." "ah, yes, of course they could. it is easy to see that you are a soldier. they were no fools, those old crusaders. my word, we must be getting on. they are hauling down the union jack on the west tower. i always have it hauled down at sunset," and he began walking briskly again. in another three minutes they had crossed a narrow by-road, and were passing up the ancient drive that led to the castle gates. it was not much of a drive, but there were still some half-dozen of old pollard oaks that had no doubt stood there before the norman boissey, from whose family, centuries ago, the de la molles had obtained the property by marriage with the heiress, had got his charter and cut the first sod of his moat. right before them was the gateway of the castle, flanked by two great towers, and these, with the exception of some ruins were, as a matter of fact, all that remained of the ancient building, which had been effectually demolished in the time of cromwell. the space within, where the keep had once stood, was now laid out as a flower garden, while the house, which was of an unpretentious nature, and built in the jacobean style, occupied the south side of the square, and was placed with its back to the moat. "you see i have practically rebuilt those two towers," said the squire, pausing underneath the norman archway. "if i had not done it," he added apologetically, "they would have been in ruins by now, but it cost a pretty penny, i can tell you. nobody knows what stuff that old flint masonry is to deal with, till he tries it. well, they will stand now for many a long day. and here we are"--and he pushed open a porch door and then passed up some steps and through a passage into an oak-panelled vestibule, which was hung with tapestry originally taken, no doubt, from the old castle, and decorated with coats of armour, spear heads, and ancient swords. and here it was that harold quaritch once more beheld the face which had haunted his memory for so many months. chapter iii the tale of sir james de la molle "is that you, father?" said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of which the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who has been kept waiting for her dinner. the voice came from the recesses of the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and looking in its direction, harold quaritch could see the outline of a tall form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed. "is that you, father? really it is too bad to be so late for dinner--especially after you blew up that wretched emma last night because she was five minutes after time. i have been waiting so long that i have almost been asleep." "i am very sorry, my dear, very," said the old gentleman apologetically, "but--hullo! i've knocked my head--here, mary, bring me a light!" "here is a light," said the voice, and at the same moment there was a sound of a match being struck. in another moment the candle was burning, and the owner of the voice had turned, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her like an aureole--showing harold quaritch that face of which the memory had never left him. there were the same powerful broad brow, the same nobility of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving hair. but the girlhood had gone out of them, the face was now the face of a woman who knew what life meant, and had not found it too easy. it had lost some of its dreaminess, he thought, though it had gained in intellectual force. as for the figure, it was much more admirable than the face, which was strictly speaking not a beautiful one. the figure, however, was undoubtedly beautiful, indeed, it is doubtful if many women could show a finer. ida de la molle was a large, strong woman, and there was about her a swing and a lissom grace which is very rare, and as attractive as it is rare. she was now nearly six-and-twenty years of age, and not having begun to wither in accordance with the fate which overtakes all unmarried women after thirty, was at her very best. harold quaritch, glancing at her well-poised head, her perfect neck and arms (for she was in evening dress) and her gracious form, thought to himself that he had never seen a nobler-looking woman. "why, my dear father," she went on as she watched the candle burn up, "you made such a fuss this morning about the dinner being punctually at half-past seven, and now it is eight o'clock and you are not dressed. it is enough to ruin any cook," and she broke off for the first time, seeing that her father was not alone. "yes, my dear, yes," said the old gentleman, "i dare say i did. it is human to err, my dear, especially about dinner on a fine evening. besides, i have made amends and brought you a visitor, our new neighbour, colonel quaritch. colonel quaritch, let me introduce you to my daughter, miss de la molle." "i think that we have met before," said harold, in a somewhat nervous fashion, as he stretched out his hand. "yes," answered ida, taking it, "i remember. it was in the long drift, five years ago, on a windy afternoon, when my hat blew over the hedge and you went to fetch it." "you have a good memory, miss de la molle," said he, feeling not a little pleased that she should have recollected the incident. "evidently not better than your own, colonel quaritch," was the ready answer. "besides, one sees so few strangers here that one naturally remembers them. it is a place where nothing happens--time passes, that is all." meanwhile the old squire, who had been making a prodigious fuss with his hat and stick, which he managed to send clattering down the flight of stone steps, departed to get ready, saying in a kind of roar as he went that ida was to order in the dinner, as he would be down in a minute. accordingly she rang the bell, and told the maid to bring in the soup in five minutes and to lay another place. then turning to harold she began to apologise to him. "i don't know what sort of dinner you will get, colonel quaritch," she said; "it is so provoking of my father; he never gives one the least warning when he is going to ask any one to dinner." "not at all--not at all," he answered hurriedly. "it is i who ought to apologise, coming down on you like--like----" "a wolf on the fold," suggested ida. "yes, exactly," he went on earnestly, looking at his coat, "but not in purple and gold." "well," she went on laughing, "you will get very little to eat for your pains, and i know that soldiers always like good dinners." "how do you know that, miss de la molle?" "oh, because of poor james and his friends whom he used to bring here. by the way, colonel quaritch," she went on with a sudden softening of the voice, "you have been in egypt, i know, because i have so often seen your name in the papers; did you ever meet my brother there?" "i knew him slightly," he answered. "only very slightly. i did not know that he was your brother, or indeed that you had a brother. he was a dashing officer." what he did not say, however, was that he also knew him to have been one of the wildest and most extravagant young men in an extravagant regiment, and as such had to some extent shunned his society on the few occasions that he had been thrown in with him. perhaps ida, with a woman's quickness, divined from his tone that there was something behind his remark--at any rate she did not ask him for particulars of their slight acquaintance. "he was my only brother," she continued; "there never were but we two, and of course his loss was a great blow to me. my father cannot get over it at all, although----" and she broke off suddenly, and rested her head upon her hand. at this moment the squire was heard advancing down the stairs, shouting to the servants as he came. "a thousand pardons, my dear, a thousand pardons," he said as he entered the room, "but, well, if you will forgive particulars, i was quite unable to discover the whereabouts of a certain necessary portion of the male attire. now, colonel quaritch, will you take my daughter? stop, you don't know the way--perhaps i had better show you with the candle." accordingly he advanced out of the vestibule, and turning to the left, led the way down a long passage till he reached the dining-room. this apartment was like the vestibule, oak-panelled, but the walls were decorated with family and other portraits, including a very curious painting of the castle itself, as it was before its destruction in the time of cromwell. this painting was executed on a massive slab of oak, and conceived in a most quaint and formal style, being relieved in the foreground with stags at gaze and woodeny horses, that must, according to any rule of proportion, have been about half as large as the gateway towers. evidently, also, it was of an older date than the present house, which is jacobean, having probably been removed to its present position from the ruins of the castle. such as it was, however, it gave a very good idea of what the ancient seat of the boisseys and de la molles had been like before the roundheads had made an end of its glory. the dining-room itself was commodious, though not large. it was lighted by three narrow windows which looked out upon the moat, and bore a considerable air of solid comfort. the table, made of black oak, of extraordinary solidity and weight, was matched by a sideboard of the same material and apparently of the same date, both pieces of furniture being, as mr. de la molle informed his guests, relics of the castle. on this sideboard were placed several pieces of old and massive plate, each of which was rudely engraved with three falcons _or_, the arms of the de la molle family. one piece, indeed, a very ancient salver, bore those of the boisseys--a ragged oak, in an escutcheon of pretence--showing thereby that it dated from that de la molle who in the time of henry the seventh had obtained the property by marriage with the boissey heiress. conversation having turned that way, as the dinner, which was a simple one, went on, the old squire had this piece of plate brought to harold quaritch for him to examine. "it is very curious," he said; "have you much of this, mr. de la molle?" "no indeed," he said; "i wish i had. it all vanished in the time of charles the first." "melted down, i suppose," said the colonel. "no, that is the odd part of it. i don't think it was. it was hidden somewhere--i don't know where, or perhaps it was turned into money and the money hidden. but i will tell you the story if you like as soon as we have done dinner." accordingly, when the servants had removed the cloth, and after the old fashion placed the wine upon the naked wood, the squire began his tale, of which the following is the substance. "in the time of james i. the de la molle family was at the height of its prosperity, that is, so far as money goes. for several generations previous the representatives of the family had withdrawn themselves from any active participation in public affairs, and living here at small expense upon their lands, which were at that time very large, had amassed a quantity of wealth that, for the age, might fairly be called enormous. thus, sir stephen de la molle, the grandfather of the sir james who lived in the time of james i., left to his son, also named stephen, a sum of no less than twenty-three thousand pounds in gold. this stephen was a great miser, and tradition says that he trebled the sum in his lifetime. anyhow, he died rich as croesus, and abominated alike by his tenants and by the country side, as might be expected when a gentleman of his race and fame degraded himself, as this sir stephen undoubtedly did, to the practice of usury. "with the next heir, sir james, however, the old spirit of the de la molles seems to have revived, although it is sufficiently clear that he was by no means a spendthrift, but on the contrary, a careful man, though one who maintained his station and refused to soil his fingers with such base dealing as it had pleased his uncle to do. going to court, he became, perhaps on account of his wealth, a considerable favourite with james i., to whom he was greatly attached and from whom he bought a baronetcy. indeed, the best proof of his devotion is, that he on two occasions lent large sums of money to the king which were never repaid. on the accession of charles i., however, sir james left court under circumstances which were never quite cleared up. it is said that smarting under some slight which was put upon him, he made a somewhat brusque demand for the money that he had lent to james. thereon the king, with sarcastic wit, congratulated him on the fact that the spirit of his uncle, sir stephen de la molle, whose name was still a byword in the land, evidently survived in the family. sir james turned white with anger, bowed, and without a word left the court, nor did he ever return thither. "years passed, and the civil war was at its height. sir james had as yet steadily refused to take any share in it. he had never forgiven the insult put upon him by the king, for like most of his race, of whom it was said that they never forgave an injury and never forgot a kindness, he was a pertinacious man. therefore he would not lift a finger in the king's cause. but still less would he help the roundheads, whom he hated with a singular hatred. so time went, till at last, when he was sore pressed, charles, knowing his great wealth and influence, brought himself to write a letter to this sir james, appealing to him for support, and especially for money. "'i hear,' said the king in his letter, 'that sir james de la molle, who was aforetyme well affected to our person and more especially to the late king, our sainted father, doth stand idle, watching the growing of this bloody struggle and lifting no hand. such was not the way of the race from which he sprang, which, unless history doth greatly lie, hath in the past been ever found at the side of their kings striking for the right. it is told to me also, that sir james de la molle doth thus place himself aside blowing neither hot nor cold, because of some sharp words which we spake in heedless jest many a year that's gone. we know not if this be true, doubting if a man's memory be so long, but if so it be, then hereby do we crave his pardon, and no more can we do. and now is our estate one of grievous peril, and sorely do we need the aid of god and man. therefore, if the heart of our subject sir james de la molle be not rebellious against us, as we cannot readily credit it to be, we do implore his present aid in men and money, of which last it is said he hath large store, this letter being proof of our urgent need.' "these were, as nearly as i can remember, the very words of the letter, which was written with the king's own hand, and show pretty clearly how hardly he was pressed. it is said that when he read it, sir james, forgetting his grievance, was much affected, and, taking paper, wrote hastily as follows, which indeed he certainly did, for i have seen the letter in the museum. 'my liege,--of the past i will not speak. it is past. but since it hath graciously pleased your majesty to ask mine aid against the rebels who would overthrow your throne, rest assured that all i have is at your majesty's command, till such time as your enemies are discomfited. it hath pleased providence to so prosper my fortunes that i have stored away in a safe place, till these times be past, a very great sum in gold, whereof i will at once place ten thousand pieces at the disposal of your majesty, so soon as a safe means can be provided of conveying the same, seeing that i had sooner die than that these great moneys should fall into the hands of rebels to the furtherance of a wicked cause.' "then the letter went on to say that the writer would at once buckle to and raise a troop of horse among his tenantry, and that if other satisfactory arrangements could not be made for the conveyance of the moneys, he would bring them in person to the king. "and now comes the climax of the story. the messenger was captured and sir james's incautious letter taken from his boot, as a result of which within ten days' time he found himself closely besieged by five hundred roundheads under the command of one colonel playfair. the castle was but ill-provisioned for a siege, and in the end sir james was driven by sheer starvation to surrender. no sooner had he obtained an entry, then colonel playfair sent for his prisoner, and to his astonishment produced to sir james's face his own letter to the king. "'now, sir james,' he said, 'we have the hive, and i must ask you to lead us to the honey. where be those great moneys whereof you talk herein? fain would i be fingering these ten thousand pieces of gold, the which you have so snugly stored away.' "'ay,' answered old sir james, 'you have the hive, but the secret of the honey you have not, nor shall you have it. the ten thousand pieces in gold is where it is, and with it is much more. find it if you may, colonel, and take it if you can.' "'i shall find it by to-morrow's light, sir james, or otherwise--or otherwise you die.' "'i must die--all men do, colonel, but if i die, the secret dies with me.' "'this shall we see,' answered the colonel grimly, and old sir james was marched off to a cell, and there closely confined on bread and water. but he did not die the next day, nor the next, nor for a week, indeed. "every day he was brought up before the colonel, and under the threat of immediate death questioned as to where the treasure was, not being suffered meanwhile to communicate by word or sign with any one, save the officers of the rebels. every day he refused, till at last his inquisitor's patience gave out, and he was told frankly that if he did not communicate the secret he would be shot at the following dawn. "old sir james laughed, and said that shoot him they might, but that he consigned his soul to the devil if he would enrich them with his treasures, and then asked that his bible might be brought to him that he might read therein and prepare himself for death. "they gave him the bible and left him. next morning at the dawn, a file of roundheads marched him into the courtyard of the castle and here he found colonel playfair and his officers waiting. "'now, sir james, for your last word,' said the roundhead. 'will you reveal where the treasure lies, or will you choose to die?' "'i will not reveal,' answered the old man. 'murder me if ye will. the deed is worthy of holy presbyters. i have spoken and my mind is fixed.' "'bethink you,' said the colonel. "'i have thought,' he answered, 'and i am ready. slay me and seek the treasure. but one thing i ask. my young son is not here. in france hath he been these three years, and nought knows he of where i have hid this gold. send to him this bible when i am dead. nay, search it from page to page. there is nought therein save what i have writ here upon this last sheet. it is all i have left to give.' "'the book shall be searched,' answered the colonel, 'and if nought is found therein it shall be sent. and now, in the name of god, i adjure you, sir james, let not the love of lucre stand between you and your life. here i make you one last offer. discover but to us the ten thousand pounds whereof you speak in this writing,' and he held up the letter to the king, 'and you shall go free--refuse and you die.' "'i refuse,' he answered. "'musqueteers, make ready,' shouted the colonel, and the file of men stepped forward. "but at that moment there came up so furious a squall of wind, and with it such dense and cutting rain, that for a while the execution was delayed. presently it passed, the wild light of the november morning swept out from the sky, and revealed the doomed man kneeling in prayer upon the sodden turf, the water running from his white hair and beard. "they called to him to stand up, but he would not, and continued praying. so they shot him on his knees." "well," said colonel quaritch, "at any rate he died like a gallant gentleman." at that moment there was a knock at the door, and the servant came in. "what is it?" asked the squire. "george is here, please, sir," said the girl, "and says that he would like to see you." "confound him," growled the old gentleman; "he is always here after something or other. i suppose it is about the moat farm. he was going to see janter to-day. will you excuse me, quaritch? my daughter will tell you the end of the story if you care to hear any more. i will join you in the drawing-room." chapter iv the end of the tale as soon as her father had gone, ida rose and suggested that if colonel quaritch had done his wine they should go into the drawing-room, which they accordingly did. this room was much more modern than either the vestibule or the dining-room, and had an air and flavour of nineteenth century young lady about it. there were the little tables, the draperies, the photograph frames, and all the hundred and one knick-knacks and odds and ends by means of which a lady of taste makes a chamber lovely in the eyes of brutal man. it was a very pleasant place to look upon, this drawing-room at honham castle, with its irregular recesses, its somewhat faded colours illuminated by the soft light of a shaded lamp, and its general air of feminine dominion. harold quaritch was a man who had seen much of the world, but who had not seen very much of drawing-rooms, or, indeed, of ladies at large. they had not come in his way, or if they did come in his way he had avoided them. therefore, perhaps, he was the more susceptible to such influences when he was brought within their reach. or perchance it was ida's gracious presence which threw a charm upon the place that added to its natural attractiveness, as the china bowls of lavender and rose leaves added perfume to the air. anyhow, it struck him that he had rarely before seen a room which conveyed to his mind such strong suggestions of refinement and gentle rest. "what a charming room," he said, as he entered it. "i am glad you think so," answered ida; "because it is my own territory, and i arrange it." "yes," he said, "it is easy to see that." "well, would you like to hear the end of the story about sir james and his treasure?" "certainly; it interests me very much." "it positively _fascinates_ me," said ida with emphasis. "listen, and i will tell you. after they had shot old sir james they took the bible off him, but whether or no colonel playfair ever sent it to the son in france, is not clear. "the story is all known historically, and it is certain that, as my father said, he asked that his bible might be sent, but nothing more. this son, sir edward, never lived to return to england. after his father's murder, the estates were seized by the parliamentary party, and the old castle, with the exception of the gate towers, razed to the ground, partly for military purposes and partly in the long and determined attempt that was made to discover old sir james's treasure, which might, it was thought, have been concealed in some secret chamber in the walls. but it was all of no use, and colonel playfair found that in letting his temper get the better of him and shooting sir james, he had done away with the only chance of finding it that he was ever likely to have, for to all appearance the secret had died with its owner. there was a great deal of noise about it at the time, and the colonel was degraded from his rank in reward for what he had done. it was presumed that old sir james must have had accomplices in the hiding of so great a mass of gold, and every means was taken, by way of threats and promises of reward--which at last grew to half of the total amount that should be discovered--to induce these to come forward if they existed, but without result. and so the matter went on, till after a few years the quest died away and was forgotten. "meanwhile the son, sir edward, who was the second and last baronet, led a wandering life abroad, fearing or not caring to return to england now that all his property had been seized. when he was two-and-twenty years of age, however, he contracted an imprudent marriage with his cousin, a lady of the name of ida dofferleigh, a girl of good blood and great beauty, but without means. indeed, she was the sister of geoffrey dofferleigh, who was a first cousin and companion in exile of sir edward's, and as you will presently see, my lineal ancestor. well, within a year of this marriage, poor ida, my namesake, died with her baby of fever, chiefly brought on, they say, by want and anxiety of mind, and the shock seems to have turned her husband's brain. at any rate, within three or four months of her death, he committed suicide. but before he did so, he formally executed a rather elaborate will, by which he left all his estates in england, 'now unjustly withheld from me contrary to the law and natural right by the rebel pretender cromwell, together with the treasure hidden thereon or elsewhere by my late murdered father, sir james de la molle,' to john geoffrey dofferleigh, his cousin, and the brother of his late wife, and his heirs for ever, on condition only of his assuming the name and arms of the de la molle family, the direct line of which became extinct with himself. of course, this will, when it was executed, was to all appearance so much waste paper, but within three years from that date charles ii. was king of england. "thereon geoffrey dofferleigh produced the document, and on assuming the name and arms of de la molle actually succeeded in obtaining the remains of the castle and a considerable portion of the landed property, though the baronetcy became extinct. his son it was who built this present house, and he is our direct ancestor, for though my father talks of them as though they were--it is a little weakness of his--the old de la molles are not our direct male ancestors." "well," said harold, "and did dofferleigh find the treasure?" "no, ah, no, nor anybody else; the treasure has vanished. he hunted for it a great deal, and he did find those pieces of plate which you saw to-night, hidden away somewhere, i don't know where, but there was nothing else with them." "perhaps the whole thing was nonsense," said harold reflectively. "no," answered ida shaking her head, "i am sure it was not, i am sure the treasure is hidden away somewhere to this day. listen, colonel quaritch--you have not heard quite all the story yet--_i_ found something." "you, what?" "wait a minute and i will show you," and going to a cabinet in the corner, she unlocked it, and took out a despatch box, which she also unlocked. "here," she said, "i found this. it is the bible that sir james begged might be sent to his son, just before they shot him, you remember," and she handed him a small brown book. he took it and examined it carefully. it was bound in leather, and on the cover was written in large letters, "sir james de la molle. honham castle, ." nor was this all. the first sheets of the bible, which was one of the earliest copies of the authorised version, were torn out, and the top corner was also gone, having to all appearance been shot off by a bullet, a presumption that a dark stain of blood upon the cover and edges brought near to certainty. "poor gentleman," said harold, "he must have had it in his pocket when he was shot. where did you find it?" "yes, i suppose so," said ida, "in fact i have no doubt of it. i found it when i was a child in an ancient oak chest in the basement of the western tower, quite hidden up in dusty rubbish and bits of old iron. but look at the end and you will see what he wrote in it to his son, edward. here, i will show you," and leaning over him she turned to the last page of the book. between the bottom of the page and the conclusion of the final chapter of revelations there had been a small blank space now densely covered with crabbed writing in faded ink, which she read aloud. it ran as follows: "_do not grieve for me, edward, my son, that i am thus suddenly done to death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but according to god's will. and now farewell, edward, till we shall meet in heaven. my monies have i hid and on account thereof i die unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall cromwell touch. to whom god shall appoint, shall all my treasure be, for nought can i communicate._" "there," said ida triumphantly, "what do you think of that, colonel quaritch? the bible, i think, was never sent to his son, but here it is, and in that writing, as i solemnly believe," and she laid her white finger upon the faded characters, "lies the key to wherever it is that the money is hidden, only i fear i shall never make it out. for years i have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form of acrostic, but i can make nothing of it. i have tried it all ways. i have translated it into french, and had it translated into latin, but still i can find out nothing--nothing. but some day somebody will hit upon it--at least i hope so." harold shook his head. "i am afraid," he said, "that what has remained undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter. perhaps old sir james was hoaxing his enemies!" "no," said ida, "for if he was, what became of all the money? he was known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we can see from his letter to the king. there was nothing found after his death, except his lands, of course. oh, it will be found someday, twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to us," and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression spread itself over her handsome face. "well," said harold in a doubtful voice, "there may be something in it. may i take a copy of that writing?" "certainly," said ida laughing, "and if you find the treasure we will go shares. stop, i will dictate it to you." just as this process was finished and harold was shutting up his pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-sheet of note paper, the old squire came into the room again. looking at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with "george" had evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of exceedingly low spirits. "well, father, what is the matter?" asked his daughter. "oh, nothing, my dear, nothing," he answered in melancholy tones. "george has been here, that is all." "yes, and i wish he would keep away," she said with a little stamp of her foot, "for he always brings some bad news or other." "it is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn't george. i really don't know what has come to the country." "what is it?" said ida with a deepening expression of anxiety. "something wrong with the moat farm?" "yes; janter has thrown it up after all, and i am sure i don't know where i am to find another tenant." "you see what the pleasures of landed property are, colonel quaritch," said ida, turning towards him with a smile which did not convey a great sense of cheerfulness. "yes," he said, "i know. thank goodness i have only the ten acres that my dear old aunt left to me. and now," he added, "i think that i must be saying good-night. it is half-past ten, and i expect that old mrs. jobson is sitting up for me." ida looked up in remonstrance, and opened her lips to speak, and then for some reason that did not appear changed her mind and held out her hand. "good-night, colonel quaritch," she said; "i am so pleased that we are going to have you as a neighbour. by-the-way, i have a few people coming to play lawn tennis here to-morrow afternoon, will you come too?" "what," broke in the squire, in a voice of irritation, "more lawn tennis parties, ida? i think that you might have spared me for once--with all this business on my hands, too." "nonsense, father," said his daughter, with some acerbity. "how can a few people playing lawn tennis hurt you? it is quite useless to shut oneself up and be miserable over things that one cannot help." the old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resignation, and meekly asked who was coming. "oh, nobody in particular. mr. and mrs. jeffries--mr. jeffries is our clergyman, you know, colonel quaritch--and dr. bass and the two miss smiths, one of whom he is supposed to be in love with, and mr. and mrs. quest, and mr. edward cossey, and a few more." "mr. edward cossey," said the squire, jumping off his chair; "really, ida, you know i detest that young man, that i consider him an abominable young man; and i think you might have shown more consideration to me than to have asked him here." "i could not help it, father," she answered coolly. "he was with mrs. quest when i asked her, so i had to ask him too. besides, i rather like mr. cossey, he is always so polite, and i don't see why you should take such a violent prejudice against him. anyhow, he is coming, and there is an end of it." "cossey, cossey," said harold, throwing himself into the breach, "i used to know that name." it seemed to ida that he winced a little as he said it. "is he one of the great banking family?" "yes," said ida, "he is one of the sons. they say he will have half a million of money or more when his father, who is very infirm, dies. he is looking after the branch banks of his house in this part of the world, at least nominally. i fancy that mr. quest really manages them; certainly he manages the boisingham branch." "well, well," said the squire, "if they are coming, i suppose they are coming. at any rate, i can go out. if you are going home, quaritch, i will walk with you. i want a little air." "colonel quaritch, you have not said if you will come to my party to-morrow, yet," said ida, as he stretched out his hand to say good-bye. "oh, thank you, miss de la molle; yes, i think i can come, though i play tennis atrociously." "oh, we all do that. well, good-night. i am so very pleased that you have come to live at molehill; it will be so nice for my father to have a companion," she added as an afterthought. "yes," said the colonel grimly, "we are almost of an age--good-night." ida watched the door close and then leant her arm on the mantelpiece, and reflected that she liked colonel quaritch very much, so much that even his not very beautiful physiognomy did not repel her, indeed rather attracted her than otherwise. "do you know," she said to herself, "i think that is the sort of man i should like to marry. nonsense," she added, with an impatient shrug, "nonsense, you are nearly six-and-twenty, altogether too old for that sort of thing. and now there is this new trouble about the moat farm. my poor old father! well, it is a hard world, and i think that sleep is about the best thing in it." and with a sigh she lighted her candle to go to bed, then changed her mind and sat down to await her father's return. chapter v the squire explains the position "i don't know what is coming to this country, i really don't; and that's a fact," said the squire to his companion, after they had walked some paces in silence. "here is the farm, the moat farm. it fetched twenty-five shillings an acre when i was a young man, and eight years ago it used to fetch thirty-five. now i have reduced it and reduced it to fifteen, just in order to keep the tenant. and what is the end of it? janter--he's the tenant--gave notice last michaelmas; but that stupid owl, george, said it was all nothing, and that he would continue at fifteen shillings when the time came. and now to-night he comes to me with a face as long as a yard-arm, and says that janter won't keep it at any price, and that he does not know where he is to find another tenant, not he. it's quite heartbreaking, that's what it is. three hundred acres of good, sound, food-producing land, and no tenant for it at fifteen shillings an acre. what am i to do?" "can't you take it in hand and farm it yourself?" asked harold. "how can i take it in hand? i have one farm of a hundred and fifty acres in hand as it is. do you know what it would cost to take over that farm?" and he stopped in his walk and struck his stick into the ground. "ten pounds an acre, every farthing of it--and say a thousand for the covenants--about four thousand pounds in all. now where am i to get four thousand pounds to speculate with in that way, for it is a speculation, and one which i am too old to look after myself, even if i had the knowledge. well, there you are, and now i'll say good-night, sir. it's getting chilly, and i have felt my chest for the last year or two. by-the-way, i suppose i shall see you to-morrow at this tennis party of ida's. it's all very well for ida to go in for her tennis parties, but how can i think of such things with all this worry on my hands? well, good-night, colonel quaritch, good-night," and he turned and walked away through the moonlight. harold quaritch watched him go and then stalked off home, reflecting, not without sadness, upon the drama which was opening up before him, that most common of dramas in these days of depression,--the break up of an ancient family through causes beyond control. it required far less acumen and knowledge of the world than he possessed to make it clear to him that the old race of de la molle was doomed. this story of farms thrown up and money not forthcoming pointed its own moral, and a sad one it was. even ida's almost childish excitement about the legend of the buried treasure showed him how present to her mind must be the necessity of money; and he fell to thinking how pleasant it would be to be able to play the part of the fairy prince and step in with untold wealth between her and the ruin which threatened her family. how well that grand-looking open-minded squire would become a great station, fitted as he was by nature, descent, and tradition, to play the solid part of an english country gentleman of the good old-fashioned kind. it was pitiful to think of a man of his stamp forced by the vile exigencies of a narrow purse to scheme and fight against the advancing tide of destitution. and ida, too,--ida, who was equipped with every attribute that can make wealth and power what they should be--a frame to show off her worth and state. well, it was the way of the world, and he could not mend it; but it was with a bitter sense of the unfitness of things that with some little difficulty--for he was not yet fully accustomed to its twists and turns--he found his way past the swelling heap of dead man's mount and round the house to his own front door. he entered the house, and having told mrs. jobson that she could go to bed, sat down to smoke and think. harold quaritch, like many solitary men, was a great smoker, and never did he feel the need for the consolation of tobacco more than on this night. a few months ago, when he had retired from the army, he found himself in a great dilemma. there he was, a hale, active man of three-and-forty, of busy habits, and regular mind, suddenly thrown upon the world without occupation. what was he to do with himself? while he was asking this question and waiting blankly for an answer which did not come, his aunt, old mrs. massey, departed this life, leaving him heir to what she possessed, which might be three hundred a year in all. this, added to his pension and the little that he owned independently, put him beyond the necessity of seeking further employment. so he had made up his mind to come to reside at molehill, and live the quiet, somewhat aimless, life of a small country gentleman. his reading, for he was a great reader, especially of scientific works, would, he thought, keep him employed. moreover, he was a thorough sportsman, and an ardent, though owing to the smallness of his means, necessarily not a very extensive, collector of curiosities, and more particularly of coins. at first, after he had come to his decision, a feeling of infinite rest and satisfaction had taken possession of him. the struggle of life was over for him. no longer would he be obliged to think, and contrive, and toil; henceforth his days would slope gently down towards the inevitable end. trouble lay in the past, now rest and rest alone awaited him, rest that would gradually grow deeper and deeper as the swift years rolled by, till it was swallowed up in that almighty peace to which, being a simple and religious man, he had looked forward from childhood as the end and object of his life. foolish man and vain imagining! here, while we draw breath, there is no rest. we must go on continually, on from strength to strength, or weakness to weakness; we must always be troubled about this or that, and must ever have this desire or that to regret. it is an inevitable law within whose attraction all must fall; yes, even the purest souls, cradled in their hope of heaven; and the most swinish, wallowing in the mud of their gratified desires. and so our hero had already begun to find out. here, before he had been forty-eight hours in honham, a fresh cause of troubles had arisen. he had seen ida de la molle again, and after an interval of between five and six years had found her face yet more charming than it was before. in short he had fallen in love with it, and being a sensible man he did not conceal this fact from himself. indeed the truth was that he had been in love with her for all these years, though he had never looked at the matter in that light. at the least the pile had been gathered and laid, and did but require a touch of the match to burn up merrily enough. and now this was supplied, and at the first glance of ida's eyes the magic flame began to hiss and crackle, and he knew that nothing short of a convulsion or a deluge would put it out. men of the stamp of harold quaritch generally pass through three stages with reference to the other sex. they begin in their youth by making a goddess of one of them, and finding out their mistake. then for many years they look upon woman as the essence and incarnation of evil and a thing no more to be trusted than a jaguar. ultimately, however, this folly wears itself out, probably in proportion as the old affection fades and dies away, and is replaced by contempt and regret that so much should have been wasted on that which was of so little worth. then it is that the danger comes, for then a man puts forth his second venture, puts it forth with fear and trembling, and with no great hope of seeing a golden argosy sailing into port. and if it sinks or is driven back by adverse winds and frowning skies, there is an end of his legitimate dealings with such frail merchandise. and now he, harold quaritch, was about to put forth this second venture, not of his own desire or free will indeed, but because his reason and judgment were over-mastered. in short, he had fallen in love with ida de la molle when he first saw her five years ago, and was now in the process of discovering the fact. there he sat in his chair in the old half-furnished room, which he proposed to turn into his dining-room, and groaned in spirit over this portentous discovery. what had become of his fair prospect of quiet years sloping gently downwards, and warm with the sweet drowsy light of afternoon? how was it that he had not known those things that belonged to his peace? and probably it would end in nothing. was it likely that such a splendid young woman as ida would care for a superannuated army officer, with nothing to recommend him beyond five or six hundred a year and a victoria cross, which he never wore. probably if she married at all she would try to marry someone who would assist to retrieve the fallen fortunes of her family, which it was absolutely beyond his power to do. altogether the outlook did not please him, as he sat there far into the watches of the night, and pulled at his empty pipe. so little did it please him, indeed, that when at last he rose to find his way to bed up the old oak staircase, the only imposing thing in molehill, he had almost made up his mind to give up the idea of living at honham at all. he would sell the place and emigrate to vancouver's island or new zealand, and thus place an impassable barrier between himself and that sweet, strong face, which seemed to have acquired a touch of sternness since last he looked upon it five years ago. ah, wise resolutions of the quiet night, whither do you go in the garish light of day? to heaven, perhaps, with the mist wreaths and the dew drops. when the squire got back to the castle, he found his daughter still sitting in the drawing room. "what, not gone to bed, ida?" he said. "no, father, i was going, and then i thought that i would wait to hear what all this is about janter and the moat farm. it is best to get it over." "yes, yes, my dear--yes, but there is not much to tell you. janter has thrown up the farm after all, and george says that there is not another tenant to be had for love or money. he tried one man, who said that he would not have it at five shillings an acre, as prices are." "that is bad enough in all conscience," said ida, pushing at the fireirons with her foot. "what is to be done?" "what is to be done?" answered her father irritably. "how can i tell you what is to be done? i suppose i must take the place in hand, that is all." "yes, but that costs money, does it not?" "of course it does, it costs about four thousand pounds." "well," said ida, looking up, "and where is all that sum to come from? we have not got four thousand pounds in the world." "come from? why i suppose that i must borrow it on the security of the land." "would it not be better to let the place go out of cultivation, rather than risk so much money?" she answered. "go out of cultivation! nonsense, ida, how can you talk like that? why that strong land would be ruined for a generation to come." "perhaps it would, but surely it would be better that the land should be ruined than that we should be. father, dear," she said appealingly, laying one hand upon his shoulder, "do be frank with me, and tell me what our position really is. i see you wearing yourself out about business from day to day, and i know that there is never any money for anything, scarcely enough to keep the house going; and yet you will not tell me what we really owe--and i think i have a right to know." the squire turned impatiently. "girls have no head for these things," he said, "so what is the use of talking about it?" "but i am not a girl; i am a woman of six-and-twenty; and putting other things aside, i am almost as much interested in your affairs as you are yourself," she said with determination. "i cannot bear this sort of thing any longer. i see that abominable man, mr. quest, continually hovering about here like a bird of ill-omen, and i cannot bear it; and i tell you what it is, father, if you don't tell me the whole truth at once i shall cry," and she looked as though she meant it. now the old squire was no more impervious to a woman's tears than any other man, and of all ida's moods, and they were many, he most greatly feared that rare one which took the form of tears. besides, he loved his only daughter more dearly than anything in the world except one thing, honham castle, and could not bear to give her pain. "very well," he said, "of course if you wish to know about these things you have a right to. i have desired to spare you trouble, that is all; but as you are so very imperious, the best thing that i can do is to let you have your own way. still, as it is rather late, if you have no objection i think that i had better put if off till to-morrow." "no, no, father. by to-morrow you will have changed your mind. let us have it now. i want to know how much we really owe, and what we have got to live on." the old gentleman hummed and hawed a little, and after various indications of impatience at last began: "well, as you know, our family has for some generations depended upon the land. your dear mother brought a small fortune with her, five or six thousand pounds, but that, with the sanction of her trustees, was expended upon improvements to the farms and in paying off a small mortgage. well, for many years the land brought in about two thousand a year, but somehow we always found it difficult to keep within that income. for instance, it was necessary to repair the gateway, and you have no idea of the expense in which those repairs landed me. then your poor brother james cost a lot of money, and always would have the shooting kept up in such an extravagant way. then he went into the army, and heaven only knows what he spent there. your brother was very extravagant, my dear, and well, perhaps i was foolish; i never could say him no. and that was not all of it, for when the poor boy died he left fifteen hundred pounds of debt behind him, and i had to find the money, if it was only for the honour of the family. of course you know that we cut the entail when he came of age. well, and then these dreadful times have come upon the top of it all, and upon my word, at the present moment i don't know which way to turn," and he paused and drummed his fingers uneasily upon a book. "yes, father, but you have not told me yet what it is that we owe." "well, it is difficult to answer that all in a minute. perhaps twenty-five thousand on mortgage, and a few floating debts." "and what is the place worth?" "it used to be worth between fifty and sixty thousand pounds. it is impossible to say what it would fetch now. land is practically a drug in the market. but things will come round, my dear. it is only a question of holding on. "then if you borrow a fresh sum in order to take up this farm, you will owe about thirty thousand pounds, and if you give five per cent., as i suppose you do, you will have to pay fifteen hundred a year in interest. now, father, you said that in the good times the land brought in two thousand a year, so, of course, it can't bring in so much now. therefore, by the time that you have paid the interest, there will be nothing, or less than nothing, left for us to live on." her father winced at this cruel and convincing logic. "no, no," he said, "it is not so bad as that. you jump to conclusions, but really, if you do not mind, i am very tired, and should like to go to bed." "father, what is the use of trying to shirk the thing just because it is disagreeable?" she asked earnestly. "do you suppose that it is more pleasant to me to talk about it than it is for you? i know that you are not to blame about it. i know that dear james was very thoughtless and extravagant, and that the times are crushing. but to go on like this is only to go to ruin. it would be better for us to live in a cottage on a couple of hundred a year than to try to keep our heads above water here, which we cannot do. sooner or later these people, quest, or whoever they are, will want their money back, and then, if they cannot have it, they will sell the place over our heads. i believe that man quest wants to get it himself--that is what i believe --and set up as a country gentleman. father, i know it is a dreadful thing to say, but we ought to leave honham." "leave honham!" said the old gentleman, jumping up in his agitation; "what nonsense you talk, ida. how can i leave honham? it would kill me at my age. how can i do it? and, besides, who is to look after the farms and all the business? no, no, we must hang on and trust to providence. things may come round, something may happen, one can never tell in this world." "if we do not leave honham, then honham will leave us," answered his daughter, with conviction. "i do not believe in chances. chances always go the wrong way--against those who are looking for them. we shall be absolutely ruined, that is all." "well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right, my dear," said the old squire wearily. "i only hope that my time may come first. i have lived here all my life, seventy years and more, and i know that i could not live anywhere else. but god's will be done. and now, my dear, go to bed." she leant down and kissed him, and as she did so saw that his eyes were filled with tears. not trusting herself to speak, for she felt for him too deeply to do so, she turned away and went, leaving the old man sitting there with his grey head bowed upon his breast. chapter vi lawyer quest the day following that of the conversation just described was one of those glorious autumn mornings which sometimes come as a faint compensation for the utter vileness and bitter disappointment of the season that in this country we dignify by the name of summer. notwithstanding his vigils and melancholy of the night before, the squire was up early, and ida, who between one thing and another had not had the best of nights, heard his loud cheery voice shouting about the place for "george." looking out of her bedroom window, she soon perceived that functionary himself, a long, lean, powerful-looking man with a melancholy face and a twinkle in his little grey eyes, hanging about the front steps. presently her father emerged in a brilliant but ancient dressing gown, his white locks waving on the breeze. "here, george, where are you, george?" "here i be, sir." "ah, yes; then why didn't you say so? i have been shouting myself hoarse for you." "yis, squire," replied the imperturbable george, "i hev been a-standing here for the last ten minutes, and i heard you." "you heard me, then why the dickens didn't you answer?" "because i didn't think as you wanted me, sir. i saw that you hadn't finished your letter." "well, then, you ought to. you know very well that my chest is weak, and yet i have to go hallooing all over the place after you. now look here, have you got that fat pony of yours in the yard?" "yis, squire, the pony is here, and if so be as it is fat it bean't for the want of movement." "very well, then, take this letter," and he handed him an epistle sealed with a tremendous seal, "take this letter to mr. quest at boisingham, and wait for an answer. and look here, mind you are about the place at eleven o'clock, for i expect mr. quest to see me about the moat farm." "yis, squire." "i suppose that you have heard nothing more from janter, have you?" "no, squire, nawthing. he means to git the place at his own price or chuck it." "and what is his price?" "five shillings an acre. you see, sir, it's this way. that army gent, major boston, as is agent for all the college lands down the valley, he be a poor weak fule, and when all these tinants come to him and say that they must either hev the land at five shillings an acre or go, he gits scared, he du, and down goes the rent of some of the best meadow land in the country from thirty-five shillings to five. of course it don't signify to him not a halfpenny, the college must pay him his salary all the same, and he don't know no more about farming, nor land, nor northing, than my old mare yinder. well, and what comes of it? of course every tinant on the place hears that those college lands be going for five shillings an acre, and they prick up their ears and say they must have their land at the same figger, and it's all owing to that boston varmint, who ought to be kicked through every holl on the place and then drowned to dead in a dyke." "yes, you're right there, george, that silly man is a public enemy, and ought to be treated as such, but the times are very bad, with corn down to twenty-nine, very bad." "i'm not a-saying that they ain't bad, squire," said his retainer, his long face lighting up; "they are bad, cruel bad, bad for iverybody. and i'm not denying that they is bad for the tinants, but if they is bad for the tinants they is wus for the landlord. it all comes on his shoulders in the long run. if men find they can get land at five shillings an acre that's worth twenty, why it isn't in human natur to pay twenty, and if they find that the landlord must go as they drive him, of course they'll lay on the whip. why, bless you, sir, when a tinant comes and says that he is very sorry but he finds he can't pay his rent, in nine cases out of ten, you'd find that the bank was paid, the tradesmen were paid, the doctor's paid, iverybody's paid before he thinks about his rent. let the landlord suffer, because he can't help hisself; but lord bless us, if a hundred pounds were overdue to the bank it would have the innards out of him in no time, and he knows it. now as for that varmint, janter, to tell me that he can't pay fifteen shillings an acre for the moat farm, is nonsense. i only wish i had the capital to take it at the price, that i du." "well, george," said the squire, "i think that if it can be managed i shall borrow the money and take the farm on hand. i am not going to let janter have it at five shillings an acre." "ah, sir, that's the best way. bad as times be, it will go hard if i can't make the interest and the rent out of it too. besides, squire, if you give way about this here farm, all the others will come down on you. i'm not saying a word agin your tinants, but where there's money to be made you can't trust not no man." "well, well," said the squire, "perhaps you are right and perhaps you ain't. right or wrong, you always talk like solomon in all his glory. anyway, be off with that note and let me have the answer as soon as you get back. mind you don't go loafing and jawing about down in boisingham, because i want my answer." "so he means to borrow the money if he can get it," said ida to herself as she sat, an invisible auditor, doing her hair by the open window. "george can do more with him in five minutes than i can do in a week, and i know that he hates janter. i believe janter threw up the farm because of his quarrelling with george. well, i suppose we must take our chance." meanwhile george had mounted his cart and departed upon the road to boisingham, urging his fat pony along as though he meant to be there in twenty minutes. but so soon as he was well out of reach of the squire's shouts and sight of the castle gates, he deliberately turned up a bye lane and jogged along for a mile or more to a farm, where he had a long confabulation with a man about thatching some ricks. thence he quietly made his way to his own little place, where he proceeded to comfortably get his breakfast, remarking to his wife that he was of opinion that there was no hurry about the squire's letter, as the "lawyers" wasn't in the habit of coming to office at eight in the morning. breakfast over, the philosophic george got into his cart, the fat pony having been tied up outside, and leisurely drove into the picturesque old town which lay at the head of the valley. all along the main street he met many acquaintances, and with each he found it necessary to stop and have a talk, indeed with two he had a modest half-pint. at length, however, his labour o'er, he arrived at mr. quest's office, that, as all the boisingham world knows, was just opposite the church, of which mr. quest was one of the churchwardens, and which but two years before was beautifully restored, mainly owing to his efforts and generous contributions. driving up to the small and quiet-looking doorway of a very unpretentious building, george descended and knocked. thereon a clerk opened the door, and in answer to his inquiries informed him that he believed mr. quest had just come over to the office. in another minute he was shown into an inner room of the ordinary country lawyer's office stamp, and there at the table sat mr. quest himself. mr. quest was a man of about forty years of age, rather under than over, with a pale ascetic cast of face, and a quiet and pleasant, though somewhat reserved, manner. his features were in no way remarkable, with the exception of his eyes, which seemed to have been set in his head owing to some curious error of nature. for whereas his general tone was dark, his hair in particular being jet black, these eyes were grey, and jarred extraordinarily upon their companion features. for the rest, he was a man of some presence, and with the manners of a gentleman. "well, george," he said, "what is it that brings you to boisingham? a letter from the squire. thank you. take a seat, will you, will i look through it? umph, wants me to come and see him at eleven o'clock. i am very sorry, but i can't manage that anyway. ah, i see, about the moat farm. janter told me that he was going to throw it up, and i advised him to do nothing of the sort, but he is a dissatisfied sort of a fellow, janter is, and major boston has upset the whole country side by his very ill-advised action about the college lands." "janter is a warmint and major boston, begging his pardon for the language, is an ass, sir. anyway there it is, janter has thrown up, and where i am to find a tinant between now and michaelmas i don't know; in fact, with the college lands going at five shillings an acre there ain't no chance." "then what does the squire propose to do--take the land in hand?" "yes, sir, that's it; and that's what he wants to see you about." "more money, i suppose," said mr. quest. "well, yis, sir. you see there will be covenants to meet, and then the farm is three hundred acres, and to stock it proper as it should be means nine pounds an acre quite, on this here heavy land." "yes, yes, i know, a matter of four thousand more or less, but where is it to come from, that's the question? cossey's do not like land now, any more than other banks do. however, i'll see my principal about it. but, george, i can't possibly get up to the castle at eleven. i have got a churchwardens' meeting at a quarter to, about that west pinnacle, you know. it is in a most dangerous condition, and by-the-way, before you go i should like to have your opinion, as a practical man, as to the best way to deal with it. to rebuild it would cost a hundred and twenty pounds, and that is more than we see our way to at present, though i can promise fifty if they can scape up the rest. but about the squire. i think that the best thing i can do will be to come up to the castle to lunch, and then i can talk over matters with him. stay, i will just write him a note. by-the-way, you would like a glass of wine, wouldn't you, george? nonsense man, here it is in the cupboard, a glass of wine is a good friend to have handy sometimes." george, who like most men of his stamp could put away his share of liquor and feel thankful for it, drank his glass of wine while mr. quest was engaged in writing the note, wondering meanwhile what made the lawyer so civil to him. for george did not like mr. quest. indeed, it would not be too much to say that he hated him. but this was a feeling which he never allowed to appear; he was too much afraid of the man for that, and in his queer way too much devoted to the old squire's interests to run the risk of imperilling them by the exhibition of any aversion to mr. quest. he knew more of his master's affairs than anybody living, unless, perhaps, it was mr. quest himself, and was aware that the lawyer held the old gentleman in a bondage that could not be broken. now, george was a man with faults. he was somewhat sly, and, perhaps within certain lines, at times capable of giving the word honesty a liberal interpretation. but amongst many others he had one conspicuous virtue: he loved the old squire as a highlandman loves his chief, and would almost, if not quite, have died to serve him. his billet was no easy one, for mr. de la molle's temper was none of the best at times, and when things went wrong, as they pretty frequently did, he was exceedingly apt to visit his wrath on the head of the devoted george, saying things to him which he should not have said. but his retainer took it all in the day's work, and never bore malice, continuing in his own cadging pigheaded sort of way to labour early and late to prop up his master's broken fortunes. "lord, sir," as he once said to harold quaritch when the colonel condoled with him after a violent and unjust onslaught made by the squire in his presence, "lord, sir, that ain't nawthing, that ain't. i don't pay no manner of heed to that. folk du say how as i wor made for he, like a safety walve for a traction engine." indeed, had it not been for george's contrivings and procrastinations, honham castle and its owner would have parted company long before. chapter vii edward cossey, esquire after george had drunk his glass of wine and given his opinion as to the best way to deal with the dangerous pinnacle on the boisingham church, he took the note, untied the fat pony, and ambled off to honham, leaving the lawyer alone. as soon as he was gone, mr. quest threw himself back in his chair--an old oak one, by-the-way, for he had a very pretty taste in old oak and a positive mania for collecting it--and plunged into a brown study. presently he leant forward, unlocked the top drawer of his writing table, and extracted from it a letter addressed to himself which he had received that very morning. it was from the principals of the great banking firm of cossey and son, and dated from their head office in mincing lane. this letter ran as follows: "private and confidential. "dear sir,-- "we have considered your report as to the extensive mortgages which we hold upon the honham castle estates, and have allowed due weight to your arguments as to the advisability of allowing mr. de la molle time to give things a chance of righting. but we must tell you that we can see no prospect of any such solution of the matter, at any rate for some years to come. all the information that we are able to gather points to a further decrease in the value of the land rather than to a recovery. the interest on the mortgages in question is moreover a year in arrear, probably owing to the non-receipt of rents by mr. de la molle. under these circumstances, much as it grieves us to take action against mr. de la molle, with whose family we have had dealings for five generations, we can see no alternative to foreclosure, and hereby instruct you to take the necessary preliminary steps to bring it about in the usual manner. we are, presuming that mr. de la molle is not in a position to pay off the mortgages, quite aware of the risks of a forced sale, and shall not be astonished if, in the present unprecedented condition of the land market, such a sale should result in a loss, although the sum recoverable does not amount to half the valuation of the estates, which was undertaken at our instance about twenty years ago on the occasion of the first advance. the only alternative, however, would be for us to enter into possession of the property or to buy it in. but this would be a course totally inconsistent with the usual practice of the bank, and what is more, our confidence in the stability of landed property is so utterly shattered by our recent experiences, that we cannot burden ourselves by such a course, preferring to run the risk of an immediate loss. this, however, we hope that the historical character of the property and its great natural advantages as a residential estate will avert, or at the least minimise. "be so good as to advise us by an early post of the steps you take in pursuance of these instructions. "we are, dear sir, "your obedient servants, "cossey & son. "w. quest, esq. "p.s.--we have thought it better to address you direct in this matter, but of course you will communicate the contents of this letter to mr. edward cossey, and, subject to our instructions, which are final, act in consultation with him." "well," said mr. quest to himself, as he folded up the sheet of paper, "that is about as straight as it can be put. and this is the time that the old gentleman chooses to ask for another four thousand. he may ask, but the answer will be more than he bargains for." he rose from the chair and began to walk up and down the room in evident perplexity. "if only," he said, "i had twenty-five thousand, i would take up the mortgages myself and foreclose at my leisure. it would be a good investment at that figure, even as things are, and besides, i should like to have that place. twenty-five thousand, only twenty-five thousand, and now when i want it i have not got it. and i should have had it if it had not been for that tiger, that devil edith. she has had more than that out of me in the last ten years, and still she is threatening and crying for more, more, more. tiger; yes, that is the name for her, her own name, too. she would coin one's vitals into money if she could. all belle's fortune she has had, or nearly all, and now she wants another five hundred, and she will have it too. "here we are," and he drew a letter from his pocket written in a bold, but somewhat uneducated, woman's hand. "dear bill," it ran, "i've been unlucky again and dropped a pot. shall want pounds by the st october. no shuffling, mind; money down; but i think that you know me too well to play any more larx. when can you tear yourself away, and come and give your e---- a look? bring some tin when you come, and we will have times.--thine, the tiger." "the tiger, yes, the tiger," he gasped, his face working with passion and his grey eyes glinting as he tore the epistle to fragments, threw them down and stamped on them. "well, be careful that i don't one day cut your claws and paint your stripes. by heaven, if ever a man felt like murder, i do now. five hundred more, and i haven't five thousand clear in the world. truly we pay for the follies of our youth! it makes me mad to think of those fools cossey and son forcing that place into the market just now. there's a fortune in it at the price. in another year or two i might have recovered myself--that devil of a woman might be dead--and i have several irons in the fire, some of which are sure to turn up trumps. surely there must be a way out of it somehow. there's a way out of everything except death if only one thinks enough, but the thing is to find it," and he stopped in his walk opposite to the window that looked upon the street, and put his hand to his head. as he did so he caught sight of the figure of a tall gentleman strolling idly towards the office door. for a moment he stared at him blankly, as a man does when he is trying to catch the vague clue to a new idea. then, as the figure passed out of his view, he brought his fist down heavily upon the sill. "edward cossey, by george!" he said aloud. "there's the way out of it, if only i can work him, and unless i have made a strange mistake, i think i know the road." a couple of minutes afterwards a tall, shapely young man, of about twenty-four or five years of age, came strolling into the office where mr. quest was sitting, to all appearance hard at work at his correspondence. he was dark in complexion and decidedly distinguished-looking in feature, with large dark eyes, dark moustachios, and a pale, somewhat spanish-looking skin. young as the face was, it had, if observed closely, a somewhat worn and worried air, such as one would scarcely expect to see upon the countenance of a gentleman born to such brilliant fortunes, and so well fitted by nature to do them justice, as was mr. edward cossey. for it is not every young man with dark eyes and a good figure who is destined to be the future head of one of the most wealthy private banks in england, and to inherit in due course a sum of money in hard cash variously estimated at from half a million to a million sterling. this, however, was the prospect in life that opened out before mr. edward cossey, who was now supposed by his old and eminently business-like father to be in process of acquiring a sound knowledge of the provincial affairs of the house by attending to the working of their branch establishments in the eastern counties. "how do you do, quest?" said edward cossey, nodding somewhat coldly to the lawyer and sitting down. "any business?" "well, yes, mr. cossey," answered the lawyer, rising respectfully, "there is some business, some very serious business." "indeed," said edward indifferently, "what is it?" "well, it is this, the house has ordered a foreclosure on the honham castle estates--at least it comes to that----" on hearing this intelligence edward cossey's whole demeanour underwent the most startling transformation--his languor vanished, his eye brightened, and his form became instinct with active life and beauty. "what the deuce," he said, and then paused. "i won't have it," he went on, jumping up, "i won't have it. i am not particularly fond of old de la molle, perhaps because he is not particularly fond of me," he added rather drolly, "but it would be an infernal shame to break up that family and sell the house over them. why they would be ruined! and then there's ida--miss de la molle, i mean--what would become of her? and the old place too. after being in the family for all these centuries i suppose that it would be sold to some confounded counter-skipper or some retired thief of a lawyer. it must be prevented at any price--do you hear, quest?" the lawyer winced a little at his chief's contemptuous allusion, and then remarked with a smile, "i had no idea that you were so sentimental, mr. cossey, or that you took such a lively interest in miss de la molle," and he glanced up to observe the effect of his shot. edward cossey coloured. "i did not mean that i took any particular interest in miss de la molle," he said, "i was referring to the family." "oh, quite so, though i'm sure i don't know why you shouldn't. miss de la molle is one of the most charming women that i ever met, i think the most charming except my own wife belle," and he again looked up suddenly at edward cossey who, for his part, coloured for the second time. "it seems to me," went on the lawyer, "that a man in your position has a most splendid opportunity of playing knight errant to the lovely damsel in distress. here is the lady with her aged father about to be sold up and turned out of the estates which have belonged to her family for generations--why don't you do the generous and graceful thing, like the hero in a novel, and take up the mortgages?" edward cossey did not reject this suggestion with the contempt that might have been expected; on the contrary he appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind, for he drummed a little tune with his knuckles and stared out of the window. "what is the sum?" he said presently. "five-and-twenty thousand, and he wants four more, say thirty thousand." "and where am i going to find thirty thousand pounds to take up a bundle of mortgages which will probably never pay a farthing of interest? why, i have not got three thousand that i can come at. besides," he added, recollecting himself, "why should i interfere?" "i do not think," answered mr. quest, ignoring the latter part of the question, "that with your prospects you would find it difficult to get thirty thousand pounds. i know several who would consider it an honour to lend the money to a cossey, if only for the sake of the introduction--that is, of course, provided the security was of a legal nature." "let me see the letter," said edward. mr. quest handed him the document conveying the commands of cossey and son, and he read it through twice. "the old man means business," he said, as he returned it; "that letter was written by him, and when he has once made up his mind it is useless to try and stir him. did you say that you were going to see the squire to-day?" "no, i did not say so, but as a matter of fact i am. his man, george--a shrewd fellow, by the way, for one of these bumpkins--came with a letter asking me to go up to the castle, so i shall get round there to lunch. it is about this fresh loan that the old gentleman wishes to negotiate. of course i shall be obliged to tell him that instead of giving a fresh loan we have orders to serve a notice on him." "don't do that just yet," said edward with decision. "write to the house and say that their instructions shall be attended to. there is no hurry about the notice, though i don't see how i am to help in the matter. indeed there is no call upon me." "very well, mr. cossey. and now, by the way, are you going to the castle this afternoon?" "yes, i believe so. why?" "well, i want to get up there to luncheon, and i am in a fix. mrs. quest will want the trap to go there this afternoon. can you lend me your dogcart to drive up in? and then perhaps you would not mind if she gave you a lift this afternoon." "very well," answered edward, "that is if it suits mrs. quest. perhaps she may object to carting me about the country." "i have not observed any such reluctance on her part," said the lawyer dryly, "but we can easily settle the question. i must go home and get some plans before i attend the vestry meeting about that pinnacle. will you step across with me and we can ask her?" "oh yes," he answered. "i have nothing particular to do." and accordingly, so soon as mr. quest had made some small arrangements and given particular directions to his clerks as to his whereabouts for the day, they set off together for the lawyer's private house. chapter viii mr. quest's wife mr. quest lived in one of those ugly but comfortably-built old red brick houses which abound in almost every country town, and which give us the clearest possible idea of the want of taste and love of material comfort that characterised the age in which they were built. this house looked out on to the market place, and had a charming old walled garden at the back, famous for its nectarines, which, together with the lawn tennis court, was, as mrs. quest would say, almost enough to console her for living in a town. the front door, however, was only separated by a little flight of steps from the pavement upon which the house abutted. entering a large, cool-looking hall, mr. quest paused and asked a servant who was passing there where her mistress was. "in the drawing-room, sir," said the girl; and, followed by edward cossey, he walked down a long panelled passage till he reached a door on the left. this he opened quickly and passed through into a charming, modern-looking room, handsomely and even luxuriously furnished, and lighted by french windows opening on to the walled garden. a little lady dressed in some black material was standing at one of these windows, her arms crossed behind her back, and absently gazing out of it. at the sound of the opening door she turned swiftly, her whole delicate and lovely face lighting up like a flower in a ray of sunshine, the lips slightly parted, and a deep and happy light shining in her violet eyes. then, all in an instant, it was instructive to observe _how_ instantaneously, her glance fell upon her husband (for the lady was mrs. quest) and her entire expression changed to one of cold aversion, the light fading out of her face as it does from a november sky, and leaving it cold and hard. mr. quest, who was a man who saw everything, saw this also, and smiled bitterly. "don't be alarmed, belle," he said in a low voice; "i have brought mr. cossey with me." she flushed up to the eyes, a great wave of colour, and her breast heaved; but before she could answer, edward cossey, who had stopped behind to wipe some mud off his shoes, entered the room, and politely offered his hand to mrs. quest, who took it coldly enough. "you are an early visitor, mr. cossey," she said. "yes," said her husband, "but the fault is mine. i have brought mr. cossey over to ask if you can give him a lift up to the castle this afternoon. i have to go there to lunch, and have borrowed his dogcart." "oh yes, with pleasure. but why can't the dogcart come back for mr. cossey?" "well, you see," put in edward, "there is a little difficulty; my groom is ill. but there is really no reason why you should be bothered. i have no doubt that a man can be found to bring it back." "oh no," she said, with a shrug, "it will be all right; only you had better lunch here, that's all, because i want to start early, and go to an old woman's at the other end of honham about some fuchsia cuttings." "i shall be very happy," said he. "very well then, that is settled," said mr. quest, "and now i must get my plans and be off to the vestry meeting. i'm late as it is. with your permission, mr. cossey, i will order the dogcart as i pass your rooms." "certainly," said edward, and in another moment the lawyer was gone. mrs. quest watched the door close and then sat down in a low armchair, and resting her head upon the back, looked up with a steady, enquiring gaze, full into edward cossey's face. and he too looked at her and thought what a beautiful woman she was, in her own way. she was very small, rounded in her figure almost to stoutness, and possessed the tiniest and most beautiful hands and feet. but her greatest charm lay in the face, which was almost infantile in its shape, and delicate as a moss rose. she was exquisitely fair in colouring--indeed, the darkest things about her were her violet eyes, which in some lights looked almost black by contrast with her white forehead and waving auburn hair. presently she spoke. "has my husband gone?" she said. "i suppose so. why do you ask?" "because from what i know of his habits i should think it very likely that he is listening behind the door," and she laughed faintly. "you seem to have a good opinion of him." "i have exactly the opinion of him which he deserves," she said bitterly; "and my opinion of him is that he is one of the wickedest men in england." "if he is behind the door he will enjoy that," said edward cossey. "well, if he is all this, why did you marry him?" "why did i marry him?" she answered with passion, "because i was forced into it, bullied into it, starved into it. what would you do if you were a defenceless, motherless girl of eighteen, with a drunken father who beat you--yes, beat you with a stick--apologised in the most gentlemanlike way next morning and then went and got drunk again? and what would you do if that father were in the hands of a man like my husband, body and soul in his hands, and if between them pressure was brought to bear, and brought to bear, until at last--there, what is the good of going on it with--you can guess the rest." "well, and what did he marry you for--your pretty face?" "i don't know; he said so; it may have had something to do with it. i think it was my ten thousand pounds, for once i had a whole ten thousand pounds of my own, my poor mother left it me, and it was tied up so that my father could not touch it. well, of course, when i married, my husband would not have any settlements, and so he took it, every farthing." "and what did he do with it?" "spent it upon some other woman in london--most of it. i found him out; he gave her thousands of pounds at once." "well, i should not have thought that he was so generous," he said with a laugh. she paused a moment and covered her face with her hand, and then went on: "if you only knew, edward, if you had the faintest idea what my life was till a year and a half ago, when i first saw you, you would pity me and understand why i am bad, and passionate, and jealous, and everything that i ought not to be. i never had any happiness as a girl --how could i in such a home as ours?--and then almost before i was a woman i was handed over to that man. oh, how i hated him, and what i endured!" "yes, it can't have been very pleasant." "pleasant--but there, we have done with each other now--we don't even speak much except in public, that's my price for holding my tongue about the lady in london and one or two other little things--so what is the use of talking of it? it was a horrible nightmare, but it has gone. and then," she went on, fixing her beautiful eyes upon his face, "then i saw you, edward, and for the first time in my life i learnt what love was, and i think that no woman ever loved like that before. other women have had something to care for in their lives, i never had anything till i saw you. it may be wicked, but it's true." he turned slightly away and said nothing. "and yet, dear," she went on in a low voice, "i think it has been one of the hardest things of all--my love for you. for, edward," and she rose and took his hand and looked into his face with her soft full eyes full of tears, "i should have liked to be a blessing to you, and not a curse, and--and--a cause of sin. oh, edward, i should have made you such a good wife, no man could have had a better, and i would have helped you too, for i am not such a fool as i seem, and now i shall do nothing but bring trouble upon you; i know i shall. and it was my fault too, at least most of it; don't ever think that i deceive myself, for i don't; i led you on, i know i did, i meant to--there! think me as shameless as you like, i meant to from the first. and no good can come of it, i know that, although i would not have it undone. no good can ever come of what is wrong. i may be very wicked, but i know that----" and she began to cry outright. this was too much for edward cossey, who, as any man must, had been much touched by this unexpected outburst. "look here, belle," he blurted out on the impulse of the moment, "i am sick and tired of all this sort of thing. for more than a year my life has been nothing but a living lie, and i can't stand it, and that's a fact. i tell you what it is: i think we had better just take the train to paris and go off at once, or else give it all up. it is impossible to go on living in this atmosphere of continual falsehood." she stopped crying. "do you really care for me enough for that, edward?" she said. "yes, yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "you can see i do or i should not make the offer. say the word and i'll do it." she thought for a moment, and then looked up again. "no," she said, "no, edward." "why?" he asked. "are you afraid?" "afraid!" she answered with a gesture of contempt, "what have i to be afraid of? do you suppose such women as i am have any care for consequences? we have got beyond that--that is, for ourselves. but we can still feel a little for others. it would ruin you to do such a thing, socially and in every other way. you know you have often said that your father would cut you out of his will if you compromised yourself and him like that." "oh, yes, he would. i am sure of it. he would never forgive the scandal; he has a hatred of that sort of thing. but i could get a few thousands ready money, and we could change our names and go off to a colony or something." "it is very good of you to say so," she said humbly. "i don't deserve it, and i will not take advantage of you. you will be sorry that you made the offer by to-morrow. ah, yes, i know it is only because i cried. no, we must go on as we are until the end comes, and then you can discard me; for all the blame will follow me, and i shall deserve it, too. i am older than you, you know, and a woman; and my husband will make some money out of you, and then it will all be forgotten, and i shall have had my day and go my own way to oblivion, like thousands of other unfortunate women before me, and it will be all the same a hundred years hence, don't you see? but, edward, remember one thing. don't play me any tricks, for i am not of the sort to bear it. have patience and wait for the end; these things cannot last very long, and i shall never be a burden on you. don't desert me or make me jealous, for i cannot bear it, i cannot, indeed, and i do not know what i might do--make a scandal or kill myself or you, i'm sure i can't say what. you nearly sent me wild the other day when you were carrying on with miss de la molle--ah, yes, i saw it all--i have suspected you for a long time, and sometimes i think that you are really in love with her. and now, sir, i tell you what it is, we have had enough of this melancholy talk to last me for a month. why did you come here at all this morning, just when i wanted to get you out of my head for an hour or two and think about my garden? i suppose it was a trick of mr. quest's bringing you here. he has got some fresh scheme on, i am sure of it from his face. well, it can't be helped, and, since you are here, mr. edward cossey, tell me how you like my new dress," and she posed herself and courtesied before him. "black, you see, to match my sins and show off my complexion. doesn't it fit well?" "charmingly," he said, laughing in spite of himself, for he felt in no laughing mood, "and now i tell you what it is, belle, i am not going to stop here all the morning, and lunch, and that sort of thing. it does not look well, to say the least of it. the probability is that half the old women in boisingham have got their eyes fixed on the hall door to see how long i stay. i shall go down to the office and come back at half-past two." "a very nice excuse to get rid of me," she said, "but i daresay you are right, and i want to see about the garden. there, good-bye, and mind you are not late, for i want to have a nice drive round to the castle. not that there is much need to warn you to be in time when you are going to see miss de la molle, is there? good-bye, good-bye." chapter ix the shadow of ruin mr. quest walked to his vestry meeting with a smile upon his thin, gentlemanly-looking face, and rage and bitterness in his heart. "i caught her that time," he said to himself; "she can do a good deal in the way of deceit, but she can't keep the blood out of her cheeks when she hears that fellow's name. but she is a clever woman, belle is --how well she managed that little business of the luncheon, and how well she fought her case when once she got me in a cleft stick about edith and that money of hers, and made good terms too. ah! that's the worst of it, she has the whip hand of me there; if i could ruin her she could ruin me, and it's no use cutting off one's nose to spite your face. well! my fine lady," he went on with an ominous flash of his grey eyes, "i shall be even with you yet. give you enough rope and you will hang yourself. you love this fellow, i know that, and it will go hard if i can't make him break your heart for you. bah! you don't know the sort of stuff men are made of. if only i did not happen to be in love with you myself i should not care. if----ah! here i am at the church." the human animal is a very complicated machine, and can conduct the working of an extraordinary number of different interests and sets of ideas, almost, if not entirely, simultaneously. for instance, mr. quest--seated at the right hand of the rector in the vestry room of the beautiful old boisingham church, and engaged in an animated and even warm discussion with the senior curate on the details of fourteenth century church work, in which he clearly took a lively interest and understood far better than did the curate--would have been exceedingly difficult to identify with the scheming, vindictive creature whom we have just followed up the church path. but after all, that is the way of human nature, although it may not be the way of those who try to draw it and who love to paint the villain black as the evil one and the virtuous heroine so radiant that we begin to fancy we can hear the whispering of her wings. few people are altogether good or altogether bad; indeed it is probable that the vast majority are neither good nor bad--they have not the strength to be the one or the other. here and there, however, we do meet a spirit with sufficient will and originality to press the scale down this way or that, though even then the opposing force, be it good or evil, is constantly striving to bring the balance equal. even the most wicked men have their redeeming points and righteous instincts, nor are their thoughts continually fixed upon iniquity. mr. quest, for instance, one of the evil geniuses of this history, was, where his plots and passions were not immediately concerned, a man of eminently generous and refined tendencies. many were the good turns, contradictory as it may seem, that he had done to his poorer neighbours; he had even been known to forego his bills of costs, which is about the highest and rarest exhibition of earthly virtue that can be expected from a lawyer. he was moreover eminently a cultured man, a reader of the classics, in translations if not in the originals, a man with a fine taste in fiction and poetry, and a really sound and ripe archaeological knowledge, especially where sacred buildings were concerned. all his instincts, also, were towards respectability. his most burning ambition was to secure a high position in the county in which he lived, and to be classed among the resident gentry. he hated his lawyer's work, and longed to accumulate sufficient means to be able to give it the good-bye and to indulge himself in an existence of luxurious and learned leisure. such as he was he had made himself, for he was the son of a poor and inferior country dentist, and had begun life with a good education, it is true, which he chiefly owed to his own exertions, but with nothing else. had his nature been a temperate nature with a balance of good to its credit to draw upon instead of a balance of evil, he was a man who might have gone very far indeed, for in addition to his natural ability he had a great power of work. but unfortunately this was not the case; his instincts on the whole were evil instincts, and his passions--whether of hate, or love, or greed, when they seized him did so with extraordinary violence, rendering him for the time being utterly callous to the rights or feelings of others, provided that he attained his end. in short, had he been born to a good position and a large fortune, it is quite possible, providing always that his strong passions had not at some period of his life led him irremediably astray, that he would have lived virtuous and respected, and died in good odour, leaving behind him a happy memory. but fate had placed him in antagonism with the world, and yet had endowed him with a gnawing desire to be of the world, as it appeared most desirable to him; and then, to complete his ruin circumstances had thrown him into temptations from which inexperience and the headlong strength of his passions gave him no opportunity to escape. it may at first appear strange that a man so calculating and whose desires seemed to be fixed upon such a material end as the acquirement by artifice or even fraud of the wealth which he coveted, should also nourish in his heart so bitter a hatred and so keen a thirst for revenge upon a woman as mr. quest undoubtedly did towards his beautiful wife. it would have seemed more probable that he would have left heroics alone and attempted to turn his wife's folly into a means of wealth and self-advancement: and this would no doubt have been so had mrs. quest's estimate of his motives in marrying her been an entirely correct one. she had told edward cossey, it will be remembered, that her husband had married her for her money--the ten thousand pounds of which he stood so badly in need. now this was the truth to a certain extent, and a certain extent only. he had wanted the ten thousand pounds, in fact at the moment money was necessary to him. but, and this his wife had never known or realised, he had been, and still was, also in love with her. possibly the ten thousand pounds would have proved a sufficient inducement to him without the love, but the love was none the less there. their relations, however, had never been happy ones. she had detested him from the first, and had not spared to say so. no man with any refinement--and whatever he lacked mr. quest had refinement--could bear to be thus continually repulsed by a woman, and so it came to pass that their intercourse had always been of the most strained nature. then when she at last had obtained the clue to the secret of his life, under threat of exposure she drove her bargain, of which the terms were complete separation in all but outward form, and virtual freedom of action for herself. this, considering the position, she was perhaps justified in doing, but her husband never forgave her for it. more than that, he determined, if by any means it were possible, to turn the passion which, although she did not know it, he was perfectly aware she bore towards his business superior, edward cossey, to a refined instrument of vengeance against her, with what success it will be one of the purposes of this history to show. such, put as briefly as possible, were the outlines of the character and aims of this remarkable and contradictory man. within an hour and a half of leaving his own house, "the oaks," as it was called, although the trees from which it had been so named had long since vanished from the garden, mr. quest was bowling swiftly along behind edward cossey's powerful bay horse towards the towering gateway of honham castle. when he was within three hundred yards an idea struck him; he pulled the horse up sharply, for he was alone in the dogcart, and paused to admire the view. "what a beautiful place!" he reflected to himself with enthusiasm, "and how grandly those old towers stand out against the sky. the squire has restored them very well, too, there is no doubt about it; i could not have done it better myself. i wonder if that place will ever be mine. things look black now, but they may come round, and i think i am beginning to see my way." and then he started the horse on again, reflecting on the unpleasant nature of the business before him. personally he both liked and respected the old squire, and he certainly pitied him, though he would no more have dreamed of allowing his liking and pity to interfere with the prosecution of his schemes, than an ardent sportsman would dream of not shooting pheasants because he had happened to take a friendly interest in their nurture. he had also a certain gentlemanlike distaste to being the bearer of crushing bad news, for mr. quest disliked scenes, possibly because he had such an intimate personal acquaintance with them. whilst he was still wondering how he might best deal with the matter, he passed over the moat and through the ancient gateway which he admired so fervently, and found himself in front of the hall door. here he pulled up, looking about for somebody to take his horse, when suddenly the squire himself emerged upon him with a rush. "hullo, quest, is that you?" he shouted, as though his visitor had been fifty yards off instead of five. "i have been looking out for you. here, william! william!" (crescendo), "william!" (fortissimo), "where on earth is the boy? i expect that idle fellow, george, has been sending him on some of his errands instead of attending to them himself. whenever he is wanted to take a horse he is nowhere to be found, and then it is 'please, sir, mr. george,' that's what he calls him, 'please, sir, mr. george sent me up to the moat farm or somewhere to see how many eggs the hens laid last week,' or something of the sort. that's a very nice horse you have got there, by the way, very nice indeed." "it is not my horse, mr. de la molle," said the lawyer, with a faint smile, "it is mr. edward cossey's." "oh! it's mr. edward cossey's, is it?" answered the old gentleman with a sudden change of voice. "ah, mr. edward cossey's? well, it's a very good horse anyhow, and i suppose that mr. cossey can afford to buy good horses." just then a faint cry of "coming, sir, coming," was heard, and a long hobble-de-hoy kind of youth, whose business it was to look after the not extensive castle stables, emerged in a great heat from round the corner of the house. "now, where on earth have you been?" began the squire, in a stentorian tone. "if you please, sir, mr. george----" "there, what did i tell you?" broke in the squire. "have i not told you time after time that you are to mind your own business, and leave 'mr. george' to mind his? now take that horse round to the stables, and see that it is properly fed. "come, quest, come in. we have a quarter of an hour before luncheon, and can get our business over," and he led the way through the passage into the tapestried and panelled vestibule, where he took his stand before the empty fireplace. mr. quest followed him, stopping, ostensibly to admire a particularly fine suit of armour which hung upon the wall, but really to gain another moment for reflection. "a beautiful suit of the early stuart period, mr. de la molle," he said; "i never saw a better." "yes, yes, that belonged to old sir james, the one whom the roundheads shot." "what! the sir james who hid the treasure?" "yes. i was telling that story to our new neighbour, colonel quaritch, last night--a very nice fellow, by the way; you should go and call upon him." "i wonder what he did with it," said mr. quest. "ah, so do i, and so will many another, i dare say. i wish that i could find it, i'm sure. it's wanted badly enough now-a-days. but that reminds me, quest. you will have gathered my difficulty from my note and what george told you. you see this man janter--thanks to that confounded fellow, major boston, and his action about those college lands--has thrown up the moat farm, and george tells me that there is not another tenant to be had for love or money. in fact, you know what it is, one can't get tenants now-a-days, they simply are not to be had. well, under these circumstances, there is, of course, only one thing to be done that i know of, and that is to take the farm in hand and farm it myself. it is quite impossible to let the place fall out of cultivation--and that is what would happen otherwise, for if i were to lay it down in grass it would cost a considerable sum, and be seven or eight years before i got any return." the squire paused and mr. quest said nothing. "well," he went on, "that being so, the next thing to do is to obtain the necessary cash to pay janter his valuation and stock the place--about four thousand would do it, or perhaps," he added, with an access of generous confidence, "we had better say five. there are about fifty acres of those low-lying meadows which want to be thoroughly bush drained--bushes are quite as good as pipes for that stiff land, if they put in the right sort of stuff, and it don't cost half so much--but still it can't be done for nothing, and then there is a new wagon shed wanted, and some odds and ends; yes, we had better say five thousand." still mr. quest made no answer, so once more the squire went on. "well, you see, under these circumstances--not being able to lay hands upon the necessary capital from my private resources, of course i have made up my mind to apply to cossey and son for the loan. indeed, considering how long and intimate has been the connection between their house and the de la molle family, i think it right and proper to do so; indeed, i should consider it very wrong of me if i neglected to give them the opportunity of the investment"--here a faint smile flickered for an instant on mr. quest's face and then went out--"of course they will, as a matter of business, require security, and very properly so, but as this estate is unentailed, there will fortunately be very little difficulty about that. you can draw up the necessary deeds, and i think that under the circumstances the right thing to do would be to charge the moat farm specifically with the amount. things are bad enough, no doubt, but i can hardly suppose it possible under any conceivable circumstances that the farm would not be good for five thousand pounds. however, they might perhaps prefer to have a general clause as well, and if it is so, although i consider it quite unnecessary, i shall raise no objection to that course." then at last mr. quest broke his somewhat ominous silence. "i am very sorry to say, mr. de la molle," he said gently, "that i can hold out no prospect of cossey and son being induced, under any circumstances, to advance another pound upon the security of the honham castle estates. their opinion of the value of landed property as security has received so severe a shock, that they are not at all comfortable as to the safety of the amount already invested." mr. de la molle started when he heard this most unexpected bit of news, for which he was totally unprepared. he had always found it possible to borrow money, and it had never occurred to him that a time might perhaps come in this country, when the land, which he held in almost superstitious veneration, would be so valueless a form of property that lenders would refuse it as security. "why," he said, recovering himself, "the total encumbrances on the property do not amount to more than twenty-five thousand pounds, and when i succeeded to my father, forty years ago, it was valued at fifty, and the castle and premises have been thoroughly repaired since then at a cost of five thousand, and most of the farm buildings too." "very possibly, de la molle, but to be honest, i very much doubt if honham castle and the lands round it would now fetch twenty-five thousand pounds on a forced sale. competition and radical agitation have brought estates down more than people realise, and land in australia and new zealand is now worth almost as much per acre as cultivated lands in england. perhaps as a residential property and on account of its historical interest it might fetch more, but i doubt it. in short, mr. de la molle, so anxious are cossey and son in the matter, that i regret to have to tell you that so far from being willing to make a further advance, the firm have formally instructed me to serve the usual six months' notice on you, calling in the money already advanced on mortgage, together with the interest, which i must remind you is nearly a year overdue, and this step i propose to take to-morrow." the old gentleman staggered for a moment, and caught at the mantelpiece, for the blow was a heavy one, and as unexpected as it was heavy. but he recovered himself in an instant, for it was one of the peculiarities of his character that his spirits always seemed to rise to the occasion in the face of urgent adversity--in short, he possessed an extraordinary share of moral courage. "indeed," he said indignantly, "indeed, it is a pity that you did not tell me that at once, mr. quest; it would have saved me from putting myself in a false position by proposing a business arrangement which is not acceptable. as regards the interest, i admit that it is as you say, and i very much regret it. that stupid fellow george is always so dreadfully behindhand with his accounts that i can never get anything settled." (he did not state, and indeed did not know, that the reason that the unfortunate george was behindhand was that there were no accounts to make up, or rather that they were all on the wrong side of the ledger). "i will have that matter seen to at once. of course, business people are quite right to consider their due, and i do not blame messrs. cossey in the matter, not in the least. still, i must say that, considering the long and intimate relationship that has for nearly two centuries existed between their house and my family, they might--well--have shown a little more consideration." "yes," said mr. quest, "i daresay that the step strikes you as a harsh one. to be perfectly frank with you, mr. de la molle, it struck me as a very harsh one; but, of course, i am only a servant, and bound to carry out my instructions. i sympathise with you very much--very much indeed." "oh, don't do that," said the old gentleman. "of course, other arrangements must be made; and, much as it will pain me to terminate my connection with messrs. cossey, they shall be made." "but i think," went on the lawyer, without any notice of his interruption, "that you misunderstand the matter a little. cossey and son are only a trading corporation, whose object is to make money by lending it, or otherwise--at all hazards to make money. the kind of feeling that you allude to, and that might induce them, in consideration of long intimacy and close connection in the past, to forego the opportunity of so doing and even to run a risk of loss, is a thing which belongs to former generations. but the present is a strictly commercial age, and we are the most commercial of the trading nations. cossey and son move with the times, that is all, and they would rather sell up a dozen families who had dealt with them for two centuries than lose five hundred pounds, provided, of course, that they could do so without scandal and loss of public respect, which, where a banking house is concerned, also means a loss of custom. i am a great lover of the past myself, and believe that our ancestors' ways of doing business were, on the whole, better and more charitable than ours, but i have to make my living and take the world as i find it, mr. de la molle." "quite so, quest; quite so," answered the squire quietly. "i had no idea that you looked at these matters in such a light. certainly the world has changed a good deal since i was a young man, and i do not think it has changed much for the better. but you will want your luncheon; it is hungry work talking about foreclosures." mr. quest had not used this unpleasant word, but the squire had seen his drift. "come into the next room," and he led the way to the drawing-room, where ida was sitting reading the _times_. "ida," he said, with an affectation of heartiness which did not, however, deceive his daughter, who knew how to read every change of her dear father's face, "here is mr. quest. take him in to luncheon, my love. i will come presently. i want to finish a note." then he returned to the vestibule and sat down in his favourite old oak chair. "ruined," he said to himself. "i can never get the money as things are, and there will be a foreclosure. well, i am an old man and i hope that i shall not live to see it. but there is ida. poor ida! i cannot bear to think of it, and the old place too, after all these generations--after all these generations!" chapter x the tennis party ida shook hands coldly enough with the lawyer, for whom she cherished a dislike not unmixed with fear. many women are by nature gifted with an extraordinary power of intuition which fully makes up for their deficiency in reasoning force. they do not conclude from the premisses of their observation, they _know_ that this man is to be feared and that trusted. in fact, they share with the rest of breathing creation that self-protective instinct of instantaneous and almost automatic judgment, given to guard it from the dangers with which it is continually threatened at the hands of man's over-mastering strength and ordered intelligence. ida was one of these. she knew nothing to mr. quest's disadvantage, indeed she always heard him spoken of with great respect, and curiously enough she liked his wife. but she could not bear the man, feeling in her heart that he was not only to be avoided on account of his own hidden qualities, but that he was moreover an active personal enemy. they went into the dining-room, where the luncheon was set, and while ida allowed mr. quest to cut her some cold boiled beef, an operation in which he did not seem to be very much at home, she came to a rapid conclusion in her own mind. she had seen clearly enough from her father's face that his interview with the lawyer had been of a most serious character, but she knew that the chances were that she would never be able to get its upshot out of him, for the old gentleman had a curious habit of keeping such unpleasant matters to himself until he was absolutely forced by circumstances to reveal them. she also knew that her father's affairs were in a most critical condition, for this she had extracted from him on the previous night, and that if any remedy was to be attempted it must be attempted at once, and on some heroic scale. therefore, she made up her mind to ask her _bete noire_, mr. quest, what the truth might be. "mr. quest," she said, with some trepidation, as he at last triumphantly handed her the beef, "i hope you will forgive me for asking you a plain question, and that, if you can, you will favour me with a plain answer. i know my father's affairs are very much involved, and that he is now anxious to borrow some more money; but i do not know quite how matters stand, and i want to learn the exact truth." "i am very glad to hear you speak so, miss de la molle," answered the lawyer, "because i was trying to make up my mind to broach the subject, which is a painful one to me. frankly, then--forgive me for saying it, your father is absolutely ruined. the interest on the mortgages is a year in arrear, his largest farm has just been thrown upon his hands, and, to complete the tale, the mortgagees are going to call in their money or foreclose." at this statement, which was almost brutal in its brief comprehensiveness, ida turned pale as death, as well she might, and dropped her fork with a clatter upon the plate. "i did not realise that things were quite so bad," she murmured. "then i suppose that the place will be taken from us, and we shall--shall have to go away." "yes, certainly, unless money can be found to take up the mortgages, of which i see no chance. the place will be sold for what it will fetch, and that now-a-days will be no great sum." "when will that be?" she asked. "in about six or nine months' time." ida's lips trembled, and the sight of the food upon her plate became nauseous to her. a vision arose before her mind's eye of herself and her old father departing hand in hand from the castle gates, behind and about which gleamed the hard wild lights of a march sunset, to seek a place to hide themselves. the vivid horror of the phantasy almost overcame her. "is there no way of escape?" she asked hoarsely. "to lose this place would kill my father. he loves it better than anything in the world; his whole life is wrapped up in it." "i can quite understand that, miss de la molle; it is a most charming old place, especially to anybody interested in the past. but unfortunately mortgagees are no respecters of feelings. to them land is so much property and nothing more." "i know all that," she said impatiently, "you do not answer my question;" and she leaned towards him, resting her hand upon the table. "is there no way out of it?" mr. quest drank a little claret before he answered. "yes," he said, "i think that there is, if only you will take it." "what way?" she asked eagerly. "well, though as i said just now, the mortgagees of an estate as a body are merely a business corporation, and look at things from a business point of view only, you must remember that they are composed of individuals, and that individuals can be influenced if they can be got at. for instance, cossey and son are an abstraction and harshly disposed in their abstract capacity, but mr. edward cossey is an individual, and i should say, so far as this particular matter is concerned, a benevolently disposed individual. now mr. edward cossey is not himself at the present moment actually one of the firm of cossey and son, but he is the heir of the head of the house, and of course has authority, and, what is better still, the command of money." "i understand," said ida. "you mean that my father should try to win over mr. edward cossey. unfortunately, to be frank, he dislikes him, and my father is not a man to keep his dislikes to himself." "people generally do dislike those to whom they are crushingly indebted; your father dislikes mr. cossey because his name is cossey, and for no other reason. but that is not quite what i meant--i do not think that the squire is the right person to undertake a negotiation of the sort. he is a little too outspoken and incautious. no, miss de la molle, if it is to be done at all _you_ must do it. you must put the whole case before him at once--this very afternoon, there is no time for delay; you need not enter into details, he knows all about them--only ask him to avert this catastrophe. he can do so if he likes, how he does it is his own affair." "but, mr. quest," said ida, "how can i ask such a favour of any man? i shall be putting myself in a dreadfully false position." "i do not pretend, miss de la molle, that it is a pleasant task for any young lady to undertake. i quite understand your shrinking from it. but sometimes one has to do unpleasant things and make compromises with one's self-respect. it is a question whether or no your family shall be utterly ruined and destroyed. there is, as i honestly believe, no prospect whatever of your father being able to get the money to pay off cossey and son, and if he did, it would not help him, because he could not pay the interest on it. under these circumstances you have to choose between putting yourself in an equivocal position and letting events take their course. it would be useless for anybody else to undertake the task, and of course i cannot guarantee that even you will succeed, but i will not mince matters--as you doubtless know, any man would find it hard to refuse a favour asked by such a suppliant. and now you must make up your own mind. i have shown you a path that may lead your family from a position of the most imminent peril. if you are the woman i take you for, you will not shrink from following it." ida made no reply, and in another moment the squire came in to take a couple of glasses of sherry and a biscuit. but mr. quest, furtively watching her face, said to himself that she had taken the bait and that she would do it. shortly after this a diversion occurred, for the clergyman, mr. jeffries, a pleasant little man, with a round and shining face and a most unclerical eyeglass, came up to consult the squire upon some matter of parish business, and was shown into the dining-room. ida took advantage of his appearance to effect a retreat to her own room, and there for the present we may leave her to her meditations. no more business was discussed by the squire that afternoon. indeed it interested mr. quest, who was above all things a student of character, to observe how wonderfully the old gentleman threw off his trouble. to listen to him energetically arguing with the rev. mr. jeffries as to whether or no it would be proper, as had hitherto been the custom, to devote the proceeds of the harvest festival collection ( pound s. d. and a brass button) to the county hospital, or whether it should be applied to the repair of the woodwork in the vestry, was under the circumstances most instructive. the rev. mr. jeffries, who suffered severely from the condition of the vestry, at last gained his point by triumphantly showing that no patient from honham had been admitted to the hospital for fifteen months, and that therefore the hospital had no claim on this particular year, whereas the draught in the vestry was enough to cut any clergyman in two. "well, well," said the old gentleman, "i will consent for this year, and this year only. i have been churchwarden of this parish for between forty and fifty years, and we have always given the harvest festival collection to the hospital, and although under these exceptional circumstances it may possibly be desirable to diverge from that custom, i cannot and will not consent to such a thing in a permanent way. so i shall write to the secretary and explain the matter, and tell him that next year and in the future generally the collection will be devoted to its original purpose." "great heavens!" ejaculated mr. quest to himself. "and the man must know that in all human probability the place will be sold over his head before he is a year older. i wonder if he puts it on or if he deceives himself. i suppose he has lived here so long that he cannot realise a condition of things under which he will cease to live here and the place will belong to somebody else. or perhaps he is only brazening it out." and then he strolled away to the back of the house and had a look at the condition of the outhouses, reflecting that some of them would be sadly expensive to repair for whoever came into possession here. after that he crossed the moat and walked through the somewhat extensive plantations at the back of the house, wondering if it would not be possible to get enough timber out of them, if one went to work judiciously, to pay for putting the place in order. presently he came to a hedgerow where a row of very fine timber oaks had stood, of which the squire had been notoriously fond, and of which he had himself taken particular and admiring notice in the course of the previous winter. the trees were gone. in the hedge where they had grown were a series of gaps like those in an old woman's jaw, and the ground was still littered with remains of bark and branches and of faggots that had been made up from the brushwood. "cut down this spring fell," was mr. quest's ejaculation. "poor old gentleman, he must have been pinched before he consented to part with those oaks." then he turned and went back to the house, just in time to see ida's guests arriving for the lawn tennis party. ida herself was standing on the lawn behind the house, which, bordered as it was by the moat and at the further end by a row of ruined arches, was one of the most picturesque in the country and a very effective setting to any young lady. as the people came they were shown through the house on to the lawn, and here she was receiving them. she was dressed in a plain, tight-fitting gown of blue flannel, which showed off her perfect figure to great advantage, and a broad-brimmed hat, that shaded her fine and dignified face. mr. quest sat down on a bench beneath the shade of an arbutus, watching her closely, and indeed, if the study of a perfect english lady of the noblest sort has any charms, he was not without his reward. there are some women--most of us know one or two--who are born to hold a great position and to sail across the world like a swan through meaner fowl. it would be very hard to say to what their peculiar charm and dignity is owing. it is not to beauty only, for though they have presence, many of these women are not beautiful, while some are even plain. nor does it spring from native grace and tact alone; though these things must be present. rather perhaps it is the reflection of a cultivated intellect acting upon a naturally pure and elevated temperament, which makes these ladies conspicuous and fashions them in such kind that all men, putting aside the mere charm of beauty and the natural softening of judgment in the atmosphere of sex, must recognise in them an equal mind, and a presence more noble than their own. such a woman was ida de la molle, and if any one doubted it, it was sufficient to compare her in her simplicity to the various human items by whom she was surrounded. they were a typical county society gathering, such as needs no description, and would not greatly interest if described; neither very good nor very bad, very handsome nor very plain, but moving religiously within the lines of custom and on the ground of commonplace. it is no wonder, then, that a woman like ida de la molle was _facile princeps_ among such company, or that harold quaritch, who was somewhat poetically inclined for a man of his age, at any rate where the lady in question was concerned, should in his heart have compared her to a queen. even belle quest, lovely as she undoubtedly was in her own way, paled and looked shopgirlish in face of that gentle dignity, a fact of which she was evidently aware, for although the two women were friendly, nothing would induce the latter to stand long near ida in public. she would tell edward cossey that it made her look like a wax doll beside a live child. while mr. quest was still watching ida with complete satisfaction, for she appealed to the artistic side of his nature, colonel quaritch arrived upon the scene, looking, mr. quest thought, particularly plain with his solid form, his long thin nose, light whiskers, and square massive chin. also he looked particularly imposing in contrast to the youths and maidens and domesticated clergymen. there was a gravity, almost a solemnity, about his bronzed countenance and deliberate ordered conversation, which did not, however, favourably impress the aforesaid youths and maidens, if a judgment might be formed from such samples of conversational criticism as mr. quest heard going on on the further side of his arbutus. chapter xi ida's bargain when ida saw the colonel coming, she put on her sweetest smile and took his outstretched hand. "how do you do, colonel quaritch?" she said. "it is very good of you to come, especially as you don't play tennis much--by the way, i hope you have been studying that cypher, for i am sure it is a cypher." "i studied it for half-an-hour before i went to bed last night, miss de la molle, and for the life of me i could not make anything out of it, and what's more, i don't think that there is anything to make out." "ah," she answered with a sigh, "i wish there was." "well, i'll have another try at it. what will you give me if i find it out?" he said with a smile which lighted up his rugged face most pleasantly. "anything you like to ask and that i can give," she answered in a tone of earnestness which struck him as peculiar, for of course he did not know the news that she had just heard from mr. quest. then for the first time for many years, harold quaritch delivered himself of a speech that might have been capable of a tender and hidden meaning. "i am afraid," he said, bowing, "that if i came to claim the reward, i should ask for more even that you would be inclined to give." ida blushed a little. "we can consider that when you do come, colonel quaritch--excuse me, but here are mrs. quest and mr. cossey, and i must go and say how do you do." harold quaritch looked round, feeling unreasonably irritated at this interruption to his little advances, and for the first time saw edward cossey. he was coming along in the wake of mrs. quest, looking very handsome and rather languid, when their eyes met, and to speak the truth, the colonel's first impression was not a complimentary one. edward cossey was in some ways not a bad fellow, but like a great many young men who are born with silver spoons in their mouths, he had many airs and graces, one of which was the affectation of treating older and better men with an assumption of off-handedness and even of superiority that was rather obnoxious. thus while ida was greeting mr. quest, he was engaged in taking in the colonel in a way which irritated that gentleman considerably. presently ida turned and introduced colonel quaritch, first to mrs. quest and then to mr. cossey. harold bowed to each, and then strolled off to meet the squire, whom he noted advancing with his usual array of protective towels hanging out of his hat, and for a while saw neither of them any more. meanwhile mr. quest had emerged from the shelter of his arbutus, and going from one person to another, said some pleasant and appropriate word to each, till at last he reached the spot where his wife and edward cossey were standing. nodding affectionately at the former, he asked her if she was not going to play tennis, and then drew cossey aside. "well, quest," said the latter, "have you told the old man?" "yes, i told him." "how did he take it?" "oh, talked it off and said that of course other arrangements must be made. i spoke to miss de la molle too." "indeed," said edward, in a changed tone, "and how did she take it?" "well," answered the lawyer, putting on an air of deep concern (and as a matter of fact he really did feel sorry for her), "i think it was the most painful professional experience that i ever had. the poor woman was utterly crushed. she said that it would kill her father." "poor girl!" said mr. cossey, in a voice that showed his sympathy to be of a very active order, "and how pluckily she is carrying it off too--look at her," and he pointed to where ida was standing, a lawn tennis bat in her hand and laughingly arranging a "set" of married _versus_ single. "yes, she is a spirited girl," answered mr. quest, "and what a splendid woman she looks, doesn't she? i never saw anybody who was so perfect a lady--there is nobody to touch her round here, unless," he added meditatively, "perhaps it is belle." "there are different types of beauty," answered edward cossey, flinching. "yes, but equally striking in their separate ways. well, it can't be helped, but i feel sorry for that poor woman, and the old gentleman too--ah, there he is." as he was speaking the squire, who was walking past with colonel quaritch, with the object of showing him the view from the end of the moat, suddenly came face to face with edward cossey. he at once stepped forward to greet him, but to his surprise was met by a cold and most stately bow from mr. de la molle, who passed on without vouchsafing a single word. "old idiot!" ejaculated mr. quest to himself, "he will put cossey's back up and spoil the game." "well," said edward aloud and colouring almost to his eyes. "that old gentleman knows how to be insolent." "you must not mind him, mr. cossey," answered quest hastily. "the poor old boy has a very good idea of himself--he is dreadfully injured because cossey and son are calling in the mortgages after the family has dealt with them for so many generations; and he thinks that you have something to do with it." "well if he does he might as well be civil. it does not particularly incline a fellow to go aside to pull him out of the ditch, just to be cut in that fashion--i have half a mind to order my trap and go." "no, no, don't do that--you must make allowances, you must indeed--look, here is miss de la molle coming to ask you to play tennis." at this moment ida arrived and took off edward cossey with her, not a little to the relief of mr. quest, who began to fear that the whole scheme was spoiled by the squire's unfortunate magnificence of manner. edward played his game, having ida herself as his partner. it cannot be said that the set was a pleasant one for the latter, who, poor woman, was doing her utmost to bring up her courage to the point necessary to the carrying out of the appeal _ad misericordiam_, which she had decided to make as soon as the game was over. however, chance put an opportunity in her way, for edward cossey, who had a curious weakness for flowers, asked her if she would show him her chrysanthemums, of which she was very proud. she consented readily enough. they crossed the lawn, and passing through some shrubbery reached the greenhouse, which was placed at the end of the castle itself. here for some minutes they looked at the flowers, just now bursting into bloom. ida, who felt exceedingly nervous, was all the while wondering how on earth she could broach so delicate a subject, when fortunately mr. cossey himself gave her the necessary opening. "i can't imagine, miss de la molle," he said, "what i have done to offend your father--he almost cut me just now." "are you sure that he saw you, mr. cossey; he is very absent-minded sometimes?" "oh yes, he saw me, but when i offered to shake hands with him he only bowed in rather a crushing way and passed on." ida broke off a scarlet turk from its stem, and nervously began to pick the bloom to pieces. "the fact is, mr. cossey--the fact is, my father, and indeed i also, are in great trouble just now, about money matters you know, and my father is very apt to be prejudiced,--in short, i rather believe that he thinks you may have something to do with his difficulties--but perhaps you know all about it." "i know something, miss de la molle," said he gravely, "and i hope and trust you do not believe that i have anything to do with the action which cossey and son have thought fit to take." "no, no," she said hastily. "i never thought anything of the sort--but i know that you have influence--and, well, to be plain, mr. cossey, i implore of you to use it. perhaps you will understand that this is very humiliating for me to be obliged to ask this, though you can never guess _how_ humiliating. believe me, mr. cossey, i would never ask it for myself, but it is for my father--he loves this place better than his life; it would be much better he should die than that he should be obliged to leave it; and if this money is called in, that is what must happen, because the place will be sold over us. i believe he would go mad, i do indeed," and she stopped speaking and stood before him, the fragment of the flower in her hand, her breast heaving with emotion. "what do you suggest should be done, miss de la molle?" said edward cossey gently. "i suggest that--that--if you will be so kind, you should persuade cossey and son to forego their intention of calling in the money." "it is quite impossible," he answered. "my father ordered the step himself, and he is a hard man. it is impossible to turn him if he thinks he will lose money by turning. you see he is a banker, and has been handling money all his life, till it has become a sort of god to him. really i do believe that he would rather beggar every friend he has than lose five thousand pounds." "then there is no more to be said. the place must go, that's all," replied ida, turning away her head and affecting to busy herself in removing some dried leaves from a chrysanthemum plant. edward, watching her however, saw her shoulders shake and a big tear fall like a raindrop on the pavement, and the sight, strongly attracted as he was and had for some time been towards the young lady, was altogether too much for him. in an instant, moved by an overwhelming impulse, and something not unlike a gust of passion, he came to one of those determinations which so often change the whole course and tenour of men's lives. "miss de la molle," he said rapidly, "there may be a way found out of it." she looked up enquiringly, and there were the tear stains on her face. "somebody might take up the mortgages and pay off cossey and son." "can you find anyone who will?" she asked eagerly. "no, not as an investment. i understand that thirty thousand pounds are required, and i tell you frankly that as times are i do not for one moment believe the place to be worth that amount. it is all very well for your father to talk about land recovering itself, but at present, at any rate, nobody can see the faintest chance of anything of the sort. the probabilities are, on the contrary, that as the american competition increases, land will gradually sink to something like a prairie value." "then how can money be got if nobody will advance it?" "i did not say that nobody will advance it; i said that nobody would advance it as an investment--a friend might advance it." "and where is such a friend to be found? he must be a very disinterested friend who would advance thirty thousand pounds." "nobody in this world is quite disinterested, miss de la molle; or at any rate very few are. what would you give to such a friend?" "i would give anything and everything over which i have control in this world, to save my father from seeing honham sold over his head," she answered simply. edward cossey laughed a little. "that is a large order," he said. "miss de la molle, _i_ am disposed to try and find the money to take up these mortgages. i have not got it, and i shall have to borrow it, and what is more, i shall have to keep the fact that i have borrowed it a secret from my father." "it is very good of you," said ida faintly, "i don't know what to say." for a moment he made no reply, and looking at him, ida saw that his hand was trembling. "miss de la molle," he said, "there is another matter of which i wish to speak to you. men are sometimes put into strange positions, partly through their own fault, partly by force of circumstances, and when in those positions, are forced down paths that they would not follow. supposing, miss de la molle, that mine were some such position, and supposing that owing to that position i could not say to you words which i should wish to say----" ida began to understand now and once more turned aside. "supposing, however, that at some future time the difficulties of that position of which i have spoken were to fade away, and i were then to speak those words, can you, supposing all this--tell me how they would be received?" ida paused, and thought. she was a strong-natured and clear-headed woman, and she fully understood the position. on her answer would depend whether or no the thirty thousand pounds were forthcoming, and therefore, whether or no honham castle would pass from her father and her race. "i said just now, mr. cossey," she answered coldly, "that i would give anything and everything over which i have control in the world, to save my father from seeing honham sold over his head. i do not wish to retract those words, and i think that in them you will find an answer to your question." he coloured. "you put the matter in a very business-like way," he said. "it is best put so, mr. cossey," she answered with a faint shade of bitterness in her tone; "it preserves me from feeling under an obligation--will you see my father about these mortgages?" "yes, to-morrow. and now i will say good-bye to you," and he took her hand, and with some little hesitation kissed it. she made no resistance and showed no emotion. "yes," she answered, "we have been here some time; mrs. quest will wonder what has become of you." it was a random arrow, but it went straight home, and for the third time that day edward cossey reddened to the roots of his hair. without answering a word he bowed and went. when ida saw this, she was sorry she had made the remark, for she had no wish to appear to mr. cossey (the conquest of whom gave her neither pride nor pleasure) in the light of a spiteful, or worst still, of a jealous woman. she had indeed heard some talk about him and mrs. quest, but not being of a scandal-loving disposition it had not interested her, and she had almost forgotten it. now however she learned that there was something in it. "so that is the difficult position of which he talks," she said to herself; "he wants to marry me as soon as he can get mrs. quest off his hands. and i have consented to that, always provided that mrs. quest can be disposed of, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of thirty thousand pounds. and i do not like the man. it was not nice of him to make that bargain, though i brought it on myself. i wonder if my father will ever know what i have done for him, and if he will appreciate it when he does. well, it is not a bad price--thirty thousand pounds--a good figure for any woman in the present state of the market." and with a hard and bitter laugh, and a prescience of sorrow to come lying at the heart, she threw down the remains of the scarlet turk and turned away. chapter xii george prophesies ida, for obvious reasons, said nothing to her father of her interview with edward cossey, and thus it came to pass that on the morning following the lawn tennis party, there was a very serious consultation between the faithful george and his master. it appeared to ida, who was lying awake in her room, to commence somewhere about daybreak, and it certainly continued with short intervals for refreshment till eleven o'clock in the forenoon. first the squire explained the whole question to george at great length, and with a most extraordinary multiplicity of detail, for he began at his first loan from the house of cossey and son, which he had contracted a great many years before. all this while george sat with a very long face, and tried to look as though he were following the thread of the argument, which was not possible, for his master had long ago lost it himself, and was mixing up the loan of with the loan of , and the money raised in the severance of the entail with both, in a way which would have driven anybody except george, who was used to this sort of thing, perfectly mad. however he sat it through, and when at last the account was finished, remarked that things "sartainly did look queer." thereupon the squire called him a stupid owl, and having by means of some test questions discovered that he knew very little of the details which had just been explained to him at such portentous length, in spite of the protest of the wretched george, who urged that they "didn't seem to be gitting no forrader somehow," he began and went through every word of it again. this brought them to breakfast time, and after breakfast, george's accounts were thoroughly gone into, with the result that confusion was soon worse confounded, for either george could not keep accounts or the squire could not follow them. ida, sitting in the drawing-room, could occasionally hear her father's ejaculatory outbursts after this kind: "why, you stupid donkey, you've added it up all wrong, it's nine hundred and fifty, not three hundred and fifty;" followed by a "no, no, squire, you be a-looking on the wrong side--them there is the dibits," and so on till both parties were fairly played out, and the only thing that remained clear was that the balance was considerably on the wrong side. "well," said the squire at last, "there you are, you see. it appears to me that i am absolutely ruined, and upon my word i believe that it is a great deal owing to your stupidity. you have muddled and muddled and muddled till at last you have muddled us out of house and home." "no, no, squire, don't say that--don't you say that. it ain't none of my doing, for i've been a good sarvant to you if i haven't had much book larning. it's that there dratted borrowing, that's what it is, and the interest and all the rest on it, and though i says it as didn't ought, poor mr. james, god rest him and his free-handed ways. don't you say it's me, squire." "well, well," answered his master, "it doesn't much matter whose fault it is, the result is the same, george; i'm ruined, and i suppose that the place will be sold if anybody can be found to buy it. the de la molles have been here between four and five centuries, and they got it by marriage with the boisseys, who got it from the norman kings, and now it will go to the hammer and be bought by a picture dealer, or a manufacturer of brandy, or someone of that sort. well, everything has its end and god's will be done." "no, no, squire, don't you talk like that," answered george with emotion. "i can't bear to hear you talk like that. and what's more it ain't so." "what do you mean by that?" asked the old gentleman sharply. "it _is_ so, there's no getting over it unless you can find thirty thousand pounds or thereabouts, to take up these mortgages with. nothing short of a miracle can save it. that's always your way. 'oh, something will turn up, something will turn up.'" "thin there'll be a miricle," said george, bringing down a fist like a leg of mutton with a thud upon the table, "it ain't no use of your talking to me, squire. i knaw it, i tell you i knaw it. there'll never be no other than a de la molle up at the castle while we're alive, no, nor while our childer is alive either. if the money's to be found, why drat it, it will be found. don't you think that god almighty is going to put none of them there counter jumpers into honham castle, where gentlefolk hev lived all these ginerations, because he ain't. there, and that's the truth, because i knaw it and so help me god--and if i'm wrong it's a master one." the squire, who was striding up and down the room in his irritation, stopped suddenly in his walk, and looked at his retainer with a sharp and searching gaze upon his noble features. notwithstanding his prejudices, his simplicity, and his occasional absurdities, he was in his own way an able man, and an excellent judge of human nature. even his prejudices were as a rule founded upon some solid ground, only it was as a general rule impossible to get at it. also he had a share of that marvellous instinct which, when it exists, registers the mental altitude of the minds of others with the accuracy of an aneroid. he could tell when a man's words rang true and when they rang false, and what is more when the conviction of the true, and the falsity of the false, rested upon a substantial basis of fact or error. of course the instinct was a vague, and from its nature an undefinable one, but it existed, and in the present instance arose in strength. he looked at the ugly melancholy countenance of the faithful george with that keen glance of his, and observed that for the moment it was almost beautiful--beautiful in the light of conviction which shone upon it. he looked, and it was borne in upon him that what george said was true, and that george knew it was true, although he did not know where the light of truth came from, and as he looked half the load fell from his heart. "hullo, george, are you turning prophet in addition to your other occupations?" he said cheerfully, and as he did so edward cossey's splendid bay horse pulled up at the door and the bell rang. "well," he added as soon as he saw who his visitor was, "unless i am much mistaken, we shall soon know how much truth there is in your prophecies, for here comes mr. cossey himself." before george could sufficiently recover from his recent agitation to make any reply, edward cossey, looking particularly handsome and rather overpowering, was shown into the room. the squire shook hands with him this time, though coldly enough, and george touched his forelock and said, "sarvant, sir," in the approved fashion. thereon his master told him that he might retire, though he was to be sure not to go out of hearing, as he should want him again presently. "very well, sir," answered george, "i'll just step up to the poplars. i told a man to be round there to-day, as i want to see if i can come to an understanding with him about this year's fell in the big wood." "there," said the squire with an expression of infinite disgust, "there, that's just like your way, your horrid cadging way; the idea of telling a man to be 'round about the poplars' sometime or other to-day, because you wanted to speak to him about a fell. why didn't you write him a letter like an ordinary christian and make an offer, instead of dodging him round a farm for half a day like a wild indian? besides, the poplars is half a mile off, if it's a yard." "lord, sir," said george as he retired, "that ain't the way that folks in these parts like to do business, that ain't. letter writing is all very well for londoners and other furriners, but it don't do here. besides, sir, i shall hear you well enough up there. sarvant, sir!" this to edward cossey, and he was gone. edward burst out laughing, and the squire looked after his retainer with a comical air. "no wonder that the place has got into a mess with such a fellow as that to manage it," he said aloud. "the idea of hunting a man round the poplars farm like--like an indian squaw! he's a regular cadger, that's what he is, and that's all he's fit for. however, it's his way of doing business and i shan't alter him. well, mr. cossey," he went on, "this is a very sad state of affairs, at any rate so far as i am concerned. i presume of course that you know of the steps which have been taken by cossey and son to force a foreclosure, for that is what it amounts to, though i have not as yet received the formal notice; indeed, i suppose that those steps have been taken under your advice." "yes, mr. de la molle, i know all about it, and here is the notice calling in the loans," and he placed a folded paper on the table. "ah," said the squire, "i see. as i remarked to your manager, mr. quest, yesterday, i think that considering the nature of the relationship which has existed for so many generations between our family and the business firm of which you are a member, considering too the peculiar circumstances in which the owners of land find themselves at this moment, and the ruinous loss--to put questions of sentiment aside--that must be inflicted by such sale upon the owner of property, more consideration might have been shown. however, it is useless to try to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, or to get blood from a stone, so i suppose that i must make the best of a bad job--and," with a most polite bow--"i really do not know that i have anything more to say to you, mr. cossey. i will forward the notice to my lawyers; indeed i think that it might have been sent to them in the first instance." edward cossey had all this while been sitting on an old oak chair, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and slowly swinging his hat between his legs. suddenly he looked up and to the squire's surprise said quietly: "i quite agree with you. i don't think that you can say anything too bad about the behaviour of my people. a shoreditch jew could not have done worse. and look here, mr. de la molle, to come to the point and prevent misunderstanding, i may as well say at once that with your permission, i am anxious to take up these mortgages myself, for two reasons; i regard them as a desirable investment even in the present condition of land, and also i wish to save cossey and son from the discredit of the step which they meditate." for the second time that morning the squire looked up with the sharp and searching gaze he occasionally assumed, and for the second time his instinct, for he was too heady a man to reason overmuch, came into play and warned him that in making this offer edward cossey had other motives than those which he had brought forward. he paused to consider what they might be. was he anxious to get the estate for himself? was he put forward by somebody else? quest, perhaps; or was it something to do with ida? the first alternative seemed the most probable to him. but whatever the lender's object, the result to him was the same, it gave him a respite. for mr. de la molle well knew that he had no more chance of raising the money from an ordinary source, than he had of altering the condition of agriculture. "hum," he said, "this is an important matter, a most important matter. i presume, mr. cossey, that before making this definite offer you have consulted a legal adviser." "oh yes, i have done all that and am quite satisfied with the security --an advance of thirty thousand charged on all the honham castle estates at four per cent. the question now is if you are prepared to consent to the transfer. in that case all the old charges on the property will be paid off, and mr. quest, who will act for me in the matter, will prepare a single deed charging the estate for the round total." "ah yes, the plan seems a satisfactory one, but of course in so important a matter i should prefer to consult my legal adviser before giving a final answer, indeed i think that it would be better if the whole affair were carried out in a proper and formal way?" "surely, surely, mr. de la molle," said the younger man with some irritation, for the old gentleman's somewhat magnificent manner rather annoyed him, which under the circumstances was not unnatural. "surely you do not want to consult a legal adviser to make up your mind as to whether or no you will allow a foreclosure. i offer you the money at four per cent. cannot you let me have an answer now, yes or no?" "i don't like being hurried. i can't bear to be hurried," said the squire pettishly. "these important matters require consideration, a great deal of consideration. still," he added, observing signs of increasing irritation upon edward cossey's face, and not having the slightest intention of throwing away the opportunity, though he would dearly have liked to prolong the negotiations for a week or two, if it was only to enjoy the illusory satisfaction of dabbling with such a large sum of money. "still, as you are so pressing about it, i really, speaking off hand, can see no objection to your taking up the mortgages on the terms you mention." "very well, mr. de la molle. now i have on my part one condition and one only to attach to this offer of mine, which is that my name is not mentioned in connection with it. i do not wish cossey and son to know that i have taken up this investment on my own account. in fact, so necessary to me is it that my name should not be mentioned, that if it does transpire before the affair is completed i shall withdraw my offer, and if it transpires afterwards i shall call the money in. the loan will be advanced by a client of mr. quest's. is that understood between us?" "hum," said the squire, "i don't quite like this secrecy about these matters of business, but still if you make a point of it, why of course i cannot object." "very good. then i presume that you will write officially to cossey and son stating that the money will be forthcoming to meet their various charges and the overdue interest. and now i think that we have had about enough of this business for once, so with your permission i will pay my respects to miss de la molle before i go." "dear me," said the squire, pressing his hand to his head, "you do hurry me so dreadfully--i really don't know where i am. miss de la molle is out; i saw her go out sketching myself. sit down and we will talk this business over a little more." "no, thank you, mr. de la molle, i have to talk about money every day of my life and i soon have enough of the subject. quest will arrange all the details. good-bye, don't bother to ring, i will find my horse." and with a shake of the hand he was gone. "ah!" said the old gentleman to himself when his visitor had departed, "he asked for ida, so i suppose that is what he is after. but it is a queer sort of way to begin courting, and if she finds it out i should think that it would go against him. ida is not the sort of woman to be won by a money consideration. well, she can very well look after herself, that's certain. anyway it has been a good morning's work, but somehow i don't like that young man any the better for it. i have it--there's something wanting. he is not quite a gentleman. well, i must find that fellow george," and he rushed to the front door and roared for "george," till the whole place echoed and the pheasants crowed in the woods. after a while there came faint answering yells of "coming, squire, coming," and in due course george's long form became visible, striding swiftly up the garden. "well!" said his master, who was in high good humour, "did you find your man?" "well no, squire--that is, i had a rare hunt after him, and i had just happened of him up a tree when you began to halloa so loud, that he went nigh to falling out of it, so i had to tell him to come back next week, or the week after." "you happened of him up a tree. why what the deuce was the man doing up a tree--measuring it?" "no, squire, i don't rightly know what he wor after, but he is a curious kind of a chap, and he said he had a fancy to wait there." "good heavens! no wonder the place is going to ruin, when you deal with men who have a fancy to transact their business up a tree. well, never mind that, i have settled the matter about the mortgages. of course somebody, a client of mr. quest's, has been found without the least difficulty to take them up at four per cent. and advance the other five thousand too, so that there be no more anxiety about that." "well that's a good job at any rate," answered george with a sigh of relief. "a good job? of course it's a good job, but it is no more than i expected. it wasn't likely that such an eligible investment, as they say in the advertisements, would be allowed to go begging for long. but that's just the way with you; the moment there's a hitch you come with your long face and your uneducated sort of way, and swear that we are all ruined and that the country is breaking up, and that there's nothing before us but the workhouse, and nobody knows what." george reflected that the squire had forgotten that not an hour before he himself had been vowing that they were ruined, while he, george, had stoutly sworn that something would turn up to help them. but his back was accustomed to those vicarious burdens, nor to tell the truth did they go nigh to the breaking of it. "well, it's a good job anyway, and i thank god almighty for it," said he, "and more especial since there'll be the money to take over the moat farm and give that varmint janter the boot." "give him _what?_" "why, kick him out, sir, for good and all, begging your pardon, sir." "oh, i see. i do wish that you would respect the queen's english a little more, george, and the name of the creator too. by the way the parson was speaking to me again yesterday about your continued absence from church. it really is disgraceful; you are a most confirmed sabbath-breaker. and now you mustn't waste my time here any longer. go and look after your affairs. stop a minute, would you like a glass of port?" "well, thank you, sir," said george reflectively, "we hev had a lot of talk and i don't mind if i do, and as for that there parson, begging his pardon, i wish he would mind his own affairs and leave me to mind mine." chapter xiii about art edward cossey drove from the castle in a far from happy frame of mind. to begin with, the squire and his condescending way of doing business irritated him very much, so much that once or twice in the course of the conversation he was within an ace of breaking the whole thing off, and only restrained himself with difficulty from doing so. as it was, notwithstanding all the sacrifices and money risks which he was undergoing to take up these mortgages, and they were very considerable even to a man of his great prospects, he felt that he had been placed in the position of a person who receives a favour rather than of a person who grants one. moreover there was an assumption of superiority about the old man, a visible recognition of the gulf which used to be fixed between the gentleman of family and the man of business who has grown rich by trading in money and money's worth, which was the more galling because it was founded on actual fact, and edward cossey knew it. all his foibles and oddities notwithstanding, it would have been impossible for any person of discernment to entertain a comparison between the half-ruined squire and the young banker, who would shortly be worth between half a million and a million sterling. the former was a representative, though a somewhat erratic one, of all that is best in the old type of englishmen of gentle blood, which is now so rapidly vanishing, and of the class to which to a large extent this country owes her greatness. his very eccentricities were wandering lights that showed unsuspected heights and depths in his character--love of country and his country's honour, respect for the religion of his fathers, loyalty of mind and valour for the right. had he lived in other times, like some of the old boisseys and de la molles, who were at honham before him, he would probably have died in the crusades or at cressy, or perhaps more uselessly, for his king at marston moor, or like that last but one of the true de la molles, kneeling in the courtyard of his castle and defying his enemies to wring his secret from him. now few such opportunities are left to men of his stamp, and they are, perhaps as a consequence, dying out of an age which is unsuited to them, and indeed to most strong growths of individual character. it would be much easier to deal with a gentleman like the squire of this history if we could only reach down one of those suits of armour from the walls of his vestibule, and put it on his back, and take that long two-handled sword which last flashed on flodden field from its resting-place beneath the clock, and at the end see him die as a loyal knight should do in the forefront of his retainers, with the old war cry of "_a delamol--a delamol_" upon his lips. as it is, he is an aristocratic anachronism, an entity unfitted to deal with the elements of our advanced and in some ways emasculated age. his body should have been where his heart was--in the past. what chance have such as he against the quests of this polite era of political economy and penny papers? no wonder that edward cossey felt his inferiority to this symbol and type of the things that no more are, yes even in the shadow of his thirty thousand pounds. for here we have a different breed. goldsmiths two centuries ago, then bankers from generation to generation, money bees seeking for wealth and counting it and hiving it from decade to decade, till at last gold became to them what honour is to the nobler stock--the pervading principle, and the clink of the guinea and the rustling of the bank note stirred their blood as the clank of armed men and the sound of the flapping banner with its three golden hawks flaming in the sun, was wont to set the hearts of the race of boissey, of dofferleigh and of de la molle, beating to that tune to which england marched on to win the world. it is a foolish and vain thing to scoff at business and those who do it in the market places, and to shout out the old war cries of our fathers, in the face of a generation which sings the song of capital, or groans in heavy labour beneath the banners of their copyrighted trade marks; and besides, who would buy our books (also copyrighted except in america) if we did? let us rather rise up and clothe ourselves, and put a tall hat upon our heads and do homage to the new democracy. and yet in the depths of our hearts and the quiet of our chambers let us sometimes cry to the old days, and the old men, and the old ways of thought, let us cry "_ave atque vale_,--hail and farewell." our fathers' armour hangs above the door, their portraits decorate the wall, and their fierce and half-tamed hearts moulder beneath the stones of yonder church. hail and farewell to you, our fathers! perchance a man might have had worse company than he met with at your boards, and even have found it not more hard to die beneath your sword-cuts than to be gently cozened to the grave by duly qualified practitioners at two guineas a visit. and the upshot of all this is that the squire was not altogether wrong when he declared in the silence of _his_ chamber that edward cossey was not quite a gentleman. he showed it when he allowed himself to be guided by the arts of mr. quest into the adoption of the idea of obtaining a lien upon ida, to be enforced if convenient. he showed it again, and what is more he committed a huge mistake, when tempted thereto by the opportunity of the moment, he made a conditional bargain with the said ida, whereby she was placed in pledge for a sum of thirty thousand pounds, well knowing that her honour would be equal to the test, and that if convenient to him she would be ready to pay the debt. he made a huge mistake, for had he been quite a gentleman, he would have known that he could not have adopted a worse road to the affections of a lady. had he been content to advance the money and then by-and-bye, though even that would not have been gentlemanlike, have gently let transpire what he had done at great personal expense and inconvenience, her imagination might have been touched and her gratitude would certainly have been excited. but the idea of bargaining, the idea of purchase, which after what had passed could never be put aside, would of necessity be fatal to any hope of tender feeling. shylock might get his bond, but of his own act he had debarred himself from the possibility of ever getting more. now edward cossey was not lacking in that afterglow of refinement which is left by a course of public school and university education. no education can make a gentleman of a man who is not a gentleman at heart, for whether his station in life be that of a ploughboy or an earl, the gentleman, like the poet, is born and not made. but it can and does if he be of an observant nature, give him a certain insight into the habits of thought and probable course of action of the members of that class to which he outwardly, and by repute, belongs. such an insight edward cossey possessed, and at the present moment its possession was troubling him very much. his trading instincts, the desire bred in him to get something for his money, had led him to make the bargain, but now that it was done his better judgment rose up against it. for the truth may as well be told at once, although he would as yet scarcely acknowledge it to himself, edward cossey was already violently enamoured of ida. he was by nature a passionate man, and as it chanced she had proved the magnet with power to draw his passion. but as the reader is aware, there existed another complication in his life for which he was not perhaps entirely responsible. when still quite a youth in mind, he had suddenly found himself the object of the love of a beautiful and enthralling woman, and had after a more or less severe struggle yielded to the temptation, as, out of a book, many young men would have done. now to be the object of the violent affection of such a woman as belle quest is no doubt very flattering and even charming for a while. but if that affection is not returned in kind, if in short the gentleman does not love the lady quite as warmly as she loves him, then in course of time the charm is apt to vanish and even the flattery to cease to give pleasure. also, when as in the present case the connection is wrong in itself and universally condemned by society, the affection which can still triumph and endure on both sides must be of a very strong and lasting order. even an unprincipled man dislikes the acting of one long lie such as an intimacy of the sort necessarily involves, and if the man happens to be rather weak than unprincipled, the dislike is apt to turn to loathing, some portion of which will certainly be reflected on to the partner of his ill-doing. these are general principles, but the case of edward cossey offered no exception to them, indeed it illustrated them well. he had never been in love with mrs. quest; to begin with she had shown herself too much in love with him to necessitate any display of emotion on his part. her violent and unreasoning passion wearied and alarmed him, he never knew what she would do next and was kept in a continual condition of anxiety and irritation as to what the morrow might bring forth. too sure of her unaltering attachment to have any pretext for jealousy, he found it exceedingly irksome to be obliged to avoid giving cause for it on his side, which, however, he dreaded doing lest he should thereby bring about some overwhelming catastrophe. mrs. quest was, as he well knew, not a woman who would pause to consider consequences if once her passionate jealousy were really aroused. it was even doubtful if the certainty of her own ruin would check her. her love was everything to her, it was her life, the thing she lived for, and rather than tamely lose it, it seemed extremely probable to edward cossey that she would not hesitate to face shame, or even death. indeed it was through this great passion of hers, and through it only, that he could hope to influence her. if he could persuade her to release him, by pointing out that a continuance of the intrigue must involve him in ruin of some sort, all might yet go well with him. if not his future was a dark one. this was the state of affairs before he became attached to ida de la molle, after which the horizon grew blacker than ever. at first he tried to get out of the difficulty by avoiding ida, but it did not answer. she exercised an irresistible attraction over him. her calm and stately presence was to him what the sight of mountain snows is to one scorched by continual heat. he was weary of passionate outbursts, tears, agonies, alarms, presentiments, and all the paraphernalia of secret love. it appeared to him, looking up at the beautiful snow, that if once he could reach it life would be all sweetness and light, that there would be no more thirst, no more fear, and no more forced marches through those ill-odoured quagmires of deceit. the more he allowed his imagination to dwell upon the picture, the fiercer grew his longing to possess it. also, he knew well enough that to marry a woman like ida de la molle would be the greatest blessing that could happen to him, for she would of necessity lift him up above himself. she had little money it was true, but that was a very minor matter to him, and she had birth and breeding and beauty, and a presence which commands homage. and so it came to pass that he fell deeply and yet more deeply in love with ida, and that as he did so his connection with mrs. quest (although we have seen him but yesterday offering in a passing fit of tenderness and remorse to run away with her) became more and more irksome to him. and now, as he drove leisurely back to boisingham, he felt that he had imperilled all his hopes by a rash indulgence in his trading instincts. presently the road took a turn and a sight was revealed that did not tend to improve his already irritable mood. just here the roadway was bordered by a deep bank covered with trees which sloped down to the valley of the ell, at this time of the year looking its loveliest in the soft autumn lights. and here, seated on a bank of turf beneath the shadow of a yellowing chestnut tree, in such position as to get a view of the green valley and flashing river where cattle red and white stood chewing the still luxuriant aftermath, was none other than ida herself, and what was more, ida accompanied by colonel quaritch. they were seated on campstools, and in front of each of them was an easel. clearly they were painting together, for as edward gazed, the colonel rose, came up close behind his companion's stool made a ring of his thumb and first finger, gazed critically through it at the lady's performance, then sadly shook his head and made some remark. thereupon ida turned round and began an animated discussion. "hang me," said edward to himself, "if she has not taken up with that confounded old military frump. painting together! ah, i know what that means. well, i should have thought that if there was one man more than another whom she would have disliked, it would have been that battered-looking colonel." he pulled up his horse and reflected for a moment, then handing the reins to his servant, jumped out, and climbing through a gap in the fence walked up to the tree. so engrossed were they in their argument, that they neither saw nor heard him. "it's nonsense, colonel quaritch, perfect nonsense, if you will forgive me for telling you so," ida was saying with warmth. "it is all very well for you to complain that my trees are a blur, and the castle nothing but a splotch, but i am looking at the water, and if i am looking at the water, it is quite impossible that i should see the trees and the cows otherwise than i have rendered them on the canvas. true art is to paint what the painter sees and as he sees it." colonel quaritch shook his head and sighed. "the cant of the impressionist school," he said sadly; "on the contrary, the business of the artist is to paint what he knows to be there," and he gazed complacently at his own canvas, which had the appearance of a spirited drawing of a fortified place, or of the contents of a child's noah's ark, so stiff, so solid, so formidable were its outlines, trees and animals. ida shrugged her shoulders, laughed merrily, and turned round to find herself face to face with edward cossey. she started back, and her expression hardened--then she stretched out her hand and said, "how do you do?" in her very coldest tones. "how do you do, miss de la molle?" he said, assuming as unconcerned an air as he could, and bowing stiffly to harold quaritch, who returned the bow and went back to his canvas, which was placed a few paces off. "i saw you painting," went on edward cossey in a low tone, "so i thought i would come and tell you that i have settled the matter with mr. de la molle." "oh, indeed," answered ida, hitting viciously at a wasp with her paint brush. "well, i hope that you will find the investment a satisfactory one. and now, if you please, do not let us talk any more about money, because i am quite tired of the subject." then raising her voice she went on, "come here, colonel quaritch, and mr. cossey shall judge between us," and she pointed to her picture. edward glanced at the colonel with no amiable air. "i know nothing about art," he said, "and i am afraid that i must be getting on. good-morning," and taking off his hat to ida, he turned and went. "umph," said the colonel, looking after him with a quizzical expression, "that gentleman seems rather short in his temper. wants knocking about the world a bit, i should say. but i beg your pardon, i suppose that he is a friend of yours, miss de la molle?" "he is an acquaintance of mine," answered ida with emphasis. chapter xiv the tiger shows her claws after this very chilling reception at the hands of the object of his affection, edward cossey continued his drive in an even worse temper than before. he reached his rooms, had some luncheon, and then in pursuance of a previous engagement went over to the oaks to see mrs. quest. he found her waiting for him in the drawing-room. she was standing at the window with her hands behind her, a favourite attitude of hers. as soon as the door was shut, she turned, came up to him, and grasped his hand affectionately between her own. "it is an age since i have seen you, edward," she said, "one whole day. really, when i do not see you, i do not live, i only exist." he freed himself from her clasp with a quick movement. "really, belle," he said impatiently, "you might be a little more careful than to go through that performance in front of an open window--especially as the gardener must have seen the whole thing." "i don't much care if he did," she said defiantly. "what does it matter? my husband is certainly not in a position to make a fuss about other people." "what does it matter?" he said, stamping his foot. "what does it _not_ matter? if you have no care for your good name, do you suppose that i am indifferent to mine?" mrs. quest opened her large violet eyes to the fullest extent, and a curious light was reflected from them. "you have grown wonderfully cautious all of a sudden, edward," she said meaningly. "what is the use of my being cautious when you are so reckless? i tell you what it is, belle. we are talked of all over this gossiping town, and i don't like it, and what is more, once and for all, i won't have it. if you will not be more careful, i will break with you altogether, and that is the long and short of it." "where have you been this morning?" she asked in the same ominously calm voice. "i have been to honham castle on a matter of business." "oh, and yesterday you were there on a matter of pleasure. now did you happen to see ida in the course of your business?" "yes," he answered, looking her full in the face, "i did see her, what about it?" "by appointment, i suppose." "no, not by appointment. have you done your catechism?" "yes--and now i am going to preach a homily on it. i see through you perfectly, edward. you are getting tired of me, and you want to be rid of me. i tell you plainly that you are not going the right way to work about it. no woman, especially if she be in my--unfortunate position, can tamely bear to see herself discarded for another. certainly i cannot--and i caution you--i caution you to be careful, because when i think of such a thing i am not quite myself," and suddenly, without the slightest warning (for her face had been hard and cold as stone), she burst into a flood of tears. now edward cossey was naturally somewhat moved at this sight. of course he did his best to console her, though with no great results, for she was still sobbing bitterly when suddenly there came a knock at the door. mrs. quest turned her face towards the wall and pretended to be reading a letter, and he tried to look as unconcerned as possible. "a telegram for you, sir," said the girl with a sharp glance at her mistress. "the telegraph boy brought it on here, when he heard that you were not at home, because he said he would be sure to find you here--and please, sir, he hopes that you will give him sixpence for bringing it round, as he thought it might be important." edward felt in his pocket and gave the girl a shilling, telling her to say that there was no answer. as soon as she had gone, he opened the telegram. it was from his sister in london, and ran as follows: "come up to town at once. father has had a stroke of paralysis. shall expect you by the seven o'clock train." "what is it?" said mrs. quest, noting the alarm on his face. "why, my father is very ill. he has had a stroke of paralysis, and i must go to town by the next train." "shall you be long away?" "i do not know. how can i tell? good-bye, belle. i am sorry that we should have had this scene just as i am going, but i can't help it." "oh, edward," she said, catching him by the arm and turning her tear-stained face up towards his own, "you are not angry with me, are you? do not let us part in anger. how can i help being jealous when i love you so? tell me that you do not hate me--or i shall be wretched all the time that you are away." "no, no, of course not--but i must say, i wish that you would not make such shocking scenes--good-bye." "good-bye," she answered as she gave him her shaking hand. "good-bye, my dear. if only you knew what i feel here," she pointed to her breast, "you would make excuses for me." almost before she had finished her sentence he was gone. she stood near the door, listening to his retreating footsteps till they had quite died away, and then flung herself in the chair and rested her head upon her hands. "i shall lose him," she said to herself in the bitterness of her heart. "i know i shall. what chance have i against her? he already cares for ida a great deal more than he does for me, in the end he will break from me and marry her. oh, i had rather see him dead--and myself too." half-an-hour later, mr. quest came in. "where is cossey?" he asked. "mr. cossey's father has had a stroke of paralysis and he has gone up to london to look after him." "oh," said mr. quest. "well, if the old gentleman dies, your friend will be one of the wealthiest men in england." "well, so much the better for him. i am sure money is a great blessing. it protects one from so much." "yes," said mr. quest with emphasis, "so much the better for him, and all connected with him. why have you been crying? because cossey has gone away--or have you quarrelled with him?" "how do you know that i have been crying? if i have, it's my affair. at any rate my tears are my own." "certainly, they are--i do not wish to interfere with your crying--cry when you like. it will be lucky for cossey if that old father of his dies just now, because he wants money." "what does he want money for?" "because he has undertaken to pay off the mortgages on the castle estates." "why has he done that, as an investment?" "no, it is a rotten investment. i believe that he has done it because he is in love with miss de la molle, and is naturally anxious to ingratiate himself with her. don't you know that? i thought perhaps that was what you had been crying about?" "it is not true," she answered, her lips quivering with pain. mr. quest laughed gently. "i think you must have lost your power of observation, which used to be sufficiently keen. however, of course it does not matter to you. it will in many ways be a most suitable marriage, and i am sure they will make a very handsome couple." she made no answer, and turned her back to hide the workings of her face. for a few moments her husband stood looking at her, a gentle smile playing on his refined features. then remarking that he must go round to the office, but would be back in time for tea, he went, reflecting with satisfaction that he had given his wife something to think about which would scarcely be to her taste. as for belle quest, she waited till the door had closed, and then turned round towards it and spoke aloud, as though she were addressing her vanished husband. "i hate you," she said, with bitter emphasis. "i hate you. you have ruined my life, and now you torment me as though i were a lost soul. oh, i wish i were dead! i wish i were dead!" on reaching his office, mr. quest found two letters for him, one of which had just arrived by the afternoon post. the first was addressed in the squire's handwriting and signed with his big seal, and the other bore a superscription, the sight of which made him turn momentarily faint. taking up this last with a visible effort, he opened it. it was from the "tiger," alias edith, and its coarse contents need not be written here. put shortly they came to this. she was being summoned for debt. she wanted more money and would have it. if five hundred pounds were not forthcoming and that shortly--within a week, indeed--she threatened with no uncertain voice to journey down to boisingham and put him to an open shame. "great heavens!" he said, "this woman will destroy me. what a devil! and she'd be as good as her word unless i found her the money. i must go up to town at once. i wonder how she got that idea into her head. it makes me shudder to think of her in boisingham," and he dropped his face upon his hands and groaned in the bitterness of his heart. "it is hard," he thought to himself; "here have i for years and years been striving and toiling, labouring to become a respectable and respected member of society, but always this old folly haunts my steps and drags me down, and by heaven i believe that it will destroy me after all." with a sigh he lifted his head, and taking a sheet of paper wrote on it, "i have received your letter, and will come and see you to-morrow or the next day." this note he placed in an envelope, which he directed to the high-sounding name of mrs. d'aubigne, rupert st., pimlico--and put it in his pocket. then with another sigh he took up the squire's letter, and glanced through it. its length was considerable, but in substance it announced his acceptance of the arrangement proposed by mr. edward cossey, and requested that he would prepare the necessary deeds to be submitted to his lawyers. mr. quest read the letter absently enough, and threw it down with a little laugh. "what a queer world it is," he said to himself, "and what a ludicrous side there is to it all. here is cossey advancing money to get a hold over ida de la molle, whom he means to marry if he can, and who is probably playing her own hand. here is belle madly in love with cossey, who will break her heart. here am i loving belle, who hates me, and playing everybody's game in order to advance my own, and become a respected member of a society i am superior to. here is the squire blundering about like a walrus in a horse-pond, and fancying everything is being conducted for his sole advantage, and that all the world revolves round honham castle. and there at the end of the chain is this female harpy, edith jones, otherwise d'aubigne, alias the tiger, gnawing at my vitals and holding my fortunes in her hand. "bah! it's a queer world and full of combinations, but the worst of it is that plot as we will the solution of them does not rest with us, no --not with us." chapter xv the happy days this is a troublesome world enough, but thanks to that mitigating fate which now and again interferes to our advantage, there do come to most of us times and periods of existence which, if they do not quite fulfil all the conditions of ideal happiness, yet go near enough to that end to permit in after days of our imagining that they did so. i say to most of us, but in doing so i allude chiefly to those classes commonly known as the "upper," by which is understood those who have enough bread to put into their mouths and clothes to warm them; those, too, who are not the present subjects of remorseless and hideous ailments, who are not daily agonised by the sight of their famished offspring; who are not doomed to beat out their lives against the madhouse bars, or to see their hearts' beloved and their most cherished hope wither towards that cold space from whence no message comes. for such unfortunates, and for their million-numbered kin upon the globe--the victims of war, famine, slave trade, oppression, usury, over-population, and the curse of competition, the rays of light must be few indeed; few and far between, only just enough to save them from utter hopelessness. and even to the favoured ones, the well warmed and well fed, who are to a great extent lifted by fortune or by their native strength and wit above the degradations of the world, this light of happiness is but as the gleam of stars, uncertain, fitful, and continually lost in clouds. only the utterly selfish or the utterly ignorant can be happy with the happiness of savages or children, however prosperous their own affairs, for to the rest, to those who think and have hearts to feel, and imagination to realise, and a redeeming human sympathy to be touched, the mere weight of the world's misery pressing round them like an atmosphere, the mere echoes of the groans of the dying and the cries of the children are sufficient, and more than sufficient, to dull, aye, to destroy the promise of their joys. but, even to this finer sort there do come rare periods of almost complete happiness--little summers in the tempestuous climate of our years, green-fringed wells of water in our desert, pure northern lights breaking in upon our gloom. and strange as it may seem, these breadths of happy days, when the old questions cease to torment, and a man can trust in providence and without one qualifying thought bless the day that he was born, are very frequently connected with the passion which is known as love; that mysterious symbol of our double nature, that strange tree of life which, with its roots sucking their strength from the dust-heap of humanity, yet springs aloft above our level and bears its blooms in the face of heaven. why it is and what it means we shall perhaps never know for certain. but it does suggest itself, that as the greatest terror of our being lies in the utter loneliness, the unspeakable identity, and unchanging self-completeness of every living creature, so the greatest hope and the intensest natural yearning of our hearts go out towards that passion which in its fire heats has the strength, if only for a little while, to melt down the barriers of our individuality and give to the soul something of the power for which it yearns of losing its sense of solitude in converse with its kind. for alone we are from infancy to death!--we, for the most part, grow not more near together but rather wider apart with the widening years. where go the sympathies between the parent and the child, and where is the close old love of brother for his brother? the invisible fates are continually wrapping us round and round with the winding sheets of our solitude, and none may know all our heart save he who made it. we are set upon the world as the stars are set upon the sky, and though in following our fated orbits we pass and repass, and each shine out on each, yet are we the same lonely lights, rolling obedient to laws we cannot understand, through spaces of which none may mark the measure. only, as says the poet in words of truth and beauty: "only but this is rare-- when a beloved hand is laid in ours, when jaded with the rush and glare of the interminable hours, our eyes can in another's eyes read clear; when our world-deafened ear is by the tones of a loved voice caressed a bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast and a lost pulse of feeling stirs again-- and what we mean we say and what we would we know. * * * * * and then he thinks he knows the hills where his life rose and the sea whereunto it goes." some such indian summer of delight and forgetfulness of trouble, and the tragic condition of our days, was now opening to harold quaritch and ida de la molle. every day, or almost every day, they met and went upon their painting expeditions and argued the point of the validity or otherwise of the impressionist doctrines of art. not that of all this painting came anything very wonderful, although in the evening the colonel would take out his canvases and contemplate their rigid proportions with singular pride and satisfaction. it was a little weakness of his to think that he could paint, and one of which he was somewhat tenacious. like many another man he could do a number of things exceedingly well and one thing very badly, and yet had more faith in that bad thing than in all the good. but, strange to say, although he affected to believe so firmly in his own style of art and hold ida's in such cheap regard, it was a little painting of the latter's that he valued most, and which was oftenest put upon his easel for purposes of solitary admiration. it was one of those very impressionist productions that faded away in the distance, and full of soft grey tints, such as his soul loathed. there was a tree with a blot of brown colour on it, and altogether (though as a matter of fact a clever thing enough) from his point of view of art it was utterly "anathema." this little picture in oils faintly shadowed out himself sitting at his easel, working in the soft grey of the autumn evening, and ida had painted it and given it to him, and that was why he admired it so much. for to speak the truth, our friend the colonel was going, going fast--sinking out of sight of his former self into the depths of the love that possessed his soul. he was a very simple and pure-minded man. strange as it may appear, since that first unhappy business of his youth, of which he had never been heard to speak, no living woman had been anything to him. therefore, instead of becoming further vulgarised and hardened by association with all the odds and ends of womankind that a man travelling about the globe comes into contact with, generally not greatly to his improvement, his faith had found time to grow up stronger even than at first. once more he looked upon woman as a young man looks before he has had bitter experience of the world--as a being to be venerated and almost worshipped, as something better, brighter, purer than himself, hardly to be won, and when won to be worn like a jewel prized at once for value and for beauty. now this is a dangerous state of mind for a man of three or four and forty to fall into, because it is a soft state, and this is a world in which the softest are apt to get the worst of it. at four and forty a man, of course, should be hard enough to get the better of other people, as indeed he generally is. when harold quaritch, after that long interval, set his eyes again upon ida's face, he felt a curious change come over him. all the vague ideas and more or less poetical aspirations which for five long years had gathered themselves about that memory, took shape and form, and in his heart he knew he loved her. then as the days went on and he came to know her better, he grew to love her more and more, till at last his whole heart went out towards his late found treasure, and she became more than life to him, more than aught else had been or could be. serene and happy were those days which they spent in painting and talking as they wandered about the honham castle grounds. by degrees ida's slight but perceptible hardness of manner wore away, and she stood out what she was, one of the sweetest and most natural women in england, and with it all, a woman having brains and force of character. soon harold discovered that her life had been anything but an easy one. the constant anxiety about money and her father's affairs had worn her down and hardened her till, as she said, she began to feel as though she had no heart left. then too he heard all her trouble about her dead and only brother james, how dearly she had loved him, and what a sore trouble he had been with his extravagant ways and his continual demands for money, which had to be met somehow or other. at last came the crushing blow of his death, and with it the certainty of the extinction of the male line of the de la molles, and she said that for a while she had believed her father would never hold up his head again. but his vitality was equal to the shock, and after a time the debts began to come in, which although he was not legally bound to do so, her father would insist upon meeting to the last farthing for the honour of the family and out of respect for his son's memory. this increased their money troubles, which had gone on and on, always getting worse as the agricultural depression deepened, till things had reached their present position. all this she told him bit by bit, only keeping back from him the last development of the drama with the part that edward cossey had played in it, and sad enough it made him to think of that ancient house of de la molle vanishing into the night of ruin. also she told him something of her own life, how companionless it had been since her brother went into the army, for she had no real friends about honham, and not even an acquaintance of her own tastes, which, without being gushingly so, were decidedly artistic and intellectual. "i should have wished," she said, "to try to do something in the world. i daresay i should have failed, for i know that very few women meet with a success which is worth having. but still i should have liked to try, for i am not afraid of work. but the current of my life is against it; the only thing that is open to me is to strive and make both ends meet upon an income which is always growing smaller, and to save my father, poor dear, from as much worry as i can. "don't think that i am complaining," she went on hurriedly, "or that i want to rush into pleasure-seeking, because i do not--a little of that goes a long way with me. besides, i know that i have many things to be thankful for. few women have such a kind father as mine, though we do quarrel at times. of course we cannot have everything our own way in this world, and i daresay that i do not make the best of things. still, at times it does seem a little hard that i should be forced to lead such a narrow life, just when i feel that i could work in a wide one." harold looked up at her face and saw that a tear was gathering in her dark eyes and in his heart he registered a vow that if by any means it ever lay within his power to improve her lot he would give everything he had to do it. but all he said was: "don't be downhearted, miss de la molle. things change in a wonderful way, and often they mend when they look worst. you know," he went on a little nervously, "i am an old-fashioned sort of individual, and i believe in providence and all that sort of thing, you see, and that matters generally come pretty well straight in the long run if people deserve it." ida shook her head a little doubtfully and sighed. "perhaps," she said, "but i suppose that we do not deserve it. anyhow, our good fortune is a long while coming," and the conversation dropped. still her friend's strong belief in the efficacy of providence, and generally his masculine sturdiness, did cheer her up considerably. even the strongest women, if they have any element that can be called feminine left in them, want somebody of the other sex to lean on, and she was no exception to the rule. besides, if ida's society had charms for colonel quaritch, his society had almost if not quite as much charm for her. it may be remembered that on the night when they first met she had spoken to herself of him as the kind of man whom she would like to marry. the thought was a passing one, and it may be safely said that she had not since entertained any serious idea of marriage in connection with colonel quaritch. the only person whom there seemed to be the slightest probability of her marrying was edward cossey, and the mere thought of this was enough to make the whole idea of matrimony repugnant to her. but this notwithstanding, day by day she found harold quaritch's society more congenial. herself by nature, and also to a certain degree by education, a cultured woman, she rejoiced to find in him an entirely kindred spirit. for beneath his somewhat rugged and unpromising exterior, harold quaritch hid a vein of considerable richness. few of those who associated with him would have believed that the man had a side to his nature which was almost poetic, or that he was a ripe and finished scholar, and, what is more, not devoid of a certain dry humour. then he had travelled far and seen much of men and manners, gathering up all sorts of quaint odds and ends of information. but perhaps rather than these accomplishments it was the man's transparent honesty and simple-mindedness, his love for what is true and noble, and his contempt of what is mean and base, which, unwittingly peeping out through his conversation, attracted her more than all the rest. ida was no more a young girl, to be caught by a handsome face or dazzled by a superficial show of mind. she was a thoughtful, ripened woman, quick to perceive, and with the rare talent of judgment wherewith to weigh the proceeds of her perception. in plain, middle-aged colonel quaritch she found a very perfect gentleman, and valued him accordingly. and so day grew into day through that lovely autumn-tide. edward cossey was away in london, quest had ceased from troubling, and journeying together through the sweet shadows of companionship, by slow but sure degrees they drew near to the sunlit plain of love. for it is not common, indeed, it is so uncommon as to be almost impossible, that a man and woman between whom there stands no natural impediment can halt for very long in those shadowed ways. there is throughout all nature an impulse that pushes ever onwards towards completion, and from completion to fruition. liking leads to sympathy, sympathy points the path to love, and then love demands its own. this is the order of affairs, and down its well-trodden road these two were quickly travelling. george the wily saw it, and winked his eye with solemn meaning. the squire also saw something of it, not being wanting in knowledge of the world, and after much cogitation and many solitary walks elected to leave matters alone for the present. he liked colonel quaritch, and thought that it would be a good thing for ida to get married, though the idea of parting from her troubled his heart sorely. whether or no it would be desirable from his point of view that she should marry the colonel was a matter on which he had not as yet fully made up his mind. sometimes he thought it would, and sometimes he thought the reverse. then at times vague ideas suggested by edward cossey's behaviour about the loan would come to puzzle him. but at present he was so much in the dark that he could come to no absolute decision, so with unaccustomed wisdom for so headstrong and precipitate a man, he determined to refrain from interference, and for a while at any rate allow events to take their natural course. chapter xvi the house with the red pillars two days after his receipt of the second letter from the "tiger," mr. quest announced to his wife that he was going to london on business connected with the bank, and expected to be away for a couple of nights. she laughed straight out. "really, william," she said, "you are a most consummate actor. i wonder that you think it worth while to keep up the farce with me. well, i hope that edith is not going to be very expensive this time, because we don't seem to be too rich just now, and you see there is no more of my money for her to have." mr. quest winced visibly beneath this bitter satire, which his wife uttered with a smile of infantile innocence playing upon her face, but he made no reply. she knew too much. only in his heart he wondered what fate she would mete out to him if ever she got possession of the whole truth, and the thought made him tremble. it seemed to him that the owner of that baby face could be terribly merciless in her vengeance, and that those soft white hands would close round the throat of a man she hated and utterly destroy him. now, if never before, he realised that between him and this woman there must be enmity and a struggle to the death; and yet strangely enough he still loved her! mr. quest reached london about three o'clock, and his first act was to drive to cossey and son's, where he was informed that old mr. cossey was much better, and having heard that he was coming to town had sent to say that he particularly wished to see him, especially about the honham castle estates. accordingly mr. quest drove on to the old gentleman's mansion in grosvenor street, where he asked for mr. edward cossey. the footman said that mr. edward was upstairs, and showed him to a study while he went to tell him of the arrival of his visitor. mr. quest glanced round the luxuriously-furnished room, which he saw was occupied by edward himself, for some letters directed in his handwriting lay upon the desk, and a velveteen lounging coat that mr. quest recognised as belonging to him was hanging over the back of a chair. mr. quest's eye wandering over this coat, was presently caught by the corner of a torn flap of an envelope which projected from one of the pockets. it was of a peculiar bluish tinge, in fact of a hue much affected by his wife. listening for a moment to hear if anybody was coming, he stepped to the coat and extracted the letter. it _was_ in his wife's handwriting, so he took the liberty of hastily transferring it to his own pocket. in another minute edward cossey entered, and the two men shook hands. "how do you do, quest?" said edward. "i think that the old man is going to pull through this bout. he is helpless but keen as a knife, and has all the important matters from the bank referred to him. i believe that he will last a year yet, but he will scarcely allow me out of his sight. he preaches away about business the whole day long and says that he wants to communicate the fruits of his experience to me before it is too late. he wishes to see you, so if you will you had better come up." accordingly they went upstairs to a large and luxurious bedroom on the first floor, where the stricken man lay upon a patent couch. when mr. quest and edward cossey entered, a lady, old mr. cossey's eldest daughter, put down a paper out of which she had been reading the money article aloud, and, rising, informed her father that mr. quest had come. "mr. quest?" said the old man in a high thin voice. "ah, yes, i want to see mr. quest very much. go away now, anna, you can come back by-and-by, business before pleasure--most instructive, though, that sudden fall in american railways. but i thought it would come and i got cossey's clear of them," and he sniffed with satisfaction and looked as though he would have rubbed his hands if he had not been physically incapacitated from so doing. mr. quest came forward to where the invalid lay. he was a gaunt old man with white hair and a pallid face, which looked almost ghastly in contrast to his black velvet skull cap. so far as mr. quest could see, he appeared to be almost totally paralysed, with the exception of his head, neck, and left arm, which he could still move a little. his black eyes, however, were full of life and intelligence, and roamed about the room without ceasing. "how do you do, mr. quest?" he said; "sorry that i can't shake hands with you but you see i have been stricken down, though my brain is clear enough, clearer than ever it was, i think. and i ain't going to die yet--don't think that i am, because i ain't. i may live two years more--the doctor says i am sure to live one at least. a lot of money can be made in a year if you keep your eyes open. once i made a hundred and twenty thousand for cossey's in one year; and i may do it again before i die. i may make a lot of money yet, ah, a lot of money!" and his voice went off into a thin scream that was not pleasant to listen to. "i am sure i hope you will, sir," said mr. quest politely. "thank you; take that for good luck, you know. well, well, mr. quest, things haven't done so bad down in your part of the world; not at all bad considering the times. i thought we should have had to sell that old de la molle up, but i hear that he is going to pay us off. can't imagine who has been fool enough to lend him the money. a client of yours, eh? well, he'll lose it i expect, and serve him right for his pains. but i am not sorry, for it is unpleasant for a house like ours to have to sell an old client up. not that his account is worth much, nothing at all--more trouble than profit--or we should not have done it. he's no better than a bankrupt and the insolvency court is the best place for him. the world is to the rich and the fulness thereof. there's an insolvency court especially provided for de la molle and his like--empty old windbags with long sounding names; let him go there and make room for the men who have made money--hee! hee! hee!" and once more his voice went off into a sort of scream. here mr. quest, who had enjoyed about enough of this kind of thing, changed the conversation by beginning to comment on various business transactions which he had been conducting on behalf of the house. the old man listened with the greatest interest, his keen black eyes attentively fixed upon the speaker's face, till at last mr. quest happened to mention that amongst others a certain colonel quaritch had opened an account with their branch of the bank. "quaritch?" said the old man eagerly, "i know that name. was he ever in the th foot?" "yes," said mr. quest, who knew everything about everybody, "he was an ensign in that regiment during the indian mutiny, where he was badly wounded when still quite young, and got the victoria cross. i found it all out the other day." "that's the man; that's the man," said old mr. cossey, jerking his head in an excited manner. "he's a blackguard; i tell you he's a blackguard; he jilted my wife's sister. she was twenty years younger than my wife--jilted her a week before her marriage, and would never give a reason, and she went mad and is in a madhouse how. i should like to have the ruining of him for it. i should like to drive him into the poor-house." mr. quest and edward looked at each other, and the old man let his head fall back exhausted. "now good-bye, mr. quest, they'll give you a bit of dinner downstairs," he said at length. "i'm getting tired, and i want to hear the rest of that money article. you've done very well for cossey's and cossey's will do well for you, for we always pay by results; that's the way to get good work and make a lot of money. mind, edward, if ever you get a chance don't forget to pay that blackguard quaritch out pound for pound, and twice as much again for compound interest--hee! hee! hee!" "the old gentleman keeps his head for business pretty well," said mr. quest to edward cossey as soon as they were well outside the door. "keeps his head?" answered edward, "i should just think he did. he's a regular shark now, that's what he is. i really believe that if he knew i had found thirty thousand for old de la molle he would cut me off with a shilling." here mr. quest pricked up his ears. "and he's close, too," he went on, "so close that it is almost impossible to get anything out of him. i am not particular, but upon my word i think that it is rather disgusting to see an old man with one foot in the grave hanging on to his moneybags as though he expected to float to heaven on them." "yes," said mr. quest, "it is a curious thing to think of, but, you see, money _is_ his heaven." "by the way," said edward, as they entered the study, "that's queer about that fellow quaritch, isn't it? i never liked the look of him, with his pious air." "very queer, mr. cossey," said he, "but do you know, i almost think that there must be some mistake? i do not believe that colonel quaritch is the man to do things of that sort without a very good reason. however, nobody can tell, and it is a long while ago." "a long while ago or not i mean to let him know my opinion of him when i get back to boisingham," said edward viciously. "by jove! it's twenty minutes past six, and in this establishment we dine at the pleasant hour of half-past. won't you come and wash your hands." mr. quest had a very good dinner, and contrary to his custom drank the best part of a bottle of old port after it. he had an unpleasant business to face that evening, and felt as though his nerves required bracing. about ten o'clock he took his leave, and getting into a hansom bade the cabman drive to rupert street, pimlico, where he arrived in due course. having dismissed his cab, he walked slowly down the street till he reached a small house with red pillars to the doorway. here he rang the bell. the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a cunning face and a simper. mr. quest knew her well. nominally the tiger's servant, she was really her jackal. "is mrs. d'aubigne at home, ellen?" he said. "no, sir," she answered with a simper, "but she will be back from the music hall before long. she does not appear in the second part. but please come in, sir, you are quite a stranger here, and i am sure that mrs. d'aubigne will be very glad to see you, for she have been dreadfully pressed for money of late, poor dear; nobody knows the trouble that i have had with those sharks of tradesmen." by this time they were upstairs in the drawing-room, and ellen had turned the gas up. the room was well furnished in a certain gaudy style, which included a good deal of gilt and plate glass. evidently, however, it had not been tidied since the tiger had left it, for there on the table were cards thrown this way and that amidst an array of empty soda-water bottles, glasses with dregs of brandy in them, and other _debris_, such as the ends of cigars and cigarettes, and a little copper and silver money. on the sofa, too, lay a gorgeous tea gown resplendent with pink satin, also a pair of gold embroidered slippers, not over small, and an odd gant de suede, with such an extraordinary number of buttons that it almost looked like the cast-off skin of a brown snake. "i see that your mistress has been having company, ellen," he said coldly. "yes, sir, just a few lady friends to cheer her up a bit," answered the woman, with her abominable simper; "poor dear, she do get that low with you away so much, and no wonder; and then all these money troubles, and she night by night working hard for her living at the music hall. often and often have i seen her crying over it all----" "ah," said he, breaking in upon her eloquence, "i suppose that the lady friends smoke cigars. well, clear away this mess and leave me--stop, give me a brandy-and-soda first. i will wait for your mistress." the woman stopped talking and did as she was bid, for there was a look in mr. quest's eye which she did not quite like. so having placed the brandy-and-soda-water before him she left him to his own reflections. apparently they were not very pleasant ones. he walked round the room, which was reeking of patchouli or some such compound, well mixed with the odour of stale cigar smoke, looking absently at the gee-gar ornaments. on the mantelpiece were some photographs, and among them, to his disgust, he saw one of himself taken many years ago. with something as near an oath as he ever indulged in, he seized it, and setting fire to it over the gas, waited till the flames began to scorch his fingers, and then flung it, still burning, into the grate. then he looked at himself in the glass in the mantelpiece--the room was full of mirrors--and laughed bitterly at the incongruity of his gentlemanlike, respectable, and even refined appearance, in that vulgar, gaudy, vicious-looking room. suddenly he bethought him of the letter in his wife's handwriting which he had stolen from the pocket of edward cossey's coat. he drew it out, and throwing the tea gown and the interminable glove off the sofa, sat down and began to read it. it was, as he had expected, a love letter, a wildly passionate love letter, breathing language which in some places almost touched the beauty of poetry, vows of undying affection that were throughout redeemed from vulgarity and even from silliness by their utter earnestness and self-abandonment. had the letter been one written under happier circumstances and innocent of offence against morality, it would have been a beautiful letter, for passion at its highest has always a wild beauty of its own. he read it through and then carefully folded it and restored it to his pocket. "the woman has a heart," he said to himself, "no one can doubt it. and yet i could never touch it, though god knows however much i wronged her i loved her, yes, and love her now. well, it is a good bit of evidence, if ever i dare to use it. it is a game of bluff between me and her, and i expect that in the end the boldest player will win." he rose from the sofa--the atmosphere of the place stifled him, and going to the window threw it open and stepped out on to the balcony. it was a lovely moonlight night, though chilly, and for london the street was a quiet one. taking a chair he sat down there upon the balcony and began to think. his heart was softened by misery and his mind fell into a tender groove. he thought of his long-dead mother, whom he had dearly loved, and of how he used to say his prayers to her, and of how she sang hymns to him on sunday evenings. her death had seemed to choke all the beauty out of his being at the time, and yet now he thanked heaven that she was dead. and then he thought of the accursed woman who had been his ruin, and of how she had entered into his life and corrupted and destroyed him. next there rose up before him a vision of belle, belle as he had first seen her, a maid of seventeen, the only child of that drunken old village doctor, now also long since dead, and of how the sight of her had for a while stayed the corruption of his heart because he grew to love her. and then he married belle by foul means, and the woman rose up in his path again, and he learnt that his wife hated him with all the energy of her passionate heart. then came degradation after degradation, and the abandonment of principle after principle, replaced only by a fierce craving for respectability and rest, a long, long struggle, which ever ended in new lapses from the right, till at length he saw himself a hardened schemer, remorselessly pursued by a fury from whom there was no escape. and yet he knew that under other circumstances he might have been a good and happy man--leading an honourable life. but now all hope had gone, that which he was he must be till the end. he leaned his head upon the stone railing in front of him and wept, wept in the anguish of his soul, praying to heaven for deliverance from the burden of his sins, well knowing that he had none to hope for. for his chance was gone and his fate fixed. chapter xvii the tigress in her den presently a hansom cab came rattling down the street and pulled up at the door. "now for it," said mr. quest to himself as he metaphorically shook himself together. next minute he heard a voice, which he knew only too well, a loud high voice say from the cab, "well, open the door, stupid, can't you?" "certainly, my lady fair," replied another voice--a coarse, somewhat husky male voice--"adored edithia, in one moment." "come stow that and let me out," replied the adored edithia sharply; and in another moment a large man in evening clothes, a horrible vulgar, carnal-looking man with red cheeks and a hanging under-lip, emerged into the lamp-light and turned to hand the lady out. as he did so the woman ellen advanced from the doorway, and going to the cab door whispered something to its occupant. "hullo, johnnie," said the lady, as she descended from the cab, so loudly that mr. quest on the balcony could hear every word, "you must be off; mr. d'aubigne has turned up, and perhaps he won't think three good company, so you had just best take this cab back again, my son, and that will save me the trouble of paying it. come, cut." "d'aubigne," growled the flashy man with an oath, "what do i care about d'aubigne? advance, d'aubigne, and all's well! you needn't be jealous of me, i'm----" "now stop that noise and be off. he's a lawyer and he might not freeze on to you; don't you understand?" "well i'm a lawyer too and a pretty sharp one--_arcades ambo_," said johnnie with a coarse laugh; "and i tell you what it is, edith, it ain't good enough to cart a fellow down in this howling wilderness and then send him away without a drink; lend us another fiver at any rate. it ain't good enough, i say." "good enough or not you'll have to go and you don't get any fivers out of me to-night. now pack sharp, or i'll know the reason why," and she pointed towards the cab in a fashion that seemed to cow her companion, for without another word he got into it. in another moment the cab had turned, and he was gone, muttering curses as he went. the woman, who was none other than mrs. d'aubigne, _alias_ edith jones, _alias_ the tiger, turned and entered the house accompanied by her servant, ellen, and presently mr. quest heard the rustle of her satin dress upon the stairs. he stepped back into the darkness of the balcony and waited. she opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her, and then, a little dazzled by the light, stood for some seconds looking about for her visitor. she was a thin, tall woman, who might have been any age between forty and fifty, with the wrecks of a very fine agile-looking figure. her face, which was plentifully bedaubed with paint and powder, was sharp, fierce, and handsome, and crowned with a mane of false yellow hair. her eyes were cold and blue, her lips thin and rather drawn, so as to show a double line of large and gleaming teeth. she was dressed in a rich and hideous tight-fitting gown of yellow satin, barred with black, and on her arms were long bright yellow gloves. she moved lightly and silently, and looked around her with a long-searching gaze, like that of a cat, and her general appearance conveyed an idea of hunger and wicked ferocity. such was the outward appearance of the tiger, and of a truth it justified her name. "why, where the dickens has he got to?" she said aloud; "i wonder if he has given me the slip?" "here i am, edith," said mr. quest quietly, as he stepped from the balcony into the room. "oh, there you are, are you?" she said, "hiding away in the dark--just like your nasty mean ways. well, my long-lost one, so you have come home at last, and brought the tin with you. well, give us a kiss," and she advanced on him with her long arms outspread. mr. quest shivered visibly, and stretching out his hand, stopped her from coming near him. "no, thank you," he said; "i don't like paint." the taunt stopped her, and for a moment an evil light shone in her cold eyes. "no wonder i have to paint," she said, "when i am so worn out with poverty and hard work--not like the lovely mrs. q., who has nothing to do all day except spend the money that i ought to have. i'll tell you what it is, my fine fellow: you had better be careful, or i'll have that pretty cuckoo out of her soft nest, and pluck her borrowed feathers off her, like the monkey did to the parrot." "perhaps you had better stop that talk, and come to business. i am in no mood for this sort of thing, edith," and he turned round, shut the window, and drew the blind. "oh, all right; i'm agreeable, i'm sure. stop a bit, though--i must have a brandy-and-soda first. i am as dry as a lime-kiln, and so would you be if you had to sing comic songs at a music hall for a living. there, that's better," and she put down the empty glass and threw herself on to the sofa. "now then, tune up as much as you like. how much tin have you brought?" mr. quest sat down by the table, and then, as though suddenly struck by a thought, rose again, and going to the door, opened it and looked out into the passage. there was nobody there, so he shut the door again, locked it, and then under cover of drawing the curtain which hung over it, slipped the key into his pocket. "what are you at there?" said the woman suspiciously. "i was just looking to see that ellen was not at the key-hole, that's all. it would not be the first time that i have caught her there." "just like your nasty low ways again," she said. "you've got some game on. i'll be bound that you have got some game on." mr. quest seated himself again, and without taking any notice of this last remark began the conversation. "i have brought you two hundred and fifty pounds," he said. "two hundred and fifty pounds!" she said, jumping up with a savage laugh. "no, my boy, you don't get off for that if i know it. why, i owe all that at this moment." "you had better sit down and be quiet," he said, "or you will not get two hundred and fifty pence. in your own interest i recommend you to sit down." there was something about the man's voice and manner that scared the female savage before him, fierce as she was, and she sat down. "listen," he went on, "you are continually complaining of poverty; i come to your house--your house, mind you, not your rooms, and i find the _debris_ of a card party lying about. i see champagne bottles freshly opened there in the corner. i see a dressing gown on the sofa that must have cost twenty or thirty pounds. i hear some brute associate of yours out in the street asking you to lend him another 'fiver.' you complain of poverty and you have had over four hundred pounds from me this year alone, and i know that you earn twelve pounds a week at the music hall, and not five as you say. no, do not trouble to lie to me, for i have made enquiries." "spying again," said the woman with a sneer. "yes, spying, if you like; but there it is. and now to the point--i am not going on supplying you with money at this rate. i cannot do it and i will not do it. i am going to give you two hundred and fifty pounds now, and as much every year, and not one farthing more." once more she sat up. "you must be mad," she said in a tone that sounded more like a snarl than a human voice. "are you such a fool as to believe that i will be put off with two hundred and fifty pounds a year, i, _your legal wife?_ i'll have you in the dock first, in the dock for bigamy." "yes," he answered, "i do believe it for a reason that i shall give you presently. but first i want to go though our joint history, very briefly, just to justify myself if you like. five-and-twenty years ago, or was it six-and-twenty, i was a boy of eighteen and you were a woman of twenty, a housemaid in my mother's house, and you made love to me. then my mother was called away to nurse my brother who died at school at portsmouth, and i fell sick with scarlet fever and you nursed me through it--it would have been kinder if you had poisoned me, and in my weak state you got a great hold over my mind, and i became attached to you, for you were handsome in those days. then you dared me to marry you, and partly out of bravado, partly from affection, i took out a licence, to do which i made a false declaration that i was over age, and gave false names of the parishes in which we resided. next day, half tipsy and not knowing what i did, i went through the form of marriage with you, and a few days afterwards my mother returned, observed that we were intimate, and dismissed you. you went without a word as to our marriage, which we both looked on a farce, and for years i lost sight of you. fifteen years afterwards, when i had almost forgotten this adventure of my youth, i became acquainted with a young lady with whom i fell in love, and whose fortune, though not large, was enough to help me considerably in my profession as a country lawyer, in which i was doing well. i thought that you were dead, or that if you lived, the fact of my having made the false declaration of age and locality would be enough to invalidate the marriage, as would certainly have been the case if i had also made a false declaration of names; and my impulses and interests prompting me to take the risk, i married that lady. then it was that you hunted me down, and then for the first time i did what i ought to have done before, and took the best legal opinions as to the validity of the former marriage, which, to my horror, i found was undoubtedly a binding one. you also took opinions and came to the same conclusion. since then the history has been a simple one. out of my wife's fortune of ten thousand pounds, i paid you no less than seven thousand as hush money, on your undertaking to leave this country for america, and never return here again. i should have done better to face it out, but i feared to lose my position and practice. you left and wrote to me that you too had married in chicago, but in eighteen months you returned, having squandered every farthing of the money, when i found that the story of your marriage was an impudent lie." "yes," she put in with a laugh, "and a rare time i had with that seven thousand too." "you returned and demanded more blackmail, and i had no choice but to give, and give, and give. in eleven years you had something over twenty-three thousand pounds from me, and you continually demand more. i believe you will admit that this is a truthful statement of the case," and he paused. "oh, yes," she said, "i am not going to dispute that, but what then? i am your wife, and you have committed bigamy; and if you don't go on paying me i'll have you in gaol, and that's all about it, old boy. you can't get out of it any way, you nasty mean brute," she went on, raising her voice and drawing up her thin lips so as to show the white teeth beneath. "so you thought that you were going to play it down low on me in that fashion, did you? well, you've just made a little mistake for once in your life, and i'll tell you what it is, you shall smart for it. i'll teach you what it is to leave your lawful wife to starve while you go and live with another woman in luxury. you can't help yourself; i can ruin you if i like. supposing i go to a magistrate and ask for a warrant? what can you do to keep me quiet?" suddenly the virago stopped as though she were shot, and her fierce countenance froze into an appearance of terror, as well it might. mr. quest, who had been sitting listening to her with his hand over his eyes, had risen, and his face was as the face of a fiend, alight with an intense and quiet fury which seemed to be burning inwardly. on the mantelpiece lay a sharp-pointed goorka knife, which one of mrs. d'aubigne's travelled admirers had presented to her. it was an awful looking weapon, and keen-edged as a razor. this he had taken up and held in his right hand, and with it he was advancing towards her as she lounged on the sofa. "if you make a sound i will kill you at once," he said, speaking in a low and husky voice. she had been paralysed with terror, for like most bullies, male and female, she was a great coward, but the sound of his voice roused her. the first note of a harsh screech had already issued from her lips, when he sprang upon her, and placing the sharp point of the knife against her throat, pricked her with it. "be quiet," he said, "or you are a dead woman." she stopped screaming and lay there, her face twitching, and her eyes bright with terror. "now listen," he said, in the same husky voice. "you incarnate fiend, you asked me just now how i could keep you quiet. i will tell you; i can keep you quiet by running this knife up to the hilt in your throat," and once more he pricked her with its point. "it would be murder," he went on, "but i do not care for that. you and others between you have not made my life so pleasant for me that i am especially anxious to preserve it. now, listen. i will give you the two hundred and fifty pounds that i have brought, and you shall have the two hundred and fifty a year. but if you ever again attempt to extort more, or if you molest me either by spreading stories against my character or by means of legal prosecution, or in any other way, i swear by the almighty that i will murder you. i may have to kill myself afterwards--i don't care if i do, provided i kill you first. do you understand me? you tiger, as you call yourself. if i have to hunt you down, as they do tigers, i will come up with you at last and _kill_ you. you have driven me to it, and, by heaven! i will! come, speak up, and tell me that you understand, or i may change my mind and do it now," and once more he touched her with the knife. she rolled off the sofa on to the floor and lay there, writhing in abject terror, looking in the shadow of the table, where her long lithe form was twisting about in its robe of yellow barred with black, more like one of the great cats from which she took her name than a human being. "spare me," she gasped, "spare me, i don't want to die. i swear that i will never meddle with you again." "i don't want your oaths, woman," answered the stern form bending over her with the knife. "a liar you have been from your youth up, and a liar you will be to the end. do you understand what i have said?" "yes, yes, i understand. ah! put away that knife, i can't bear it! it makes me sick." "very well then, get up." she tried to rise, but her knees would not support her, so she sat upon the floor. "now," said mr. quest, replacing the knife upon the mantelpiece, "here is your money," and he flung a bag of notes and gold into her lap, at which she clutched eagerly and almost automatically. "the two hundred and fifty pounds will be paid on the st of january in each year, and not one farthing more will you get from me. remember what i tell you, try to molest me by word or act, and you are a dead woman; i forbid you even to write to me. now go to the devil in your own way," and without another word he took up his hat and umbrella, walked to the door, unlocked it and went, leaving the tiger huddled together upon the floor. for half-an-hour or more the woman remained thus, the bag of money in her hand. then she struggled to her feet, her face livid and her body shaking. "ugh," she said, "i'm as weak as a cat. i thought he meant to do it that time, and he will too, for sixpence. he's got me there. i am afraid to die. i can't bear to die. it is better to lose the money than to die. besides, if i blow on him he'll be put in chokey and i shan't be able to get anything out of him, and when he comes out he'll do for me." and then, losing her temper, she shook her fist in the air and broke out into a flood of language such as would neither be pretty to hear nor good to repeat. mr. quest was a man of judgment. at last he had realised that in one way, and one only, can a wild beast be tamed, and that is by terror. chapter xviii "what some have found so sweet" time went on. mr. quest had been back at boisingham for ten days or more, and was more cheerful than belle (we can no longer call her his wife) had seen him for many a day. indeed he felt as though ten years had been lifted off his back. he had taken a great and terrible decision and had acted upon it, and it had been successful, for he knew that his evil genius was so thoroughly terrified that for a long while at least he would be free from her persecution. but with belle his relations remained as strained as ever. now that the reader is in the secret of mr. quest's life, it will perhaps help him to understand the apparent strangeness of his conduct with reference to his wife and edward cossey. it is quite true that belle did not know the full extent of her husband's guilt. she did not know that he was not her husband, but she did know that nearly all of her little fortune had been paid over to another woman, and that woman a common, vulgar woman, as one of edith's letters which had fallen into her hands by chance very clearly showed her. therefore, had he attempted to expose her proceedings or even to control her actions, she had in her hand an effective weapon of defence wherewith she could and would have given blow for blow. this state of affairs of necessity forced each party to preserve an armed neutrality towards the other, whilst they waited for a suitable opportunity to assert themselves. not that their objects were quite the same. belle merely wished to be free from her husband, whom she had always disliked, and whom she now positively hated with that curious hatred which women occasionally conceive toward those to whom they are legally bound, when they have been bad enough or unfortunate enough to fall in love with somebody else. he, on the contrary, had that desire for revenge upon her which even the gentler stamp of man is apt to conceive towards one who, herself the object of his strong affection, daily and hourly repels and repays it with scorn and infidelity. he did love her truly; she was the one living thing in all his bitter lonely life to whom his heart had gone out. true, he put pressure on her to marry him, or what comes to the same thing, allowed and encouraged her drunken old father to do so. but he had loved her and still loved her, and yet she mocked at him, and in the face of that fact about the money--her money, which he had paid away to the other woman, a fact which it was impossible for him to explain except by admission of guilt which would be his ruin, what was he to urge to convince her of this, even had she been open to conviction? but it was bitter to him, bitter beyond all conception, to have this, the one joy of his life, snatched from him. he threw himself with ardour into the pursuit after wealth and dignity of position, partly because he had a legitimate desire for these things, and partly to assuage the constant irritation of his mind, but to no purpose. these two spectres of his existence, his tiger wife and the fair woman who was his wife in name, constantly marched side by side before him, blotting out the beauty from every scene and souring the sweetness of every joy. but if in his pain he thirsted for revenge upon belle, who would have none of him, how much more did he desire to be avenged upon edward cossey, who, as it were, had in sheer wantonness robbed him of the one good thing he had? it made him mad to think that this man, to whom he knew himself to be in every way superior, should have had the power thus to injure him, and he longed to pay him back measure for measure, and through _his_ heart's affections to strike him as mortal a blow as he had himself received. mr. quest was no doubt a bad man; his whole life was a fraud, he was selfish and unscrupulous in his schemes and relentless in their execution, but whatever may have been the measure of his iniquities, he was not doomed to wait for another world to have them meted out to him again. his life, indeed, was full of miseries, the more keenly felt because of the high pitch and capacity of his nature, and perhaps the sharpest of them all was the sickening knowledge that had it not been for that one fatal error of his boyhood, that one false step down the steep of avernus, he might have been a good and even a great man. just now, however, his load was a little lightened, and he was able to devote himself to his money-making and to the weaving of the web that was to destroy his rival, edward cossey, with a mind a little less preoccupied with other cares. meanwhile, things at the castle were going very pleasantly for everybody. the squire was as happy in attending to the various details connected with the transfer of the mortgages as though he had been lending thirty thousand pounds instead of borrowing them. the great george was happy in the accustomed flow of cash, that enabled him to treat janter with a lofty scorn not unmingled with pity, which was as balm to his harassed soul, and also to transact an enormous amount of business in his own peculiar way with men up trees and otherwise. for had he not to stock the moat farm, and was not michaelmas at hand? ida, too, was happy, happier than she had been since her brother's death, for reasons that have already been hinted at. besides, mr. edward cossey was out of the way, and that to ida was a very great thing, for his presence to her was what a policeman is to a ticket-of-leave man--a most unpleasant and suggestive sight. she fully realised the meaning and extent of the bargain into which she had entered to save her father and her house, and there lay upon her the deep shadow of evil that was to come. every time she saw her father bustling about with his business matters and his parchments, every time the universal george arrived with an air of melancholy satisfaction and a long list of the farming stock and implements he had bought at some neighbouring michaelmas sale, the shadow deepened, and she heard the clanking of her chains. therefore she was the more thankful for her respite. harold quaritch was happy too, though in a somewhat restless and peculiar way. mrs. jobson (the old lady who attended to his wants at molehill, with the help of a gardener and a simple village maid, her niece, who smashed all the crockery and nearly drove the colonel mad by banging the doors, shifting his papers and even dusting his trays of roman coins) actually confided to some friends in the village that she thought the poor dear gentleman was going mad. when questioned on what she based this belief, she replied that he would walk up and down the oak-panelled dining-room by the hour together, and then, when he got tired of that exercise, whereby, said mrs. jobson, he had already worn a groove in the new turkey carpet, he would take out a "rokey" (foggy) looking bit of a picture, set it upon a chair and stare at it through his fingers, shaking his head and muttering all the while. then--further and conclusive proof of a yielding intellect--he would get a half-sheet of paper with some writing on it and put it on the mantelpiece and stare at that. next he would turn it upside down and stare at it so, then sideways, then all ways, then he would hold it before a looking-glass and stare at the looking-glass, and so on. when asked how she knew all this, she confessed that her niece jane had seen it through the key-hole, not once but often. of course, as the practised and discerning reader will clearly understand, this meant only that when walking and wearing out the carpet the colonel was thinking of ida. when contemplating the painting that she had given him, he was admiring her work and trying to reconcile the admiration with his conscience and his somewhat peculiar views of art. and when glaring at the paper, he was vainly endeavouring to make head or tale of the message written to his son on the night before his execution by sir james de la molle in the reign of charles i., confidently believed by ida to contain a key to the whereabouts of the treasure he was supposed to have secreted. of course the tale of this worthy soul, mrs. jobson, did not lose in the telling, and when it reached ida's ears, which it did at last through the medium of george--for in addition to his numberless other functions, george was the sole authorised purveyor of village and county news--it read that colonel quaritch had gone raving mad. ten minutes afterwards this raving lunatic arrived at the castle in dress clothes and his right mind, whereon ida promptly repeated her thrilling history, somewhat to the subsequent discomfort of mrs. jobson and jane. no one, as somebody once said with equal truth and profundity, knows what a minute may bring forth, much less, therefore, does anybody know what an evening of say two hundred and forty minutes may produce. for instance, harold quaritch--though by this time he had gone so far as to freely admit to himself that he was utterly and hopelessly in love with ida, in love with her with that settled and determined passion which sometimes strikes a man or woman in middle age--certainly did not know that before the evening was out he would have declared his devotion with results that shall be made clear in their decent order. when he put on his dress clothes to come up to dinner, he had no more intention of proposing to ida than he had of not taking them off when he went to bed. his love was deep enough and steady enough, but perhaps it did not possess that wild impetuosity which carries people so far in their youth, sometimes indeed a great deal further than their reason approves. it was essentially a middle-aged devotion, and bore the same resemblance to the picturesque passion of five-and-twenty that a snow-fed torrent does to a navigable river. the one rushes and roars and sweeps away the bridges and devastates happy homes, while the other bears upon its placid breast the argosies of peace and plenty and is generally serviceable to the necessities of man. still, there is something attractive about torrents. there is a grandeur in that first rush of passion which results from the sudden melting of the snows of the heart's purity and faith and high unstained devotion. but both torrents and navigable rivers are liable to a common fate, they may fall over precipices, and when this comes to pass even the latter cease to be navigable for a space. now this catastrophe was about to overtake our friend the colonel. well, harold quaritch had dined, and had enjoyed a pleasant as well as a good dinner. the squire, who of late had been cheerful as a cricket, was in his best form, and told long stories with an infinitesimal point. in anybody else's mouth these stories would have been wearisome to a degree, but there was a gusto, an originality, and a kind of tudor period flavour about the old gentleman, which made his worst and longest story acceptable in any society. the colonel himself had also come out in a most unusual way. he possessed a fund of dry humour which he rarely produced, but when he did produce it, it was of a most satisfactory order. on this particular night it was all on view, greatly to the satisfaction of ida, who was a witty as well as a clever woman. and so it came to pass that the dinner was a very pleasant one. harold and the squire were still sitting over their wine. the latter was for the fifth time giving his guest a full and particular account of how his deceased aunt, mrs. massey, had been persuaded by a learned antiquarian to convert or rather to restore dead man's mount into its supposed primitive condition of an ancient british dwelling, and of the extraordinary expression of her face when the bill came in, when suddenly the servant announced that george was waiting to see him. the old gentleman grumbled a great deal, but finally got up and went to enjoy himself for the next hour or so in talking about things in general with his retainer, leaving his guest to find his way to the drawing-room. when the colonel reached the room, he found ida seated at the piano, singing. she heard him shut the door, looked round, nodded prettily, and then went on with her singing. he came and sat down on a low chair some two paces from her, placing himself in such a position that he could see her face, which indeed he always found a wonderfully pleasant object of contemplation. ida was playing without music--the only light in the room was that of a low lamp with a red fringe to it. therefore, he could not see very much, being with difficulty able to trace the outlines of her features, but if the shadow thus robbed him, it on the other hand lent her a beauty of its own, clothing her face with an atmosphere of wonderful softness which it did not always possess in the glare of day. the colonel indeed (we must remember that he was in love and that it was after dinner) became quite poetical (internally of course) about it, and in his heart compared her first to st. cecilia at her organ, and then to the angel of the twilight. he had never seen her look so lovely. at her worst she was a handsome and noble-looking woman, but now the shadow from without, and though he knew nothing of that, the shadow from her heart within also, aided maybe by the music's swell, had softened and purified her face till it did indeed look almost like an angel's. it is strong, powerful faces that are capable of the most tenderness, not the soft and pretty ones, and even in a plain person, when such a face is in this way seen, it gathers a peculiar beauty of its own. but ida was not a plain person, so on the whole it is scarcely wonderful that a certain effect was produced upon harold quaritch. ida went on singing almost without a break--to outward appearance, at any rate, all unconscious of what was passing in her admirer's mind. she had a good memory and a sweet voice, and really liked music for its own sake, so it was no great effort to her to do so. presently, she sang a song from tennyson's "maud," the tender and beautiful words whereof will be familiar to most readers of her story. it began: "o let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet before my life has found what some have found so sweet." the song is a lovely one, nor did it suffer from her rendering, and the effect it produced upon harold was of a most peculiar nature. all his past life seemed to heave and break beneath the magic of the music and the magic of the singer, as a northern field of ice breaks up beneath the outburst of the summer sun. it broke, sank, and vanished into the depths of his nature, those dread unmeasured depths that roll and murmur in the vastness of each human heart as the sea rolls beneath its cloak of ice; that roll and murmur here, and set towards a shore of which we have no chart or knowledge. the past was gone, the frozen years had melted, and once more the sweet strong air of youth blew across his heart, and once more there was clear sky above, wherein the angels sailed. before the breath of that sweet song the barrier of self fell down, his being went out to meet her being, and all the sleeping possibilities of life rose from the buried time. he sat and listened, trembling as he listened, till the gentle echoes of the music died upon the quiet air. they died, and were gathered into the emptiness which receives and records all things, leaving him broken. she turned to him, smiling faintly, for the song had moved her also, and he felt that he must speak. "that is a beautiful song," he said; "sing it again if you do not mind." she made no answer, but once more she sang: "o let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet before my life has found what some have found so sweet;" and then suddenly broke off. "why are you looking at me?" she said. "i can feel you looking at me and it makes me nervous." he bent towards her and looked her in the eyes. "i love you, ida," he said, "i love you with all my heart," and he stopped suddenly. she turned quite pale, even in that light he could see her pallor, and her hands fell heavily on the keys. the echo of the crashing notes rolled round the room and slowly died away--but still she said nothing. chapter xix in pawn at last she spoke, apparently with a great effort. "it is stifling in here," she said, "let us go out." she rose, took up a shawl that lay beside her on a chair, and stepped through the french window into the garden. it was a lovely autumn night, and the air was still as death, with just a touch of frost in it. ida threw the shawl over her shoulders and followed by harold walked on through the garden till she came to the edge of the moat, where there was a seat. here she sat down and fixed her eyes upon the hoary battlements of the gateway, now clad in a solemn robe of moonlight. harold looked at her and felt that if he had anything to say the time had come for him to say it, and that she had brought him here in order that she might be able to listen undisturbed. so he began again, and told her that he loved her dearly. "i am some seventeen years older than you," he went on, "and i suppose that the most active part of my life lies in the past; and i don't know if, putting other things aside, you could care to marry so old a man, especially as i am not rich. indeed, i feel it presumptuous on my part, seeing what you are and what i am not, to ask you to do so. and yet, ida, i believe if you could care for me that, with heaven's blessing, we should be very happy together. i have led a lonely life, and have had little to do with women--once, many years ago, i was engaged, and the matter ended painfully, and that is all. but ever since i first saw your face in the drift five years and more ago, it has haunted me and been with me. then i came to live here and i have learnt to love you, heaven only knows how much, and i should be ashamed to try to put it into words, for they would sound foolish. all my life is wrapped up in you, and i feel as though, should you see me no more, i could never be a happy man again," and he paused and looked anxiously at her face, which was set and drawn as though with pain. "i cannot say 'yes,' colonel quaritch," she answered at length, in a tone that puzzled him, it was so tender and so unfitted to the words. "i suppose," he stammered, "i suppose that you do not care for me? of course, i have no right to expect that you would." "as i have said that i cannot say 'yes,' colonel quaritch, do you not think that i had better leave that question unanswered?" she replied in the same soft notes which seemed to draw the heart out of him. "i do not understand," he went on. "why?" "why?" she broke in with a bitter little laugh, "shall i tell you why? because i am _in pawn!_ look," she went on, pointing to the stately towers and the broad lands beyond. "you see this place. _i_ am security for it, i _myself_ in my own person. had it not been for me it would have been sold over our heads after having descended in our family for all these centuries, put upon the market and sold for what it would fetch, and my old father would have been turned out to die, for it would have killed him. so you see i did what unfortunate women have often been driven to do, i sold myself body and soul; and i got a good price too--thirty thousand pounds!" and suddenly she burst into a flood of tears, and began to sob as though her heart would break. for a moment harold quaritch looked on bewildered, not in the least understanding what ida meant, and then he followed the impulse common to mankind in similar circumstances and took her in his arms. she did not resent the movement, indeed she scarcely seemed to notice it, though to tell the truth, for a moment or two, which to the colonel seemed the happiest of his life, her head rested on his shoulder. almost instantly, however, she raised it, freed herself from his embrace and ceased weeping. "as i have told you so much," she said, "i suppose that i had better tell you everything. i know that whatever the temptation," and she laid great stress upon the words, "under any conceivable circumstances --indeed, even if you believed that you were serving me in so doing--i can rely upon you never to reveal to anybody, and above all to my father, what i now tell you," and she paused and looked up at him with eyes in which the tears still swam. "of course, you can rely on me," he said. "very well. i am sure that i shall never have to reproach you with the words. i will tell you. i have virtually promised to marry mr. edward cossey, should he at any time be in a position to claim fulfilment of the promise, on condition of his taking up the mortgages on honham, which he has done." harold quaritch took a step back and looked at her in horrified astonishment. "_what?_" he asked. "yes, yes," she answered hastily, putting up her hand as though to shield herself from a blow. "i know what you mean; but do not think too hardly of me if you can help it. it was not for myself. i would rather work for my living with my hands than take a price, for there is no other word for it. it was for my father, and my family too. i could not bear to think of the old place going to the hammer, and i did it all in a minute without consideration; but," and she set her face, "even as things are, i believe i should do it again, because i think that no one woman has a right to destroy her family in order to please herself. if one of the two must go, let it be the woman. but don't think hardly of me for it," she added almost pleadingly, "that is if you can help it." "i am not thinking of you," he answered grimly; "by heaven i honour you for what you have done, for however much i may disagree with the act, it is a noble one. i am thinking of the man who could drive such a bargain with any woman. you say that you have promised to marry him should he ever be in a position to claim it. what do you mean by that? as you have told me so much you may as well tell me the rest." he spoke clearly and with a voice full of authority, but his bearing did not seem to jar upon ida. "i meant," she answered humbly, "that i believe--of course i do not know if i am right--i believe that mr. cossey is in some way entangled with a lady, in short with mrs. quest, and that the question of whether or no he comes forward again depends upon her." "upon my word," said the colonel, "upon my word the thing gets worse and worse. i never heard anything like it; and for money too! the thing is beyond me." "at any rate," she answered, "there it is. and now, colonel quaritch, one word before i go in. it is difficult for me to speak without saying too much or too little, but i do want you to understand how honoured and how grateful i feel for what you have told me to-night--i am so little worthy of all you have given me, and to be honest, i cannot feel as pained about it as i ought to feel. it is feminine vanity, you know, nothing else. i am sure that you will not press me to say more." "no," he answered, "no. i think that i understand the position. but, ida, there is one thing that i must ask--you will forgive me if i am wrong in doing so, but all this is very sad for me. if in the end circumstances should alter, as i pray heaven that they may, or if mr. cossey's previous entanglement should prove too much for him, will you marry me, ida?" she thought for a moment, and then rising from the seat, gave him her hand and said simply: "yes, i _will_ marry you." he made no answer, but lifting her hand touched it gently with his lips. "meanwhile," she went on, "i have your promise, and i am sure that you will not betray it, come what may." "no," he said, "i will not betray it." and they went in. in the drawing-room they found the squire puzzling over a sheet of paper, on which were scrawled some of george's accounts, in figures which at first sight bore about as much resemblance to egyptian hieroglyphics as they did to those in use to-day. "hullo!" he said, "there you are. where on earth have you been?" "we have been looking at the castle in the moonlight," answered ida coolly. "it is beautiful." "um--ah," said the squire, dryly, "i have no doubt that it is beautiful, but isn't the grass rather damp? well, look here," and he held up the sheet of hieroglyphics, "perhaps you can add this up, ida, for it is more than i can. george has bought stock and all sorts of things at the sale to-day and here is his account; three hundred and seventy-two pounds he makes it, but i make it four hundred and twenty, and hang me if i can find out which is right. it is most important that these accounts should be kept straight. most important, and i cannot get this stupid fellow to do it." ida took the sheet of paper and added it up, with the result that she discovered both totals to be wrong. harold, watching her, wondered at the nerve of a woman who, after going through such a scene as that which had just occurred, could deliberately add up long rows of badly-written figures. and this money which her father was expending so cheerfully was part of the price for which she had bound herself. with a sigh he rose, said good-night, and went home with feelings almost too mixed to admit of accurate description. he had taken a great step in his life, and to a certain extent that step had succeeded. he had not altogether built his hopes upon sand, for from what ida had said, and still more from what she had tacitly admitted, it was necessarily clear to him that she did more or less regard him as a man would wish to be regarded by a woman whom he dearly loved. this was a great deal, more indeed than he had dared to believe, but then, as is usually the case in this imperfect world, where things but too often seem to be carefully arranged at sixes and sevens, came the other side of the shield. of what use to him was it to have won this sweet woman's love, of what use to have put this pure water of happiness to his lips in the desert of his lonely life, only to see the cup that held it shattered at a blow? to him the story of the money loan--in consideration of which, as it were, ida had put herself in pawn, as the egyptians used to put the mummies of their fathers in pawn--was almost incredible. to a person of his simple and honourable nature, it seemed a preposterous and unheard of thing that any man calling himself a gentleman should find it possible to sink so low as to take such advantage of a woman's dire necessity and honourable desire to save her father from misery and her race from ruin, and to extract from her a promise of marriage in consideration of value received. putting aside his overwhelming personal interest in the matter, it made his blood boil to think that such a thing could be. and yet it was, and what was more, he believed he knew ida well enough to be convinced that she would not shirk the bargain. if edward cossey came forward to claim his bond it would be paid down to the last farthing. it was a question of thirty thousand pounds; the happiness of his life and of ida's depended upon a sum of money. if the money were forthcoming, cossey could not claim his flesh and blood. but where was it to come from? he himself was worth perhaps ten thousand pounds, or with the commutation value of his pension, possibly twelve, and he had not the means of raising a farthing more. he thought the position over till he was tired of thinking, and then with a heavy heart and yet with a strange glow of happiness shining through his grief, like sunlight through a grey sky, at last he went to sleep and dreamed that ida had gone from him, and that he was once more utterly alone in the world. but if he had cause for trouble, how much more was it so with ida? poor woman! under her somewhat cold and stately exterior lay a deep and at times a passionate nature. for some weeks she had been growing strangely attracted to harold quaritch, and now she knew that she loved him, so that there was no one thing that she desired more in this wide world than to become his wife. and yet she was bound, bound by a sense of honour and a sense too of money received, to stay at the beck and call of a man she detested, and if at any time it pleased him to throw down the handkerchief, to be there to pick it up and hold it to her breast. it was bad enough to have had this hanging over her head when she was herself more or less in a passive condition, and therefore to a certain extent reckless as to her future; but now that her heart was alight with the holy flame of a good woman's love, now that her whole nature rebelled and cried out aloud against the sacrilege involved, it was both revolting and terrible. and yet so far as she could see there was no great probability of escape. a shrewd and observant woman, she could gauge mr. cossey's condition of mind towards herself with more or less accuracy. also she did not think it in the least likely that having spent thirty thousand pounds to advance his object, he would be content to let his advantage drop. such a course would be repellent to his trading instincts. she knew in her heart that the hour was not far off when he would claim his own, and that unless some accident occurred to prevent it, it was practically certain that she would be called upon to fulfil her pledge, and whilst loving another man to become the wife of edward cossey. chapter xx "good-bye to you, edward" it was on the day following the one upon which harold proposed to ida, that edward cossey returned to boisingham. his father had so far recovered from his attack as to be at last prevailed upon to allow his departure, being chiefly moved thereto by the supposition that cossey and son's branch establishments were suffering from his son's absence. "well," he said, in his high, piercing voice, "business is business, and must be attended to, so perhaps you had better go. they talk about the fleeting character of things, but there is one thing that never changes, and that is money. money is immortal; men may come and men may go, but money goes on for ever. hee! hee! money is the honey-pot, and men are the flies; and some get their fill and some stick their wings, but the honey is always there, so never mind the flies. no, never mind me either; you go and look after the honey, edward. money--honey, honey--money, they rhyme, don't they? and look here, by the way, if you get a chance--and the world is full of chances to men who have plenty of money--mind you don't forget to pay out that half-pay colonel--what's his name?--quaritch. he played our family a dirty trick, and there's your poor aunt julia in a lunatic asylum to this moment and a constant source of expense to us." and so edward bade his estimable parent farewell and departed. nor in truth did he require any admonition from mr. cossey, senior, to make him anxious to do colonel quaritch an ill-turn if the opportunity should serve. mrs. quest, in her numerous affectionate letters, had more than once, possibly for reasons of her own, given him a full and vivid _resume_ of the local gossip about the colonel and ida, who were, she said, according to common report, engaged to be married. now, absence had not by any means cooled edward's devotion to miss de la molle, which was a sincere one enough in its own way. on the contrary, the longer he was away from her the more his passion grew, and with it a vigorous undergrowth of jealousy. he had, it is true, ida's implied promise that she would marry him if he chose to ask her, but on this he put no great reliance. hence his hurry to return to boisingham. leaving london by an afternoon train, he reached boisingham about half-past six, and in pursuance of an arrangement already made, went to dine with the quests. when he reached the house he found belle alone in the drawing-room, for her husband, having come in late, was still dressing, but somewhat to his relief he had no opportunity of private conversation with her, for a servant was in the room, attending to the fire, which would not burn. the dinner passed off quietly enough, though there was an ominous look about the lady's face which, being familiar with these signs of the feminine weather, he did not altogether like. after dinner, however, mr. quest excused himself, saying that he had promised to attend a local concert in aid of the funds for the restoration of the damaged pinnacle of the parish church, and he was left alone with the lady. then it was that all her pent-up passion broke out. she overwhelmed him with her affection, she told him that her life had been a blank while he was away, she reproached him with the scarcity and coldness of his letters, and generally went on in a way with which he was but too well accustomed, and, if the truth must be told, heartily tired. his mood was an irritable one, and to-night the whole thing wearied him beyond bearing. "come, belle," he said at last, "for goodness' sake be a little more rational. you are getting too old for this sort of tomfoolery, you know." she sprang up and faced him, her eyes flashing and her breast heaving with jealous anger. "what do you mean?" she said. "are you tired of me?" "i did not say that," he answered, "but as you have started the subject i must tell you that i think all this has gone far enough. unless it is stopped i believe we shall both be ruined. i am sure that your husband is becoming suspicious, and as i have told you again and again, if once the business gets to my father's ears he will disinherit me." belle stood quite still till he had finished. she had assumed her favourite attitude and crossed her arms behind her back, and her sweet childish face was calm and very white. "what is the good of making excuses and telling me what is not true, edward?" she said. "one never hears a man who loves a woman talk like that; prudence comes with weariness, and men grow circumspect when there is nothing more to gain. you _are_ tired of me. i have seen it a long time, but like a blind fool i have tried not to believe it. it is not a great reward to a woman who has given her whole life to a man, but perhaps it is as much as she can expect, for i do not want to be unjust to you. i am the most to blame, because we need never take a false step except of our own free will." "well, well," he said impatiently, "what of it?" "only this, edward. i have still a little pride left, and as you are tired of me, why--_go_." he tried hard to prevent it, but do what he would, a look of relief struggled into his face. she saw it, and it stung her almost to madness. "you need not look so happy, edward; it is scarcely decent; and, besides, you have not heard all that i have to say. i know what this arises from. you are in love with ida de la molle. now _there_ i draw the line. you may leave me if you like, but you shall not marry ida while i am alive to prevent it. that is more than i can bear. besides, like a wise woman, she wishes to marry colonel quaritch, who is worth two of you, edward cossey." "i do not believe it," he answered; "and what right have you to say that i am in love with miss de la molle? and if i am in love with her, how can you prevent me from marrying her if i choose?" "try and you will see," she answered, with a little laugh. "and now, as the curtain has dropped, and it is all over between us, why the best thing that we can do is to put out the lights and go to bed," and she laughed again and courtesied with much assumed playfulness. "good-night, mr. cossey; good-night, and good-bye." he held out his hand. "come, belle," he said, "don't let us part like this." she shook her head and once more put her arms behind her. "no," she answered, "i will not take your hand. of my own free will i shall never touch it again, for to me it is like the hand of the dead. good-bye, once more; good-bye to you, edward, and to all the happiness that i ever had. i built up my life upon my love for you, and you have shattered it like glass. i do not reproach you; you have followed after your nature and i must follow after mine, and in time all things will come right--in the grave. i shall not trouble you any more, provided that you do not try to marry ida, for that i will not bear. and now go, for i am very tired," and turning, she rang the bell for the servant to show him out. in another minute he was gone. she listened till she heard the front door close behind him, and then gave way to her grief. flinging herself upon the sofa, she covered her face with her hands and moaned bitterly, weeping for the past, and weeping, too, for the long desolate years that were to come. poor woman! whatever was the measure of her sin it had assuredly found her out, as our sins always do find us out in the end. she had loved this man with a love which has no parallel in the hearts of well-ordered and well-brought-up women. she never really lived till this fatal passion took possession of her, and now that its object had deserted her, her heart felt as though it was dead within her. in that short half-hour she suffered more than many women do in their whole lives. but the paroxysm passed, and she rose pale and trembling, with set teeth and blazing eyes. "he had better be careful," she said to herself; "he may go, but if he tries to marry ida i will keep my word--yes, for her sake as well as his." when edward cossey came to consider the position, which he did seriously, on the following morning, he did not find it very satisfactory. to begin with, he was not altogether a heartless man, and such a scene as that which he had passed through on the previous evening was in itself quite enough to upset his nerves. at one time, at any rate, he had been much attached to mrs. quest; he had never borne her any violent affection; that had all been on her side, but still he had been fond of her, and if he could have done so, would probably have married her. even now he was attached to her, and would have been glad to remain her friend if she would have allowed it. but then came the time when her heroics began to weary him, and he on his side began to fall in love with ida de la molle, and as he drew back so she came forward, till at length he was worn out, and things culminated as has been described. he was sorry for her too, knowing how deeply she was attached to him, though it is probable that he did not in the least realise the extent to which she suffered, for neither men nor women who have intentionally or otherwise been the cause of intense mental anguish to one of the opposite sex ever do quite realise this. they, not unnaturally, measure the trouble by the depth of their own, and are therefore very apt to come to erroneous conclusions. of course this is said of cases where all the real passion is on one side, and indifference or comparative indifference on the other; for where it is mutual, the grief will in natures of equal depth be mutual also. at any rate, edward cossey was quite sensitive enough to acutely feel parting with mrs. quest, and perhaps he felt the manner of it even more than the fact of the separation. then came another consideration. he was, it is true, free from his entanglement, in itself an enormous relief, but the freedom was of a conditional nature. belle had threatened trouble in the most decisive tones should he attempt to carry out his secret purpose of marrying ida, which she had not been slow to divine. for some occult reason, at least to him it seemed occult, the idea of this alliance was peculiarly distasteful to her, though no doubt the true explanation was that she believed, and not inaccurately, that in order to bring it about he was bent upon deserting her. the question with him was, would she or would she not attempt to put her threat into execution? it certainly seemed to him difficult to imagine what steps she could take to that end, seeing that any such steps would necessarily involve her own exposure, and that too when there was nothing to gain, and when all hopes of thereby securing him for herself had passed away. nor did he seriously believe that she would attempt anything of the sort. it is one thing for a woman to make such threats in the acute agony of her jealousy, and quite another for her to carry them out in cold blood. looking at the matter from a man's point of view, it seemed to him extremely improbable that when the occasion came she would attempt such a move. he forgot how much more violently, when once it has taken possession of his being, the storm of passion sweeps through such a woman's heart than through a man's, and how utterly reckless to all consequence the former sometimes becomes. for there are women with whom all things melt in that white heat of anguished jealousy--honour, duty, conscience, and the restraint of religion--and of these belle quest was one. but of this he was not aware, and though he recognised a risk, he saw in it no sufficient reason to make him stay his hand. for day by day the strong desire to make ida his wife had grown upon him, till at last it possessed him body and soul. for a long while the intent had been smouldering in his breast, and the tale that he now heard, to the effect that colonel quaritch had been beforehand with him, had blown it into a flame. ida was ever present in his thoughts; even at night he could not be rid of her, for when he slept her vision, dark-eyed and beautiful, came stealing down his dreams. she was his heaven, and if by any ladder known to man he might climb thereto, thither he would climb. and so he set his teeth and vowed that, mrs. quest or no mrs. quest, he would stake his fortune upon the hazard of the die, aye, and win, even if he loaded the dice. while he was still thinking thus, standing at his window and gazing out on to the market place of the quiet little town, he suddenly saw ida herself driving in her pony-carriage. it was a wet and windy day, the rain was on her cheek, and the wind tossed a little lock of her brown hair. the cob was pulling, and her proud face was set, as she concentrated her energies upon holding him. never to edward cossey had she looked more beautiful. his heart beat fast at the sight of her, and whatever doubts might have lingered in his mind, vanished. yes, he would claim her promise and marry her. presently the pony carriage pulled up at his door, and the boy who was sitting behind got down and rang the bell. he stepped back from the window, wondering what it could be. "will you please give that note to mr. cossey," said ida, as the door opened, "and ask him to send an answer?" and she was gone. the note was from the squire, sealed with his big seal (the squire always sealed his letters in the old-fashioned way), and contained an invitation to himself to shoot on the morrow. "george wants me to do a little partridge driving," it ended, "and to brush through one or two of the small coverts. there will only be colonel quaritch besides yourself and george, but i hope that you will have a fair rough day. if i don't hear from you i shall suppose that you are coming, so don't trouble to write." "oh yes, i will go," said edward. "confound that quaritch. at any rate i can show him how to shoot, and what is more i will have it out with him about my aunt." chapter xxi the colonel goes out shooting the next morning was fine and still, one of those lovely autumn days of which we get four or five in the course of a season. after breakfast harold quaritch strolled down his garden, stood himself against a gate to the right of dead man's mount, and looked at the scene. all about him, their foliage yellowing to its fall, rose the giant oaks, which were the pride of the country side, and so quiet was the air that not a leaf upon them stirred. the only sounds that reached his ears were the tappings of the nut-hutches as they sought their food in the rough crannies of the bark, and the occasional falling of a rich ripe acorn from its lofty place on to the frosted grass beneath. the sunshine shone bright, but with a chastened heat, the squirrels scrambled up the oaks, and high in the blue air the rooks pursued their path. it was a beautiful morning, for summer is never more sweet than on its death-bed, and yet it filled him with solemn thoughts. how many autumns had those old trees seen, and how many would they still see, long after his eyes had lost their sight! and if they were old, how old was dead man's mount there to his left! old, indeed! for he had discovered it was mentioned in doomday book and by that name. and what was it--a boundary hill, a natural formation, or, as its name implied, a funeral barrow? he had half a mind to dig one day and find out, that is if he could get anybody to dig with him, for the people about honham were so firmly convinced that dead man's mount was haunted, a reputation which it had owned from time immemorial, that nothing would have persuaded them to touch it. he contemplated the great mound carefully without coming to any conclusion, and then looked at his watch. it was a quarter to ten, time for him to start for the castle for his day's shooting. so he got his gun and cartridges, and in due course arrived at the castle, to find george and several myrmidons, in the shape of beaters and boys, already standing in the yard. "please, colonel, the squire hopes you'll go in and have a glass of summut before you start," said george; so accordingly he went, not to "have a glass of summut," but on the chance of seeing ida. in the vestibule he found the old gentleman busily engaged in writing an enormous letter. "hullo, colonel," he halloaed, without getting up, "glad to see you. excuse me for a few moments, will you, i want to get this off my mind. ida! ida! ida!" he shouted, "here's colonel quaritch." "good gracious, father," said that young lady, arriving in a hurry, "you are bringing the house down," and then she turned round and greeted harold. it was the first time they had met since the eventful evening described a chapter or two back, so the occasion might be considered a little awkward; at any rate he felt it so. "how do you do, colonel quaritch?" she said quite simply, giving him her hand. there was nothing in the words, and yet he felt that he was very welcome. for when a woman really loves a man there is about her an atmosphere of softness and tender meaning which can scarcely be mistaken. sometimes it is only perceptible to the favoured individual himself, but more generally is to be discerned by any person of ordinary shrewdness. a very short course of observation in general society will convince the reader of the justice of this observation, and when once he gets to know the signs of the weather he will probably light upon more affairs of the heart than were ever meant for his investigation. this softness, or atmospheric influence, or subdued glow of affection radiating from a light within, was clearly enough visible in ida that morning, and certainly it made our friend the colonel unspeakably happy to see it. "are you fond of shooting?" she asked presently. "yes, very, and have been all my life." "are you a good shot?" she asked again. "i call that a rude question," he answered smiling. "yes, it is, but i want to know." "well," said harold, "i suppose that i am pretty fair, that is at rough shooting; i never had much practice at driven birds and that kind of sport." "i am glad of it." "why, it does not much matter. one goes out shooting for the sport of the thing." "yes, i know, but mr. edward cossey," and she shrank visibly as she uttered the name, "is coming, and he is a _very_ good shot and _very_ conceited about it. i want you to beat him if you can--will you try?" "well," said harold, "i don't at all like shooting against a man. it is not sportsmanlike, you know; and, besides, if mr. cossey is a crack shot, i daresay that i shall be nowhere; but i will shoot as well as i can." "do you know, it is very feminine, but i would give anything to see you beat him?" and she nodded and laughed, whereupon harold quaritch vowed in his heart that if it in him lay he would not disappoint her. at that moment edward cossey's fast trotting horse drew up at the door with a prodigious crunching of gravel, and edward himself entered, looking very handsome and rather pale. he was admirably dressed, that is to say, his shooting clothes were beautifully made and very new-looking, and so were his boots, and so was his hat, and so were his hammerless guns, of which he brought a pair. there exists a certain class of sportsmen who always appear to have just walked out of a sporting tailor's shop, and to this class edward cossey belonged. everything about him was of the best and newest and most expensive kind possible; even his guns were just down from a famous maker, and the best that could be had for love or money, having cost exactly a hundred and forty guineas the pair. indeed, he presented a curious contrast to his rival. the colonel had certainly nothing new-looking about _him_; an old tweed coat, an old hat, with a piece of gut still twined round it, a sadly frayed bag full of brown cartridges, and, last of all, an old gun with the brown worn off the barrels, original cost, pounds s. and yet there was no possibility of making any mistake as to which of the two looked more of a gentleman, or, indeed, more of a sportsman. edward cossey shook hands with ida, but when the colonel was advancing to give him his hand, he turned and spoke to the squire, who had at length finished his letter, so that no greeting was passed between them. at the time harold did not know if this move was or was not accidental. presently they started, edward cossey attended by his man with the second gun. "hullo! cossey," sang out the squire after him, "it isn't any use bringing your two guns for this sort of work. i don't preserve much here, you know, at least not now. you will only get a dozen cock pheasants and a few brace of partridges." "oh, thank you," he answered, "i always like to have a second gun in case i should want it. it's no trouble, you know." "all right," said the squire. "ida and i will come down with the luncheon to the grove. good-bye." after crossing the moat, edward cossey walked by himself, followed by his man and a very fine retriever, and the colonel talked to george, who was informing him that mr. cossey was "a pretty shot, he wore, but rather snappy over it," till they came to a field of white turnips. "now, gentlemen, if you please," said george, "we will walk through these here turnips. i put two coveys of birds in here myself, and it's rare good 'lay' for them; so i think that we had better see if they will let us come nigh them." accordingly they started down the field, the colonel on the right, george in the middle and edward cossey on the left. before they had gone ten yards, an old frenchman got up in the front of one of the beaters and wheeled round past edward, who cut him over in first-rate style. from that one bird the colonel could see that the man was a quick and clever shot. presently, however, a leash of english birds rose rather awkwardly at about forty paces straight in front of edward cossey, and harold noticed that he left them alone, never attempting to fire at them. in fact he was one of those shooters who never take a hard shot if they can avoid it, being always in terror lest they should miss it and so reduce their average. then george, who was a very fair shot of the "poking" order, fired both barrels and got a bird, and edward cossey got another. it was not till they were getting to the end of their last beat that harold found a chance of letting off his gun. suddenly, however, a brace of old birds sprang up out of the turnips in front of him at about thirty yards as swiftly as though they had been ejected from a mortar, and made off, one to the right and one to the left, both of them rising shots. he got the right-hand bird, and then turning killed the other also, when it was more than fifty yards away. the colonel felt satisfied, for the shots were very good. mr. cossey opened his eyes and wondered if it was a fluke, and george ejaculated, "well, that's a master one." after this they pursued their course, picking up another two brace of birds on the way to the outlying cover, a wood of about twenty acres through which they were to brush. it was a good holding wood for pheasants, but lay on the outside of the honham estate, where they were liable to be poached by the farmers whose land marched, so george enjoined them particularly not to let anything go. into the details of the sport that followed we need not enter, beyond saying that the colonel, to his huge delight, never shot better in his life. indeed, with the exception of one rabbit and hen pheasant that flopped up right beneath his feet, he scarcely missed anything, though he took the shots as they came. edward cossey also shot well, and with one exception missed nothing, but then he never took a difficult shot if he could avoid it. the exception was a woodcock which rose in front of george, who was walking down an outside belt with the beaters. he loosed two barrels at it and missed, and on it came among the tree tops, past where edward cossey was standing, about half-way down the belt, giving him a difficult chance with the first barrel and a clear one with the second. bang! bang! and on came the woodcock, now flying low, but at tremendous speed, straight at the colonel's head, a most puzzling shot. however, he fired, and to his joy (and what joy is there like to the joy of a sportsman who has just killed a woodcock which everybody has been popping at?) down it came with a thump almost at his feet. this was their last beat before lunch, which was now to be seen approaching down a lane in a donkey cart convoyed by ida and the squire. the latter was advancing in stages of about ten paces, and at every stage he stopped to utter a most fearful roar by way of warning all and sundry that they were not to shoot in his direction. edward gave his gun to his bearer and at once walked off to join them, but the colonel went with george to look after two running cocks which he had down, for he was an old-fashioned sportsman, and hated not picking up his game. after some difficulty they found one of the cocks in the hedgerow, but the other they could not find, so reluctantly they gave up the search. when they got to the lane they found the luncheon ready, while one of the beaters was laying out the game for the squire to inspect. there were fourteen pheasants, four brace and a half of partridges, a hare, three rabbits, and a woodcock. "hullo," said the squire, "who shot the woodcock?" "well, sir," said george, "we all had a pull at him, but the colonel wiped our eyes." "oh, mr. cossey," said ida, in affected surprise, "why, i thought you never missed _anything_." "everybody misses sometimes," answered that gentleman, looking uncommonly sulky. "i shall do better this afternoon when it comes to the driven partridges." "i don't believe you will," went on ida, laughing maliciously. "i bet you a pair of gloves that colonel quaritch will shoot more driven partridges than you do." "done," said edward cossey sharply. "now, do you hear that, colonel quaritch?" went on ida. "i have bet mr. cossey a pair of gloves that you will kill more partridges this afternoon than he will, so i hope you won't make me lose them." "goodness gracious," said the colonel, in much alarm. "why, the last partridge-driving that i had was on the slopes of some mountains in afghanistan. i daresay that i shan't hit anything. besides," he said with some irritation, "i don't like being set up to shoot against people." "oh, of course," said edward loftily, "if colonel quaritch does not like to take it up there's an end of it." "well," said the colonel, "if you put it in that way i don't mind trying, but i have only one gun and you have two." "oh, that will be all right," said ida to the colonel. "you shall have george's gun; he never tries to shoot when they drive partridges, because he cannot hit them. he goes with the beaters. it is a very good gun." the colonel took up the gun and examined it. it was of about the same bend and length as his own, but of a better quality, having once been the property of james de la molle. "yes," he said, "but then i haven't got a loader." "never mind. i'll do that, i know all about it. i often used to hold my brother's second gun when we drove partridges, because he said i was so much quicker than the men. look," and she took the gun and rested one knee on the turf; "first position, second position, third position. we used to have regular drills at it," and she sighed. the colonel laughed heartily, for it was a curious thing to see this stately woman handling a gun with all the skill and quickness of a practised shot. besides, as the loader idea involved a whole afternoon of ida's society he certainly was not inclined to negative it. but edward cossey did not smile; on the contrary he positively scowled with jealousy, and was about to make some remark when ida held up her finger. "hush," she said, "here comes my father" (the squire had been counting the game); "he hates bets, so you mustn't say anything about our match." luncheon went off pretty well, though edward cossey did not contribute much to the general conversation. when it was done the squire announced that he was going to walk to the other end of the estate, whereon ida said that she should stop and see something of the shooting, and the fun began. chapter xxii the end of the match they began the afternoon with several small drives, but on the whole the birds did very badly. they broke back, went off to one side or the other, and generally misbehaved themselves. in the first drive the colonel and edward cossey got a bird each. in the second drive the latter got three birds, firing five shots, and his antagonist only got a hare and a pheasant that jumped out of a ditch, neither of which, of course, counted anything. only one brace of birds came his way at all, but if the truth must be told, he was talking to ida at the moment and did not see them till too late. then came a longer drive, when the birds were pretty plentiful. the colonel got one, a low-flying frenchman, which he killed as he topped the fence, and after that for the life of him he could not touch a feather. every sportsman knows what a fatal thing it is to begin to miss and then get nervous, and that was what happened to the colonel. continually there came distant cries of "_mark! mark over!_" followed by the apparition of half-a-dozen brown balls showing clearly against the grey autumn sky and sweeping down towards him like lightning. _whizz_ in front, overhead and behind; bang, bang; bang again with the second gun, and they were away--vanished, gone, leaving nothing but a memory behind them. the colonel swore beneath his breath, and ida kneeling at his side, sighed audibly; but it was of no use, and presently the drive was done, and there he was with one wretched french partridge to show for it. ida said nothing, but she looked volumes, and if ever a man felt humiliated, harold quaritch was that man. she had set her heart upon his winning the match, and he was making an exhibition of himself that might have caused a schoolboy to blush. only edward cossey smiled grimly as he told his bearer to give the two and a half brace which he had shot to george. "last drive this next, gentlemen," said that universal functionary as he surveyed the colonel's one frenchman, and then glancing sadly at the tell-tale pile of empty cartridge cases, added, "you'll hev to shoot up, colonel, this time, if you are a-going to win them there gloves for miss ida. mr. cossey hev knocked up four brace and a half, and you hev only got a brace. look you here, sir," he went on in a portentous whisper, "keep forrard of them, well forrard, fire ahead, and down they'll come of themselves like. you're a better shot than he is a long way; you could give him 'birds,' sir, that you could, and beat him." harold said nothing. he was sorely tempted to make excuses, as any man would have been, and he might with truth have urged that he was not accustomed to partridge-driving, and that one of the guns was new to him. but he resisted manfully and said never a word. george placed the two guns, and then went off to join the beaters. it was a capital spot for a drive, for on each side were young larch plantations, sloping down towards them like a v, the guns being at the narrow end and level with the points of the plantations, which were at this spot about a hundred and twenty yards apart. in front was a large stretch of open fields, lying in such a fashion that the birds were bound to fly straight over the guns and between the gap at the end of the v-shaped covers. they had to wait a long while, for the beat was of considerable extent, and this they did in silence, till presently a couple of single birds appeared coming down the wind like lightning, for a stiffish breeze had sprung up. one went to the left over edward cossey's head, and he shot it very neatly, but the other, catching sight of harold's hat beneath the fence, which was not a high one, swerved and crossed, an almost impossible shot, nearer sixty than fifty yards from him. "now," said ida, and he fired, and to his joy down came the bird with a thud, bounding full two feet into the air with the force of its impact, being indeed shot through the head. "that's better," said ida, as she handed him the second gun. another moment and a covey came over, high up. he fired both barrels and got a right and left, and snatching the second gun sent another barrel after them, hitting a third bird, which did not fall. and then a noble enthusiasm and certainty possessed him, and he knew that he should miss no more. nor did he. with two almost impossible exceptions he dropped every bird that drive. but his crowning glory, a thing whereof he still often dreams, was yet to come. he had killed four brace of partridge and fired eleven times, when at last the beaters made their appearance about two hundred yards away at the further end of rather dirty barley stubble. "i think that is the lot," he said; "i'm afraid you have lost your gloves, ida." scarcely were the words out of his mouth when there was a yell of "mark!" and a strong covey of birds appeared, swooping down the wind right on to him. on they came, scattered and rather "stringy." harold gripped his gun and drew a deep breath, while ida, kneeling at his side, her lips apart, and her beautiful eyes wide open, watched their advent through a space in the hedge. lovely enough she looked to charm the heart of any man, if a man out partridge-driving could descend to such frivolity, which we hold to be impossible. now is the moment. the leading brace are something over fifty yards away, and he knows full well that if there is to be a chance left for the second gun he must shoot before they are five yards nearer. "bang!" down comes the old cock bird; "bang!" and his mate follows him, falling with a smash into the fence. quick as light ida takes the empty gun with one hand, and as he swings round passes him the cocked and loaded one with the other. "bang!" another bird topples head first out of the thinned covey. they are nearly sixty yards away now. "bang!" again, and oh, joy and wonder! the last bird turns right over backwards, and falls dead as a stone some seventy paces from the muzzle of the gun. he had killed four birds out of a single driven covey, which as shooters well know is a feat not often done even by the best driving shots. "bravo!" said ida, "i was sure that you could shoot if you chose." "yes," he answered, "it was pretty good work;" and he commenced collecting the birds, for by this time the beaters were across the field. they were all dead, not a runner in the lot, and there were exactly six brace of them. just as he picked up the last, george arrived, followed by edward cossey. "well i niver," said the former, while something resembling a smile stole over his melancholy countenance, "if that bean't the masterest bit of shooting that ever i did see. lord walsingham couldn't hardly beat that hisself--fifteen empty cases and twelve birds picked up. why," and he turned to edward, "bless me, sir, if i don't believe the colonel has won them gloves for miss ida after all. let's see, sir, you got two brace this last drive and one the first, and a leash the second, and two brace and a half the third, six and a half brace in all. and the colonel, yes, he hev seven brace, one bird to the good." "there, mr. cossey," said ida, smiling sweetly, "i have won my gloves. mind you don't forget to pay them." "oh, i will not forget, miss de la molle," said he, smiling also, but not too prettily. "i suppose," he said, addressing the colonel, "that the last covey twisted up and you browned them." "no," he answered quietly, "all four were clear shots." mr. cossey smiled again, as he turned away to hide his vexation, an incredulous smile, which somehow sent harold quaritch's blood leaping through his veins more quickly than was good for him. edward cossey would rather have lost a thousand pounds than that his adversary should have got that extra bird, for not only was he a jealous shot, but he knew perfectly well that ida was anxious that he should lose, and desired above all things to see him humiliated. and then he, the smartest shot within ten miles round, to be beaten by a middle-aged soldier shooting with a strange gun, and totally unaccustomed to driven birds! why, the story would be told over the county; george would see to that. his anger was so great when he thought of it, that afraid of making himself ridiculous, he set off with his bearer towards the castle without another word, leaving the others to follow. ida looked after him and smiled. "he is so conceited," she said; "he cannot bear to be beaten at anything." "i think that you are rather hard on him," said the colonel, for the joke had an unpleasant side which jarred upon his taste. "at any rate," she answered, with a little stamp, "it is not for you to say so. if you disliked him as much as i do you would be hard on him, too. besides, i daresay that his turn is coming." the colonel winced, as well he might, but looking at her handsome face, set just now like steel at the thought of what the future might bring forth, he reflected that if edward cossey's turn did come he was by no means sure that the ultimate triumph would rest with him. ida de la molle, to whatever extent her sense of honour and money indebtedness might carry her, was no butterfly to be broken on a wheel, but a woman whose dislike and anger, or worse still, whose cold, unvarying disdain, was a thing from which the boldest hearted man might shrink aghast. nothing more was said on the subject, and they began to talk, though somewhat constrainedly, about indifferent matters. they were both aware that it was a farce, and that they were playing a part, for beneath the external ice of formalities the river of their devotion ran strong--whither they knew not. all that had been made clear a few nights back. but what will you have? necessity over-riding their desires, compelled them along the path of self-denial, and, like wise folk, they recognised the fact: for there is nothing more painful in the world than the outburst of hopeless affection. and so they talked about painting and shooting and what not, till they reached the grey old castle towers. here harold wanted to bid her good-bye, but she persuaded him to come in and have some tea, saying that her father would like to say good-night to him. accordingly he went into the vestibule, where there was a light, for it was getting dusk; and here he found the squire and mr. cossey. as soon as he entered, edward cossey rose, said good-night to the squire and ida, and then passed towards the door, where the colonel was standing, rubbing the mud off his shooting boots. as he came, harold being slightly ashamed of the business of the shooting match, and very sorry to have humiliated a man who prided himself so much upon his skill in a particular branch of sport, held out his hand and said in a friendly tone: "good-night, mr. cossey. next time that we are out shooting together i expect i shall be nowhere. it was an awful fluke of mine killing those four birds." edward cossey took no notice of the friendly words or outstretched hand, but came straight on as though he intended to walk past him. the colonel was wondering what it was best to do, for he could not mistake the meaning of the oversight, when the squire, who was sometimes very quick to notice things, spoke in a loud and decided tone. "mr. cossey," he said, "colonel quaritch is offering you his hand." "i observe that he is," he answered, setting his handsome face, "but i do not wish to take colonel quaritch's hand." then came a moment's silence, which the squire again broke. "when a gentleman in my house refuses to take the hand of another gentleman," he said very quietly, "i think that i have a right to ask the reason for his conduct, which, unless that reason is a very sufficient one, is almost as much a slight upon me as upon him." "i think that colonel quaritch must know the reason, and will not press me to explain," said edward cossey. "i know of no reason," replied the colonel sternly, "unless indeed it is that i have been so unfortunate as to get the best of mr. cossey in a friendly shooting match." "colonel quaritch must know well that this is not the reason to which i allude," said edward. "if he consults his conscience he will probably discover a better one." ida and her father looked at each other in surprise, while the colonel by a half involuntary movement stepped between his accuser and the door; and ida noticed that his face was white with anger. "you have made a very serious implication against me, mr. cossey," he said in a cold clear voice. "before you leave this room you will be so good as to explain it in the presence of those before whom it has been made." "certainly, if you wish it," he answered, with something like a sneer. "the reason why i refused to take your hand, colonel quaritch, is that you have been guilty of conduct which proves to me that you are not a gentleman, and, therefore, not a person with whom i desire to be on friendly terms. shall i go on?" "most certainly you will go on," answered the colonel. "very well. the conduct to which i refer is that you were once engaged to my aunt, julia heston; that within three days of the time of the marriage you deserted and jilted her in a most cruel way, as a consequence of which she went mad, and is to this moment an inmate of an asylum." ida gave an exclamation of astonishment, and the colonel started, while the squire, looking at him curiously, waited to hear what he had to say. "it is perfectly true, mr. cossey," he answered, "that i was engaged twenty years ago to be married to miss julia heston, though i now for the first time learn that she was your aunt. it is also quite true that that engagement was broken off, under most painful circumstances, within three days of the time fixed for the marriage. what those circumstances were i am not at liberty to say, for the simple reason that i gave my word not to do so; but this i will say, that they were not to my discredit, though you may not be aware of that fact. but as you are one of the family, mr. cossey, my tongue is not tied, and i will do myself the honour of calling upon you to-morrow and explaining them to you. after that," he added significantly, "i shall require you to apologise to me as publicly as you have accused me." "you may require, but whether i shall comply is another matter," said edward cossey, and he passed out. "i am very sorry, mr. de la molle," said the colonel, as soon as he had gone, "more sorry than i can say, that i should have been the cause of this most unpleasant scene. i also feel that i am placed in a very false position, and until i produce mr. cossey's written apology, that position must to some extent continue. if i fail to obtain that apology, i shall have to consider what course to take. in the meanwhile i can only ask you to suspend your judgment." chapter xxiii the blow falls on the following morning, about ten o'clock, while edward cossey was still at breakfast, a dog-cart drew up at his door and out of it stepped colonel quaritch. "now for the row," said he to himself. "i hope that the governor was right in his tale, that's all. perhaps it would have been wiser to say nothing till i had made sure," and he poured out some more tea a little nervously, for in the colonel he had, he felt, an adversary not to be despised. presently the door opened, and "colonel quaritch" was announced. he rose and bowed a salutation, which the colonel whose face bore a particularly grim expression, did not return. "will you take a chair?" he said, as soon as the servant had left, and without speaking harold took one--and presently began the conversation. "last night, mr. cossey," he said, "you thought proper to publicly bring a charge against me, which if it were true would go a long way towards showing that i was not a fit person to associate with those before whom it was brought." "yes," said edward coolly. "before making any remarks on your conduct in bringing such a charge, which i give you credit for believing to be true, i purpose to show to you that it is a false charge," went on the colonel quietly. "the story is a very simple one, and so sad that nothing short of necessity would force me to tell it. i was, when quite young, engaged to your aunt, miss heston, to whom i was much attached, and who was then twenty years of age. though i had little besides my profession, she had money, and we were going to be married. the circumstances under which the marriage was broken off were as follow:--three days before the wedding was to take place i went unexpectedly to the house, and was told by the servant that miss heston was upstairs in her sitting-room. i went upstairs to the room, which i knew well, knocked and got no answer. then i walked into the room, and this is what i saw. your aunt was lying on the sofa in her wedding dress (that is, in half of it, for she had only the skirt on), as i first thought, asleep. i went up to her, and saw that by her side was a brandy bottle, half empty. in her hand also was a glass containing raw brandy. while i was wondering what it could mean, she woke up, got off the sofa, and i saw that she was intoxicated." "it's a lie!" said edward excitedly. "be careful what you say, sir," answered the colonel, "and wait to say it till i have done." "as soon as i realised what was the matter, i left the room again, and going down to your grandfather's study, where he was engaged in writing a sermon, i asked him to come upstairs, as i feared that his daughter was not well. he came and saw, and the sight threw him off his balance, for he broke out into a torrent of explanations and excuses, from which in time i extracted the following facts:--it appeared that ever since she was a child, miss heston had been addicted to drinking fits, and that it was on account of this constitutional weakness, which was of course concealed from me, that she had been allowed to engage herself to a penniless subaltern. it appeared, too, that the habit was hereditary, for her mother had died from the effects of drink, and one of her aunts had become mad from it. "i went away and thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that under these circumstances it would be impossible for me, much as i was attached to your aunt, to marry her, because even if i were willing to do so, i had no right to run the risk of bringing children into the world who might inherit the curse. having come to this determination, which it cost me much to do, i wrote and communicated it to your grandfather, and the marriage was broken off." "i do not believe it, i do not believe a word of it," said edward, jumping up. "you jilted her and drove her mad, and now you are trying to shelter yourself behind a tissue of falsehood." "are you acquainted with your grandfather's handwriting?" asked the colonel quietly. "yes." "is that it?" he went on, producing a yellow-looking letter and showing it to him. "i believe so--at least it looks like it." "then read the letter." edward obeyed. it was one written in answer to that of harold quaritch to his betrothed's father, and admitted in the clearest terms the justice of the step that he had taken. further, it begged him for the sake of julia and the family at large, never to mention the cause of his defection to any one outside the family. "are you satisfied, mr. cossey? i have other letters, if you wish to see them." edward made no reply, and the colonel went on:--"i gave the promise your grandfather asked for, and in spite of the remarks that were freely made upon my behaviour, i kept it, as it was my duty to do. you, mr. cossey, are the first person to whom the story has been told. and now that you have thought fit to make accusations against me, which are without foundation, i must ask you to retract them as fully as you made them. i have prepared a letter which you will be so good as to sign," and he handed him a note addressed to the squire. it ran: "dear mr. de la molle,-- "i beg in the fullest and most ample manner possible to retract the charges which i made yesterday evening against colonel quaritch, in the presence of yourself and miss de la molle. i find that those charges were unfounded, and i hereby apologise to colonel quaritch for having made them." "and supposing that i refuse to sign," said edward sulkily. "i do not think," answered the colonel, "that you will refuse." edward looked at colonel quaritch, and the colonel looked at edward. "well," said the colonel, "please understand i mean that you should sign this letter, and, indeed, seeing how absolutely you are in the wrong, i do not think that you can hesitate to do so." then very slowly and unwillingly, edward cossey took up a pen, affixed his signature to the letter, blotted it, and pushed it from him. the colonel folded it up, placed it in an envelope which he had ready, and put it in his pocket. "now, mr. cossey," he said, "i will wish you good-morning. another time i should recommend you to be more careful, both of your facts and the manner of your accusations," and with a slight bow he left the room. "curse the fellow," thought edward to himself as the front door closed, "he had me there--i was forced to sign. well, i will be even with him about ida, at any rate. i will propose to her this very day, belle or no belle, and if she won't have me i will call the money in and smash the whole thing up"--and his handsome face bore a very evil look, as he thought of it. that very afternoon he started in pursuance of this design, to pay a visit to the castle. the squire was out, but miss de la molle was at home. he was ushered into the drawing-room, where ida was working, for it was a wet and windy afternoon. she rose to greet him coldly enough, and he sat down, and then came a pause which she did not seem inclined to break. at last he spoke. "did the squire get my letter, miss de la molle?" he asked. "yes," she answered, rather icily. "colonel quaritch sent it up." "i am very sorry," he added confusedly, "that i should have put myself in such a false position. i hope that you will give me credit for having believed my accusation when i made it." "such accusations should not be lightly made, mr. cossey," was her answer, and, as though to turn the subject, she rose and rang the bell for tea. it came, and the bustle connected with it prevented any further conversation for a while. at length, however, it subsided, and once more edward found himself alone with ida. he looked at her and felt afraid. the woman was of a different clay to himself, and he knew it--he loved her, but he did not understand her in the least. however, if the thing was to be done at all it must be done now, so, with a desperate effort, he brought himself to the point. "miss de la molle," he said, and ida, knowing full surely what was coming, felt her heart jump within her bosom and then stand still. "miss de la molle," he repeated, "perhaps you will remember a conversation that passed between us some weeks ago in the conservatory?" "yes," she said, "i remember--about the money." "about the money and other things," he said, gathering courage. "i hinted to you then that i hoped in certain contingencies to be allowed to make my addresses to you, and i think that you understood me." "i understood you perfectly," answered ida, her pale face set like ice, "and i gave you to understand that in the event of your lending my father the money, i should hold myself bound to--to listen to what you had to say." "oh, never mind the money," broke in edward. "it is not a question of money with me, ida, it is not, indeed. i love you with all my heart. i have loved you ever since i saw you. it was because i was jealous of him that i made a fool of myself last night with colonel quaritch. i should have asked you to marry me long ago only there were obstacles in the way. i love you, ida; there never was a woman like you--never." she listened with the same set face. obviously he was in earnest, but his earnestness did not move her; it scarcely even flattered her pride. she disliked the man intensely, and nothing that he could say or do would lessen that dislike by one jot--probably, indeed, it would only intensify it. presently he stopped, his breast heaving and his face broken with emotion, and tried to take her hand. she withdrew it sharply. "i do not think that there is any need for all this," she said coldly. "i gave a conditional promise. you have fulfilled your share of the bargain, and i am prepared to fulfil mine in due course." so far as her words went, edward could find no fault with their meaning, and yet he felt more like a man who has been abruptly and finally refused than one declared chosen. he stood still and looked at her. "i think it right to tell you, however," she went on in the same measured tones, "that if i marry you it will be from motives of duty, and not from motives of affection. i have no love to give you and i do not wish for yours. i do not know if you will be satisfied with this. if you are not, you had better give up the idea," and for the first time she looked up at him with more anxiety in her face than she would have cared to show. but if she hoped that her coldness would repel him, she was destined to be disappointed. on the contrary, like water thrown on burning oil, it only inflamed him the more. "the love will come, ida," he said, and once more he tried to take her hand. "no, mr. cossey," she said, in a voice that checked him. "i am sorry to have to speak so plainly, but till i marry i am my own mistress. pray understand me." "as you like," he said, drawing back from her sulkily. "i am so fond of you that i will marry you on any terms, and that is the truth. i have, however, one thing to ask of you, ida, and it is that you will keep our engagement secret for the present, and get your father (i suppose i must speak to him) to do the same. i have reasons," he went on by way of explanation, "for not wishing it to become known." "i do not see why i should keep it secret," she said; "but it does not matter to me." "the fact is," he explained, "my father is a very curious man, and i doubt if he would like my engagement, because he thinks i ought to marry a great deal of money." "oh, indeed," answered ida. she had believed, as was indeed the case, that there were other reasons not unconnected with mrs. quest, on account of which he was anxious to keep the engagement secret. "by the way," she went on, "i am sorry to have to talk of business, but this is a business matter, is it not? i suppose it is understood that, in the event of our marriage, the mortgage you hold over this place will not be enforced against my father." "of course not," he answered. "look here, ida, i will give you those mortgage bonds as a wedding present, and you can put them in the fire; and i will make a good settlement on you." "thank you," she said, "but i do not require any settlement on myself; i had rather none was made; but i consent to the engagement only on the express condition that the mortgages shall be cancelled before marriage, and as the property will ultimately come to me, this is not much to ask. and now one more thing, mr. cossey; i should like to know when you would wish this marriage to take place; not yet, i presume?" "i could wish it to take place to-morrow," he said with an attempt at a laugh; "but i suppose that between one thing and another it can't come off at once. shall we say this time six months, that will be in may?" "very good," said ida; "this day six months i shall be prepared to become your wife, mr. cossey. i believe," she added with a flash of bitter sarcasm, "it is the time usually allowed for the redemption of a mortgage." "you say very hard things," he answered, wincing. "do i? i daresay. i am hard by nature. i wonder that you can wish to marry me." "i wish it beyond everything in the world," he answered earnestly. "you can never know how much. by the way, i know i was foolish about colonel quaritch; but, ida, i cannot bear to see that man near you. i hope that you will now drop his acquaintance as much as possible." once more ida's face set like a flint. "i am not your wife yet, mr. cossey," she said; "when i am you will have a right to dictate to me as to whom i shall associate with. at present you have no such right, and if it pleases me to associate with colonel quaritch, i shall do so. if you disapprove of my conduct, the remedy is simple--you can break off the engagement." he rose absolutely crushed, for ida was by far the stronger of the two, and besides, his passion gave her an unfair advantage over him. without attempting a reply he held out his hand and said good-night, for he was afraid to venture on any demonstration of affection, adding that he would come to see her father in the morning. she touched his outstretched hand with her fingers, and then fearing lest he should change his mind, promptly rang the bell. in another minute the door had closed behind him and she was left alone. chapter xxiv "good-bye, my dear, good-bye!" when edward cossey had gone, ida rose and put her hands to her head. so the blow had fallen, the deed was done, and she was engaged to be married to edward cossey. and harold quaritch! well, there must be an end to that. it was hard, too--only a woman could know how hard. ida was not a person with a long record of love affairs. once, when she was twenty, she had received a proposal which she had refused, and that was all. so it happened that when she became attached to colonel quaritch she had found her heart for the first time, and for a woman, somewhat late in life. consequently her feelings were all the more profound, and so indeed was her grief at being forced not only to put them away, but to give herself to another man who was not agreeable to her. she was not a violent or ill-regulated woman like mrs. quest. she looked facts in the face, recognised their meaning and bowed before their inexorable logic. it seemed to her almost impossible that she could hope to avoid this marriage, and if that proved to be so, she might be relied upon to make the best of it. scandal would, under any circumstances, never find a word to say against ida, for she was not a person who could attempt to console herself for an unhappy marriage. but it was bitter, bitter as gall, to be thus forced to turn aside from her happiness--for she well knew that with harold quaritch her life would be very happy--and fit her shoulders to this heavy yoke. well, she had saved the place to her father, and also to her descendants, if she had any, and that was all that could be said. she thought and thought, wishing in the bitterness of her heart that she had never been born to come to such a heavy day, till at last she could think no more. the air of the room seemed to stifle her, though it was by no means overheated. she went to the window and looked out. it was a wild wet evening, and the wind drove the rain before it in sheets. in the west the lurid rays of the sinking sun stained the clouds blood red, and broke in arrows of ominous light upon the driving storm. but bad as was the weather, it attracted ida. when the heart is heavy and torn by conflicting passions, it seems to answer to the calling of the storm, and to long to lose its petty troubling in the turmoil of the rushing world. nature has many moods of which our own are but the echo and reflection, and she can be companionable when all human sympathy must fail. for she is our mother from whom we come, to whom we go, and her arms are ever open to clasp the children who can hear her voices. drawn thereto by an impulse which she could not have analysed, ida went upstairs, put on a thick pair of boots, a macintosh and an old hat. then she sallied out into the wind and wet. it was blowing big guns, and as the rain whirled down the drops struck upon her face like spray. she crossed the moat bridge, and went out into the parkland beyond. the air was full of dead leaves, and the grass rustled with them as though it were alive, for this was the first wind since the frost. the great boughs of the oaks rattled and groaned above her, and high overhead, among the sullen clouds, a flight of rooks were being blown this way and that. ida bent her tall form against the rain and gale, and fought her way through them. at first she had no clear idea as to where she was going, but presently, perhaps from custom, she took the path that ran across the fields to honham church. it was a beautiful old church, particularly as regards the tower, one of the finest in the county, which had been partially blown down and rebuilt about the time of charles i. the church itself had originally been founded by the boissey family, and considerably enlarged by the widow of a de la molle, whose husband had fallen at agincourt, "as a memorial for ever." there, upon the porch, were carved the "hawks" of the de la molles, wreathed round with palms of victory; and there, too, within the chancel, hung the warrior's helmet and his dinted shield. nor was he alone, for all around lay the dust of his kindred, come after the toil and struggle of their stormy lives to rest within the walls of that old church. some of them had monuments of alabaster, whereon they lay in effigy, their heads pillowed upon that of a conquered saracen; some had monuments of oak and brass, and some had no monuments at all, for the puritans had ruthlessly destroyed them. but they were nearly all there, nearly twenty generations of the bearers of an ancient name, for even those of them who perished on the scaffold had been borne here for burial. the place was eloquent of the dead and of the mournful lesson of mortality. from century to century the bearers of that name had walked in these fields, and lived in yonder castle, and looked upon the familiar swell of yonder ground and the silver flash of yonder river, and now their ashes were gathered here and all the forgotten turmoil of their lives was lost in the silence of those narrow tombs. ida loved the spot, hallowed to her not only by the altar of her faith, but also by the human associations that clung around and clothed it as the ivy clothed its walls. here she had been christened, and here among her ancestors she hoped to be buried also. here as a girl, when the full moon was up, she had crept in awed silence with her brother james to look through the window at the white and solemn figures stretched within. here, too, she had sat on sunday after sunday for more than twenty years, and stared at the quaint latin inscriptions cut on marble slabs, recording the almost superhuman virtues of departed de la molles of the eighteenth century, her own immediate ancestors. the place was familiar to her whole life; she had scarcely a recollection with which it was not in some way connected. it was not wonderful, therefore, that she loved it, and that in the trouble of her mind her feet shaped their course towards it. presently she was in the churchyard. taking her stand under the shelter of a line of scotch firs, through which the gale sobbed and sang, she leant against a side gate and looked. the scene was desolate enough. rain dropped from the roof on to the sodden graves beneath, and ran in thin sheets down the flint facing of the tower; the dead leaves whirled and rattled about the empty porch, and over all shot one red and angry arrow from the sinking sun. she stood in the storm and rain, gazing at the old church that had seen the end of so many sorrows more bitter than her own, and the wreck of so many summers, till the darkness began to close round her like a pall, while the wind sung the requiem of her hopes. ida was not of a desponding or pessimistic character, but in that bitter hour she found it in her heart, as most people have at one time or another in their lives, to wish the tragedy over and the curtain down, and that she lay beneath those dripping sods without sight or hearing, without hope or dread. it seemed to her that the hereafter must indeed be terrible if it outweighs the sorrows of the here. and then, poor woman, she thought of the long years between her and rest, and leaning her head against the gate-post, began to cry bitterly in the gloom. presently she ceased crying and with a start looked up, feeling that she was no longer alone. her instincts had not deceived her, for in the shadow of the fir trees, not more than two paces from her, was the figure of a man. just then he took a step to the left, which brought his outline against the sky, and ida's heart stood still, for now she knew him. it was harold quaritch, the man over whose loss she had been weeping. "it's very odd," she heard him say, for she was to leeward of him, "but i could have sworn that i heard somebody sobbing; i suppose it was the wind." ida's first idea was flight, and she made a movement for that purpose, but in doing so tripped over a stick and nearly fell. in a minute he was by her side. she was caught, and perhaps she was not altogether sorry, especially as she had tried to get away. "who is it? what's the matter?" said the colonel, lighting a fusee under her eyes. it was one of those flaming fusees, and burnt with a blue light, showing ida's tall figure and beautiful face, all stained with grief and tears, showing her wet macintosh, and the gate-post against which she had been leaning--showing everything. "why, ida," he said in amaze, "what are you doing here, crying too?" "i'm not crying," she said, with a sob; "it's the rain that has made my face wet." just then the light burnt out and he dropped it. "what is it, dear, what is it?" he said in great distress, for the sight of her alone in the wet and dark, and in tears, moved him beyond himself. indeed he would have been no man if it had not. she tried to answer, but she could not, and in another minute, to tell the honest truth, she had exchanged the gate-post for harold's broad shoulder, and was finishing her "cry" there. now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (more especially if she happens to be weeping on your shoulder) is a very trying thing. it is trying even if you do not happen to be in love with her at all. but if you are in love with her, however little, it is dreadful; whereas, if, as in the present case, you happen to worship her, more, perhaps, than it is good to worship any fallible human creature, then the sight is positively overpowering. and so, indeed, it proved in the present instance. the colonel could not bear it, but lifting her head from his shoulder, he kissed her sweet face again and again. "what is it, darling?" he said, "what is the matter?" "leave go of me and i will tell you," she answered. he obeyed, though with some unwillingness. she hunted for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and then at last she spoke: "i am engaged to be married," she said in a low voice, "i am engaged to mr. cossey." then, for about the first time in his life, harold quaritch swore violently in the presence of a lady. "oh, damn it all!" he said. she took no notice of the strength of the language, perhaps indeed she re-echoed it in some feminine equivalent. "it is true," she said with a sigh. "i knew that it would come, those dreadful things always do--and it was not my fault--i am sure you will always remember that. i had to do it--he advanced the money on the express condition, and even if i could pay back the money, i suppose that i should be bound to carry out the bargain. it is not the money which he wants but his bond." "curse him for a shylock," said harold again, and groaned in his bitterness and jealousy. "is there nothing to be done?" he asked presently in a harsh voice, for he was very hard hit. "nothing," she answered sadly. "i do not see what can help us, unless the man died," she said; "and that is not likely. harold," she went on, addressing him for the first time in her life by his christian name, for she felt that after crying upon a man's shoulder it is ridiculous to scruple about calling him by his name; "harold, there is no help for it. i did it myself, remember, because, as i told you, i do not think that any one woman has a right to place her individual happiness before the welfare of her family. and i am only sorry," she added, her voice breaking a little, "that what i have done should bring suffering upon you." he groaned again, but said nothing. "we must try to forget," she went on wildly. "oh no! no! i feel it is not possible that we should forget. you won't forget me, harold, will you? and though it must be all over between us, and we must never speak like this again--never--you will always know i have not forgotten you, will you not, but that i think of you always?" "there is no fear of my forgetting," he said, "and i am selfish enough to hope that you will think of me at times, ida." "yes, indeed i will. we all have our burdens to bear. it is a hard world, and we must bear them. and it will all be the same in the end, in just a few years. i daresay these dead people here have felt as we feel, and how quiet they are! and perhaps there may be something beyond, where things are not so. who can say? you won't go away from this place, harold, will you? not until i am married at any rate; perhaps you had better go then. say that you won't go till then, and you will let me see you sometimes; it is a comfort to see you." "i should have gone, certainly," he said; "to new zealand probably, but if you wish it i will stop for the present." "thank you; and now good-bye, my dear, good-bye! no, don't come with me, i can find my own way home. and--why do you wait? good-bye, good-bye for ever in this way. yes, kiss me once and swear that you will never forget me. marry if you wish to; but don't forget me, harold. forgive me for speaking so plainly, but i speak as one about to die to you, and i wish things to be clear." "i shall never marry and i shall never forget you," he answered. "good-bye, my love, good-bye!" in another minute she had vanished into the storm and rain, out of his sight and out of his life, but not out of his heart. he, too, turned and went his way into the wild and lonely night. an hour afterwards ida came down into the drawing-room dressed for dinner, looking rather pale but otherwise quite herself. presently the squire arrived. he had been at a magistrate's meeting, and had only just got home. "why, ida," he said, "i could not find you anywhere. i met george as i was driving from boisingham, and he told me that he saw you walking through the park." "did he?" she answered indifferently. "yes, i have been out. it was so stuffy indoors. father," she went on, with a change of tone, "i have something to tell you. i am engaged to be married." he looked at her curiously, and then said quietly--the squire was always quiet in any matter of real emergency--"indeed, my dear! that is a serious matter. however, speaking off-hand, i think that notwithstanding the disparity of age, quaritch----" "no, no," she said, wincing visibly, "i am not engaged to colonel quaritch, i am engaged to mr. cossey." "oh," he said, "oh, indeed! i thought from what i saw, that--that----" at this moment the servant announced dinner. "well, never mind about it now, father," she said; "i am tired and want my dinner. mr. cossey is coming to see you to-morrow, and we can talk about it afterwards." and though the squire thought a good deal, he made no further allusion to the subject that night. chapter xxv the squire gives his consent edward cossey did not come away from the scene of his engagement in a very happy or triumphant tone of mind. ida's bitter words stung like whips, and he understood, and she clearly meant he should understand, that it was only in consideration of the money advanced that she had consented to become his wife. now, however satisfactory it is to be rich enough to purchase your heart's desire in this fashion, it is not altogether soothing to the pride of a nineteenth-century man to be continually haunted by the thought that he is a buyer in the market and nothing but a buyer. of course, he saw clearly enough that there was an object in all this--he saw that ida, by making obvious her dislike, wished to disgust him with his bargain, and escape from an alliance of which the prospect was hateful to her. but he had no intention of being so easily discouraged. in the first place his passion for the woman was as a devouring flame, eating ever at his heart. in that at any rate he was sincere; he did love her so far as his nature was capable of love, or at any rate he had the keenest desire to make her his wife. a delicate-minded man would probably have shrunken from forcing himself upon a woman under parallel circumstances; but edward cossey did not happen to fall into that category. as a matter of fact such men are not as common as they might be. another thing which he took into account was that ida would probably get over her dislike. he was a close observer of women, in a cynical and half contemptuous way, and he remarked, or thought that he remarked, a curious tendency among them to submit with comparative complacency to the inevitable whenever it happened to coincide with their material advantage. women, he argued, have not, as a class, outgrown the traditions of their primitive condition when their partners for life were chosen for them by lot or the chance of battle. they still recognise the claims of the wealthiest or strongest, and their love of luxury and ease is so keen that if the nest they lie in is only soft enough, they will not grieve long over the fact that it was not of their own choosing. arguing from these untrustworthy premises, he came to the conclusion that ida would soon get over her repugnance to marrying him, when she found how many comforts and good things marriage with so rich a man would place at her disposal, and would, if for no other reason, learn to look on him with affection and gratitude as the author of her gilded ease. and so indeed she might have done had she been of another and more common stamp. but, unfortunately for his reasoning, there exist members of her sex who are by nature of an order of mind superior to these considerations, and who realise that they have but one life to live, and that the highest form of happiness is _not_ dependent upon money or money's worth, but rather upon the indulgence of mental aspirations and those affections which, when genuine, draw nearer to holiness than anything else about us. such a woman, more especially if she is already possessed with an affection for another man, does not easily become reconciled to a distasteful lot, however quietly she may endure it, and such a woman was ida de la molle. edward cossey, when he reached boisingham on the evening of his engagement, at once wrote and posted a note to the squire, saying that he would call on the following morning about a matter of business. accordingly, at half-past ten o'clock, he arrived and was shown into the vestibule, where he found the old gentleman standing with his back to the fire and plunged in reflection. "well, mr. de la molle," said edward, rather nervously, so soon as he had shaken hands, "i do not know if ida has spoken to you about what took place between us yesterday." "yes," he said, "yes, she told me something to the effect that she had accepted a proposal of marriage from you, subject to my consent, of course; but really the whole thing is so sudden that i have hardly had time to consider it." "it is very simple," said edward; "i am deeply attached to your daughter, and i have been so fortunate as to be accepted by her. should you give your consent to the marriage, i may as well say at once that i wish to carry out the most liberal money arrangements in my power. i will make ida a present of the mortgage that i hold over this property, and she may put it in the fire. further, i will covenant on the death of my father, which cannot now be long delayed, to settle two hundred thousand pounds upon her absolutely. also, i am prepared to agree that if we have a son, and he should wish to do so, he shall take the name of de la molle." "i am sure," said the squire, turning round to hide his natural gratification at these proposals, "your offers on the subject of settlements are of a most liberal order, and of course so far as i am concerned, ida will have this place, which may one day be again more valuable than it is now." "i am glad that they meet with your approval," said edward; "and now there is one more thing i want to ask you, mr. de la molle, and which i hope, if you give your consent to the marriage, you will not raise any objection to. it is, that our engagement should not be announced at present. the fact is," he went on hurriedly, "my father is a very peculiar man, and has a great idea of my marrying somebody with a large fortune. also his state of health is so uncertain that there is no possibility of knowing how he will take anything. indeed he is dying; the doctors told me that he might go off any day, and that he cannot last for another three months. if the engagement is announced to him now, at the best i shall have a great deal of trouble, and at the worst he might make me suffer in his will, should he happen to take a fancy against it." "umph," said the squire, "i don't quite like the idea of a projected marriage with my daughter, miss de la molle of honham castle, being hushed up as though there were something discreditable about it, but still there may be peculiar circumstances in the case which would justify me in consenting to that course. you are both old enough to know your own minds, and the match would be as advantageous for you as it could be to us, for even now-a-days, family, and i may even say personal appearance, still go for something where matrimony is concerned. i have reason to know that your father is a peculiar man, very peculiar. yes, on the whole, though i don't like hole and corner affairs, i shall have no objection to the engagement not being announced for the next month or two." "thank you for considering me so much," said edward with a sigh of relief. "then am i to understand that you give your consent to our engagement?" the squire reflected for a moment. everything seemed quite straight, and yet he suspected crookedness. his latent distrust of the man, which had not been decreased by the scene of two nights before--for he never could bring himself to like edward cossey--arose in force and made him hesitate when there was no visible ground for hesitation. he possessed, as has been said, an instinctive insight into character that was almost feminine in its intensity, and it was lifting a warning finger before him now. "i don't quite know what to say," he replied at length. "the whole affair is so sudden--and to tell you the truth, i thought that ida had bestowed her affections in another direction." edward's face darkened. "i thought so too," he answered, "until yesterday, when i was so happy as to be undeceived. i ought to tell you, by the way," he went on, running away from the covert falsehood in his last words as quickly as he could, "how much i regret i was the cause of that scene with colonel quaritch, more especially as i find that there is an explanation of the story against him. the fact is, i was foolish enough to be vexed because he beat me out shooting, and also because, well i--i was jealous of him." "ah, yes," said the squire, rather coldly, "a most unfortunate affair. of course, i don't know what the particulars of the matter were, and it is no business of mine, but speaking generally, i should say never bring an accusation of that sort against a man at all unless you are driven to it, and if you do bring it be quite certain of your ground. however, that is neither here nor there. well, about this engagement. ida is old enough to judge for herself, and seems to have made up her mind, so as i know no reason to the contrary, and as the business arrangements proposed are all that i could wish, i cannot see that i have any ground for withholding my consent. so all i can say, sir, is that i hope you will make my daughter a good husband, and that you will both be happy. ida is a high-spirited woman; but in my opinion she is greatly above the average of her sex, as i have known it, and provided you have her affection, and don't attempt to drive her, she will go through thick and thin for you. but i dare say you would like to see her. oh, by the way, i forgot, she has got a headache this morning, and is stopping in bed. it isn't much in her line, but i daresay that she is a little upset. perhaps you would like to come up to dinner to-night?" this proposition edward, knowing full well that ida's headache was a device to rid herself of the necessity of seeing him, accepted with gratitude and went. as soon as he had gone, ida herself came down. "well, my dear," said the squire cheerfully, "i have just had the pleasure of seeing edward cossey, and i have told him that, as you seemed to wish it----" here ida made a movement of impatience, but remembered herself and said nothing. "that as you seemed to wish that things should be so, i had no ground of objection to your engagement. i may as well tell you that the proposals which he makes as regards settlements are of the most liberal nature." "are they?" answered ida indifferently. "is mr. cossey coming here to dinner?" "yes, i asked him. i thought that you would like to see him." "well, then, i wish you had not," she answered with animation, "because there is nothing to eat except some cold beef. really, father, it is very thoughtless of you;" and she stamped her foot and went off in a huff, leaving the squire full of reflection. "i wonder what it all means," he said to himself. "she can't care about the man much or she would not make that fuss about his being asked to dinner. ida isn't the sort of woman to be caught by the money, i should think. well, i know nothing about it; it is no affair of mine, and i can only take things as i find them." and then he fell to reflecting that this marriage would be an extraordinary stroke of luck for the family. here they were at the last gasp, mortgaged up the eyes, when suddenly fortune, in the shape of an, on the whole, perfectly unobjectionable young man, appears, takes up the mortgages, proposes settlements to the tune of hundreds of thousands, and even offers to perpetuate the old family name in the person of his son, should he have one. such a state of affairs could not but be gratifying to any man, however unworldly, and the squire was not altogether unworldly. that is, he had a keen sense of the dignity of his social position and his family, and it had all his life been his chief and laudable desire to be sufficiently provided with the goods of this world to raise the de la molles to the position which they had occupied in former centuries. hitherto, however, the tendency of events had been all the other way--the house was a sinking one, and but the other day its ancient roof had nearly fallen about their ears. but now the prospect changed as though by magic. on ida's marriage all the mortgages, those heavy accumulations of years of growing expenditure and narrowing means, would roll off the back of the estate, and the de la molles of honham castle would once more take the place in the county to which they were undoubtedly entitled. it is not wonderful that the prospect proved a pleasing one to him, or that his head was filled with visions of splendours to come. as it chanced, on that very morning it was necessary for mr. quest to pay the old gentleman a visit in order to obtain his signature to a lease of a bakery in boisingham, which, together with two or three other houses, belonged to the estate. he arrived just as the squire was in the full flow of his meditations, and it would not have needed a man of mr. quest's penetration and powers of observation to discover that he had something on his mind which he was longing for an opportunity to talk about. the squire signed the lease without paying the slightest attention to mr. quest's explanations, and then suddenly asked him when the first interest on the recently-effected mortgages came due. the lawyer mentioned a certain date. "ah," said the squire, "then it will have to be met; but it does not matter, it will be for the last time." mr. quest pricked up his ears and looked at him. "the fact is, quest," he went on by way of explanation, "that there are--well--family arrangements pending which will put an end to these embarrassments in a natural and a proper way." "indeed," said mr. quest, "i am very glad to hear it." "yes, yes," said the squire, "unfortunately i am under some restraints in speaking about the matter at present, or i should like to ask your opinion, for which as you know i have a great respect. really, though, i do not know why i should not consult my lawyer on a matter of business; i only consented not to trumpet the thing about." "lawyers are confidential agents," said mr. quest quietly. "of course they are. of course, and it is their business to hold their tongues. i may rely upon your discretion, may i not?" "certainly," said mr. quest. "well, the matter is this: mr. edward cossey is engaged to miss de la molle. he has just been here to obtain my consent, which, of course, i have not withheld, as i know nothing against the young man--nothing at all. the only stipulation that he made is, as i think, a reasonable one under the circumstances, namely, that the engagement is to be kept quiet for a little while on account of the condition of his father's health. he says that he is an unreasonable man, and that he might take a prejudice against it." during this announcement mr. quest had remained perfectly quiet, his face showing no signs of excitement, only his eyes shone with a curious light. "indeed," he said, "this is very interesting news." "yes," said the squire. "that is what i meant by saying that there would be no necessity to make any arrangements as to the future payment of interest, for cossey has informed me that he proposes to put the mortgage bonds in the fire before his marriage." "indeed," said mr. quest; "well, he could hardly do less, could he? altogether, i think you ought to be congratulated, mr. de la molle. it is not often that a man gets such a chance of clearing the encumbrances off a property. and now i am very sorry, but i must be getting home, as i promised my wife to be back for luncheon. as the thing is to be kept quiet, i suppose that it would be premature for me to offer my good wishes to miss de la molle." "yes, yes, don't say anything about it at present. well, good-bye." chapter xxvi belle pays a visit mr. quest got into his dog-cart and drove homewards, full of feelings which it would be difficult to describe. the hour of his revenge was come. he had played his cards and he had won the game, and fortune with it, for his enemy lay in the hollow of his hand. he looked behind him at the proud towers of the castle, reflecting as he did so, that in all probability they would belong to him before another year was over his head. at one time he had earnestly longed to possess this place, but now this was not so much the object of his desire. what he wanted now was the money. with thirty thousand pounds in his hand he would, together with what he had, be a rich man, and he had already laid his plans for the future. of edith he had heard nothing lately. she was cowed, but he well knew that it was only for a while. by-and-by her rapacity would get the better of her fear and she would recommence her persecutions. this being so, he came to a determination--he would put the world between them. once let him have this money in his hand and he would start his life afresh in some new country; he was not too old for it, and he would be a rich man, and then perhaps he might get rid of the cares which had rendered so much of his existence valueless. if belle would go with him, well and good--if not, he could not help it. if she did go, there must be a reconciliation first, for he could not any longer tolerate the life they lived. in due course he reached the oaks and went in. luncheon was on the table, at which belle was sitting. she was, as usual, dressed in black, and beautiful to look on; but her round babyish face was pale and pinched, and there were black lines beneath her eyes. "i did not know that you were coming back to luncheon," she said; "i am afraid there is not much to eat." "yes," he said, "i finished my business up at the castle, so i thought i might as well come home. by-the-by, belle, i have a bit of news for you." "what is it?" she asked, looking up sharply, for something in his tone attracted her attention and awoke her fears. "your friend, edward cossey, is going to be married to ida de la molle." she blanched till she looked like death itself, and put her hands to her heart as though she had been stabbed. "the squire told me so himself," he went on, keeping his eyes remorselessly fixed upon her face. she leaned forward and he thought that she was going to faint, but she did not. by a supreme effort she recovered herself and drank a glass of sherry which was standing by her side. "i expected it," she said in a low voice. "you mean that you dreaded it," answered mr. quest quietly. he rose and locked the door and then came and stood close to her and spoke. "listen, belle. i know all about your affair with edward cossey. i have proofs of it, but i have forborne to use them, because i saw that in the end he would weary of you and desert you for some other woman, and that would be my best revenge upon you. you have all along been nothing but his toy, the light woman with whom he amused his leisure hours." she put her hands back over her heart but said no word and he went on. "belle, i did wrong to marry you when you did not want to marry me, but, being married, you have done wrong to be unfaithful to your vows. i have been rewarded by your infidelity, and your infidelity has been rewarded by desertion. now i have a proposal to make, and if you are wise you will accept it. let us set the one wrong against the other; let both be forgotten. forgive me, and i will forgive you, and let us make peace--if not now, then in a little while, when your heart is not so sore--and go right away from edward cossey and ida de la molle and honham and boisingham, into some new part of the world where we can begin life again and try to forget the past." she looked up at him and shook her head mournfully, and twice she tried to speak and twice she failed. the third time her words came. "you do not understand me," she said. "you are very kind and i am very grateful to you, but you do not understand me. i cannot get over things so easily as i know most women can; what i have done i never can undo. i do not blame him altogether, it was as much or more my fault than his, but having once loved him i cannot go back to you or any other man. if you like i will go on living with you as we live, and i will try to make you comfortable, but i can say no more." "think again, belle," he said almost pleadingly; "i daresay that you have never given me credit for much tenderness of heart, and i know that you have as much against me as i have against you. but i have always loved you, and i love you now, really and truly love you, and i will make you a good husband if you will let me." "you are very good," she said, "but it cannot be. get rid of me if you like and marry somebody else. i am ready to take the penalty of what i have done." "once more, belle, i beg you to consider. do you know what kind of man this is for whom you are giving up your life? not only has he deserted you, but do you know how he has got hold of ida de la molle? he has, as i know well, _bought_ her. i tell you he has bought her as much as though he had gone into the open market and paid down a price for her. the other day cossey and son were going to foreclose upon the honham estates, which would have ruined the old gentleman. well, what did your young man do? he went to the girl--who hates him, by the way, and is in love with colonel quaritch--and said to her, 'if you will promise to marry me when i ask you, i will find the thirty thousand pounds and take up the mortgages.' and on those terms she agreed to marry him. and now he has got rid of you and he claims her promise. there is the history. i wonder that your pride will bear such a thing. by heaven, i would kill the man." she looked up at him curiously. "would you?" she said. "it is not a bad idea. i dare say it is all true. he is worthless. why does one fall in love with worthless people? well, there is an end of it; or a beginning of the end. as i have sown, so must i reap;" and she got up, and unlocking the door left the room. "yes," he said aloud when she had gone, "there is a beginning of the end. upon my word, what between one thing and another, unlucky devil as i am, i had rather stand in my own shoes than in edward cossey's." belle went to her room and sat thinking, or rather brooding, sullenly. then she put on her bonnet and cloak and started out, taking the road that ran past honham castle. she had not gone a hundred yards before she found herself face to face with edward cossey himself. he was coming out of a gunsmith's shop, where he had been ordering some cartridges. "how do you do, belle?" he said, colouring and lifting his hat. "how do you do, mr. cossey?" she answered, coming to a stop and looking him straight in the face. "where are you going?" he asked, not knowing what to say. "i am going to walk up to the castle to call on miss de la molle." "i don't think that you will find her. she is in bed with a headache." "oh! so you have been up there this morning?" "yes, i had to see the squire about some business." "indeed." then looking him in the eyes again, "are you engaged to be married to ida?" he coloured once more, he could not prevent himself from doing so. "no," he answered; "what makes you ask such a question?" "i don't know," she said, laughing a little; "feminine curiosity i suppose. i thought that you might be. good-bye," and she went on, leaving edward cossey to the enjoyment of a very peculiar set of sensations. "what a coward!" said belle to herself. "he does not even dare to tell me the truth." nearly an hour later she arrived at the castle, and, asking for ida, was shown into the drawing-room, where she found her sitting with a book in her hand. ida rose to greet her in friendly fashion, for the two women, although they were at the opposite poles of character, had a liking for each other. in a way they were both strong, and strength always recognises and respects strength. "have you walked up?" asked ida. "yes, i came on the chance of finding you. i want to speak to you." "yes," said ida, "what is it?" "this. forgive me, but are you engaged to be married to edward cossey?" ida looked at her in a slow, stately way, which seemed to ask by what right she came to question her. at least, so belle read it. "i know that i have no right to ask such a question," she said, with humility, "and, of course, you need not answer it, but i have a reason for asking." "well," said ida, "i was requested by mr. cossey to keep the matter secret, but he appears to have divulged it. yes, i am engaged to be married to him." belle's beautiful face turned a shade paler, if that was possible, and her eyes hardened. "do you wonder why i ask you this?" she said. "i will tell you, though probably when i have done so you will never speak to me again. i am edward cossey's discarded mistress," and she laughed bitterly enough. ida shrank a little and coloured, as a pure and high-minded woman naturally does when she is for the first time suddenly brought into actual contact with impurity and passion. "i know," went on belle, "that i must seem a shameful thing to you; but, miss de la molle, good and cold and stately as you are, pray god that you may never be thrown into temptation; pray god that you may never be married almost by force to a man whom you hate, and then suddenly learn what a thing it is to fall in love, and for the first time feel your life awake." "hush," said ida gently, "what right have i to judge you?" "i loved him," went on belle, "i loved him passionately, and for a while it was as though heaven had opened its gates, for he used to care for me a little, and i think he would have taken me away and married me afterwards, but i would not hear of it, because i knew that it would ruin him. he offered to, once, and i refused, and within three hours of that i believe he was bargaining for you. well, and then it was the old story, he fell more and more in love with you and of course i had no hold upon him." "yes," said ida, moving impatiently, "but why do you tell me all this? it is very painful and i had rather not hear it." "why do i tell you? i tell you because i do not wish you to marry edward cossey. i tell you because i wish _him_ to feel a little of what _i_ have to feel, and because i have said that he should _not_ marry you." "i wish that you could prevent it," said ida, with a sudden outburst. "i am sure you are quite welcome to mr. cossey so far as i am concerned, for i detest him, and i cannot imagine how any woman could ever have done otherwise." "thank you," said belle; "but i have done with mr. cossey, and i think i hate him too. i know that i did hate him when i met him in the street just now and he told me that he was not engaged to you. you say that you detest him, why then do you marry him--you are a free woman?" "do you want to know?" said ida, wheeling round and looking her visitor full in the face. "i am going to marry him for the same reason that you say caused you to marry--because i _must_. i am going to marry him because he lent us money on condition that i promised to marry him, and as i have taken the money, i must give him his price, even if it breaks my heart. you think that you are wretched; how do you know that i am not fifty times as wretched? your lot is to lose your lover, mine is to have one forced upon me and endure him all my life. the worst of your pain is over, all mine is to come." "why? why?" broke in belle. "what is such a promise as that? he cannot force you to marry him, and it is better for a woman to die than to marry a man she hates, especially," she added meaningly, "if she happens to care for somebody else. be advised by me, i know what it is." "yes," said ida, "perhaps it is better to die, but death is not so easy. as for the promise, you do not seem to understand that no gentleman or lady can break a promise in consideration of which money has been received. whatever he has done, and whatever he is, i _must_ marry mr. cossey, so i do not think that we need discuss the subject any more." belle sat silent for a minute or more, and then rising said that she must go. "i have warned you," she added, "although to warn you i am forced to put myself at your mercy. you can tell the story and destroy me if you like. i do not much care if you do. women such as i grow reckless." "you must understand me very little, mrs. quest" (it had always been belle before, and she winced at the changed name), "if you think me capable of such conduct. you have nothing to fear from me." she held out her hand, but in her humility and shame, belle went without taking it, and through the angry sunset light walked slowly back to boisingham. and as she walked there was a look upon her face that edward cossey would scarcely have cared to see. chapter xxvii mr. quest has his innings all that afternoon and far into the evening mr. quest was employed in drafting, and with his own hand engrossing on parchment certain deeds, for the proper execution of which he seemed to find constant reference necessary to a tin box of papers labelled "honham castle estates." by eleven that night everything was finished, and having carefully collected and docketed his papers, he put the tin box away and went home to bed. next morning, about ten o'clock, edward cossey was sitting at breakfast in no happy frame of mind. he had gone up to the castle to dinner on the previous evening, but it cannot be said that he had enjoyed himself. ida was there, looking very handsome in her evening dress, but she was cold as a stone and unapproachable as a statue. she scarcely spoke to him, indeed, except in answer to some direct remark, reserving all her conversation for her father, who seemed to have caught the contagion of restraint, and was, for him, unusually silent and depressed. but once or twice he found her looking at him, and then there was upon her face a mingled expression of contempt and irresistible aversion which chilled him to the marrow. these qualities were indeed so much more plainly developed towards himself than they had been before, that at last a conviction which he at first rejected as incredible forced itself into his mind. this conviction was, that belle had disbelieved his denial of the engagement, and in her eagerness for revenge, must have told ida the whole story. the thought made him feel faint. well, there was but one thing to be done--face it out. once when the squire's back was turned he had ventured to attempt some little verbal tenderness in which the word "dear" occurred, but ida did not seem to hear it and looked straight over his head into space. this he felt was trying. so trying did he find the whole entertainment indeed that about half-past nine he rose and came away, saying that he had received some bank papers which must be attended to that night. now most men would in all human probability have been dismayed by this state of affairs into relinquishing an attempt at matrimony which it was evident could only be carried through in the face of the quiet but none the less vigorous dislike and contempt of the other contracting party. but this was not so with edward cossey. ida's coldness excited upon his tenacious and obstinate mind much the same effect that may be supposed to be produced upon the benighted seeker for the north pole by the sight of a frozen ocean of icebergs. like the explorer he was convinced that if once he could get over those cold heights he would find a smiling sunny land beyond and perchance many other delights, and like the explorer again, he was, metaphorically, ready to die in the effort. for he loved her more every day, till now his passion dominated his physical being and his mental judgment, so that whatever loss was entailed, and whatever obstacles arose, he was determined to endure and overcome them if by so doing he might gain his end. he was reflecting upon all this on the morning in question when mr. quest, looking very cool, composed and gentlemanlike, was shown into his room, much as colonel quaritch had been shown in two mornings before. "how do you do, quest?" he said, in a from high to low tone, which he was in the habit of adopting towards his official subordinates. "sit down. what is it?" "it is some business, mr. cossey," the lawyer answered in his usual quiet tones. "honham castle mortgages again, i suppose," he growled. "i only hope you don't want any more money on that account at present, that's all; because i can't raise another cent while my father lives. they don't entail cash and bank shares, you know, and though my credit's pretty good i am not far from the bottom of it." "well," said mr. quest, with a faint smile, "it has to do with the honham castle mortgages; but as i have a good deal to say, perhaps we had better wait till the things are cleared." "all right. just ring the bell, will you, and take a cigarette?" mr. quest smiled again and rang the bell, but did not take the cigarette. when the breakfast things had been removed he took a chair, and placing it on the further side of the table in such a position that the light, which was to his back, struck full upon edward cossey's face, began to deliberately untie and sort his bundle of papers. presently he came to the one he wanted--a letter. it was not an original letter, but a copy. "will you kindly read this, mr. cossey?" he said quietly, as he pushed the letter towards him across the table. edward finished lighting his cigarette, then took the letter up and glanced at it carelessly. at sight of the first line his expression changed to one of absolute horror, his face blanched, the perspiration sprang out upon his forehead, and the cigarette dropped from his fingers to the carpet, where it lay smouldering. nor was this wonderful, for the letter was a copy of one of belle's most passionate epistles to himself. he had never been able to restrain her from writing these compromising letters. indeed, this one was the very same that some little time before mr. quest had abstracted from the pocket of mr. cossey's lounging coat in the room in london. he read on for a little way and then put the letter down upon the table. there was no need for him to go further, it was all in the same strain. "you will observe, mr. cossey, that this is a copy," said mr. quest, "but if you like you can inspect the original document." he made no answer. "now," went on mr. quest, handing him a second paper, "here is the copy of another letter, of which the original is in your handwriting." edward looked at it. it was an intercepted letter of his own, dated about a year before, and its contents, though not of so passionate a nature as the other, were of a sufficiently incriminating character. he put it down upon the table by the side of the first and waited for mr. quest to go on. "i have other evidence," said his visitor presently, "but you are probably sufficiently versed in such matters to know that these letters alone are almost enough for my purpose. that purpose is to commence a suit for divorce against my wife, in which you will, of course, in accordance with the provisions of the act, be joined as co-respondent. indeed, i have already drawn up a letter of instruction to my london agents directing them to take the preliminary steps," and he pushed a third paper towards him. edward cossey turned his back to his tormentor and resting his head upon his hand tried to think. "mr. quest," he said presently in a hoarse voice, "without admitting anything, there are reasons which would make it ruinous to me if such an action were commenced at present." "yes," he answered, "there are. in the first place there is no knowing in what light your father would look on the matter and how his view of it would affect your future interests. in the second your engagement to miss de la molle, upon which you are strongly set, would certainly be broken off." "how do you know that i am engaged?" asked edward in surprise. "it does not matter how i know it," said the lawyer, "i do know it, so it will be useless for you to deny it. as you remark, this suit will probably be your ruin in every way, and therefore it is, as you will easily understand, a good moment for a man who wants his revenge to choose to bring it." "without admitting anything," answered edward cossey, "i wish to ask you a question. is there no way out of this? supposing that i have done you a wrong, wrong admits of compensation." "yes, it does, mr. cossey, and i have thought of that. everybody has his price in this world and i have mine; but the compensation for such a wrong must be a heavy one." "at what price will you agree to stay the action for ever?" he asked. "the price that i will take to stay the action is the transfer into my name of the mortgages you hold over the honham castle estates," answered mr. quest quietly. "great heavens!" said edward, "why that is a matter of thirty thousand pounds." "i know it is, and i know also that it is worth your while to pay thirty thousand pounds to save yourself from the scandal, the chance of disinheritance, and the certainty of the loss of the woman whom you want to marry. so well do i know it that i have prepared the necessary deeds for your signature, and here they are. listen, sir," he went on sternly; "refuse to accept my terms and by to-night's post i shall send this letter of instructions. also i shall send to mr. cossey, senior, and to mr. de la molle copies of these two precious epistles," and he pointed to the incriminating documents, "together with a copy of the letter to my agents; and where will you be then? consent, and i will bind myself not to proceed in any way or form. now, make your choice." "but i cannot; even if i will, i cannot," said he, almost wringing his hands in his perplexity. "it was on condition of my taking up those mortgages that ida consented to become engaged to me, and i have promised that i will cancel them on our wedding. will you not take money instead?" "yes," answered mr. quest, "i would take money. a little time ago i would not have taken it because i wanted that property; now i have changed my ideas. but as you yourself said, your credit is strained to the utmost, and while your father is alive you will not find it possible to raise another thirty thousand pounds. besides, if this matter is to be settled at all it must be settled at once. i will not wait while you make attempts to raise the money." "but about the mortgages? i promised to keep them. what shall i say to ida?" "say? say nothing. you can meet them if you choose after your father's death. refuse if you like, but if you refuse you will be mad. thirty thousand pounds will be nothing to you, but exposure will be ruin. have you made up your mind? you must take my offer or leave it. sign the documents and i will put the originals of those two letters into your hands; refuse and i will take my steps." edward cossey thought for a moment and then said, "i will sign. let me see the papers." mr. quest turned aside to hide the expression of triumph which flitted across his face and then handed him the deeds. they were elaborately drawn, for he was a skilful legal draughtsman, quite as skilful as many a leading chancery conveyancer, but the substance of them was that the mortgages were transferred to him by the said edward cossey in and for the consideration that he, the said william m. quest, consented to abandon for ever a pending action for divorce against his wife, belle quest, whereto the said edward cossey was to be joined as co-respondent. "you will observe," said mr. quest, "that if you attempt to contest the validity of this assignment, which you probably could not do with any prospect of success, the attempt must recoil upon your own head, because the whole scandal will then transpire. we shall require some witnesses, so with your permission i will ring the bell and ask the landlady and your servant to step up. they need know nothing of the contents of the papers," and he did so. "stop," said edward presently. "where are the original letters?" "here," answered mr. quest, producing them from an inner pocket, and showing them to him at a distance. "when the landlady comes up i will give them to her to hold in this envelope, directing her to hand them to you when the deeds are signed and witnessed. she will think that it is part of the ceremony." presently the man-servant and the landlady arrived, and mr. quest, in his most matter-of-fact way, explained to them that they were required to witness some documents. at the same time he handed the letters to the woman, saying that she was to give them to mr. cossey when they had all done signing. then edward cossey signed, and placing his thumb on the familiar wafer delivered the various documents as his act and deed. the witnesses with much preparation and effort affixed their awkward signatures in the places pointed out to them, and in a few minutes the thing was done, leaving mr. quest a richer man by thirty thousand pounds than when he had got up that morning. "now give mr. cossey the packet, mrs. jeffries," he said, as he blotted the signatures, "and you can go." she did so and went. when the witnesses had gone edward looked at the letters, and then with a savage oath flung them into the fire and watched them burn. "good-morning, mr. cossey," said mr. quest as he prepared to part with the deeds. "you have now bought your experience and had to pay dearly for it; but, upon my word, when i think of all you owe me, i wonder at myself for letting you off at so small a price." as soon as he had gone, edward cossey gave way to his feelings in language forcible rather than polite. for now, in addition to all the money which he had lost, and the painful exposure to which he had been subjected, he was face to face with a new difficulty. either he must make a clean breast of it to ida about the mortgages being no longer in his hands or he must pretend that he still had them. in the first alternative, the consideration upon which she had agreed to marry him came to nothing. moreover, ida was thereby released from her promise, and he was well aware that under these circumstances she would probably break off the engagement. in the second, he would be acting a lie, and the lie would sooner or later be discovered, and what then? well, if it was after marriage, what would it matter? to a woman of gentle birth there is only one thing more irretrievable than marriage, and that is death. anyhow, he had suffered so much for the sake of this woman that he did not mean to give her up now. he must meet the mortgages after marriage, that was all. _facilis est descensus averni_. when a man of the character of edward cossey, or indeed of any character, allows his passions to lead him into a course of deceit, he does not find it easy to check his wild career. from dishonour to dishonour shall he go till at length, in due season, he reaps as he has sown. chapter xxviii how george treated johnnie some two or three days before the scene described in the last chapter the faithful george had suddenly announced his desire to visit london. "what?" said the squire in astonishment, for george had never been known to go out of his own county before. "why, what on earth are you going to do in london?" "well, squire," answered his retainer, looking marvellously knowing, "i don't rightly know, but there's a cheap train goes up to this here exhibition on the tuesday morning and comes back on the thursday evening. ten shillings both ways, that's the fare, and i see in the _chronicle_, i du, that there's a wonnerful show of these new-fangled self-tying and delivering reapers, sich as they foreigners use over sea in america, and i'm rarely fell on seeing them and having a holiday look round lunnon town. so as there ain't not nothing particler a-doing, if you hain't got anything to say agin it, i think i'll go, squire." "all right," said the squire; "are you going to take your wife with you?" "why no, squire; i said as i wanted to go for a holiday, and that ain't no holiday to take the old missus too," and george chuckled in a manner which evidently meant volumes. and so it came to pass that on the afternoon of the day of the transfer of the mortgages from edward cossey to mr. quest the great george found himself wandering vaguely about the vast expanse of the colinderies, and not enjoying himself in the least. he had been recommended by some travelled individual in boisingham to a certain lodging near liverpool street station, which he found with the help of a friendly porter. thence he set out for the exhibition, but, being of a prudent mind, thought that he would do well to save his money and walk the distance. so he walked and walked till he was tired, and then, after an earnest consultation with a policeman, he took a 'bus, which an hour later landed him--at the royal oak. his further adventures we need not pursue; suffice it to say that, having started from his lodging at three, it was past seven o'clock at night when he finally reached the exhibition, more thoroughly wearied than though he had done a good day's harvesting. here he wandered for a while in continual dread of having his pocket picked, seeking reaping machines and discovering none, till at length he found himself in the gardens, where the electric light display was in full swing. soon wearying of this, for it was a cold damp night, he made a difficult path to a buffet inside the building, where he sat down at a little table, and devoured some very unpleasant-looking cold beef. here slumber overcame him, for his weariness was great, and he dozed. presently through the muffled roar and hum of voices which echoed in his sleep-dulled ears, he caught the sound of a familiar name, that woke him up "all of a heap," as he afterwards said. the name was "quest." without moving his body he opened his eyes. at the very next table to his own were seated two people, a man and a woman. he looked at the latter first. she was clad in yellow, and was very tall, thin and fierce-looking; so fierce-looking that george involuntarily jerked his head back, and brought it with painful force in contact with the wall. it was the tiger herself, and her companion was the coarse, dreadful-looking man called johnnie, whom she had sent away in the cab on the night of mr. quest's visit. "oh," johnnie was saying, "so quest is his name, is it, and he lives in a city called boisingham, does he? is he an off bird?" (rich) "rather," answered the tiger, "if only one can make the dollars run, but he's a nasty mean boy, he is. look here, not a cent, not a stiver have i got to bless myself with, and i daren't ask him for any more not till january. and how am i going to live till january? i got the sack from the music hall last week because i was a bit jolly. and now i can't get another billet any way, and there's a bill of sale over the furniture, and i've sold all my jewels down to my ticker, or at least most of them, and there's that brute," and her voice rose to a subdued scream, "living like a fighting-cock while his poor wife is left to starve." "'wife!' oh, yes, we know all about that," said the gentleman called johnnie. a look of doubt and cunning passed across the woman's face. evidently she feared that she had said too much. "well, it's a good a name as another," she said. "oh, don't i wish that i could get a grip of him; i'd wring him," and she twisted her long bony hands as washerwomen do when they squeeze a cloth. "i'd back you to," said johnnie. "and now, adored edithia, i've had enough of this blooming show, and i'm off. perhaps i shall look in down rupert street way this evening. ta-ta." "well, you may as well stand a drink first," said the adored one. "i'm pretty dry, i can tell you." "certainly, with pleasure; i will order one. waiter, a brandy-and-soda for this lady--_six_ of brandy, if you please; she's very delicate and wants support." the waiter grinned and brought the drink and the man johnnie turned round as though to pay him, but really he went without doing so. george watched him go, and then looked again at the lady, whose appearance seemed to fascinate him. "well, if that ain't a master one," he said to himself, "and she called herself his wife, she did, and then drew up like a slug's horns. hang me if i don't stick to her till i find out a bit more of the tale." thus ruminated george, who, be it observed, was no fool, and who had a hearty dislike and mistrust of mr. quest. while he was wondering how he was to go to work an unexpected opportunity occurred. the lady had finished her brandy-and-soda, and was preparing to leave, when the waiter swooped down upon her. "money please, miss," he said. "money!" she said, "why you're paid." "come, none of that," said the waiter. "i want a shilling for the brandy-and-soda." "a shilling, do you? then you'll have to want, you cheating white-faced rascal you; my friend paid you before he went away." "oh, we've had too much of that game," said the waiter, beckoning to a constable, to whom, in spite of the "fair edithia's" very vigorous and pointed protestations, he went on to give her in charge, for it appeared that she had only twopence about her. this was george's opportunity, and he interfered. "i think, marm," he said, "that the fat gent with you was a-playing of a little game. he only pretinded to pay the waiter." "playing a game, was he?" gasped the infuriated tiger. "if i don't play a little game on him when i get a chance my name is not edith d'aubigne, the nasty mean beast--the----" "permit me, marm," said george, putting a shilling on the table, which the waiter took and went away. "i can't bear to see a real lady like you in difficulty." "well, you are a gentleman, you are," she said. "not at all, marm. that's my way. and now, marm, won't you have another?" no objection was raised by the lady, who had another, with the result that she became if not exactly tipsy at any rate not far off it. shortly after this the building was cleared, and george found himself standing in exhibition road with the woman on his arm. "you're going to give me a lift home, ain't you?" she said. "yes, marm, for sure i am," said george, sighing as he thought of the cab fare. accordingly they got into a hansom, and mrs. d'aubigne having given the address in pimlico, of which george instantly made a mental note, they started. "come in and have a drink," she said when they arrived, and accordingly he paid the cab--half-a-crown it cost him--and was ushered by the woman with a simper into the gilded drawing-room. here the tiger had another brandy-and-soda, after which george thought that she was about in a fit state for him to prosecute his inquiries. "wonderful place this lunnon, marm; i niver was up here afore and had no idea that i should find folks so friendly. as i was a saying to my friend laryer quest down at boisingham yesterday----" "hullo, what's that?" she said. "do you know the old man?" "if you means laryer quest, why in course i do, and mrs. quest too. ah! she's a pretty one, she is." here the lady burst into a flood of incoherent abuse which tired her so much that she had a fourth brandy-and-soda; george mixed it for her and he mixed it strong. "is he rich?" she asked as she put down the glass. "what! laryer quest? well i should say that he is about the warmest man in our part of the county." "and here am i starving," burst out the horrible woman with a flood of drunken tears. "starving without a shilling to pay for a cab or a drink while my wedded husband lives in luxury with another woman. you tell him that i won't stand it; you tell him that if he don't find a 'thou.' pretty quick i'll let him know the reason why." "i don't quite understand, marm," said george; "there's a lady down in boisingham as is the real mrs. quest." "it's a lie!" she shrieked, "it's a lie! he married me before he married her. i could have him in the dock to-morrow, and i would, too, if i wasn't afraid of him, and that's a fact." "come, marm, come," said george, "draw it mild from that tap." "you won't believe me, won't you?" said the woman, on whom the liquor was now beginning to take its full effect; "then i'll show you," and she staggered to a desk, unlocked it and took from it a folded paper, which she opened. it was a properly certified copy of a marriage certificate, or purported so to be; but george, who was not too quick at his reading, had only time to note the name quest, and the church, st. bartholomew's, hackney, when she snatched it away from him and locked it up again. "there," she said, "it isn't any business of yours. what right have you to come prying into the affairs of a poor lone woman?" and she sat down upon the sofa beside him, threw her long arm round him, rested her painted face upon his shoulder and began to weep the tears of intoxication. "well, blow me!" said george to himself, "if this ain't a master one! i wonder what my old missus would say if she saw me in this fix. i say, marm----" but at that moment the door opened, and in came johnnie, who had evidently also been employing the interval in refreshing himself, for he rolled like a ship in a sea. "well," he said, "and who the deuce are you? come get out of this, you methody parson-faced clodhopper, you. fairest edithia, what means this?" by this time the fairest edithia had realised who her visitor was, and the trick whereby he had left her to pay for the brandy-and-soda recurring to her mind she sprang up and began to express her opinion of johnnie in violent and libellous language. he replied in appropriate terms, as according to the newspaper reports people whose healths are proposed always do, and fast and furious grew the fun. at length, however, it seemed to occur to johnnie that he, george, was in some way responsible for this state of affairs, for without word or warning he hit him on the nose. this proved too much for george's christian forbearance. "you would, you lubber! would you?" he said, and sprang at him. now johnnie was big and fat, but johnnie was rather drunk, and george was tough and exceedingly strong. in almost less time that it takes to write it he grasped the abominable johnnie by the scruff of the neck and had with a mighty jerk hauled him over the sofa so that he lay face downwards thereon. by the door quite convenient to his hand stood george's ground ash stick, a peculiarly good and well-grown one which he had cut himself in honham wood. he seized it. "now, boar," he said, "i'll teach you how we do the trick where i come from," and he laid on without mercy. _whack! whack! whack!_ came the ground ash on johnnie's tight clothes. he yelled, swore and struggled in the grip of the sturdy countryman, but it was of no use, the ash came down like fate; never was a johnnie so bastinadoed before. "give it the brute, give it him," shrilled the fair edithia, bethinking her of her wrongs, and he did till he was tired. "now, johnnie boar," he panted at last, "i'm thinking i've pretty nigh whacked you to dead. perhaps you'll larn to be more careful how you handles your betters by-and-by." then seizing his hat he ran down the stairs without seeing anybody and slipping into the street crossed over and listened. they were at it again. seeing her enemy prostrate the tiger had fallen on him, with the fire-irons to judge from the noise. just then a policeman hurried up. "i say, master," said george, "the folk in that there house with the red pillars do fare to be a murdering of each other." the policeman listened to the din and then made for the house. profiting by his absence george retreated as fast as he could, his melancholy countenance shining with sober satisfaction. on the following morning, before he returned to honham, george paid a visit to st. bartholomew's church, hackney. here he made certain investigations in the registers, the results of which were not unsatisfactory to him. chapter xxix edward cossey meets with an accident at the best of times this is not a gay world, though no doubt we ought to pretend that humanity at large is as happy as it is represented to be in, let us say, the christmas number of an illustrated paper. how well we can imagine the thoughtful inhabitant of this country anno domini or thereabouts disinterring from the crumbling remains of a fireproof safe a christmas number of the _illustrated london news_ or the _graphic_. the archaic letters would perhaps be unintelligible to him, but he would look at the pictures with much the same interest that we regard bushmen's drawings or the primitive clay figures of peru, and though his whole artistic seventy-sixth century soul would be revolted at the crudeness of the colouring, surely he would moralise thus: "oh, happy race of primitive men, how i, the child of light and civilisation, envy you your long-forgotten days! here in these rude drawings, which in themselves reveal the extraordinary capacity for pleasure possessed by the early races, who could look upon them and gather gratification from the sight, may we trace your joyous career from the cradle to the grave. here you figure as a babe, at whose appearance everybody seems delighted, even those of your race whose inheritance will be thereby diminished--and here a merry lad you revel in the school which the youth of our age finds so wearisome. there, grown more old, you stand at the altar of a beautiful lost faith, a faith that told of hope and peace beyond the grave, and by you stands your blushing bride. no hard fate, no considerations of means, no worldly-mindedness, come to snatch you from her arms as now they daily do. with her you spend your peaceful days, and here at last we see you old but surrounded by love and tender kindness, and almost looking forward to that grave which you believed would be but the gate of glory. oh, happy race of simple-minded men, what a commentary upon our fevered, avaricious, pleasure-seeking age is this rude scroll of primitive and infantile art!" so will some unborn _laudator temporis acti_ speak in some dim century to be, when our sorrows have faded and are not. and yet, though we do not put a record of them in our christmas numbers, troubles are as troubles have been and will continually be, for however apparently happy the lot of individuals, it is not altogether a cheerful world in which we have been called to live. at any rate so thought harold quaritch on that night of the farewell scene with ida in the churchyard, and so he continued to think for some time to come. a man's life is always more or less a struggle; he is a swimmer upon an adverse sea, and to live at all he must keep his limbs in motion. if he grows faint-hearted or weary and no longer strives, for a little while he floats, and then at last, morally or physically, he vanishes. we struggle for our livelihoods, and for all that makes life worth living in the material sense, and not the less are we called upon to struggle with an army of spiritual woes and fears, which now we vanquish and now are vanquished by. every man of refinement, and many women, will be able to recall periods in his or her existence when life has seemed not only valueless but hateful, when our small successes, such as they are, dwindled away and vanished in the gulf of our many failures, when our hopes and aspirations faded like a little sunset cloud, and we were surrounded by black and lonely mental night, from which even the star of faith had passed. such a time had come to harold quaritch now. his days had not, on the whole, been happy days; but he was a good and earnest man, with that touching faith in providence which is given to some among us, and which had brought with it the reward of an even thankful spirit. and then, out of the dusk of his contentment a hope of happiness had arisen like the angel of the dawn, and suddenly life was aflame with the light of love, and became beautiful in his eyes. and now the hope had passed: the woman whom he deeply loved, and who loved him back again, had gone from his reach and left him desolate--gone from his reach, not into the grave, but towards the arms of another man. our race is called upon to face many troubles; sickness, poverty, and death, but it is doubtful if evil holds another arrow so sharp as that which pierced him now. he was no longer young, it is true, and therefore did not feel that intense agony of disappointed passion, that sickening sense of utter loss which in such circumstances sometimes settle on the young. but if in youth we feel more sharply and with a keener sympathy of the imagination, we have at least more strength to bear, and hope does not altogether die. for we know that we shall live it down, or if we do not know it then, we _do_ live it down. very likely, indeed, there comes a time when we look back upon our sorrow and he or she who caused it with wonder, yes even with scorn and bitter laughter. but it is not so when the blow falls in later life. it may not hurt so much at the time, it may seem to have been struck with the bludgeon of fate rather than with her keen dividing sword, but the effect is more lasting, and for the rest of our days we are numb and cold, for time has no salve to heal us. these things harold realised most clearly in the heavy days which followed that churchyard separation. he took his punishment like a brave man indeed, and went about his daily occupations with a steadfast face, but his bold behaviour did not lessen its weight. he had promised not to go away till ida was married and he would keep the promise, but in his heart he wondered how he should bear the sight of her. what would it be to see her, to touch her hand, to hear the rustle of her dress and the music of her beloved voice, and to realise again and yet again that all these things were not for him, that they had passed from him into the ownership of another man? on the day following that upon which edward cossey had been terrified into transferring the honham mortgages to mr. quest the colonel went out shooting. he had lately become the possessor of a new hammerless gun by a well-known london maker, of which he stood in considerable need. harold had treated himself to this gun when he came into his aunt's little fortune, but it was only just completed. the weapon was a beautiful one, and at any other time it would have filled his sportsman's heart with joy. even as it was, when he put it together and balanced it and took imaginary shots at blackbirds in the garden, for a little while he forgot his sorrows, for the woe must indeed be heavy which a new hammerless gun by such a maker cannot do something towards lightening. so on the next morning he took this gun and went to the marshes by the river--where, he was credibly informed, several wisps of snipe had been seen--to attempt to shoot some of them and put the new weapon to the test. it was on this same morning that edward cossey got a letter which disturbed him not a little. it was from belle quest, and ran thus: "dear mr. cossey,--will you come over and see me this afternoon about three o'clock? i shall _expect_ you, so i am sure you will not disappoint me.--b.q." for a long while he hesitated what to do. belle quest was at the present juncture the very last person whom he wished to see. his nerves were shaken and he feared a scene, but on the other hand he did not know what danger might threaten him if he refused to go. quest had got his price, and he knew that he had nothing more to fear from him; but a jealous woman has no price, and if he did not humour her it might, he felt, be at a risk which he could not estimate. also he was nervously anxious to give no further cause for gossip. a sudden outward and visible cessation of his intimacy with the quests might, he thought, give rise to surmises and suspicion in a little country town like boisingham, where all his movements were known. so, albeit with a faint heart, he determined to go. accordingly, at three o'clock precisely, he was shown into the drawing-room at the oaks. mrs. quest was not there; indeed he waited for ten minutes before she came in. she was pale, so pale that the blue veins on her forehead showed distinctly through her ivory skin, and there was a curious intensity about her manner which frightened him. she was very quiet also, unnaturally so, indeed; but her quiet was of the ominous nature of the silence before the storm, and when she spoke her words were keen, and quick, and vivid. she did not shake hands with him, but sat down and looked at him, slowly fanning herself with a painted ivory fan which she took up from the table. "you sent for me, belle, and here i am," he said, breaking the silence. then she spoke. "you told me the other day," she said, "that you were not engaged to be married to ida de la molle. it is not true. you are engaged to be married to her." "who said so?" he asked defiantly. "quest, i suppose?" "i have it on a better authority," she answered. "i have it from miss de la molle herself. now, listen, edward cossey. when i let you go, i made a condition, and that condition was that you should _not_ marry ida de la molle. do you still intend to marry her?" "you had it from ida," he said, disregarding her question; "then you must have spoken to ida--you must have told her everything. i suspected as much from her manner the other night. you----" "then it is true," she broke in coldly. "it is true, and in addition to your other failings, edward, you are a coward and--a liar." "what is it to you what i am or what i am not?" he answered savagely. "what business is it of yours? you have no hold over me, and no claim upon me. as it is i have suffered enough at your hands and at those of your accursed husband. i have had to pay him thirty thousand pounds, do you know that? but of course you know it. no doubt the whole thing is a plant, and you will share the spoil." "_ah!_" she said, drawing a long breath. "and now look here," he went on. "once and for all, i will not be interfered with by you. i _am_ engaged to marry ida de la molle, and whether you wish it or no i shall marry her. and one more thing. i will not allow you to associate with ida. do you understand me? i will not allow it." she had been holding the fan before her face while he spoke. now she lowered it and looked at him. her face was paler than ever, paler than death, if that be possible, but in her eyes there shone a light like the light of a flame. "why not?" she said quietly. "why not?" he answered savagely. "i wonder that you think it necessary to ask such a question, but as you do i will tell you why. because ida is the lady whom i am going to marry, and i do not choose that she should associate with a woman who is what you are." "_ah!_" she said again, "i understand now." at that moment a diversion occurred. the drawing-room looked on to the garden, and at the end of the garden was a door which opened into another street. through this door had come colonel quaritch accompanied by mr. quest, the former with his gun under his arm. they walked up the garden and were almost at the french window when edward cossey saw them. "control yourself," he said in a low voice, "here is your husband." mr. quest advanced and knocked at the window, which his wife opened. when he saw edward cossey he hesitated a little, then nodded to him, while the colonel came forward, and placing his gun by the wall entered the room, shook hands with mrs. quest, and bowed coldly to edward cossey. "i met the colonel, belle," said mr. quest, "coming here with the benevolent intention of giving you some snipe, so i brought him up by the short way." "that is very kind of you, colonel quaritch," said she with a sweet smile (for she had the sweetest smile imaginable). he looked at her. there was something about her face which attracted his attention, something unusual. "what are you looking at?" she asked. "you," he said bluntly, for they were out of hearing of the other two. "if i were poetically minded i should say that you looked like the tragic muse." "do i?" she answered, laughing. "well, that is curious, because i feel like comedy herself." "there's something wrong with that woman," thought the colonel to himself as he extracted two couple of snipe from his capacious coat tails. "i wonder what it is." just then mr. quest and edward cossey passed out into the garden talking. "here are the snipe, mrs. quest," he said. "i have had rather good luck. i killed four couple and missed two couple more; but then i had a new gun, and one can never shoot so well with a new gun." "oh, thank you," she said, "do pull out the 'painters' for me. i like to put them in my riding hat, and i can never find them myself." "very well," he answered, "but i must go into the garden to do it; there is not light enough here. it gets dark so soon now." accordingly he stepped out through the window, and began to hunt for the pretty little feathers which are to be found at the angle of a snipe's wing. "is that the new gun, colonel quaritch?" said mrs. quest presently; "what a beautiful one!" "be careful," he said, "i haven't taken the cartridges out." if he had been looking at her, which at that moment he was not, harold would have seen her stagger and catch at the wall for support. then he would have seen an awful and malevolent light of sudden determination pass across her face. "all right," she said, "i know about guns. my father used to shoot and i often cleaned his gun," and she took the weapon up and began to examine the engraving on the locks. "what is this?" she said, pointing to a little slide above the locks on which the word "safe" was engraved in gold letters. "oh, that's the safety bolt," he said. "when you see the word 'safe,' the locks are barred and the gun won't go off. you have to push the bolt forward before you can fire." "so?" she said carelessly, and suiting the action to the word. "yes, so, but please be careful, the gun is loaded." "yes, i'll be careful," she answered. "well, it is a very pretty gun, and so light that i believe i could shoot with it myself." meanwhile edward cossey and mr. quest, who were walking up the garden, had separated, mr. quest going to the right across the lawn to pick up a glove which had dropped upon the grass, while edward cossey slowly sauntered towards them. when he was about nine paces off he too halted and, stooping a little, looked abstractedly at a white japanese chrysanthemum which was still in bloom. mrs. quest turned, as the colonel thought, to put the gun back against the wall. he would have offered to take it from her but at the moment both his hands were occupied in extracting one of the "painters" from a snipe. the next thing he was aware of was a loud explosion, followed by an exclamation or rather a cry from mrs. quest. he dropped the snipe and looked up, just in time to see the gun, which had leapt from her hands with the recoil, strike against the wall of the house and fall to the ground. instantly, whether by instinct or by chance he never knew, he glanced towards the place where edward cossey stood, and saw that his face was streaming with blood and that his right arm hung helpless by his side. even as he looked, he saw him put his uninjured hand to his head, and, without a word or a sound, sink down on the gravel path. for a second there was silence, and the blue smoke from the gun hung heavily upon the damp autumn air. in the midst of it stood belle quest like one transfixed, her lips apart, her blue eyes opened wide, and the stamp of terror--or was it guilt?--upon her pallid face. all this he saw in a flash, and then ran to the bleeding heap upon the gravel. he reached it almost simultaneously with mr. quest, and together they turned the body over. but still belle stood there enveloped in the heavy smoke. presently, however, her trance left her and she ran up, flung herself upon her knees, and looked at her former lover, whose face and head were now a mass of blood. "he is dead," she wailed; "he is dead, and i have killed him! oh, edward! edward!" mr. quest turned on her savagely; so savagely that one might almost have thought he feared lest in her agony she should say something further. "stop that," he said, seizing her arm, "and go for the doctor, for if he is not dead he will soon bleed to death." with an effort she rose, put her hand to her forehead, and then ran like the wind down the garden and through the little door. chapter xxx harold takes the news mr. quest and harold bore the bleeding man--whether he was senseless or dead they knew not--into the house and laid him on the sofa. then, having despatched a servant to seek a second doctor in case the one already gone for was out, they set to work to cut the clothes from his neck and arm, and do what they could, and that was little enough, towards staunching the bleeding. it soon, however, became evident that cossey had only got the outside portion of the charge of no. that is to say, he had been struck by about a hundred pellets of the three or four hundred which would go to the ordinary ounce and an eighth. had he received the whole charge he must, at that distance, have been instantly killed. as it was, the point of the shoulder was riddled, and so to a somewhat smaller extent was the back of his neck and the region of the right ear. one or two outside pellets had also struck the head higher up, and the skin and muscles along the back were torn by the passage of shot. "by jove!" said mr. quest, "i think he is done for." the colonel nodded. he had some experience of shot wounds, and the present was not of a nature to encourage hope of the patient's survival. "how did it happen?" asked mr. quest presently, as he mopped up the streaming blood with a sponge. "it was an accident," groaned the colonel. "your wife was looking at my new gun. i told her it was loaded, and that she must be careful, and i thought she had put it down. the next thing that i heard was the report. it is all my cursed fault for leaving the cartridges in." "ah," said mr. quest. "she always thought she understood guns. it is a shocking accident." just then one of the doctors, followed by belle quest, ran up the lawn carrying a box of instruments, and in another minute was at work. he was a quick and skilful surgeon, and having announced that the patient was not dead, at once began to tie one of the smaller arteries in the throat, which had been pierced, and through which edward cossey was rapidly bleeding to death. by the time that this was done the other doctor, an older man, put in an appearance, and together they made a rapid examination of the injuries. belle stood by holding a basin of water. she did not speak, and on her face was that same fixed look of horror which harold had observed after the discharge of the gun. when the examination was finished the two doctors whispered together for a few seconds. "will he live?" asked mr. quest. "we cannot say," answered the older doctor. "we do not think it likely that he will. it depends upon the extent of his injuries, and whether or no they have extended to the spine. if he does live he will probably be paralysed to some extent, and must certainly lose the hearing of the right ear." when she heard this belle sank down upon a chair overwhelmed. then the two doctors, assisted by harold, set to work to carry edward cossey into another room which had been rapidly prepared, leaving mr. quest alone with his wife. he came, stood in front of her, looked her in the face, and then laughed. "upon my word," he said, "we men are bad enough, but you women beat us in wickedness." "what do you mean?" she said faintly. "i mean that you are a murderess, belle," he said solemnly. "and you are a bungler, too. you could not hold the gun straight." "i deny it," she said, "the gun went off----" "yes," he said, "you are wise to make no admissions; they might be used in evidence against you. let me counsel you to make no admissions. but now look here. i suppose the man will have to lie in this house until he recovers or dies, and that you will help to nurse him. well, i will have none of your murderous work going on here. do you hear me? you are not to complete at leisure what you have begun in haste." "what do you take me for?" she asked, with some return of spirit; "do you think that i would injure a wounded man?" "i do not know," he answered, with a shrug, "and as for what i take you for, i take you for a woman whose passion has made her mad," and he turned and left the room. when they had carried edward cossey, dead or alive--and he looked more like death than life--up to the room prepared for him, seeing that he could be of no further use the colonel left the house with a view of going to the castle. on his way out he looked into the drawing-room and there was mrs. quest, still sitting on the chair and gazing blankly before her. pitying her he entered. "come, cheer up, mrs. quest," he said kindly, "they hope that he will live." she made no answer. "it is an awful accident, but i am almost as culpable as you, for i left the cartridges in the gun. anyhow, god's will be done." "god's will!" she said, looking up, and then once more relapsed into silence. he turned to go, when suddenly she rose and caught him by the arm. "will he die?" she said almost fiercely. "tell me what you think--not what the doctors say; you have seen many wounded men and know better than they do. tell me the truth." "i cannot say," he answered, shaking his head. apparently she interpreted his answer in the affirmative. at any rate she covered her face with her hands. "what would you do, colonel quaritch, if you had killed the only thing you loved in the whole world?" she asked dreamily. "oh, what am i saying?--i am off my head. leave me--go and tell ida; it will be good news for ida." accordingly he started for the castle, having first picked up his gun on the spot where it had fallen from the hands of mrs. quest. and then it was that for the first time the extraordinary importance of this dreadful accident in its bearing upon his own affairs flashed upon his mind. if cossey died he could not marry ida, that was clear. this was what mrs. quest must have meant when she said that it would be good news for ida. but how did she know anything about ida's engagement to edward cossey? and, by jove! what did the woman mean when she asked what he would do if he had killed the only thing he loved in the world? cossey must be the "only thing she loved," and now he thought of it, when she believed that he was dead she called him "edward, edward." harold quaritch was as simple and unsuspicious a man as it would be easy to find, but he was no fool. he had moved about the world and on various occasions come in contact with cases of this sort, as most other men have done. he knew that when a woman, in a moment of distress, calls a man by his christian name it is because she is in the habit of thinking of him and speaking to him by that name. not that there was much in that by itself, but in public she called him "mr. cossey." "edward" clearly then was the "only thing she loved," and edward was secretly engaged to ida, and mrs. quest knew it. now when a man who is not her husband has the fortune, or rather the misfortune, to be the only thing a married woman ever loved, and when that married woman is aware of the fact of his devotion and engagement to somebody else, it is obvious, he reflected, that in nine cases out of ten the knowledge will excite strong feelings in her breast, feelings indeed which in some natures would amount almost to madness. when he had first seen mrs. quest that afternoon she and cossey were alone together, and he had noticed something unusual about her, something unnatural and intense. indeed, he remembered he had told her that she looked like the tragic muse. could it be that the look was the look of a woman maddened by insult and jealousy, who was meditating some fearful crime? _how did that gun go off?_ he did not see it, and he thanked heaven that he did not, for we are not always so anxious to bring our fellow creatures to justice as we might be, especially when they happen to be young and lovely women. how did it go off? she understood guns; he could see that from the way she handled it. was it likely that it exploded of itself, or owing to an accidental touch of the trigger? it was possible, but not likely. still, such things have been known to happen, and it would be very difficult to prove that it had not happened in this case. if it should be attempted murder it was very cleverly managed, because nobody could prove that it was not accidental. but could it be that this soft, beautiful, baby-faced woman had on the spur of the moment taken advantage of his loaded gun to wreak her jealousy and her wrongs upon her faithless lover? well, the face is no mirror of the quality of the soul within, and it was possible. further than that it did not seem to him to be his business to inquire. by this time he had reached the castle. the squire had gone out but ida was in, and he was shown into the drawing-room while the servant went to seek her. presently he heard her dress rustle upon the stairs, and the sound of it sent the blood to his heart, for where is the music that is more sweet than the rustling of the dress of the woman whom we love? "why, what is the matter?" she said, noticing the disturbed expression on his face. "well," he said, "there has been an accident--a very bad accident." "who?" she said. "not my father?" "no, no; mr. cossey." "oh," she said, with a sigh of relief. "why did you frighten me so?" the colonel smiled grimly at this unconscious exhibition of the relative state of her affections. "what has happened to him?" asked ida, this time with a suitable expression of concern. "he has been accidentally shot." "who by?" "mrs. quest." "then she did it on purpose--i mean--is he dead?" "no, but i believe that he will die." they looked at one another, and each read in the eyes of the other the thought which passed through their brains. if edward cossey died they would be free to marry. so clearly did they read it that ida actually interpreted it in words. "you must not think that," she said, "it is very wrong." "it is wrong," answered the colonel, apparently in no way surprised at her interpretation of his thoughts, "but unfortunately human nature is human nature." then he went on to tell her all about it. ida made no comment, that is after those first words, "she did it on purpose," which burst from her in astonishment. she felt, and he felt too, that the question as to how that gun went off was one which was best left uninquired into by them. no doubt if the man died there would be an inquest, and the whole matter would be investigated. meanwhile one thing was certain, edward cossey, whom she was engaged to, was shot and likely to die. presently, while they were still talking, the squire came in from his walk. to him also the story was told, and to judge from the expression of his face he thought it grave enough. if edward cossey died the mortgages over the honham property would, as he believed, pass to his heir, who, unless he had made a will, which was not probable, would be his father, old mr. cossey, the banker, from whom mr. de la molle well knew he had little mercy to expect. this was serious enough, and still more serious was it that all the bright prospects in which he had for some days been basking of the re-establishment of his family upon a securer basis than it had occupied for generations would vanish like a vision. he was not more worldly-minded than are other men, but he did fondly cherish a natural desire to see the family fortunes once more in the ascendant. the projected marriage between his daughter and edward cossey would have brought this about most fully, and however much he might in his secret heart distrust the man himself, and doubt whether the match was really acceptable to ida, he could not view its collapse with indifference. while they were still talking the dressing-bell rang, and harold rose to go. "stop and dine, won't you, quaritch?" said the squire. harold hesitated and looked at ida. she made no movement, but her eyes said "stay," and he sighed and yielded. dinner was rather a melancholy feast, for the squire was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and ida had not much to say. so far as the colonel was concerned, the recollection of the tragedy he had witnessed that afternoon, and of all the dreadful details with which it was accompanied, was not conducive to appetite. as soon as dinner was over the squire announced that he should walk into boisingham to inquire how the wounded man was getting on. shortly afterwards he started, leaving his daughter and harold alone. they went into the drawing-room and talked about indifferent things. no word of love passed between them; no word, even, that could bear an affectionate significance, and yet every sentence which passed their lips carried a message with it, and was as heavy with unuttered tenderness as a laden bee with honey. for they loved each other dearly, and deep love is a thing that can hardly be concealed by lovers from each other. it was happiness for him merely to sit beside her and hear her speak, to watch the changes of her face and the lamplight playing upon her hair, and it was happiness for her to know that he was sitting there and watching. for the most beautiful aspect of true affection is its accompanying sense of perfect companionship and rest. it is a sense which nothing else in this life can give, and, like a lifting cloud, reveals the white and distant peaks of that unbroken peace which we cannot hope to win in our stormy journey through the world. and so the evening wore away till at last they heard the squire's loud voice talking to somebody outside. presently he came in. "how is he?" asked harold. "will he live?" "they cannot say," was the answer. "but two great doctors have been telegraphed for from london, and will be down to-morrow." chapter xxxi ida recants the two great doctors came, and the two great doctors pocketed their hundred guinea fees and went, but neither the one nor the other, nor eke the twain, would commit themselves to a fixed opinion as to edward cossey's chances of life or death. however, one of them picked out a number of shot from the wounded man, and a number more he left in because he could not pick them out. then they both agreed that the treatment of their local brethren was all that could be desired, and so far as they were concerned there was an end of it. a week had passed, and edward cossey, nursed night and day by belle quest, still hovered between life and death. it was a thursday, and harold had walked up to the castle to give the squire the latest news of the wounded man. whilst he was in the vestibule saying what he had to say to mr. de la molle and ida, a man rung the bell, whom he recognised as one of mr. quest's clerks. he was shown in, and handed the squire a fully-addressed brief envelope, which, he said, he had been told to deliver by mr. quest, and adding that there was no answer bowed himself out. as soon as he had gone the envelope was opened by mr. de la molle, who took from it two legal-looking documents which he began to read. suddenly the first dropped from his hand, and with an exclamation he snatched at the second. "what is it, father?" asked ida. "what is it? why it's just this. edward cossey has transferred the mortgages over this property to quest, the lawyer, and quest has served a notice on me calling in the money," and he began to walk up and down the room in a state of great agitation. "i don't quite understand," said ida, her breast heaving, and a curious light shining in her eyes. "don't you?" said her father, "then perhaps you will read that," and he pushed the papers to her. as he did so another letter which he had not observed fell out of them. at this point harold rose to go. "don't go, quaritch, don't go," said the squire. "i shall be glad of your advice, and i am sure that what you hear will not go any further." at the same time ida motioned him to stay, and though somewhat unwillingly he did so. "dear sir," began the squire, reading the letter aloud,-- "inclosed you will find the usual formal notices calling in the sum of thirty thousand pounds recently advanced upon the mortgage of the honham castle estates by edward cossey, esq. these mortgages have passed into my possession for value received, and it is now my desire to realise them. i most deeply regret being forced to press an old client, but my circumstances are such that i am obliged to do so. if i can in any way facilitate your efforts to raise the sum i shall be very glad. but in the event of the money not being forthcoming at the end of six months' notice the ordinary steps will be taken to realise by foreclosure. "i am, dear sir, yours truly, "w. quest. "james de la molle, esq., j.p., d.l." "i see now," said ida. "mr. cossey has no further hold on the mortgages or on the property." "that's it," said the squire; "he has transferred them to that rascally lawyer. and yet he told me--i can't understand it, i really can't." at this point the colonel insisted upon leaving, saying he would call in again that evening to see if he could be of any assistance. when he was gone ida spoke in a cold, determined voice: "mr. cossey told me that when we married he would put those mortgages in the fire. it now seems that the mortgages were not his to dispose of, or else that he has since transferred them to mr. quest without informing us." "yes, i suppose so," said the squire. "very well," said ida. "and now, father, i will tell you something. i engaged myself--or, to be more accurate, i promised to engage myself--to edward cossey on the condition that he would take up these mortgages when cossey and son were threatening to foreclose, or whatever it is called." "good heavens!" said her astonished father, "what an idea!" "i did it," went on ida, "and he took up the mortgages, and in due course he claimed my promise, and i became engaged to marry him, though that engagement was repugnant to me. you will see that having persuaded him to advance the money i could not refuse to carry out my share of the bargain." "well," said the squire, "this is all new to me." "yes," she answered, "and i should never have told you of it had it not been for this sudden change in the position of affairs. what i did, i did to save our family from ruin. but now it seems that mr. cossey has played us false, and that we are to be ruined after all. therefore, the condition upon which i promised to marry him has not been carried out, and my promise falls to the ground." "you mean that supposing he lives, you will not marry edward cossey." "yes, i do mean it." the squire thought for a minute. "this is a very serious step, ida," he said. "i don't mean that i think that the man has behaved well--but still he may have given up the mortgages to quest under pressure of some sort and might be willing to find the money to meet them." "i do not care if he finds the money ten times over," said ida, "i will not marry him. he has not kept to the letter of his bond and i will not keep to mine." "it is all very well, ida," said the squire, "and of course nobody can force you into a distasteful marriage, but i wish to point out one thing. you have your family to think of as well as yourself. i tell you frankly that i do not believe that as times are it will be possible to raise thirty thousand pounds to pay off the charges unless it is by the help of edward cossey. so if he lives--and as he has lasted so long i expect that he will live--and you refuse to go on with your engagement to him we shall be sold up, that is all; for this man quest, confound him, will show us no mercy." "i know it, father," answered ida, "but i cannot and will not marry him, and i do not think you can expect me to do so. i became engaged, or rather promised to become engaged to him, because i thought that one woman had no right to put her own happiness before the welfare of an old family like ours, and i would have carried out that engagement at any cost. but since then, to tell you the truth," and she blushed deeply, "not only have i learned to dislike him a great deal more, but i have come to care for some one else who also cares for me, and who therefore has a right to be considered. think, father, what it means to a woman to sell herself into bodily and mental bondage--when she cares for another man." "well, well," said her father with some irritation, "i am no authority upon matters of sentiment; they are not in my line and i know that women have their prejudices. still you can't expect me to look at the matter in quite the same light as you do. and who is the gentleman? colonel quaritch?" she nodded her head. "oh," said the squire, "i have nothing to say against quaritch, indeed i like the man, but i suppose that if he has pounds a year, it is every sixpence he can count on." "i had rather marry him upon six hundred a year than edward cossey upon sixty thousand." "ah, yes, i have heard young women talk like that before, though perhaps they think differently afterwards. of course i have no right to obtrude myself, but when you are comfortably married, what is going to become of honham i should like to know, and incidentally of me?" "i don't know, father, dear," she answered, her eyes filling with tears; "we must trust to providence, i suppose. i know you think me very selfish," she went on, catching him by the arm, "but, oh, father! there are things that are worse than death to women, or, at least, to some women. i almost think that i would rather die than marry edward cossey, though i should have gone through with it if he had kept his word." "no, no," said her father. "i can't wonder at it, and certainly i do not ask you to marry a man whom you dislike. but still it is hard upon me to have all this trouble at my age, and the old place coming to the hammer too. it is enough to make a man wish that his worries were over altogether. however, we must take things as we find them, and we find them pretty rough. quaritch said he was coming back this evening, didn't he? i suppose there will not be any public engagement at present, will there? and look here, ida, i don't want him to come talking to me about it. i have got enough things of my own to think of without bothering my head with your love affairs. pray let the matter be for the present. and now i am going out to see that fellow george, who hasn't been here since he came back from london, and a nice bit of news it will be that i shall have to tell him." when her father had gone ida did a thing she had not done for some time--she wept a little. all her fine intentions of self-denial had broken down, and she felt humiliated at the fact. she had intended to sacrifice herself upon the altar of her duty and to make herself the wedded wife of a man whom she disliked, and now on the first opportunity she had thrown up the contract on a quibble--a point of law as it were. nature had been too strong for her, as it often is for people with deep feelings; she could not do it, no, not to save honham from the hammer. when she had promised that she would engage herself to edward cossey she had not been in love with colonel quaritch; now she was, and the difference between the two states is considerable. still the fall humiliated her pride, and what is more she felt that her father was disappointed in her. of course she could not expect him at his age to enter into her private feelings, for when looked at through the mist of years sentiment appears more or less foolish. she knew very well that age often strips men of those finer sympathies and sensibilities which clothe them in youth, much as the winter frost and wind strip the delicate foliage from the trees. and to such the music of the world is dead. love has vanished with the summer dews, and in its place are cutting blasts and snows and sere memories rustling like fallen leaves about the feet. as we grow old we are too apt to grow away from beauty and what is high and pure, our hearts harden by contact with the hard world. we examine love and find, or believe we find, that it is nought but a variety of passion; friendship, and think it self-interest; religion, and name it superstition. the facts of life alone remain clear and desirable. we know that money means power, and we turn our face to mammon, and if he smiles upon us we are content to let our finer visions go where our youth has gone. "trailing clouds of glory do we come from god, who is our home." so says the poet, but alas! the clouds soon melt into the grey air of the world, and some of us, before our course is finished, forget that they ever were. and yet which is the shadow of the truth--those dreams, and hopes, and aspirations of our younger life, or the corruption with which the world cakes our souls? ida knew that she could not expect her father to sympathise with her; she knew that to his judgment, circumstances being the same, and both suitors being equally sound in wind and limb, the choice of one of them should, to a large extent, be a matter to be decided by the exterior considerations of wealth and general convenience. however, she had made her choice, made it suddenly, but none the less had made it. it lay between her father's interest and the interest of the family at large and her own honour as a woman--for the mere empty ceremony of marriage which satisfies society cannot make dishonour an honourable thing. she had made her choice, and the readers of her history must judge if that choice was right or wrong. after dinner harold came again as he had promised. the squire was not in the drawing-room when he was shown in. ida rose to greet him with a sweet and happy smile upon her face, for in the presence of her lover all her doubts and troubles vanished like a mist. "i have a piece of news for you," said he, trying to look as though he was rejoiced to give it. "edward cossey has taken a wonderful turn for the better. they say that he will certainly recover." "oh," she answered, colouring a little, "and now i have a piece of news for you, colonel quaritch. my engagement with mr. edward cossey is at an end. i shall not marry him." "are you sure?" said harold with a gasp. "quite sure. i have made up my mind," and she held out her hand, as though to seal her words. he took it and kissed it. "thank heaven, ida," he said. "yes," she answered, "thank heaven;" and at that moment the squire came in, looking very miserable and depressed, and of course nothing more was said about the matter. chapter xxxii george prophesies again six weeks passed, and in that time several things happened. in the first place the miserly old banker, edward cossey's father, had died, his death being accelerated by the shock of his son's accident. on his will being opened, it was found that property and money to no less a value than , pounds passed under it to edward absolutely, the only condition attached being that he should continue in the house of cossey and son and leave a certain share of his fortune in the business. edward cossey also, thanks chiefly to belle's tender nursing, had almost recovered, with one exception--he was, and would be for life, stone deaf in the right ear. the paralysis which the doctors feared had not shown itself. one of his first questions when he became convalescent was addressed to belle quest. as in a dream, he had always seen her sweet face hanging over him, and dimly known that she was ministering to him. "have you nursed me ever since the accident, belle?" he said. "yes," she answered. "it is very good of you, considering all things," he murmured. "i wonder that you did not let me die." but she turned her face to the wall and never said a word, nor did any further conversation on these matters pass between them. then as his strength came back so did his passion for ida de la molle revive. he was not allowed to write or even receive letters, and with this explanation of her silence he was fain to content himself. but the squire, he was told, often called to inquire after him, and once or twice ida came with him. at length a time came--it was two days after he had been told of his father's death--when he was pronounced fit to be moved into his own rooms and to receive his correspondence as usual. the move was effected without any difficulty, and here belle bade him good-bye. even as she did so george drove his fat pony up to the door, and getting down gave a letter to the landlady, with particular instructions that it was to be delivered into mr. cossey's own hands. as she passed belle saw that it was addressed in the squire's handwriting. when it was delivered to him edward cossey opened it with eagerness. it contained an inclosure in ida's writing, and this he read first. it ran as follows: "dear mr. cossey,-- "i am told that you are now able to read letters, so i hasten to write to you. first of all, let me say how thankful i am that you are in a fair way to complete recovery from your dreadful accident. and now i must tell you what i fear will be almost as painful to you to read as it is for me to write, namely, that the engagement between us is at an end. to put the matter frankly, you will remember that i rightly or wrongly became engaged to you on a certain condition. that condition has not been fulfilled, for mr. quest, to whom the mortgages on my father's property have been transferred by you, is pressing for their payment. consequently the obligation on my part is at an end, and with it the engagement must end also, for i grieve to tell you that it is not one which my personal inclination will induce me to carry out. wishing you a speedy and complete recovery, and every happiness and prosperity in your future life, believe me, dear mr. cossey, "very truly yours, "ida de la molle." he put down this uncompromising and crushing epistle and nervously glanced at the squire's, which was very short. "my dear cossey," it began,-- "ida has shown me the inclosed letter. i think that you did unwisely when you entered into what must be called a money bargain for my daughter's hand. whether under all the circumstances she does either well or wisely to repudiate the engagement after it has once been agreed upon, is not for me to judge. she is a free agent and has a natural right to dispose of her life as she thinks fit. this being so i have of course no option but to endorse her decision, so far as i have anything to do with the matter. it is a decision which i for some reasons regret, but which i am quite powerless to alter. "believe me, with kind regards, "truly yours, "james de la molle." edward cossey turned his face to the wall and indulged in such meditations as the occasion gave rise to, and they were bitter enough. he was as bent upon this marriage as he had ever been, more so in fact, now that his father was out of the way. he knew that ida disliked him, he had known that all along, but he had trusted to time and marriage to overcome the dislike. and now that accursed quest had brought about the ruin of his hopes. ida had seen her chance of escape, and, like a bold woman, had seized upon it. there was one ray of hope, and one only. he knew that the money would not be forthcoming to pay off the mortgages. he could see too from the tone of the squire's letter that he did not altogether approve of his daughter's decision. and his father was dead. like caesar, he was the master of many legions, or rather of much money, which is as good as legions. money can make most paths smooth to the feet of the traveller, and why not this? after much thought he came to a conclusion. he would not trust his chance to paper, he would plead his cause in person. so he wrote a short note to the squire acknowledging ida's and his letter, and saying that he hoped to come and see them as soon as ever the doctor would allow him out of doors. meanwhile george, having delivered his letter, had gone upon another errand. pulling up the fat pony in front of mr. quest's office he alighted and entered. mr. quest was disengaged, and he was shown straight into the inner office, where the lawyer sat, looking more refined and gentlemanlike than ever. "how do you do, george?" he said cheerily; "sit down; what is it?" "well, sir," answered that lugubrious worthy, as he awkwardly took a seat, "the question is what isn't it? these be rum times, they be, they fare to puzzle a man, they du." "yes," said mr. quest, balancing a quill pen on his finger, "the times are bad enough." then came a pause. "dash it all, sir," went on george presently, "i may as well get it out; i hev come to speak to you about the squire's business." "yes," said mr. quest. "well, sir," went on george, "i'm told that these dratted mortgages hev passed into your hands, and that you hev called in the money." "yes, that is correct," said mr. quest again. "well, sir, the fact is that the squire can't git the money. it can't be had nohow. nobody won't take the land as security. it might be so much water for all folk to look at it." "quite so. land is in very bad odour as security now." "and that being so, sir, what is to be done?" mr. quest shrugged his shoulders. "i do not know. if the money is not forthcoming, of course i shall, however unwillingly, be forced to take my legal remedy." "meaning, sir----" "meaning that i shall bring an action for foreclosure and do what i can with the lands." george's face darkened. "and that reads, sir, that the squire and miss ida will be turned out of honham, where they and theirs hev been for centuries, and that you will turn in?" "well, that is what it comes to, george. i am sincerely sorry to press the squire, but it's a matter of thirty thousand pounds, and i am not in a position to throw away thirty thousand pounds." "sir," said george, rising in indignation, "i don't rightly know how you came by them there mortgages. there is some things as laryers know and honest men don't know, and that's one on them. but it seems that you've got 'em and are a-going to use 'em--and that being so, mr. quest, i have summut to say to you--and that is that no good won't come to you from this here move." "what do you mean by that, george?" said the lawyer sharply. "niver you mind what i mean, sir. i means what i says. i means that sometimes people has things in their lives snugged away where nobody can't see 'em, things as quiet as though they was dead and buried, and that ain't dead nor buried neither, things so much alive that they fare as though they were fit to kick the lid off their coffin. that's what i means, sir, and i means that when folk set to work to do a hard and wicked thing those dead things sometimes gits up and walks where they is least wanting; and mayhap if you goes on for to turn the old squire and miss ida out of the castle, mayhap, sir, summut of that sort will happen to you, for mark my word, sir, there's justice in the world, sir, as mebbe you will find out. and now, sir, begging your pardon, i'll wish you good-morning, and leave you to think on what i've said," and he was gone. "george!" called mr. quest after him, rising from his chair, "george!" but george was out of hearing. "now what did he mean by that--what the devil did he mean?" said mr. quest with a gasp as he sat down again. "surely," he thought, "that man cannot have got hold of anything about edith. impossible, impossible; if he had he would have said more, he would not have confined himself to hinting, that would take a cleverer man, he would have shown his hand. he must have been speaking at random to frighten me, i suppose. by heaven! what a thing it would be if he _had_ got hold of something. ruin! absolute ruin! i'll settle up this business as soon as i can and leave the country; i can't stand the strain, it's like having a sword over one's head. i've half a mind to leave it in somebody else's hands and go at once. no, for that would look like running away. it must be all rubbish; how could he know anything about it?" so shaken was he, however, that though he tried once and yet again, he found it impossible to settle himself down to work till he had taken a couple of glasses of sherry from the decanter in the cupboard. even as he did so he wondered if the shadow of the sword disturbed him so much, how he would be affected if it ever was his lot to face the glimmer of its naked blade. no further letter came to edward cossey from the castle, but, impatient as he was to do so, another fortnight elapsed before he was able to see ida and her father. at last one fine december morning for the first time since his accident he was allowed to take carriage exercise, and his first drive was to honham castle. when the squire, who was sitting in the vestibule writing letters, saw a poor pallid man, rolled up in fur, with a white face scarred with shot marks and black rings round his large dark eyes, being helped from a closed carriage, he did not know who it was, and called to ida, who was passing along the passage, to tell him. of course she recognised her admirer instantly, and wished to leave the room, but her father prevented her. "you got into this mess," he said, forgetting how and for whom she got into it, "and now you must get out of it in your own way." when edward, having been assisted into the room, saw ida standing there, all the blood in his wasted body seemed to rush into his pallid face. "how do you do, mr. cossey?" she said. "i am glad to see you out, and hope that you are better." "i beg your pardon, i cannot hear you," he said, turning round; "i am stone deaf in my right ear." a pang of pity shot through her heart. edward cossey, feeble, dejected, and limping from the jaws of death, was a very different being to edward cossey in the full glow of his youth, health, and strength. indeed, so much did his condition appeal to her sympathies that for the first time since her mental attitude towards him had been one of entire indifference, she looked on him without repugnance. meanwhile her father had shaken him by the hand, and led him to an armchair before the fire. then after a few questions and answers as to his accident and merciful recovery there came a pause. at length he broke it. "i have come to see you both," he said with a faint nervous smile, "about the letters you wrote me. if my condition had allowed i should have come before, but it would not." "yes," said the squire attentively, while ida folded her hands in her lap and sat still with her eyes fixed upon the fire. "it seems," he went on, "that the old proverb has applied to my case as to so many others--being absent i have suffered. i understand from these letters that my engagement to you, miss de la molle, is broken off." she made a motion of assent. "and that it is broken off on the ground that having been forced by a combination of circumstances which i cannot enter into to transfer the mortgages to mr. quest, consequently i broke my bargain with you?" "yes," said ida. "very well then, i come to tell you both that i am ready to find the money to meet those mortgages and to pay them off in full." "ah!" said the squire. "also that i am ready to do what i offered to do before, and which, as my father is now dead, i am perfectly in a position to do, namely, to settle two hundred thousand pounds absolutely upon ida, and indeed generally to do anything else that she or you may wish," and he looked at the squire. "it is no use looking to me for an answer," said he with some irritation. "i have no voice in the matter." he turned to ida, who put her hand before her face and shook her head. "perhaps," said edward, somewhat bitterly, "i should not be far wrong if i said that colonel quaritch has more to do with your change of mind than the fact of the transfer of these mortgages." she dropped her hand and looked him full in the face. "you are quite right, mr. cossey," she said boldly. "colonel quaritch and i are attached to each other, and we hope one day to be married." "confound that quaritch," growled the squire beneath his breath. edward winced visibly at this outspoken statement. "ida," he said, "i make one last appeal to you. i am devoted to you with all my heart; so devoted that though it may seem foolish to say so, especially before your father, i really think i would rather not have recovered from my accident than that i should have recovered for this. i will give you everything that a woman can want, and my money will make your family what it was centuries ago, the greatest in the country side. i don't pretend to have been a saint--perhaps you may have heard something against me in that way--or to be anything out of the common. i am only an ordinary every-day man, but i am devoted to you. think, then, before you refuse me altogether." "i have thought, mr. cossey," answered ida almost passionately: "i have thought until i am tired of thinking, and i do not consider it fair that you should press me like this, especially before my father." "then," he said, rising with difficulty, "i have said all i have to say, and done all that i can do. i shall still hope that you may change your mind. i shall not yet abandon hope. good-bye." she touched his hand, and then the squire offering him his arm, he went down the steps to his carriage. "i hope, mr. de la molle," he said, "that bad as things look for me, if they should take a turn i shall have your support." "my dear sir," answered the squire, "i tell you frankly that i wish my daughter would marry you. as i said before, it would for obvious reasons be desirable. but ida is not like ordinary women. when she sets her mind upon a thing she sets it like a flint. times may change, however, and that is all i can say. yes, if i were you, i should remember that this is a changeable world, and women are the most changeable things in it." when the carriage was gone he re-entered the vestibule. ida, who was going away much disturbed in mind, saw him come, and knew from the expression of his face that there would be trouble. with characteristic courage she turned, determined to brave it out. chapter xxxiii the squire speaks his mind for a minute or more her father fidgeted about, moving his papers backwards and forwards but saying nothing. at last he spoke. "you have taken a most serious and painful step, ida," he said. "of course you have a right to do as you please, you are of full age, and i cannot expect that you will consider me or your family in your matrimonial engagements, but at the same time i think it is my duty to point out to you what it is that you are doing. you are refusing one of the finest matches in england in order to marry a broken-down, middle-aged, half-pay colonel, a man who can hardly support you, whose part in life is played, or who is apparently too idle to seek another." here ida's eyes flashed ominously, but she made no comment, being apparently afraid to trust herself to speak. "you are doing this," went on her father, working himself up as he spoke, "in the face of my wishes, and with a knowledge that your action will bring your family, to say nothing of your father, to utter and irretrievable ruin." "surely, father, surely," broke in ida, almost in a cry, "you would not have me marry one man when i love another. when i made the promise i had not become attached to colonel quaritch." "love! pshaw!" said her father. "don't talk to me in that sentimental and school-girl way--you are too old for it. i am a plain man, and i believe in family affection and in _duty_, ida. _love_, as you call it, is only too often another word for self-will and selfishness and other things that we are better without." "i can understand, father," answered ida, struggling to keep her temper under this jobation, "that my refusal to marry mr. cossey is disagreeable to you for obvious reasons, though it is not so very long since you detested him yourself. but i do not see why an honest woman's affection for another man should be talked of as though there was something shameful about it. it is all very well to sneer at 'love,' but, after all a woman is flesh and blood; she is not a chattel or a slave girl, and marriage is not like anything else--it means many things to a woman. there is no magic about marriage to make that which is unrighteous righteous." "there," said her father, "it is no good your lecturing to me on marriage, ida. if you do not want to marry cossey, i can't force you to. if you want to ruin me, your family and yourself, you must do so. but there is one thing. while it is over me, which i suppose will not be for much longer, my house is my own, and i will not have that colonel of yours hanging about it, and i shall write to him to say so. you are your own mistress, and if you choose to walk over to church and marry him you can do so, but it will be done without my consent, which of course, however, is an unnecessary formality. do you hear me, ida?" "if you have quite done, father," she answered coldly, "i should like to go before i say something which i might be sorry for. of course you can write what you like to colonel quaritch, and i shall write to him, too." her father made no answer beyond sitting down at his table and grabbing viciously at a pen. so she left the room, indignant, indeed, but with as heavy a heart as any woman could carry in her breast. "dear sir," wrote the not unnaturally indignant squire, "i have been informed by my daughter ida of her entanglement with you. it is one which, for reasons that i need not enter into, is distasteful to me, as well as, i am sorry to say, ruinous to ida herself and to her family. ida is of full age, and must, of course, do as she pleases with herself. but i cannot consent to become a party to what i disapprove of so strongly, and this being the case, i must beg you to cease your visits to my house. "i am, sir, your obedient servant, "james de la molle. "colonel quaritch, v.c." ida as soon as she had sufficiently recovered herself also wrote to the colonel. she told him the whole story, keeping nothing back, and ended her letter thus: "never, dear harold, was a woman in a greater difficulty and never have i more needed help and advice. you know and have good reason to know how hateful this marriage would be to me, loving you as i do entirely and alone, and having no higher desire than to become your wife. but of course i see the painfulness of the position. i am not so selfish as my father believes or says that he believes. i quite understand how great would be the material advantage to my father if i could bring myself to marry mr. cossey. you may remember i told you once that i thought no woman has a right to prefer her own happiness to the prosperity of her whole family. but, harold, it is easy to speak thus, and very, very hard to act up to it. what am i to do? what am i to do? and yet how can i in common fairness ask you to answer that question? god help us both, harold! is there _no_ way out of it?" these letters were both duly received by harold quaritch on the following morning and threw him into a fever of anxiety and doubt. he was a just and reasonable man, and, knowing something of human nature, under the circumstances did not altogether wonder at the squire's violence and irritation. the financial position of the de la molle family was little, if anything, short of desperate. he could easily understand how maddening it must be to a man like mr. de la molle, who loved honham, which had for centuries been the home of his race, better than he loved anything on earth, to suddenly realise that it must pass away from him and his for ever, merely because a woman happened to prefer one man to another, and that man, to his view, the less eligible of the two. so keenly did he realise this, indeed, that he greatly doubted whether or no he was justified in continuing his advances to ida. finally, after much thought, he wrote to the squire as follows: "i have received your letter, and also one from ida, and i hope you will believe me when i say that i quite understand and sympathise with the motives which evidently led you to write it. i am unfortunately--although i never regretted it till now--a poor man, whereas my rival suitor is a rich one. i shall, of course, strictly obey your injunctions; and, moreover, i can assure you that, whatever my own feelings may be in the matter, i shall do nothing, either directly or indirectly, to influence ida's ultimate decision. she must decide for herself." to ida herself he also wrote at length: "dearest ida," he ended, "i can say nothing more; you must judge for yourself; and i shall accept your decision loyally whatever it may be. it is unnecessary for me to tell you how inextricably my happiness in life is interwoven with that decision, but at the same time i do not wish to influence it. it certainly to my mind does not seem right that a woman should be driven into sacrificing her whole life to secure any monetary advantage either for herself or for others, but then the world is full of things that are not right. i can give you no advice, for i do not know what advice i ought to give. i try to put myself out of the question and to consider you, and you only; but even then i fear that my judgment is not impartial. at any rate, the less we see of each other at present the better, for i do not wish to appear to be taking any undue advantage. if we are destined to pass our lives together, this temporary estrangement will not matter, and if on the other hand we are doomed to a life-long separation the sooner we begin the better. it is a hard world, and sometimes (as it does now) my heart sinks within me as from year to year i struggle on towards a happiness that ever vanishes when i stretch out my hand to clasp it; but, if i feel thus, what must you feel who have so much more to bear? my dearest love, what can i say? i can only say with you, god help us!" this letter did not tend to raise ida's spirits. evidently her lover saw that there was another side to the question--the side of duty, and was too honest to hide it from her. she had said that she would have nothing to do with edward cossey, but she was well aware that the matter was still an open one. what should she do, what ought she to do? abandon her love, desecrate herself and save her father and her house, or cling to her love and leave the rest to chance? it was a cruel position, nor did the lapse of time tend to make it less cruel. her father went about the place pale and melancholy--all his jovial manner had vanished beneath the pressure of impending ruin. he treated her with studious and old-fashioned courtesy, but she could see that he was bitterly aggrieved by her conduct and that the anxiety of his position was telling on his health. if this was the case now, what, she wondered, would happen in the spring, when steps were actually taken to sell the place? one bright cold morning she was walking with her father through the fields down on the foot-path that led to the church, and it would have been hard to say which of the two looked the paler or the more miserable. on the previous day the squire had seen mr. quest and made as much of an appeal _ad misericordiam_ to him as his pride would allow, only to find the lawyer very courteous, very regretful, but hard as adamant. also that very morning a letter had reached him from london announcing that the last hope of raising money to meet the mortgages had failed. the path ran along towards the road past a line of oaks. half-way down this line they came across george, who, with his marking instrument in his hand, was contemplating some of the trees which it was proposed to take down. "what are you doing there?" said the squire, in a melancholy voice. "marking, squire." "then you may as well save yourself the trouble, for the place will belong to somebody else before the sap is up in those oaks." "now, squire, don't you begin to talk like that, for i don't believe it. that ain't a-going to happen." "ain't a-going to happen, you stupid fellow, ain't a-going to happen," answered the squire with a dreary laugh. "why, look there," and he pointed to a dog-cart which had drawn up on the road in such a position that they could see it without its occupants seeing them; "they are taking notes already." george looked and so did ida. mr. quest was the driver of the dog-cart, which he had pulled up in such a position as to command a view of the castle, and his companion--in whom george recognised a well-known london auctioneer who sometimes did business in these parts--was standing up, an open notebook in his hand, alternately looking at the noble towers of the gateway and jotting down memoranda. "damn 'em, and so they be," said george, utterly forgetting his manners. ida looked up and saw her father's eyes fixed firmly upon her with an expression that seemed to say, "see, you wilful woman, see the ruin that you have brought upon us!" she turned away; she could not bear it, and that very night she came to a determination, which in due course was communicated to harold, and him alone. that determination was to let things be for the present, upon the chance of something happening by means of which the dilemma might be solved. but if nothing happened--and indeed it did not seem probable to her that anything would happen--then she would sacrifice herself at the last moment. she believed, indeed she knew, that she could always call edward cossey back to her if she liked. it was a compromise, and like all compromises had an element of weakness; but it gave time, and time to her was like breath to the dying. "sir," said george presently, "it's boisingham quarter sessions the day after to-morrow, ain't it?" (mr. de la molle was chairman of quarter sessions.) "yes, of course, it is." george thought for a minute. "i'm a-thinking, squire, that if i arn't wanting that day i want to go up to lunnon about a bit of business." "go up to london!" said the squire; "why what are you going to do there? you were in london the other day." "well, squire," he answered, looking inexpressibly sly, "that ain't no matter of nobody's. it's a bit of private affairs." "oh, all right," said the squire, his interest dying out. "you are always full of twopenny-halfpenny mysteries," and he continued his walk. but george shook his fist in the direction of the road down which the dog-cart had driven. "ah! you laryer devil," he said, alluding to mr. quest. "if i don't make boisingham, yes, and all england, too hot to hold you, my mother never christened me and my name ain't george. i'll give you what for, my cuckoo, that i will!" chapter xxxiv george's diplomatic errand george carried out his intention of going to london. on the second morning after the day when mr. quest had driven the auctioneer in the dog-cart to honham, he might have been seen an hour before it was light purchasing a third class return ticket to liverpool street. arriving there in safety he partook of a second breakfast, for it was ten o'clock, and then hiring a cab caused himself to be driven to the end of that street in pimlico where he had gone with the fair "edithia" and where johnnie had made acquaintance with his ash stick. dismissing the cab he made his way to the house with the red pillars, but on arriving was considerably taken aback, for the place had every appearance of being deserted. there were no blinds to the windows, and on the steps were muddy footmarks and bits of rag and straw which seemed to be the litter of a recent removal. indeed, there on the road were the broad wheelmarks of the van which had carted off the furniture. he stared at this sight in dismay. the bird had apparently flown, leaving no address, and he had taken his trip for nothing. he pressed upon the electric bell; that is, he did this ultimately. george was not accustomed to electric bells, indeed he had never seen one before, and after attempting in vain to pull it with his fingers (for he knew that it must be a bell because there was the word itself written on it), as a last resource he condescended to try his teeth. ultimately, however, he discovered how to use it, but without result. either the battery had been taken away, or it was out of gear. just as he was wondering what to do next he made a discovery--the door was slightly ajar. he pushed it and it opened--revealing a dirty hall, stripped of every scrap of furniture. entering, he shut the door and walked up the stairs to the room whence he had fled after thrashing johnnie. here he paused and listened, thinking that he heard somebody in the room. nor was he mistaken, for presently a well-remembered voice shrilled out: "who's skulking round outside there? if it's one of those bailiffs he'd better hook it, for there's nothing left here." george's countenance positively beamed at the sound. "bailiffs, marm?" he called through the door--"it ain't no varminty bailiffs, it's a friend, and just when you're a-wanting one seemingly. can i come in?" "oh, yes, come in, whoever you are," said the voice. accordingly he opened the door and entered, and this was what he saw. the room, like the rest of the house, had been stripped of everything, with the solitary exceptions of a box and a mattress, beside which were an empty bottle and a dirty glass. on the mattress sat the fair edithia, _alias_ mrs. d'aubigne, _alias_ the tiger, _alias_ mrs. quest, and such a sight as she presented george had never seen before. her fierce face bore traces of recent heavy drinking and was moreover dirty, haggard and dreadful to look upon; her hair was a frowsy mat, on some patches of which the golden dye had faded, leaving it its natural hue of doubtful grey. she wore no collar and her linen was open at the neck. on her feet were a filthy pair of white satin slippers, and on her back that same gorgeous pink satin tea-gown which mr. quest had observed on the occasion of his visit, now however soiled and torn. anything more squalid or repulsive than the whole picture cannot be imagined, and though his nerves were pretty strong, and in the course of his life he had seen many a sight of utter destitution, george literally recoiled from it. "what's the matter?" said the hag sharply, "and who the dickens are you? ah, i know now; you're the chap who whacked johnnie," and she burst into a hoarse scream of laughter at the recollection. "it was mean of you though to hook it and leave me. he pulled me, and i was fined two pounds by the beak." "mean of _him_, marm, not me, but he was a mean varmint altogether he was; to go and pull a lady too, i niver heard of such a thing. but, marm, if i might say so, you seem to be in trouble here," and he took a seat upon the deal box. "in trouble, i should think i was in trouble. there's been an execution in the house, that is, there's been three executions, one for rates and taxes, one for a butcher's bill, and one for rent. they all came together, and fought like wild cats for the things. that was yesterday, and you see all they have left me; cleaned out everything down to my new yellow satin, and then asked for more. they wanted to know where my jewellery was, but i did them, hee, hee!" "meaning, marm?" "meaning that i hid it, that is, what was left of it, under a board. but that ain't the worst. when i was asleep that devil ellen, who's had her share all these years, got to the board and collared the things and bolted with them, and look what she's left me instead," and she held up a scrap of paper, "a receipt for five years' wages, and she's had them over and over again. ah, if ever i get a chance at her," and she doubled her long hand and made a motion as of a person scratching. "she's bolted and left me here to starve. i haven't had a bit since yesterday, nor a drink either, and that's worse. what's to become of me? i'm starving. i shall have to go to the workhouse. yes, me," she added in a scream, "me, who have spent thousands; i shall have to go to a workhouse like a common woman!" "it's cruel, marm, cruel," said the sympathetic george, "and you a lawful wedded wife 'till death do us part.' but, marm, i saw a public over the way. now, no offence, but you'll let me just go over and fetch a bite and a sup." "well," she answered hungrily, "you're a gent, you are, though you're a country one. you go, while i just make a little toilette, and as for the drink, why let it be brandy." "brandy it shall be," said the gallant george, and departed. in ten minutes he returned with a supply of beef patties, and a bottle of good, strong "british brown," which as everybody knows is a sufficient quantity to render three privates or two blue-jackets drunk and incapable. the woman, who now presented a slightly more respectable appearance, seized the bottle, and pouring about a wine-glass and a half of its contents into a tumbler mixed it with an equal quantity of water and drank it off at a draught. "that's better," she said, "and now for a patty. it's a real picnic, this is." he handed her one, but she could not eat more than half of it, for alcohol destroys the healthier appetites, and she soon went back to the brandy bottle. "now, marm, that you are a little more comfortable, perhaps you will tell me how as you got into this way, and you with a rich husband, as i well knows, to love and cherish you." "a husband to love and cherish me?" she said; "why, i have written to him three times to tell him that i'm starving, and never a cent has he given me--and there's no allowance due yet, and when there is they'll take it, for i owe hundreds." "well," said george, "i call it cruel--cruel, and he rolling in gold. thirty thousand pounds he hev just made, that i knows on. you must be an angel, marm, to stand it, an angel without wings. if it were my husband, now i'd know the reason why." "ay, but i daren't. he'd murder me. he said he would." george laughed gently. "lord! lord!" he said, "to see how men play it off upon poor weak women, working on their narves and that like. he kill you! laryer quest kill you, and he the biggest coward in boisingham; but there it is. this is a world of wrong, as the parson says, and the poor shorn lambs must jamb their tails down and turn their backs to the wind, and so must you, marm. so it's the workhus you'll be in to-morrow. well, you'll find it a poor place; the skilly is that rough it do fare to take the skin off your throat, and not a drop of liquor, not even of a cup of hot tea, and work too, lots of it --scrubbing, marm, scrubbing!" this vivid picture of miseries to come drew something between a sob and a howl from the woman. there is nothing more horrible to the imagination of such people than the idea of being forced to work. if their notions of a future state of punishment could be got at, they would be found in nine cases out of ten to resolve themselves into a vague conception of hard labour in a hot climate. it was the idea of the scrubbing that particularly affected the tiger. "i won't do it," she said, "i'll go to chokey first----" "look here, marm," said george, in a persuasive voice, and pushing the brandy bottle towards her, "where's the need for you to go to the workhus or to chokey either--you with a rich husband as is bound by law to support you as becomes a lady? and, marm, mind another thing, a husband as hev wickedly deserted you--which how he could do so it ain't for me to say--and is living along of another young party." she took some more brandy before she answered. "that's all very well, you duffer," she said; "but how am i to get at him? i tell you i'm afraid of him, and even if i weren't, i haven't a cent to travel with, and if i got there what am i to do?" "as for being afeard, marm," he answered, "i've told you laryer quest is a long sight more frightened of you than you are of him. then as for money, why, marm, i'm a-going down to boisingham myself by the train as leaves liverpool street at half-past one, and that's an hour and a bit from now, and it's proud and pleased i should be to take a lady down and be the means of bringing them as has been in holy matrimony togither again. and as to what you should do when you gets there, why, you should just walk up with your marriage lines and say, 'you are my lawful husband, and i calls on you to cease living as you didn't oughter and to take me back;' and if he don't, why then you swears an information, and it's a case of warrant for bigamy." the woman chuckled, and then suddenly seized with suspicion looked at her visitor sharply. "what do you want me to blow the gaff for?" she said; "you're a leery old hand, you are, for all your simple ways, and you've got some game on, i'll take my davy." "i a game--i----!" answered george, an expression of the deepest pain spreading itself over his ugly features. "no, marm--and when one hev wanted to help a friend too. well, if you think that--and no doubt misfortune hev made you doubtful-like--the best i can do is to bid you good-day, and to wish you well out of your troubles, workhus and all, marm, which i do according," and he rose from his box with much dignity, politely bowed to the hag on the mattress, and then turning walked towards the door. she sprung up with an oath. "i'll go," she said. "i'll take the change out of him; i'll teach him to let his lawful wife starve on a beggarly pittance. i don't care if he does try to kill me. i'll ruin him," and she stamped upon the floor and screamed, "i'll ruin him, i'll ruin him!" presenting such a picture of abandoned rage and wickedness that even george, whose feelings were not finely strung, inwardly shrank from her. "ah, marm," he said, "no wonder you're put about. when i think of what you've had to suffer, i own it makes my blood go a-biling through my veins. but if you is a-coming, mayhap it would be as well to stop cursing of and put your hat on, and we hev got to catch the train." and he pointed to a head-gear chiefly made of somewhat dilapidated peacock feathers, and an ulster which the bailiffs had either overlooked or left through pity. she put on the hat and cloak. then going to the hole beneath the board, out of which she said the woman ellen had stolen her jewellery, she extracted the copy of the certificate of marriage which that lady had not apparently thought worth taking, and placed it in the pocket of her pink silk _peignoir_. then george having first secured the remainder of the bottle of brandy, which he slipped into his capacious pocket, they started, and drove to liverpool street. such a spectacle as the tiger upon the platform george was wont in after days to declare he never did see. but it can easily be imagined that a fierce, dissolute, hungry-looking woman, with half-dyed hair, who had drunk as much as was good for her, dressed in a hat made of shabby peacock feathers, dirty white shoes, an ulster with some buttons off, and a gorgeous but filthy pink silk tea-gown, presented a sufficiently curious appearance. nor did it lose strength by contrast with that of her companion, the sober and melancholy-looking george, who was arrayed in his pepper-and-salt sunday suit. so curious indeed was their aspect that the people loitering about the platform collected round them, and george, who felt heartily ashamed of the position, was thankful enough when once the train started. from motives of economy he had taken her a third-class ticket, and at this she grumbled, saying that she was accustomed to travel, like a lady should, first; but he appeased her with the brandy bottle. all the journey through he talked to her about her wrongs, till at last, what between the liquor and his artful incitements, she was inflamed into a condition of savage fury against mr. quest. when once she got to this point he would let her have no more brandy, seeing that she was now ripe for his purpose, which was of course to use her to ruin the man who would ruin the house he served. mr. quest, sitting in state as clerk to the magistrates assembled in quarter sessions at the court house, boisingham, little guessed that the sword at whose shadow he had trembled all these years was even now falling on his head. still less did he dream that the hand to cut the thread which held it was that of the stupid bumpkin whose warning he had despised. chapter xxxv the sword of damocles at last the weary journey was over, and to george's intense relief he found himself upon the platform at boisingham. he was a pretty tough subject, but he felt that a very little more of the company of the fair edithia would be too much for him. as it happened, the station-master was a particular friend of his, and the astonishment of that worthy when he saw the respectable george in such company could scarcely be expressed in words. "why boar! well i never! is she a furriner?" he ejaculated in astonishment. "if you mean me," said edithia, who was by now in fine bellicose condition, "i'm no more foreign than you are. shut up, can't you? or----" and she took a step towards the stout station-master. he retreated precipitately, caught his heel against the threshold of the booking office and vanished backwards with a crash. "steady, marm, steady," said george. "save it up now, do, and as for you, don't you irritate her none of yer, or i won't answer for the consequences, for she's an injured woman she is, and injured women is apt to be dangerous." it chanced that a fly which had brought somebody to the station was still standing there. george bundled his fair charge into it, telling the driver to go to the sessions house. "now, marm," he said, "listen to me; i'm a-going to take you to the man as hev wronged you. he's sitting as clerk to the magistrates. do you go up and call him your husband. thin he'll tell the policeman to take you away. thin do you sing out for justice, because when people sings out for justice everybody's bound to hearken, and say how as you wants a warrant agin him for bigamy, and show them the marriage lines. don't you be put down, and don't you spare him. if you don't startle him you'll niver get northing out of him." "spare him," she snarled; "not i. i'll have his blood. but look here, if he's put in chokey, where's the tin to come from?" "why, marm," answered george with splendid mendacity, "it's the best thing that can happen for you, for if they collar him you git the property, and that's law." "oh," she answered, "if i'd known that he'd have been collared long ago, i can tell you." "come," said george, seeing that they were nearing their destination. "hev one more nip just to keep your spirits up," and he produced the brandy bottle, at which she took a long pull. "now," he said, "go for him like a wild cat." "never you fear," she said. they got out of the cab and entered the sessions house without attracting any particular notice. the court itself was crowded, for a case which had excited public interest was coming to a conclusion. the jury had given their verdict, and sentence was being pronounced by mr. de la molle, the chairman. mr. quest was sitting at his table below the bench taking some notes. "there's your husband," george whispered, "now do you draw on." george's part in the drama was played, and with a sigh of relief he fell back to watch its final development. he saw the fierce tall woman slip through the crowd like a snake or a panther to its prey, and some compunction touched him when he thought of the prey. he glanced at the elderly respectable-looking gentleman by the table, and reflected that he too was stalking _his_ prey--the old squire and the ancient house of de la molle. then his compunction vanished, and he rejoiced to think that he would be the means of destroying a man who, to fill his pockets, did not hesitate to ruin the family with which his life and the lives of his forefathers had been interwoven for many generations. by this time the woman had fought her way through the press, bursting the remaining buttons off her ulster in so doing, and reached the bar which separated spectators from the space reserved for the officials. on the further side of the bar was a gangway, and beyond it a table at which mr. quest sat. he had been busy writing something all this time, now he rose, passed it to mr. de la molle, and then turned to sit down again. meanwhile his wife had craned her long lithe body forward over the bar till her head was almost level with the hither edge of the table. there she stood glaring at him, her wicked face alive with fury and malice, for the brandy she had drunk had caused her to forget her fears. as mr. quest turned, his eye caught the flash of colour from the peacock feather hat. thence it travelled to the face beneath. he gave a gasp, and the court seemed to whirl round him. the sword had fallen indeed! "well, billy!" whispered the hateful voice, "you see i've come to look you up." with a desperate effort he recovered himself. a policeman was standing near. he beckoned to him, and told him to remove the woman, who was drunk. the policeman advanced and touched her on the arm. "come, you be off," he said, "you're drunk." at that moment mr. de la molle ceased giving judgment. "i ain't drunk," said the woman, loud enough to attract the attention of the whole court, which now for the first time observed her extraordinary attire, "and i've a right to be in the public court." "come on," said the policeman, "the clerk says you're to go." "the clerk says so, does he?" she answered, "and do you know who the clerk is? i'll tell you all," and she raised her voice to a scream; "he's my husband, my lawful wedded husband, and here's proof of it," and she took the folded certificate from her pocket and flung it so that it struck the desk of one of the magistrates. mr. quest sank into his chair, and a silence of astonishment fell upon the court. the squire was the first to recover himself. "silence," he said, addressing her. "silence. this cannot go on here." "but i want justice," she shrieked. "i want justice; i want a warrant against that man for _bigamy_." (sensation.) "he's left me to starve; me, his lawful wife. look here," and she tore open the pink satin tea-gown, "i haven't enough clothes on me; the bailiffs took all my clothes; i have suffered his cruelty for years, and borne it, and i can bear it no longer. justice, your worships; i only ask for justice." "be silent, woman," said mr. de la molle; "if you have a criminal charge to bring against anybody there is a proper way to make it. be silent or leave this court." but she only screamed the more for _justice_, and loudly detailed fragments of her woes to the eagerly listening crowd. then policemen were ordered to remove her, and there followed a frightful scene. she shrieked and fought in such a fashion that it took four men to drag her to the door of the court, where she dropped exhausted against the wall in the corridor. "well," said the observant george to himself, "she hev done the trick proper, and no mistake. couldn't have been better. that's a master one, that is." then he turned his attention to the stricken man before him. mr. quest was sitting there, his face ashen, his eyes wide open, and his hands placed flat on the table before him. when silence had been restored he rose and turned to the bench apparently with the intention of addressing the court. but he said nothing, either because he could not find the words or because his courage failed him. there was a moment's intense silence, for every one in the crowded court was watching him, and the sense of it seemed to take what resolution he had left out of him. at any rate, he left the table and hurried from the court. in the passage he found the tiger, who, surrounded by a little crowd, her hat awry and her clothes half torn from her back, was huddled gasping against the wall. she saw him and began to speak, but he stopped and faced her. he faced her, grinding his teeth, and with such an awful fire of fury in his eyes that she shrank from him in terror, flattening herself against the wall. "what did i tell you?" he said in a choked voice, and then passed on. a few paces down the passage he met one of his own clerks, a sharp fellow enough. "here, jones," he said, "you see that woman there. she has made a charge against me. watch her. see where she goes to, and find out what she is going to do. then come and tell me at the office. if you lose sight of her, you lose your place too. do you understand?" "yes, sir," said the astonished clerk, and mr. quest was gone. he made his way direct to the office. it was closed, for he had told his clerks he should not come back after court, and that they could go at half-past four. he had his key, however, and, entering, lit the gas. then he went to his safe and sorted some papers, burning a good number of them. two large documents, however, he put by his side to read. one was his will, the other was endorsed "statement of the circumstances connected with edith." first he looked through his will. it had been made some years ago, and was entirely in favour of his wife, or, rather, of his reputed wife, belle. "it may as well stand," he said aloud; "if anything happens to me she'll take about ten thousand under it, and that was what she brought me." taking the pen he went through the document carefully, and wherever the name of "belle quest" occurred he put a x, and inserted these words, "gennett, commonly known as belle quest," gennett being belle's maiden name, and initialled the correction. next he glanced at the statement. it contained a full and fair account of his connection with the woman who had ruined his life. "i may as well leave it," he thought; "some day it will show belle that i was not quite so bad as i seemed." he replaced the statement in a brief envelope, sealed and directed it to belle, and finally marked it, "not to be opened till my death.--w. quest." then he put the envelope away in the safe and took up the will for the same purpose. next it on the table lay the deeds executed by edward cossey transferring the honham mortgages to mr. quest in consideration of his abstaining from the commencement of a suit for divorce in which he proposed to join edward cossey as co-respondent. "ah!" he thought to himself, "that game is up. belle is not my legal wife, therefore i cannot commence a suit against her in which cossey would figure as co-respondent, and so the consideration fails. i am sorry, for i should have liked him to lose his thirty thousand pounds as well as his wife, but it can't be helped. it was a game of bluff, and now that the bladder has been pricked i haven't a leg to stand on." then, taking a pen, he wrote on a sheet of paper which he inserted in the will, "dear b.,--you must return the honham mortgages to mr. edward cossey. as you are not my legal wife the consideration upon which he transferred them fails, and you cannot hold them in equity, nor i suppose would you wish to do so.--w. q." having put all the papers away, he shut the safe at the moment that the clerk whom he had deputed to watch his wife knocked at the door and entered. "well?" said his master. "well, sir, i watched the woman. she stopped in the passage for a minute, and then george, squire de la molle's man, came out and spoke to her. i got quite close so as to hear, and he said, 'you'd better get out of this.' "'where to?' she answered. 'i'm afraid.' "'back to london,' he said, and gave her a sovereign, and she got up without a word and slunk off to the station followed by a mob of people. she is in the refreshment room now, but george sent word to say that they ought not to serve her with any drink." "what time does the next train go-- . , does it not?" said mr. quest. "yes, sir." "well, go back to the station and keep an eye upon that woman, and when the time comes get me a first-class return ticket to london. i shall go up myself and give her in charge there. here is some money," and he gave him a five-pound note, "and look here, jones, you need not trouble about the change." "thank you, sir, i'm sure," said jones, to whom, his salary being a guinea a week, on which he supported a wife and family, a gift of four pounds was sudden wealth. "don't thank me, but do as i tell you. i will be down at the station at . . meet me outside and give me the ticket. that will do." when jones had gone mr. quest sat down to think. so george had loosed this woman on him, and that was the meaning of his mysterious warnings. how did he find her? that did not matter, he had found her, and in revenge for the action taken against the de la molle family had brought her here to denounce him. it was cleverly managed, too. mr. quest reflected to himself that he should never have given the man credit for the brains. well, that was what came of underrating people. and so this was the end of all his hopes, ambitions, shifts and struggles! the story would be in every paper in england before another twenty-four hours were over, headed, "_remarkable occurrence at boisingham quarter sessions.--alleged bigamy of a solicitor._" no doubt, too, the treasury would take it up and institute a prosecution. this was the end of his strivings after respectability and the wealth that brings it. he had overreached himself. he had plotted and schemed, and hardened his heart against the de la molle family, and fate had made use of his success to destroy him. in another few months he had expected to be able to leave this place a wealthy and respected man--and now? he laid his hand upon the table and reviewed his past life--tracing it from year to year, and seeing how the shadow of this accursed woman had haunted him, bringing disgrace and terror and mental agony with it--making his life a misery. and now what was to be done? he was ruined. let him fly to the utmost parts of the earth, let him burrow in the recesses of the cities of the earth, and his shame would find him out. he was an impostor, a bigamist; one who had seduced an innocent woman into a mock marriage and then taken her fortune to buy the silence of his lawful wife. more, he had threatened to bring an action for divorce against a woman to whom he knew he was not really married and made it a lever to extort large sums of money or their value. what is there that a man in his position can do? he can do two things--he can revenge himself upon the author of his ruin, and he be bold enough, he can put an end to his existence and his sorrows at a blow. mr. quest rose and walked to the door. halting there, he turned and looked round the office in that peculiar fashion wherewith the eyes take their adieu. then with a sigh he went. reaching his own house he hesitated whether or not to enter. had the news reached belle? if so, how was he to face her? her hands were not clean, indeed, but at any rate she had no mock marriage in her record, and her dislike of him had been unconcealed throughout. she had never wished to marry him, and never for one single day regarded him otherwise than with aversion. after reflection he turned and went round by the back way into the garden. the curtains of the french windows were drawn, but it was a wet and windy night, and the draught occasionally lifted the edge of one of them. he crept like a thief up to his own window and looked in. the drawing-room was lighted, and in a low chair by the fire sat belle. she was as usual dressed in black, and to mr. quest, who loved her, and who knew that he was about to bid farewell to the sight of her, she looked more beautiful now than ever she had before. a book lay open on her knee, and he noticed, not without surprise, that it was a bible. but she was not reading it; her dimpled chin rested on her hand, her violent eyes were fixed on vacancy, and even from where he was he thought that he could see the tears in them. she had heard nothing; he was sure of that from the expression of her face; she was thinking of her own sorrows, not of his shame. yes, he would go in. chapter xxxvi how the game ended mr. quest entered the house by a side door, and having taken off his hat and coat went into the drawing-room. he had still half an hour to spare before starting to catch the train. "well," said belle, looking up. "why are you looking so pale?" "i have had a trying day," he answered. "what have you been doing?" "nothing in particular." "reading the bible, i see." "how do you know that?" she asked, colouring a little, for she had thrown a newspaper over the book when she heard him coming in. "yes, i have been reading the bible. don't you know that when everything else in life has failed them women generally take to religion?" "or drink," he put in, with a touch of his old bitterness. "have you seen mr. cossey lately?" "no. why do you ask that? i thought we had agreed to drop that subject." as a matter of fact it had not been alluded to since edward left the house. "you know that miss de la molle will not marry him after all?" "yes, i know. she will not marry him because you forced him to give up the mortgages." "you ought to be much obliged to me. are you not pleased?" "no. i no longer care about anything. i am tired of passion, and sin and failure. i care for nothing any more." "it seems that we have both reached the same goal, but by different roads." "you?" she answered, looking up; "at any rate you are not tired of money, or you would not do what you have done to get it." "i never cared for money itself," he said. "i only wanted money that i might be rich and, therefore, respected." "and you think any means justifiable so long as you get it?" "i thought so. i do not think so now." "i don't understand you to-night, william. it is time for me to go to dress for dinner." "don't go just yet. i'm leaving in a minute." "leaving? where for?" "london; i have to go up to-night about some business." "indeed; when are you coming back?" "i don't quite know--to-morrow, perhaps. i wonder, belle," he went on, his voice shaking a little, "if you will always think as badly of me as you do now." "i?" she said, opening her eyes widely; "who am i that i should judge you? however bad you may be, i am worse." "perhaps there are excuses to be made for both of us," he said; "perhaps, after all, there is no such thing as free will, and we are nothing but pawns moved by a higher power. who knows? but i will not keep you any longer. good-bye--belle!" "yes." "may i kiss you before i go?" she looked at him in astonishment. her first impulse was to refuse. he had not kissed her for years. but something in the man's face touched her. it was always a refined and melancholy face, but to-night it wore a look which to her seemed almost unearthly. "yes, william, if you wish," she said; "but i wonder that you care to." "let the dead bury their dead," he answered, and stooping he put his arm round her delicate waist and drawing her to him kissed her tenderly but without passion on her forehead. "there, good-night," he said; "i wish that i had been a better husband to you. good-night," and he was gone. when he reached his room he flung himself for a few moments face downwards upon the bed, and from the convulsive motion of his back an observer might almost have believed that he was sobbing. when he rose, there was no trace of tears or tenderness upon his features. on the contrary, they were stern and set, like the features of one bent upon some terrible endeavour. going to a drawer, he unlocked it and took from it a colt's revolver of the small pattern. it was loaded, but he extracted the cartridges and replaced them with fresh ones from a tin box. then he went downstairs, put on a large ulster with a high collar, and a soft felt hat, the brim of which he turned down over his face, placed the pistol in the pocket of his ulster, and started. it was a dreadful night, the wind was blowing a heavy gale, and between the gusts the rain came down in sheets of driving spray. nobody was about the streets--the weather was far too bad; and mr. quest reached the station without meeting a living soul. outside the circle of light from a lamp over the doorway he paused, and looked about for the clerk jones. presently, he saw him walking backwards and forwards under the shelter of a lean-to, and going up, touched him on the shoulder. the man started back. "have you got the ticket, jones?" he asked. "lord, sir," said jones, "i didn't know you in that get-up. yes, here it is." "is the woman there still?" "yes, sir; she's taken a ticket, third-class, to town. she has been going on like a wild thing because they would not give her any liquor at the refreshment bar, till at last she frightened them into letting her have six of brandy. then she began and told the girl all sorts of tales about you, sir--said she was going back to london because she was afraid that if she stopped here you would murder her--and that you were her lawful husband, and she would have a warrant out against you, and i don't know what all. i sat by and heard her with my own ears." "did she--did she indeed?" said mr. quest, with an attempt at a laugh. "well, she's a common thief and worse, that's what she is, and by this time to-morrow i hope to see her safe in gaol. ah! here comes the train. good-night, jones. i can manage for myself now." "what's his game?" said jones to himself as he watched his master slip on to the platform by a gate instead of going through the booking office. "well, i've had four quid out of it, any way, and it's no affair of mine." and jones went home to tea. meanwhile mr. quest was standing on the wet and desolate platform quite away from the lamps, watching the white lights of the approaching train rushing on through the storm and night. presently it drew up. no passengers got out. "now, mam, look sharp if you're going," cried the porter, and the woman edith came out of the refreshment room. "there's the third, forrard there," said the porter, running to the van to see about the packing of the mails. on she came, passing quite close to mr. quest, so close that he could hear her swearing at the incivility of the porter. there was a third-class compartment just opposite, and this she entered. it was one of those carriages that are still often to be seen on provincial lines in which the partitions do not go up to the roof, and, if possible, more vilely lighted than usual. indeed the light which should have illuminated the after-half of it had either never been lit or had gone out. there was not a soul in the whole length of the compartment. as soon as his wife was in, mr. quest watched his opportunity. slipping up to the dark carriage, he opened and shut the door as quietly as possible and took his seat in the gloom. the engine whistled, there was a cry of "right forrard," and they were off. presently he saw the woman stand up in her division of the compartment and peep over into the gloom. "not a blessed soul," he heard her mutter, "and yet i feel as though that devil billy was creeping about after me. ugh! it must be the horrors. i can see the look he gave me now." a few minutes later the train stopped at a station, but nobody got in, and presently it moved on again. "any passengers for effry?" shouted the porter, and there had been no response. if they did not stop at effry there would be no halt for forty minutes. now was his time. he waited a little till they had got up the speed. the line here ran through miles and miles of fen country, more or less drained by dykes and rivers, but still wild and desolate enough. over this great flat the storm was sweeping furiously--even drowning in its turmoil the noise of the travelling train. very quietly he rose and climbed over the low partition which separated his compartment from that in which the woman was. she was seated in the corner, her head leaning back, so that the feeble light from the lamp fell on it, and her eyes were closed. she was asleep. he slid himself along the seat till he was opposite to her, then paused to look at the fierce wicked face on which drink and paint and years of evil-thinking and living had left their marks, and looking shuddered. there was his bad genius, there was the creature who had driven him from evil to evil and finally destroyed him. had it not been for her he might have been a good and respected man, and not what he was now, a fraudulent ruined outcast. all his life seemed to flash before his inner eye in those few seconds of contemplation, all the long weary years of struggle, crime, and deceit. and this was the end of it, and _there_ was the cause of it. well, she should not escape him; he would be revenged upon her at last. there was nothing but death before _him_, she should die too. he set his teeth, drew the loaded pistol from his pocket, cocked it and lifted it to her breast. what was the matter with the thing? he had never known the pull of a pistol to be so heavy before. no, it was not _that_. he could not do it. he could not shoot a sleeping woman, devil though she was; he could not kill her in her sleep. his nature rose up against it. he placed the pistol on his knee, and as he did so she opened her eyes. he saw the look of wonder gather in them and grow to a stare of agonised terror. her face became rigid like a dead person's and her lips opened to scream, but no cry came. she could only point to the pistol. "make a sound and you are dead," he said fiercely. "not that it matters though," he added, as he remembered that the scream must be loud which could be heard in that raging gale. "what are you going to do?" she gasped at last. "what are you going to do with that pistol? and where do you come from?" "i come out of the night," he answered, raising the weapon, "out of the night into which you are going." "you are not going to kill me?" she moaned, turning up her ghastly face. "i can't die. i'm afraid to die. it will hurt, and i've been wicked. oh, you are not going to kill me, are you?" "yes, i am going to kill you," he answered. "i told you months ago that i would kill you if you molested me. you have ruined me now, there is nothing but death left for _me_, and _you_ shall die too, you fiend." "oh no! no! no! anything but that. i was drunk when i did it; that man brought me there, and they had taken all my things, and i was starving," and she glanced wildly round the empty carriage to see if help could be found, but there was none. she was alone with her fate. she slipped down upon the floor of the carriage and clasped his knees. writhing in her terror upon the ground, in hoarse accents she prayed for mercy. "you used to kiss me," she said; "you cannot kill a woman you used to kiss years ago. oh, spare me, spare me!" he set his lips and placed the muzzle of the pistol against her head. she shivered at the contact, and her teeth began to chatter. he could not do it. he must let her go, and leave her to fate. after all, she could hurt him no more, for before another sun had set he would be beyond her reach. his pistol hand fell against his side, and he looked down with loathing not unmixed with pity at the abject human snake who was writing at his feet. she caught his eye, and her faculties, sharpened by the imminent peril, read relentment there. for the moment, at any rate, he was softened. if she could master him now while he was off his guard--he was not a very strong man! but the pistol---- slowly, still groaning out supplications, she rose to her feet. "yes," he said, "be quiet while i think if i can spare you," and he half turned his head away from her. for a moment nothing was heard but the rush of the gale and the roll of the wheels running over and under bridges. this was her opportunity. all her natural ferocity arose within her, intensified a hundred times by the instinct of self-protection. with a sudden blow she struck the pistol from his hand; it fell upon the floor of the carriage. and then with a scream she sprang like a wild cat straight at his throat. so sudden was the attack that the long lean hands were gripping his windpipe before he knew it had been made. back she bore him, though he seized her round the waist. she was the heavier of the two, and back they went, _crash_ against the carriage door. it gave! oh, god, the worn catch gave! out together, out with a yell of despair into the night and the raging gale; down together through sixty feet of space into the black river beneath. down together, deep into the watery depths--into the abyss of death. the train rushed on, the wild winds blew, and the night was as the night had been. but there in the black water, though there was never a star to see them, there, locked together in death as they had been locked together in life, the fierce glare of hate and terror yet staring from their glazed eyes, two bodies rolled over and over as they sped silently towards the sea. chapter xxxvii sister agnes ten days had passed. the tragedy had echoed through all the land. numberless articles and paragraphs had been written in numberless papers, and numberless theories had been built upon them. but the echoes were already beginning to die away. both actors in the dim event were dead, and there was no pending trial to keep the public interest alive. the two corpses, still linked in that fierce dying grip, had been picked up on a mudbank. an inquest had been held, at which an open verdict was returned, and they were buried. other events had occurred, the papers were filled with the reports of new tragedies, and the affair of the country lawyer who committed bigamy and together with his lawful wife came to a tragic and mysterious end began to be forgotten. in boisingham and its neighbourhood much sympathy was shown with belle, whom people still called mrs. quest, though she had no title to that name. but she received it coldly and kept herself secluded. as soon as her supposed husband's death was beyond a doubt belle had opened his safe (for he had left the keys on his dressing-table), and found therein his will and other papers, including the mortgage deeds, to which, as mr. quest's memorandum advised her, she had no claim. nor, indeed, had her right to them been good in law, would she have retained them, seeing that they were a price wrung from her late lover under threat of an action that could not be brought. so she made them into a parcel and sent them to edward cossey, together with a formal note of explanation, greatly wondering in her heart what course he would take with reference to them. she was not left long in doubt. the receipt of the deeds was acknowledged, and three days afterwards she heard that a notice calling in the borrowed money had been served upon mr. de la molle on behalf of edward cossey. so he had evidently made up his mind not to forego this new advantage which chance threw in his way. pressure and pressure alone could enable him to attain his end, and he was applying it unmercifully. well, she had done with him now, it did not matter to her; but she could not help faintly wondering at the extraordinary tenacity and hardness of purpose which his action showed. then she turned her mind to the consideration of another matter, in connection with which her plans were approaching maturity. it was some days after this, exactly a fortnight from the date of mr. quest's death, that edward cossey was sitting one afternoon brooding over the fire in his rooms. he had much business awaiting his attention in london, but he would not go to london. he could not tear himself away from boisingham, and such of the matters as could be attended to there were left without attention. he was still as determined as ever to marry ida, more determined if possible, for from constant brooding on the matter he had arrived at a condition approaching monomania. he had been quick to see the advantage resulting to him from mr. quest's tragic death and the return of the deeds, and though he knew that ida would hate him the more for doing it, he instructed his lawyers to call in the money and make use of every possible legal means to harass and put pressure upon mr. de la molle. at the same time he had written privately to the squire, calling his attention to the fact that matters were now once more as they had been at the beginning, but that he was as before willing to carry out the arrangements which he had already specified, provided that ida could be persuaded to consent to marry him. to this mr. de la molle had answered courteously enough, notwithstanding his grief and irritation at the course his would-be son-in-law had taken about the mortgages on the death of mr. quest, and the suspicion (it was nothing more) that he now had as to the original cause of their transfer to the lawyer. he said what he had said before, that he could not force his daughter into a marriage with him, but that if she chose to agree to it he should offer no objection. and there the matter stood. once or twice edward had met ida walking or driving. she bowed to him coldly and that was all. indeed he had only one crumb of comfort in his daily bread of disappointment, and the hope deferred which, where a lady is concerned, makes the heart more than normally sick, and it was that he knew his hated rival, colonel quaritch, had been forbidden the castle, and that intercourse between him and ida was practically at an end. but he was a dogged and persevering man; he knew the power of money and the shifts to which people can be driven who are made desperate by the want of it. he knew, too, that it is no rare thing for women who are attached to one man to sell themselves to another of their own free will, realising that love may pass, but wealth (if the settlements are properly drawn) does not. therefore he still hoped that with so many circumstances bringing an ever-increasing pressure upon her, ida's spirit would in time be broken, her resistance would collapse, and he would have his will. nor, as the sequel will show, was that hope a baseless one. as for his infatuation there was literally no limit to it. it broke out in all sorts of ways, and for miles round was a matter of public notoriety and gossip. over the mantelpiece in his sitting-room was a fresh example of it. by one means and another he had obtained several photographs of ida, notably one of her in a court dress which she had worn two or three years before, when her brother james had insisted upon her being presented. these photographs he caused to be enlarged and then, at the cost of pounds, commissioned a well-known artist to paint from them a full-length life-size portrait of ida in her court dress. this order had been executed, and the portrait, which although the colouring was not entirely satisfactory was still an effective likeness and a fine piece of work, now hung in a splendid frame over his mantelpiece. there, on the afternoon in question, he sat before the fire, his eyes fixed upon the portrait, of which the outline was beginning to grow dim in the waning december light, when the servant girl came in and announced that a lady wished to speak to him. he asked what her name was, and the girl said that she did not know, because she had her veil down and was wrapped up in a big cloak. in due course the lady was shown up. he had relapsed into his reverie, for nothing seemed to interest him much now unless it had to do with ida--and he knew that the lady could not be ida, because the girl said that she was short. as it happened, he sat with his right ear, in which he was deaf, towards the door, so that between his infirmity and his dreams he never heard belle--for it was she--enter the room. for a minute or more she stood looking at him as he sat with his eyes fixed upon the picture, and while she looked an expression of pity stole across her sweet pale face. "i wonder what curse there is laid upon us that we should be always doomed to seek what we cannot find?" she said aloud. he heard her now, and looking up saw her standing in the glow and flicker of the firelight, which played upon her white face and black-draped form. he started violently; as he did so she loosed the heavy cloak and hood that she wore and it fell behind her. but where was the lovely rounded form, and where the clustering golden curls? gone, and in their place a coarse robe of blue serge, on which hung a crucifix, and the white hood of the nun. he sprang from his chair with an exclamation, not knowing if he dreamed or if he really saw the woman who stood there like a ghost in the firelight. "forgive me, edward," she said presently, in her sweet low voice. "i daresay that this all looks theatrical enough--but i have put on this dress for two reasons: firstly, because i must leave this town in an hour's time and wish to do so unknown; and secondly, to show that you need not fear that i have come to be troublesome. will you light the candles?" he did so mechanically, and then pulled down the blinds. meanwhile belle had seated herself near the table, her face buried in her hands. "what is the meaning of all this, belle?" he said. "'sister agnes,' you must call me now," she said, taking her hands from her face. "the meaning of it is that i have left the world and entered a sisterhood which works among the poor in london, and i have come to bid you farewell, a last farewell." he stared at her in amazement. he did not find it easy to connect the idea of this beautiful, human, loving creature with the cold sanctuary of a sisterhood. he did not know that natures like this, whose very intensity is often the cause of their destruction, are most capable of these strange developments. the man or woman who can really love and endure--and they are rare--can also, when their passion has utterly broken them, turn to climb the stony paths that lead to love's antipodes. "edward," she went on, speaking very slowly, "you know in what relation we have stood to each other, and what that relationship means to woman. you know this--i have loved you with all my heart, and all my strength, and all my soul----" here she trembled and broke down. "you know, too," she continued presently, "what has been the end of all this, the shameful end. i am not come to blame you. i do not blame you, for the fault was mine, and if i have anything to forgive i forgive it freely. whatever memories may still live in my heart i swear i put away all bitterness, and that my most earnest wish is that you may be happy, as happiness is to you. the sin was mine; that is it would have been mine were we free agents, which perhaps we are not. i should have loved my husband, or rather the man whom i thought my husband, for with all his faults he was of a different clay to you, edward." he looked up, but said nothing. "i know," she went on, pointing to the picture over the mantelpiece, "that your mind is still set upon her, and i am nothing, and less than nothing, to you. when i am gone you will scarcely give me a thought. i cannot tell you if you will succeed in your end, and i think the methods you are adopting wicked and shameful. but whether you succeed or not, your fate also will be what my fate is--to love a person who is not only indifferent to you but who positively dislikes you, and reserves all her secret heart for another man, and i know no greater penalty than is to be found in that daily misery." "you are very consoling," he said sulkily. "i only tell you the truth," she answered. "what sort of life do you suppose mine has been when i am so utterly broken, so entirely robbed of hope, that i have determined to leave the world and hide myself and my shame in a sisterhood? and now, edward," she went on, after a pause, "i have something to tell you, for i will not go away, if indeed you allow me to go away at all after you have heard it, until i have confessed." and she leant forward and looked him full in the face, whispering--"_i shot you on purpose, edward!_" "what!" he said, springing from his chair; "you tried to murder me?" "yes, yes; but don't think too hardly of me. i am only flesh and blood, and you drove me wild with jealousy--you taunted me with having been your mistress and said that i was not fit to associate with the lady whom you were going to marry. it made me mad, and the opportunity offered--the gun was there, and i shot you. god forgive me, i think that i have suffered more than you did. oh! when day after day i saw you lying there and did not know if you would live or die, i thought that i should have gone mad with remorse and agony!" he listened so far, and then suddenly walked across the room towards the bell. she placed herself between him and it. "what are you going to do?" she said. "going to do? i am going to send for a policeman and give you into custody for attempted murder, that is all." she caught his arm and looked him in the face. in another second she had loosed it. "of course," she said, "you have a right to do that. ring and send for the policeman, only remember that nothing is known now, but the whole truth will come out at the trial." this checked him, and he stood thinking. "well," she said, "why don't you ring?" "i do not ring," he answered, "because on the whole i think i had better let you go. i do not wish to be mixed up with you any more. you have done me mischief enough; you have finished by attempting to murder me. go; i think that a convent is the best place for you; you are too bad and too dangerous to be left at large." "_oh!_" she said, like one in pain. "_oh!_ and you are the man for whom i have come to this! oh, god! it is a cruel world." and she pressed her hands to her heart and stumbled rather than walked to the door. reaching it she turned, and her hands still pressing the coarse blue gown against her heart, she leaned against the door. "edward," she said, in a strained whisper, for her breath came thick, "edward--i am going for ever--have you _no_ kind word--to say to me?" he looked at her, a scowl upon his handsome face. then by way of answer he turned upon his heel. and so, still holding her hands against her poor broken heart, she went out of the house, out of boisingham and of touch and knowledge of the world. in after years these two were fated to meet once again, and under circumstances sufficiently tragic; but the story of that meeting does not lie within the scope of this history. to the world belle is dead, but there is another world of sickness, and sordid unchanging misery and shame, where the lovely face of sister agnes moves to and fro like a ray of heaven's own light. there those who would know her must go to seek her. poor belle! poor shamed, deserted woman! she was an evil-doer, and the fatality of love and the unbalanced vigour of her mind, which might, had she been more happily placed, have led her to all things that are pure, and true, and of good report, combined to drag her into shame and wretchedness. but the evil that she did was paid back to her in full measure, pressed down and running over. few of us need to wait for a place of punishment to get the due of our follies and our sins. _here_ we expiate them. they are with us day and night, about our path and about our bed, scourging us with the whips of memory, mocking us with empty longing and the hopelessness of despair. who can escape the consequence of sin, or even of the misfortune which led to sin? certainly belle did not, nor mr. quest, nor even that fierce-hearted harpy who hunted him to his grave. and so good-bye to belle. may she find peace in its season! chapter xxxviii colonel quaritch expresses his views meanwhile things had been going very ill at the castle. edward cossey's lawyers were carrying out their client's instructions to the letter with a perseverance and ingenuity worthy of a county court solicitor. day by day they found a new point upon which to harass the wretched squire. some share of the first expenses connected with the mortgages had, they said, been improperly thrown upon their client, and they again and again demanded, in language which was almost insolent, the immediate payment of the amount. then there was three months' interest overdue, and this also they pressed and clamoured for, till the old gentleman was nearly driven out of his senses, and as a consequence drove everybody about the place out of theirs. at last this state of affairs began to tell upon his constitution, which, strong as he was, could not at his age withstand such constant worry. he grew to look years older, his shoulders acquired a stoop, and his memory began to fail him, especially on matters connected with the mortgages and farm accounts. ida, too, became pale and ill; she caught a heavy cold, which she could not throw off, and her face acquired a permanently pained and yet listless look. one day, it was on the th of december, things reached a climax. when ida came down to breakfast she found her father busy poring over some more letters from the lawyers. "what is it now, father?" she said. "what is it now?" he answered irritably. "what, it's another claim for two hundred, that's what it is. i keep telling them to write to my lawyers, but they won't, at least they write to me too. there, i can't make head or tail of it. look here," and he showed her two sides of a big sheet of paper covered with statements of accounts. "anyhow, i have not got two hundred, that's clear. i don't even know where we are going to find the money to pay the three months' interest. i'm worn out, ida, i'm worn out! there is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to die, and that's the long and short of it. i get so confused with these figures. i'm an old man now, and all these troubles are too much for me." "you must not talk like that, father," she answered, not knowing what to say, for affairs were indeed desperate. "yes, yes, it's all very well to talk so, but facts are stubborn. our family is ruined, and we must accept it." "cannot the money be got anyhow? is there _nothing_ to be done?" she said in despair. "what is the good of asking me that? there is only one thing that can save us, and you know what it is as well as i do. but you are your own mistress. i have no right to put pressure on you. i don't wish to put pressure on you. you must please yourself. meanwhile i think we had better leave this place at once, and go and live in a cottage somewhere, if we can get enough to support us; if not we must starve, i suppose. i cannot keep up appearances any longer." ida rose, and with a strange sad light of resolution shining in her eyes, came to where her father was sitting, and putting her hands upon his shoulders, looked him in the face. "father," she said, "do you wish me to marry that man?" "wish you to marry him? what do you mean?" he said, not without irritation, and avoiding her gaze. "it is no affair of mine. i don't like the man, if that's what you mean. he is acting like--well, like the cur that he is, in putting on the screw as he is doing; but, of course, that is the way out of it, and the only way, and there you are." "father," she said again, "will you give me ten days, that is, until christmas day? if nothing happens between this and then i will marry mr. edward cossey." a sudden light of hope shone in his eyes. she saw it, though he tried to hide it by turning his head away. "oh, yes," he answered, "as you wish; settle it one way or the other on christmas day, and then we can go out with the new year. you see your brother james is dead, i have no one left to advise me now, and i suppose that i am getting old. at any rate, things seem to be too much for me. settle it as you like; settle it as you like," and he got up, leaving his breakfast half swallowed, and went off to moon aimlessly about the park. so she made up her mind at last. this was the end of her struggling. she could not let her old father be turned out of house and home to starve, for practically they would starve. she knew her hateful lover well enough to be aware that he would show no mercy. it was a question of the woman or the money, and she was the woman. either she must let him take her or they must be destroyed; there was no middle course. and in these circumstances there was no room for hesitation. once more her duty became clear to her. she must give up her life, she must give up her love, she must give up herself. well, so be it. she was weary of the long endeavour against fortune, now she would yield and let the tide of utter misery sweep over her like a sea--to bear her away till at last it brought her to that oblivion in which perchance all things come right or are as though they had never been. she had scarcely spoken to her lover, harold quaritch, for some weeks. she had as she understood it entered into a kind of unspoken agreement with her father not to do so, and that agreement harold had realised and respected. since their last letters to each other they had met once or twice casually or at church, interchanged a few indifferent words, though their eyes spoke another story, touched each other's hands and parted. that was absolutely all. but now that ida had come to this momentous decision she felt he had a right to learn it, and so once more she wrote to him. she might have gone to see him or told him to meet her, but she would not. for one thing she did not dare to trust herself on such an errand in his dear company, for another she was too proud, thinking if her father came to hear of it he might consider that it had a clandestine and underhand appearance. and so she wrote. with all she said we need not concern ourselves. the letter was loving, even passionate, more passionate perhaps than one would have expected from a woman of ida's calm and stately sort. but a mountain may have a heart of fire although it is clad in snows, and so it sometimes is with women who seem cold and unemotional as marble. besides, it was her last chance--she could write him no more letters and she had much to say. "and so i have decided, harold," she said after telling him of all her doubts and troubles. "i must do it, there is no help for it, as i think you will see. i have asked for ten days' respite. i really hardly know why, except that it is a respite. and now what is there left to say to you except good-bye? i love you, harold, i make no secret of it, and i shall never love any other. remember all your life that i love you and have not forgotten you, and never can forget. for people placed as we are there is but one hope--the grave. in the grave earthly considerations fail and earthly contracts end, and there i trust and believe we shall find each other--or at the least forgetfulness. my heart is so sore i know not what to say to you, for it is difficult to put all i feel in words. i am overwhelmed, my spirit is broken, and i wish to heaven that i were dead. sometimes i almost cease to believe in a god who can allow his creatures to be so tormented and give us love only that it may be daily dishonoured in our sight; but who am i that i should complain, and after all what are our troubles compared to some we know of? well, it will come to an end at last, and meanwhile pity me and think of me. "pity me and think of me; yes, but never see me more. as soon as this engagement is publicly announced, go away, the further the better. yes, go to new zealand, as you suggested once, and in pity of our human weakness never let me see your face again. perhaps you may write to me sometimes--if mr. cossey will allow it. go there and occupy yourself, it will divert your mind--you are still too young a man to lay yourself upon the shelf--mix yourself up with the politics of the place, take to writing; anything, so long as you can absorb yourself. i sent you a photograph of myself (i have nothing better) and a ring which i have worn night and day since i was a child. i think that it will fit your little finger and i hope you will always wear it in memory of me. it was my mother's. and now it is late and i am tired, and what is there more that a woman can say to the man she loves--and whom she must leave for ever? only one word--good-bye. ida." when harold got this letter it fairly broke him down. his hopes had been revived when he thought that all was lost, and now again they were utterly dashed and broken. he could see no way out of it, none at all. he could not quarrel with ida's decision, shocking as it was, for the simple reason that he knew in his heart she was acting rightly and even nobly. but, oh, the thought of it made him mad. it is probable that to a man of imagination and deep feeling hell itself can invent no more hideous torture than he must undergo in the position in which harold quaritch found himself. to truly love some good woman or some woman whom he thinks good--for it comes to the same thing--to love her more than life, to hold her dearer even than his honour, to be, like harold, beloved in turn; and then to know that this woman, this one thing for which he would count the world well lost, this light that makes his days beautiful, has been taken from him by the bitterness of fate (not by death, for that he could bear), taken from him, and given --for money or money's worth--to some other man! it is, perhaps, better that a man should die than that he should pass through such an experience as that which threatened harold quaritch now: for though the man die not, yet will it kill all that is best in him; and whatever triumphs may await him, whatever women may be ready in the future to pin their favours to his breast, life will never be for him what it might have been, because his lost love took its glory with her. no wonder, then, that he despaired. no wonder, too, that there rose up in his breast a great anger and indignation against the man who had brought this last extremity of misery upon them. he was just, and could make allowances for his rival's infatuation--which, indeed, ida being concerned, it was not difficult for him to understand. but he was also, and above all things, a gentleman; and the spectacle of a woman being inexorably driven into a distasteful marriage by money pressure, put on by the man who wished to gain her, revolted him beyond measure, and, though he was slow to wrath, moved him to fiery indignation. so much did it move him that he took a resolution; mr. cossey should know his mind about the matter, and that at once. ringing the bell, he ordered his dog-cart, and drove to edward cossey's rooms with the full intention of giving that gentleman a very unpleasant quarter-of-an-hour. mr. cossey was in. fearing lest he should refuse to see him, the colonel followed the servant up the stairs, and entered almost as she announced his name. there was a grim and even a formidable look upon his plain but manly face, and something of menace, too, in his formal and soldierly bearing; nor did his aspect soften when his eyes fell upon the full-length picture of ida over the mantelpiece. edward cossey rose with astonishment and irritation, not unmixed with nervousness, depicted on his face. the last person whom he wished to see and expected a visit from was colonel quaritch, whom in his heart he held in considerable awe. besides, he had of late received such a series of unpleasant calls that it is not wonderful that he began to dread these interviews. "good-day," he said coldly. "will you be seated?" the colonel bowed his head slightly, but he did not sit down. "to what am i indebted for the pleasure?" began edward cossey with much politeness. "last time i was here, mr. cossey," said the colonel in his deep voice, speaking very deliberately, "i came to give an explanation; now i come to ask one." "indeed!" "yes. to come to the point, miss de la molle and i are attached to each other, and there has been between us an understanding that this attachment might end in marriage." "oh! has there?" said the younger man with a sneer. "yes," answered the colonel, keeping down his rising temper as well as he could. "but now i am told, upon what appears to be good authority, that you have actually condescended to bring, directly and indirectly, pressure of a monetary sort to bear upon miss de la molle and her father in order to force her into a distasteful marriage with yourself." "and what the devil business of yours is it, sir," asked cossey, "what i have or have not done? making every allowance for the disappointment of an unsuccessful suitor, for i presume that you appear in that character," and again he sneered, "i ask, what business is it of yours?" "it is every business of mine, mr. cossey, because if miss de la molle is forced into this marriage, i shall lose my wife." "then you will certainly lose her. do you suppose that i am going to consider you? indeed," he went on, being now in a towering passion, "i should have thought that considering the difference of age and fortune between us, you might find other reasons than you suggest to account for my being preferred, if i should be so preferred. ladies are apt to choose the better man, you know." "i don't quite know what you mean by the 'better man,' mr. cossey," said the colonel quietly. "comparisons are odious, and i will make none, though i admit that you have the advantage of me in money and in years. however, that is not the point; the point is that i have had the fortune to be preferred to _you_ by the lady in question, and _not_ you to me. i happen to know that the idea of her marriage with you is as distasteful to miss de la molle as it is to me. this i know from her own lips. she will only marry you, if she does so at all, under the pressure of direst necessity, and to save her father from the ruin you are deliberately bringing upon him." "well, colonel quaritch," he answered, "have you quite done lecturing me? if you have, let me tell you, as you seem anxious to know my mind, that if by any legal means i can marry ida de la molle i certainly intend to marry her. and let me tell you another thing, that when once i am married it will be the last that you shall see of her, if i can prevent it." "thank you for your admissions," said harold, still more quietly. "so it seems that it is all true; it seems that you are using your wealth to harass this unfortunate gentleman and his daughter until you drive them into consenting to this marriage. that being so, i wish to tell you privately what i shall probably take some opportunity of telling you in public, namely, that a man who does these things is a cur, and worse than a cur, he is a _blackguard_, and _you_ are such a man, mr. cossey." edward cossey's face turned perfectly livid with fury, and he drew himself up as though to spring at his adversary's throat. the colonel held up his hand. "don't try that on with me," he said. "in the first place it is vulgar, and in the second you have only just recovered from an accident and are no match for me, though i am over forty years old. listen, our fathers had a way of settling their troubles; i don't approve of that sort of thing as a rule, but in some cases it is salutary. if you think yourself aggrieved it does not take long to cross the water, mr. cossey." edward cossey looked puzzled. "do you mean to suggest that i should fight a duel with you?" he said. "to challenge a man to fight a duel," answered the colonel with deliberation, "is an indictable offence, therefore i make no such challenge. i have made a suggestion, and if that suggestion falls in with your views as," and he bowed, "i hope it may, we might perhaps meet accidentally abroad in a few days' time, when we could talk this matter over further." "i'll see you hanged first," answered cossey. "what have i to gain by fighting you except a very good chance of being shot? i have had enough of being shot as it is, and we will play this game out upon the old lines, until i win it." "as you like," said harold. "i have made a suggestion to you which you do not see fit to accept. as to the end of the game, it is not finished yet, and therefore it is impossible to say who will win it. perhaps you will be checkmated after all. in the meanwhile allow me again to assure you that i consider you both a cur and a blackguard, and to wish you good-morning." and he bowed himself out, leaving edward cossey in a curious condition of concentrated rage. chapter xxxix the colonel goes to sleep the state of mind is difficult to picture which could induce a peaceable christian-natured individual, who had moreover in the course of his career been mixed up with enough bloodshed to have acquired a thorough horror of it, to offer to fight a duel. yet this state had been reached by harold quaritch. edward cossey wisely enough declined to entertain the idea, but the colonel had been perfectly in earnest about it. odd as it may appear in the latter end of this nineteenth century, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to put his life against that of his unworthy rival. of course, it was foolish and wrong, but human nature is the same in all ages, and in the last extremity we fall back by instinct on those methods which men have from the beginning adopted to save themselves from intolerable wrong and dishonour, or, be it admitted, to bring the same upon others. but cossey utterly declined to fight. as he said, he had had enough of being shot, and so there was an end of it. indeed, in after days the colonel frequently looked back upon this episode in his career with shame not unmingled with amusement, reflecting when he did so on the strange potency of that passion which can bring men to seriously entertain the idea of such extravagances. well, there was nothing more to be done. he might, it is true, have seen ida, and working upon her love and natural inclinations have tried to persuade her to cut the knot by marrying him off-hand. perhaps he would have succeeded, for in these affairs women are apt to find the arguments advanced by their lovers weighty and well worthy of consideration. but he was not the man to adopt such a course. he did the only thing he could do--answered her letter by saying that what must be must be. he had learnt that on the day subsequent to his interview with his rival the squire had written to edward cossey informing him that a decided answer would be given to him on christmas day, and that thereon all vexatious proceedings on the part of that gentleman's lawyers had been stayed for the time. he could now no longer doubt what the answer would be. there was only one way out of the trouble, the way which ida had made up her mind to adopt. so he set to work to make his preparations for leaving honham and this country for good and all. he wrote to land agents and put molehill upon their books to be sold or let on lease, and also to various influential friends to obtain introductions to the leading men in new zealand. but these matters did not take up all his time, and the rest of it hung heavily on his hands. he mooned about the place until he was tired. he tried to occupy himself in his garden, but it was weary work sowing crops for strange hands to reap, and so he gave it up. somehow the time wore on until at last it was christmas eve; the eve, too, of the fatal day of ida's decision. he dined alone that night as usual, and shortly after dinner some waits came to the house and began to sing their cheerful carols outside. the carols did not chime in at all well with his condition of mind, and he sent five shillings out to the singers with a request that they would go away as he had a headache. accordingly they went; and shortly after their departure the great gale for which that night is still famous began to rise. then he fell to pacing up and down the quaint old oak-panelled parlour, thinking until his brain ached. the hour was at hand, the evil was upon him and her whom he loved. was there no way out of it, no possible way? alas! there was but one way and that a golden one; but where was the money to come from? he had it not, and as land stood it was impossible to raise it. ah, if only that great treasure which old sir james de la molle had hid away and died rather than reveal, could be brought to light, now in the hour of his house's sorest need! but the treasure was very mythical, and if it had ever really existed it was not now to be found. he went to his dispatch box and took from it the copy he had made of the entry in the bible which had been in sir james's pocket when he was murdered in the courtyard. the whole story was a very strange one. why did the brave old man wish that his bible should be sent to his son, and why did he write that somewhat peculiar message in it? suppose ida was right and that it contained a cypher or cryptograph which would give a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure? if so it was obvious that it would be one of the simplest nature. a man confined by himself in a dungeon and under sentence of immediate death would not have been likely to pause to invent anything complicated. it would, indeed, be curious that he should have invented anything at all under such circumstances, and when he could have so little hope that the riddle would be solved. but, on the other hand, his position was desperate; he was quite surrounded by foes; there was no chance of his being able to convey the secret in any other way, and he _might_ have done so. harold placed the piece of paper upon the mantelpiece, and sitting down in an arm-chair opposite began to contemplate it earnestly, as indeed he had often done before. in case its exact wording should not be remembered, it is repeated here. it ran: "_do not grieve for me, edward, my son, that i am thus suddenly and wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but according to god's will. and now farewell, edward, till we shall meet in heaven. my moneys have i hid, and on account thereof i die unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall cromwell touch. to whom god shall appoint shall all my treasure be, for nought can i communicate._" harold stared and stared at this inscription. he read it forwards, backwards, crossways, and in every other way, but absolutely without result. at last, wearied out with misery of mind and the pursuit of a futile occupation, he dropped off sound asleep in his chair. this happened about a quarter to eleven o'clock. the next thing he knew was that he suddenly woke up; woke up completely, passing as quickly from a condition of deep sleep to one of wakefulness as though he had never shut his eyes. he used to say afterwards that he felt as though somebody had come and aroused him; it was not like a natural waking. indeed, so unaccustomed was the sensation, that for a moment the idea flashed through his brain that he had died in his sleep, and was now awakening to a new state of existence. this soon passed, however. evidently he must have slept some time, for the lamp was out and the fire dying. he got up and hunted about in the dark for some matches, which at last he found. he struck a light, standing exactly opposite to the bit of paper with the copy of sir james de la molle's dying message on it. this message was neatly copied long-ways upon a half-sheet of large writing paper, such as the squire generally used. it's first line ran as it was copied: "_do not grieve for me, edward, my son, that i am thus suddenly and wickedly done._" now, as the match burnt up, by some curious chance, connected probably with the darkness and the sudden striking of light upon his eyeballs, it came to pass that harold, happening to glance thereon, was only able to read four letters of this first line of writing. all the rest seemed to him but as a blue connecting those four letters. they were: d...............e...............a...............d being respectively the initials of the first, the sixth, the eleventh, and the sixteenth words of the line given above. the match burnt out, and he began to hunt about for another. "d-e-a-d," he said aloud, repeating the letters almost automatically. "why it spells '_dead_.' that is rather curious." something about this accidental spelling awakened his interest very sharply--it was an odd coincidence. he lit some candles, and hurriedly examined the line. the first thing which struck him was that the four letters which went to make up the word "dead" were about equi-distant in the line of writing. could it be? he hurriedly counted the words in the line. there were sixteen of them. that is after the first, one of the letters occurred at the commencement of every fifth word. this was certainly curious. trembling with nervousness he took a pencil and wrote down the initial letter of every fifth word in the message, thus: do not grieve for me, edward my son, that i am thus suddenly and d e a wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, for naught happeneth d m but according to god's will. and now farewell, edward, till we a n shall meet in heaven. my moneys have i hid, and on account thereof s m o i die unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall cromwell u n touch. to whom god shall appoint shall all my treasure be, for t a b nought can i communicate. c when he had done he wrote these initials in a line: deadmansmountabc he stared at them for a little--then he saw. _great heaven! he had hit upon the reading of the riddle._ the answer was: "_dead man's mount," followed by the mysterious letters a.b.c. breathless with excitement, he checked the letters again to see if by any chance he had made an error. no, it was perfectly correct. "dead man's mount." that was and had been for centuries the name of the curious tumulus or mound in his own back garden. it was this mount that learned antiquarians had discussed the origin of so fiercely, and which his aunt, the late mrs. massey, had roofed at the cost of two hundred and fifty pounds, in order to prove that the hollow in the top had once been the agreeable country seat of an ancient british family. could it then be but a coincidence that after the first word the initial of every fifth word in the message should spell out the name of this remarkable place, or was it so arranged? he sat down to think it over, trembling like a frightened child. obviously, it was _not_ accident; obviously, the prisoner of more than two centuries ago had, in his helplessness, invented this simple cryptograph in the hope that his son or, if not his son, some one of his descendants would discover it, and thereby become master of the hidden wealth. what place would be more likely for the old knight to have chosen to secrete the gold than one that even in those days had the uncanny reputation of being haunted? who would ever think of looking for modern treasure in the burying place of the ancient dead? in those days, too, molehill, or dead man's mount, belonged to the de la molle family, who had re-acquired it on the break up of the abbey. it was only at the restoration, when the dofferleigh branch came into possession under the will of the second and last baronet, edward de la molle, who died in exile, that they failed to recover this portion of the property. and if this was so, and sir james, the murdered man, had buried his treasure in the mount, what did the mysterious letters a.b.c. mean? were they, perhaps, directions as to the line to be taken to discover it? harold could not imagine, nor, as a matter of fact, did he or anybody else ever find out either then or thereafter. ida, indeed, used afterwards to laughingly declare that old sir james meant to indicate that he considered the whole thing as plain as a.b.c., but this was an explanation which did not commend itself to harold's practical mind. chapter xl but not to bed harold glanced at the clock; it was nearly one in the morning, time to go to bed if he was going. but he did not feel inclined to go to bed. if he did, with this great discovery on his mind he should not sleep. there was another thing; it was christmas eve, or rather christmas day, the day of ida's answer. if any succour was to be given at all, it must be given at once, before the fortress had capitulated. once let the engagement be renewed, and even if the money should subsequently be forthcoming, the difficulties would be doubled. but he was building his hopes upon sand, and he knew it. even supposing that he held in his hand the key to the hiding place of the long-lost treasure, who knew whether it would still be there, or whether rumour had not enormously added to its proportions? he was allowing his imagination to carry him away. still he could not sleep, and he had a mind to see if anything could be made of it. going to the gun-room he put on a pair of shooting-boots, an old coat, and an ulster. next he provided himself with a dark lantern and the key of the summer-house at the top of dead man's mount, and silently unlocking the back door started out into the garden. the night was very rough, for the great gale was now rising fast, and bitterly cold, so cold that he hesitated for a moment before making up his mind to go on. however, he did go on, and in another two minutes was climbing the steep sides of the tumulus. there was a wan moon in the cold sky--the wind whistled most drearily through the naked boughs of the great oaks, which groaned in answer like things in pain. harold was not a nervous or impressionable man, but the place had a spectral look about it, and he could not help thinking of the evil reputation it had borne for all those ages. there was scarcely a man in honham, or in boisingham either, who could have been persuaded to stay half an hour by himself on dead man's mount after the sun was well down. harold had at different times asked one or two of them what they saw to be afraid of, and they had answered that it was not what they saw so much as what they felt. he had laughed at the time, but now he admitted to himself that he was anything but comfortable, though if he had been obliged to put his feelings into words he could probably not have described them better than by saying that he had a general impression of somebody being behind him. however, he was not going to be frightened by this nonsense, so consigning all superstitions to their father the devil, he marched on boldly and unlocked the summer-house door. now, though this curious edifice had been designed for a summer-house, and for that purpose lined throughout with encaustic tiles, nobody as a matter of fact had ever dreamed of using it to sit in. to begin with, it roofed over a great depression some thirty feet or more in diameter, for the top of the mount was hollowed out like one of those wooden cups in which jugglers catch balls. but notwithstanding all the encaustic tiles in the world, damp will gather in a hollow like this, and the damp alone was an objection. the real fact was, however, that the spot had an evil reputation, and even those who were sufficiently well educated to know the folly of this sort of thing would not willingly have gone there for purposes of enjoyment. so it had suffered the general fate of disused places, having fallen more or less out of repair and become a receptacle for garden tools, broken cucumber frames and lumber of various sorts. harold pushed the door open and entered, shutting it behind him. it was, if anything, more disagreeable in the empty silence of the wide place than it had been outside, for the space roofed over was considerable, and the question at once arose in his mind, what was he to do now that he had got there? if the treasure was there at all, probably it was deep down in the bowels of the great mound. well, as he was on the spot, he thought that he might as well try to dig, though probably nothing would come of it. in the corner were a pickaxe and some spades and shovels. harold got them, advanced to the centre of the space and, half laughing at his own folly, set to work. first, having lit another lantern which was kept there, he removed with the sharp end of the pickaxe a large patch of the encaustic tiles exactly in the centre of the depression. then having loosened the soil beneath with the pick he took off his ulster and fell to digging with a will. the soil proved to be very sandy and easy to work. indeed, from its appearance, he soon came to the conclusion that it was not virgin earth, but worked soil which had been thrown there. presently his spade struck against something hard; he picked it up and held it to the lantern. it proved to be an ancient spear-head, and near it were some bones, though whether or no they were human he could not at the time determine. this was very interesting, but it was scarcely what he wanted, so he dug on manfully until he found himself chest deep in a kind of grave. he had been digging for an hour now, and was getting very tired. cold as it was the perspiration poured from him. as he paused for breath he heard the church clock strike two, and very solemnly it sounded down the wild ways of the wind-torn winter night. he dug on a little more, and then seriously thought of giving up what he was somewhat ashamed of having undertaken. how was he to account for this great hole to his gardener on the following morning? then and there he made up his mind that he would not account for it. the gardener, in common with the rest of the village, believed that the place was haunted. let him set down the hole to the "spooks" and their spiritual activity. still he dug on at the grave for a little longer. it was by now becoming a matter of exceeding labour to throw the shovelfuls of soil clear of the hole. then he determined to stop, and with this view scrambled, not without difficulty, out of the amateur tomb. once out, his eyes fell on a stout iron crowbar which was standing among the other tools, such an implement as is used to make holes in the earth wherein to set hurdles and stakes. it occurred to him that it would not be a bad idea to drive this crowbar into the bottom of the grave which he had dug, in order to ascertain if there was anything within its reach. so he once more descended into the hole and began to work with the iron crow, driving it down with all his strength. when he had got it almost as deep as it would go, that is about two feet, it struck something--something hard--there was no doubt of it. he worked away in great excitement, widening the hole as much as he could. yes, it was masonry, or if it was not masonry it was something uncommonly like it. he drew the crow out of the hole, and, seizing the shovel, commenced to dig again with renewed vigour. as he could no longer conveniently throw the earth from the hole he took a "skep" or leaf basket, which lay handy, and, placing it beside him, put as much of the sandy soil as he could carry into it, and then lifting shot it on the edge of the pit. for three-quarters of an hour he laboured thus most manfully, till at last he came down on the stonework. he cleared a patch of it and examined it attentively, by the light of the dark lantern. it appeared to be rubble work built in the form of an arch. he struck it with the iron crow and it gave back a hollow sound. there was a cavity of some sort underneath. his excitement and curiosity redoubled. by great efforts he widened the spot of stonework already laid bare. luckily the soil, or rather sand, was so friable that there was very little exertion required to loosen it. this done he took the iron crow, and inserting it beneath a loose flat stone levered it up. here was a beginning, and having got rid of the large flat stone he struck down again and again with all his strength, driving the sharp point of the heavy crow into the rubble work beneath. it began to give, he could hear bits of it falling into the cavity below. there! it went with a crash, more than a square foot of it. he leant over the hole at his feet, devoutly hoping that the ground on which he was standing would not give way also, and tried to look down. next second he threw his head back coughing and gasping. the foul air rushing up from the cavity or chamber, or whatever it was, had half poisoned him. then not without difficulty he climbed out of the grave and sat down on the pile of sand he had thrown up. clearly he must allow the air in the place to sweeten a little. clearly also he must have assistance if he was to descend into the great hole. he could not undertake this by himself. he sat upon the edge of the pit wondering who there was that he might trust. not his own gardener. to begin with he would never come near the place at night, and besides such people talk. the squire? no, he could not rouse him at this hour, and also, for obvious reasons, they had not met lately. ah, he had it. george was the man! to begin with he could be relied upon to hold his tongue. the episode of the production of the real mrs. quest had taught him that george was a person of no common powers. he could think and he could act also. harold threw on his coat, extinguished the large stable lantern, and passing out, locked the door of the summer-house and started down the mount at a trot. the wind had risen steadily during his hours of work, and was now blowing a furious gale. it was about a quarter to four in the morning and the stars shone brightly in the hard clean-blown sky. by their light and that of the waning moon he struggled on in the teeth of the raging tempest. as he passed under one of the oaks he heard a mighty crack overhead, and guessing what it was ran like a hare. he was none too soon. a circular gust of more than usual fierceness had twisted the top right out of the great tree, and down it came upon the turf with a rending crashing sound that made his blood turn cold. after this escape he avoided the neighbourhood of the groaning trees. george lived in a neat little farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away. there was a short cut to it across the fields, and this he took, breathlessly fighting his way against the gale, which roared and howled in its splendid might as it swept across the ocean from its birthplace in the distances of air. even the stiff hawthorn fences bowed before its breath, and the tall poplars on the skyline bent like a rod beneath the first rush of a salmon. excited as he was, the immensity and grandeur of the sight and sounds struck upon him with a strange force. never before had he felt so far apart from man and so near to that dread spirit round whose feet thousands of rolling worlds rush on, at whose word they are, endure, and are not. he struggled forward until at last he reached the house. it was quite silent, but in one of the windows a light was burning. no doubt its occupants found it impossible to sleep in that wild gale. the next thing to consider was how to make himself heard. to knock at the door would be useless in that turmoil. there was only one thing to be done --throw stones at the window. he found a good-sized pebble, and standing underneath, threw it with such goodwill that it went right through the glass. it lit, as he afterwards heard, full upon the sleeping mrs. george's nose, and nearly frightened that good woman, whose nerves were already shaken by the gale, into a fit. next minute a red nightcap appeared at the window. "george!" roared the colonel, in a lull of the gale. "who's there?" came the faint answer. "i--colonel quaritch. come down. i want to speak to you." the head was withdrawn and a couple of minutes afterwards harold saw the front door begin to open slowly. he waited till there was space enough, and then slipped in, and together they forced it to. "stop a bit, sir," said george; "i'll light the lamp;" and he did. next minute he stepped back in amazement. "why, what on arth hev you bin after, colonel?" he said, contemplating harold's filth-begrimed face, and hands, and clothes. "is anything wrong up at the castle, or is the cottage blown down?" "no, no," said harold; "listen. you've heard tell of the treasure that old sir james de la molle buried in the time of the roundheads?" "yes, yes. i've heard tell of that. hev the gale blown it up?" "no, but by heaven i believe that i am in a fair way to find it." george took another step back, remembering the tales that mrs. jobson had told, and not being by any means sure but that the colonel was in a dangerous condition of lunacy. "give me a glass of something to drink, water or milk, and i'll tell you. i've been digging all night, and my throat's like a limeskin." "digging, why where?" "where? in dead man's mount!" "in dead man's mount?" said george. "well, blow me, if that ain't a funny place to dig at on a night like this," and, too amazed to say anything more, he went off to get the milk. harold drank three glasses of milk, and then sat down to tell as much of his moving tale as he thought desirable. chapter xli how the night went george sat opposite to him, his hands on his knees, the red nightcap on his head, and a comical expression of astonishment upon his melancholy countenance. "well," he said, when harold had done, "blow me if that ain't a master one. and yet there's folks who say that there ain't no such thing as providence--not that there's anything prowided yet--p'raps there ain't nawthing there after all." "i don't know if there is or not, but i'm going back to see, and i want you to come with me." "now?" said george rather uneasily. "why, colonel, that bain't a very nice spot to go digging about in on a night like this. i niver heard no good of that there place--not as i holds by sich talk myself," he added apologetically. "well," said the colonel, "you can do as you like, but i'm going back at once, and going down the hole, too; the gas must be out of it by now. there are reasons," he added, "why, if this money is to be found at all, it should be found this morning. to-day is christmas day, you know." "yes, yes, colonel; i knows what you mean. bless you, i know all about it; the old squire must talk to somebody; if he don't he'd bust, so he talks to me. that cossey's coming for his answer from miss ida this morning. poor young lady, i saw her yesterday, and she looks like a ghost, she du. ah, he's a mean one, that cossey. laryer quest warn't in it with him after all. well, i cooked his goose for him, and i'd give summut to have a hand in cooking that banker chap's too. you wait a minute, colonel, and i'll come along, gale and ghostesses and all. i only hope it mayn't be after a fool's arrand, that's all," and he retired to put on his boots. presently he appeared again, his red nightcap still on his head, for he was afraid that the wind would blow a hat off, and carrying an unlighted lantern in his hand. "now, colonel, i'm ready, sir, if you be;" and they started. the gale was, if anything, fiercer than ever. indeed, there had been no such wind in those parts for years, or rather centuries, as the condition of the timber by ten o'clock that morning amply testified. "this here timpest must be like that as the squire tells us on in the time of king charles, as blew the top of the church tower off on a christmas night," shouted george. but harold made no answer, and they fought their way onward without speaking any more, for their voices were almost inaudible. once the colonel stopped and pointed to the sky-line. of all the row of tall poplars which he had seen bending like whips before the wind as he came along but one remained standing now, and as he pointed that vanished also. reaching the summer house in safety, they entered, and the colonel shut and locked the door behind them. the frail building was literally rocking in the fury of the storm. "i hope the roof will hold," shouted george, but harold took no heed. he was thinking of other things. they lit the lanterns, of which they now had three, and the colonel slid down into the great grave he had so industriously dug, motioning to george to follow. this that worthy did, not without trepidation. then they both knelt and stared down through the hole in the masonry, but the light of the lanterns was not strong enough to enable them to make out anything with clearness. "well," said george, falling back upon his favourite expression in his amazement, as he drew his nightcapped head from the hole, "if that ain't a master one, i niver saw a masterer, that's all. "what be you a-going to du now, colonel? hev you a ladder here?" "no," answered harold, "i never thought of that, but i've a good rope: i'll get it." scrambling out of the hole, he presently returned with a long coil of stout rope. it belonged to some men who had been recently employed in cutting boughs off such of the oaks that needed attention. they undid the rope and let the end down to see how deep the pit was. when they felt that the end lay upon the floor they pulled it up. the depth from the hole to the bottom of the pit appeared to be about sixteen feet or a trifle more. harold took the iron crow, and having made the rope fast to it fixed the bar across the mouth of the aperture. then he doubled the rope, tied some knots in it, and let it fall into the pit, preparatory to climbing down it. but george was too quick for him. forgetting his doubts as to the wisdom of groping about dead man's mount at night, in the ardour of his burning curiosity he took the dark lantern, and holding it with his teeth passed his body through the hole in the masonry, and cautiously slid down the rope. "are you all right?" asked harold in a voice tremulous with excitement, for was not his life's fortune trembling on the turn? "yes," answered george doubtfully. harold looking down could see that he was holding the lantern above his head and staring at something very hard. next moment a howl of terror echoed up from the pit, the lantern was dropped upon the ground and the rope began to be agitated with the utmost violence. in another two seconds george's red nightcap appeared followed by a face that was literally livid with terror. "let me up for goad's sake," he gasped, "or he'll hev me by the leg!" "he! who?" asked the colonel, not without a thrill of superstitious fear, as he dragged the panting man through the hole. but george would give no answer until he was out of the grave. indeed had it not been for the colonel's eager entreaties, backed to some extent by actual force, he would by this time have been out of the summer-house also, and half-way down the mount. "what is it?" roared the colonel in the pit to george, who shivering with terror was standing on its edge. "it's a blessed ghost, that's what it is, colonel," answered george, keeping his eyes fixed upon the hole as though he momentarily expected to see the object of his fears emerge. "nonsense," said harold doubtfully. "what rubbish you talk. what sort of a ghost?" "a white un," said george, "all bones like." "all bones?" answered the colonel, "why it must be a skeleton." "i don't say that he ain't," was the answer, "but if he be, he's nigh on seven foot high, and sitting airing of hissel in a stone bath." "oh, rubbish," said the colonel. "how can a skeleton sit and air himself? he would tumble to bits." "i don't know, but there he be, and they don't call this here place 'dead man's mount' for nawthing." "well," said the colonel argumentatively, "a skeleton is a perfectly harmless thing." "yes, if he's dead maybe, sir, but this one's alive, i saw him nod his head at me." "look here, george," answered harold, feeling that if this went on much longer he should lose his nerve altogether. "i'm not going to be scared. great heavens, what a gust! i'm going down to see for myself." "very good, colonel," answered george, "and i'll wait here till you come up again--that is if you iver du." thrice did harold look at the hole in the masonry and thrice did he shrink back. "come," he shouted angrily, "don't be a fool; get down here and hand me the lantern." george obeyed with evident trepidation. then harold scrambled through the opening and with many an inward tremor, for there is scarcely a man on the earth who is really free from supernatural fears, descended hand over hand. but in so doing he managed to let the lantern fall and it went out. now as any one will admit this was exceedingly trying. it is not pleasant to be left alone in the dark and underground in the company of an unknown "spook." he had some matches, but what between fear and cold it was some time before he could get a light. down in this deep place the rush of the great gale reached his ears like a faint and melancholy sighing, and he heard other tapping noises, too, or he thought he did, noises of a creepy and unpleasant nature. would the matches never light? the chill and death-like damp of the place struck to his marrow and the cold sweat poured from his brow. ah! at last! he kept his eyes steadily fixed upon the lantern till he had lit it and the flame was burning brightly. then with an effort he turned and looked round him. and this is what he saw. there, three or four paces from him, in the centre of the chamber of death sat or rather lay a figure of death. it reclined in a stone chest or coffin, like a man in a hip bath which is too small for him. the bony arms hung down on either side, the bony limbs projected towards him, the great white skull hung forward over the massive breast bone. it moved, too, of itself, and as it moved, the jaw-bone tapped against the breast and the teeth clacked gently together. terror seized him while he looked, and, as george had done, he turned to fly. how could that thing move its head? the head ought to fall off. seizing the rope, he jerked it violently in the first effort of mounting. "hev he got yew, colonel?" sung out george above; and the sound of a human voice brought him back to his sense. "no," he answered as boldly as he could, and then setting his teeth, turned and tottered straight at the horror in the chest. he was there now, and holding the lantern against the thing, examined it. it was a skeleton of enormous size, and the skull was fixed with rusty wire to one of the vertebrae. at this evidence of the handiwork of man his fears almost vanished. even in that company he could not help remembering that it is scarcely to be supposed that spiritual skeletons carry about wire with which to tie on their skulls. with a sigh of relief he held up the lantern and looked round. he was standing in a good-sized vault or chamber, built of rubble stone. some of this rubble had fallen in to his left; but otherwise, though the workmanship showed that it must be of extreme antiquity, the stone lining was still strong and good. he looked upon the floor, and then for the first time saw that the nodding skeleton before him was not the only one. all round lay remnants of the dead. there they were, stretched out in the form of a circle, of which the stone kist was the centre.[*] one place in the circle was vacant; evidently it had once been occupied by the giant frame which now sat within the kist. next he looked at the kist itself. it had all the appearance of one of those rude stone chests in which the very ancient inhabitants of this island buried the ashes of their cremated dead. but, if this was so, whence came the un-cremated skeletons? [*] at bungay, in suffolk, there stood a mound or tumulus, on which was a windmill. some years ago the windmill was pulled down, and the owner of the ground wishing to build a house upon its site, set to work to cart away the mound. his astonishment may be conceived when he found in the earth a great number of skeletons arranged in circles. these skeletons were of large size, and a gentleman who saw them informed me that he measured one. it was that of a man who must have been nearly seven feet high. the bones were, unhappily, carted away and thrown into a dyke. but no house has been built upon the resting-place of those unknown warriors. --author. perhaps a subsequent race or tribe had found the chamber ready prepared, and used it to bury some among them who had fallen in battle. it was impossible to say more, especially as with one exception there was nothing buried with the skeletons which would assist to identify their race or age. that exception was a dog. a dog had been placed by one of the bodies. evidently from the position of the bones of its master's arms he had been left to his last sleep with his hand resting on the hound's head. bending down, harold examined the seated skeleton more closely. it was, he discovered, accurately jointed together with strong wire. clearly this was the work of hands which were born into the world long after the flesh on those mighty bones had crumbled into dust. but where was the treasure? he saw none. his heart sank as the idea struck him that he had made an interesting archaeological discovery, and that was all. before undertaking a closer search he went under the hole and halloaed to george to come down as there was nothing but some bones to frighten him. this the worthy george was at length with much difficulty persuaded to do. when at last he stood beside him in the vault, harold explained to him what the place was and how ridiculous were his fears, without however succeeding in allaying them to any considerable extent. and really when one considers the position it is not wonderful that george was scared. for they were shut up in the bowels of a place which had for centuries owned the reputation of being haunted, faced by a nodding skeleton of almost superhuman size, and surrounded by various other skeletons all "very fine and large," while the most violent tempest that had visited the country for years sighed away outside. "well," he said, his teeth chattering, "if this ain't the masterest one that iver i did see." but here he stopped, language was not equal to the expression of his feelings. meanwhile harold, with a heart full of anxiety, was turning the lantern this way and that in the hope of discovering some traces of sir james's treasure, but naught could he see. there to the left the masonry had fallen in. he went to it and pulled aside some of the stones. there was a cavity behind, apparently a passage, leading no doubt to the secret entrance to the vault, but he could see nothing in it. once more he searched. there was nothing. unless the treasure was buried somewhere, or hidden away in the passage, it was non-existent. and yet what was the meaning of that jointed skeleton sitting in the stone bath? it must have been put there for some purpose, probably to frighten would-be plunderers away. could he be sitting on the money? he rushed to the chest and looked through the bony legs. no, his pelvis rested on the stone bottom of the kist. "well, george, it seems we're done," said harold, with a ghastly attempt at a laugh. "there's no treasure here." "maybe it's underneath that there stone corn bin," suggested george, whose teeth were still chattering. "it should be here or hereabouts, surely." this was an idea. helping himself to the shoulder-blade of some deceased hero, harold, using it as a trowel, began to scoop away the soft sand upon which the stone chest stood. he scooped and scooped manfully, but he could not come to the bottom of the kist. he stepped back and looked at it. it must be one of two things--either the hollow at the top was but a shallow cutting in a great block of stone, or the kist had a false bottom. he sprang at it. seizing the giant skeleton by the spine, he jerked it out of the kist and dropped it on one side in a bristling bony heap. just as he did so there came so furious a gust of wind that, buried as they were in the earth, they literally felt the mound rock beneath it. instantly it was followed by a frightful crash overhead. george collapsed in terror, and for a moment harold could not for the life of him think what had happened. he ran to the hole and looked up. straight above him he could see the sky, in which the first cold lights of dawn were quivering. mrs. massey's summer-house had been blown bodily away, and the "ancient british dwelling place" was once more open to the sky, as it had been for centuries. "the summer-house has gone, george," he said. "thank goodness that we were not in it, or we should have gone too." "oh, lord, sir," groaned the unhappy george, "this is an awful business. it's like a judgment." "it might have been if we had been up above instead of safe down here," he answered. "come, bring that other lantern." george roused himself, and together they bent over the now empty kist, examining it closely. the stone bottom was not of quite the same colour as the walls of the chest, and there was a crack across it. harold felt in his pocket and drew out his knife, which had at the back of it one of those strong iron hooks that are used to extract stones from the hoofs of horses. this hook he worked into the crack and managed before it broke to pull up a fragment of stone. then, looking round, he found a long sharp flint among the rubbish where the wall had fallen in. this he inserted in the hole and they both levered away at it. half of the cracked stone came up a few inches, far enough to allow them to get their fingers underneath it. so it _was_ a false bottom. "catch hold," gasped the colonel, "and pull for your life." george did as he was bid, and setting their knees against the hollowed stone, they tugged till their muscles cracked. "it's a-moving," said george. "now thin, colonel." next second they both found themselves on the flat of their backs. the stone had given with a run. up sprang harold like a kitten. the broken stone was standing edgeways in the kist. there was something soft beneath it. "the light, george," he said hoarsely. beneath the stone were some layers of rotten linen. was it a shroud, or what? they pulled the linen out by handfuls. one! two! three! _oh, great heaven!_ there, under the linen, were row on row of shining gold coins set edgeways. for a moment everything swam before harold's eyes, and his heart stopped beating. as for george, he muttered something inaudible about its being a "master one," and collapsed. with trembling fingers harold managed to pick out two pieces of gold which had been disturbed by the upheaval of the stone, and held them to the light. he was a skilled numismatist, and had no difficulty in recognising them. one was a beautiful three-pound piece of charles i., and the other a spur rial of james i. that proved it. there was no doubt that this was the treasure hidden by sir james de la molle. he it must have been also who had conceived the idea of putting a false bottom to the kist and setting up the skeleton to frighten marauders from the treasure, if by any chance they should enter. for a minute or two the men stood staring at each other over the great treasure which they had unearthed in that dread place, shaking with the reaction of their first excitement, and scarcely able to speak. "how deep du it go?" said george at length. harold took his knife and loosed some of the top coins, which were very tightly packed, till he could move his hand in them freely. then he pulled out handful after handful of every sort of gold coin. there were rose nobles of edward iv.; sovereigns and angels of henry vii. and viii.; sovereigns, half-sovereigns and gold crowns of edward vi.; sovereigns, rials, and angels of mary; sovereigns, double crowns and crowns of elizabeth; thirty-shilling pieces, spur rials, angels, unites and laurels of james i.; three-pound pieces, broads, and half broads of charles i.; some in greater quantity and some in less; all were represented. handful after handful did he pull out, and yet the bottom was not reached. at last he came to it. the layer of gold pieces was about twenty inches broad by three feet six long. "we must get this into the house, george, before any one is about," gasped the colonel. "yes, sir, yes, for sure we must; but how be we a-going to carry it?" harold thought for a minute, and then acted thus. bidding george stay in the vault with the treasure, which he was with difficulty persuaded to do, he climbed the improvised rope ladder, and got in safety through the hole. in his excitement he had forgotten about the summer-house having been carried away by the gale, which was still blowing, though not with so much fury as before. the wind-swept desolation that met his view as he emerged into the dawning light broke upon him with a shock. the summer-house was clean gone, nothing but a few uprights remained of it; and fifty yards away he thought he could make out the crumpled shape of the roof. nor was that all. quite a quarter of the great oaks which were the glory of the place were down, or splintered and ruined. but what did he care for the summer-house or the oaks now? forgetting his exhaustion, he ran down the slope and reached the house, which he entered as softly as he could by the side door. nobody was about yet, or would be for another hour. it was christmas day, and not a pleasant morning to get up on, so the servants would be sure to lie a-bed. on his way to his bed-room he peeped into the dining-room, where he had fallen asleep on the previous evening. when he had woke up, it may be remembered, he lit a candle. this candle was now flaring itself to death, for he had forgotten to extinguish it, and by its side lay the paper from which he had made the great discovery. there was nothing in it, of course, but somehow the sight impressed him very much. it seemed months since he awoke to find the lamp gone out. how much may happen between the lighting of a candle and its burning away! smiling at this trite reflection, he blew that light out, and, taking another, went to his room. here he found a stout hand-bag, with which he made haste to return to the mount. "are you all right, george?" he shouted down the hole. "well, colonel, yes, but not sorry to see you back. it's lonesome like down here with these deaders." "very well. look out! there's a bag. put as much gold in it as you can lift comfortably, and then make it fast to the rope." some three minutes passed, and then george announced that the bagful of gold was ready. harold hauled away, and with a considerable effort brought it to the surface. then, lifting the bag on his shoulder he staggered with it to the house. in his room stood a massive sea-going chest, the companion of his many wanderings. it was about half full of uniforms and old clothes, which he bundled unceremoniously on to the floor. this done, he shot the bagful of shining gold, as bright and uncorrupted now as when it was packed away two and a half centuries ago, into the chest, and returned for another load. about twenty times did he make this journey. at the tenth something happened. "here's a writing, sir, with this lot," shouted george. "it was packed away in the money." he took the "writing," or rather parchment, out of the mouth of the bag, and put it in his pocket unread. at length the store, enormous as it was, was exhausted. "that's the lot, sir," shouted george, as he sent up the last bagful. "if you'll kindly let down that there rope, i'll come up too." "all right," said the colonel, "put the skeleton back first." "well, sir," answered george, "he looks wonderful comfortable where he lay, he du, so if you're agreeable i think i'll let him be." harold chuckled, and presently george arrived, covered with filth and perspiration. "well, sir," he said, "i never did think that i should get dead tired of handling gold coin, but it's a rum world, and that's a fact. well, i niver, and the summer-house gone, and jist look at thim there oaks. well, if that beant a master one." "you never saw a masterer, that's what you were going to say, wasn't it? well, and take one thing with another, nor did i, george, if that's any comfort to you. now look here, just cover over this hole with some boards and earth, and then come in and get some breakfast. it's past eight o'clock and the gale is blowing itself out. a merry christmas to you, george!" and he held out his hand, covered with cuts, grime and blood. george shook it. "same to you, colonel, i'm sure. and a merry christmas it is. god bless you, sir, for what you've done to-night. you've saved the old place from that banker chap, that's what you've done; and you'll hev miss ida, and i'm durned glad on it, that i am. lord! won't this make the squire open his eyes," and the honest fellow brushed away a tear and fairly capered with joy, his red nightcap waving on the wind. it was a strange and beautiful sight to see the solemn george capering thus in the midst of that storm-swept desolation. harold was too moved to answer, so he shouldered his last load of treasure and limped off with it to the house. mrs. jobson and her talkative niece were up now, but they did not happen to see him, and he reached his room unnoticed. he poured the last bagful of gold into the chest, smoothed it down, shut the lid and locked it. then as he was, covered with filth and grime, bruised and bleeding, his hair flying wildly about his face, he sat down upon it, and from his heart thanked heaven for the wonderful thing that had happened to him. so exhausted was he that he nearly fell asleep as he sat, but remembering himself rose, and taking the parchment from his pocket cut the faded silk with which it was tied and opened it. on it was a short inscription in the same crabbed writing which he had seen in the old bible that ida had found. it ran as follows: "seeing that the times be so troublous that no man can be sure of his own, i, sir james de la molle, have brought together all my substance in money from wheresoever it lay at interest, and have hid the same in this sepulchre, to which i found the entry by a chance, till such time as peace come back to this unhappy england. this have i done on the early morn of christmas day, in the year of our lord , having ended the hiding of the gold while the great gale was blowing. "james de la molle." thus on a long gone christmas day, in the hour of a great wind, was the gold hid, and now on this christmas day, when another great wind raged overhead, it was found again, in time to save a daughter of the house of de la molle from a fate sore as death. chapter xlii ida goes to meet her fate most people of a certain age and a certain degree of sensitiveness, in looking back down the vista of their lives, whereon memory's melancholy light plays in fitful flashes like the alternate glow of a censer swung in the twilight of a tomb, can recall some one night of peculiar mental agony. it may have come when first we found ourselves face to face with the chill and hopeless horror of departed life; when, in our soul's despair, we stretched out vain hands and wept, called and no answer came; when we kissed those beloved lips and shrunk aghast at contact with their clay, those lips more eloquent now in the rich pomp of their unutterable silence than in the brightest hour of their unsealing. it may have come when our honour and the hope of all our days lay at our feet shattered like a sherd on the world's hard road. it may have come when she, the star of our youth, the type of completed beauty and woman's most perfect measure, she who held the chalice of our hope, ruthlessly emptied and crushed it, and, as became a star, passed down our horizon's ways to rise upon some other sky. it may have come when brutus stabbed us, or when a child whom we had cherished struck us with a serpent-fang of treachery and left the poison to creep upon our heart. one way or another it has been with most of us, that long night of utter woe, and all will own that it is a ghastly thing to face. and so ida de la molle had found it. the shriek of the great gale rushing on that christmas eve round the stout norman towers was not more strong than the breath of the despair which shook her life. she could not sleep--who could sleep on such a night, the herald of such a morrow? the wail and roar of the wind, the crash of falling trees, and the rattle of flying stones seemed to form a fit accompaniment to the turmoil of her mind. she rose, went to the window, and in the dim light watched the trees gigantically tossing in struggle for their life. an oak and a birch were within her view. the oak stood the storm out--for a while. presently there came an awful gust and beat upon it. it would not bend, and the tough roots would not give, so beneath the weight of the gale the big tree broke in two like a straw, and its spreading top was whirled into the moat. but the birch gave and bent; it bent till its delicate filaments lay upon the wind like a woman's streaming hair, and the fierceness of the blast wore itself away and spared it. "see what happens to those who stand up and defy their fate," said ida to herself with a bitter laugh. "the birch has the best of it." ida turned and closed the shutters; the sight of the tempest affected her strained nerves almost beyond bearing. she began to walk up and down the big room, flitting like a ghost from end to end and back again, and again back. what could she do? what should she do? her fate was upon her: she could no longer resist the inevitable--she must marry him. and yet her whole soul revolted from the act with an overwhelming fierceness which astonished even herself. she had known two girls who had married people whom they did not like, being at the time, or pretending to be, attached to somebody else, and she had observed that they accommodated themselves to their fate with considerable ease. but it was not so with her; she was fashioned of another clay, and it made her faint to think of what was before her. and yet the prospect was one on which she could expect little sympathy. her own father, although personally he disliked the man whom she must marry, was clearly filled with amazement that she should prefer colonel quaritch, middle-aged, poor, and plain, to edward cossey--handsome, young, and rich as croesus. he could not comprehend or measure the extraordinary gulf which her love dug between the two. if, therefore, this was so with her own father, how would it be with the rest of the world? she paced her bedroom till she was tired; then, in an access of despair, which was sufficiently distressing in a person of her reserved and stately manner, flung herself, weeping and sobbing, upon her knees, and resting her aching head upon the bed, prayed as she had never prayed before that this cup might pass from her. she did not know--how should she?--that at this very moment her prayer was being answered, and that her lover was then, even as she prayed, lifting the broken stone and revealing the hoard of ruddy gold. but so it was; she prayed in despair and agony of mind, and the prayer carried on the wild wings of the night brought a fulfilment with it. not in vain were her tears and supplications, for even now the deliverer delved among "the dust and awful treasures of the dead," and even now the light of her happiness was breaking on her tortured night as the cold gleams of the christmas morning were breaking over the fury of the storm without. and then, chilled and numb in body and mind, she crept into her bed again and at last lost herself in sleep. by half-past nine o'clock, when ida came down to breakfast, the gale had utterly gone, though its footprints were visible enough in shattered trees, unthatched stacks, and ivy torn in knotty sheets from the old walls it clothed. it would have been difficult to recognise in the cold and stately lady who stood at the dining-room window, noting the havoc and waiting for her father to come in, the lovely, passionate, dishevelled woman who some few hours before had thrown herself upon her knees praying to god for the succour she could not win from man. women, like nature, have many moods and many aspects to express them. the hot fit had passed, and the cold fit was on her now. her face, except for the dark hollows round the eyes, was white as winter, and her heart was cold as winter's ice. presently her father came in. "what a gale," he said, "what a gale! upon my word i began to think that the old place was coming down about our ears, and the wreck among the trees is dreadful. i don't think there can have been such a wind since the time of king charles i., when the top of the tower was blown right off the church. you remember i was showing you the entry about it in the registers the other day, the one signed by the parson and old sir james de la molle. the boy who has just come up with the letters tells me he hears that poor old mrs. massey's summer-house on the top of dead man's mount has been blown away, which is a good riddance for colonel quaritch. why, what's the matter with you, dear? how pale you look!" "the gale kept me awake. i got very little sleep," answered ida. "and no wonder. well, my love, you haven't wished me a merry christmas yet. goodness knows we want one badly enough. there has not been much merriment at honham of late years." "a merry christmas to you, father," she said. "thank you, ida, the same to you; you have got most of your christmases before you, which is more than i have. god bless me, it only seems like yesterday since the big bunch of holly tied to the hook in the ceiling there fell down on the breakfast table and smashed all the cups, and yet it is more than sixty years ago. dear me! how angry my poor mother was. she never could bear the crockery to be broken--it was a little failing of your grandmother's," and he laughed more heartily than ida had heard him do for some weeks. she made no answer but busied herself about the tea. presently, glancing up she saw her father's face change. the worn expression came back upon it and he lost his buoyant bearing. evidently a new thought had struck him, and she was in no great doubt as to what it was. "we had better get on with breakfast," he said. "you know that cossey is coming up at ten o'clock." "ten o'clock?" she said faintly. "yes. i told him ten so that we could go to church afterwards if we wished to. of course, ida, i am still in the dark as to what you have made up your mind to do, but whatever it is i thought that he had better once and for all hear your final decision from your own lips. if, however, you feel yourself at liberty to tell it to me as your father, i shall be glad to hear it." she lifted her head and looked him full in the face, and then paused. he had a cup of tea in his hand, and held it in the air half way to his mouth, while his whole face showed the over-mastering anxiety with which he was awaiting her reply. "make your mind easy, father," she said, "i am going to marry mr. cossey." he put the cup down in such a fashion that he spilt half the tea, most of it over his own clothes, without even noticing it, and then turned away his face. "well," he said, "of course it is not my affair, or at least only indirectly so, but i must say, my love, i congratulate you on the decision which you have come to. i quite understand that you have been in some difficulty about the matter; young women often have been before you, and will be again. but to be frank, ida, that quaritch business was not at all suitable, either in age, fortune, or in anything else. yes, although cossey is not everything that one might wish, on the whole i congratulate you." "oh, pray don't," broke in ida, almost with a cry. "whatever you do, pray do not congratulate me!" her father turned round again and looked at her. but ida's face had already recovered its calm, and he could make nothing of it. "i don't quite understand you," he said; "these things are generally considered matters for congratulation." but for all he might say and all that he might urge in his mind to the contrary, he did more or less understand what her outburst meant. he could not but know that it was the last outcry of a broken spirit. in his heart he realised then, if he had never clearly realised it before, that this proposed marriage was a thing hateful to his daughter, and his conscience pricked him sorely. and yet--and yet--it was but a woman's fancy--a passing fancy. she would become reconciled to the inevitable as women do, and when her children came she would grow accustomed to her sorrow, and her trouble would be forgotten in their laughter. and if not, well it was but one woman's life which would be affected, and the very existence of his race and the very cradle that had nursed them from century to century were now at stake. was all this to be at the mercy of a girl's whim? no! let the individual suffer. so he argued. and so at his age and in his circumstances most of us would argue also, and, perhaps, considering all things, we should be right. for in this world personal desires must continually give way to the welfare of others. did they not do so our system of society could not endure. no more was said upon the subject. ida made pretence of eating a piece of toast; the squire mopped up the tea upon his clothes, and then drank some more. meanwhile the remorseless seconds crept on. it wanted but five minutes to the hour, and the hour would, she well knew, bring the man with it. the five minutes passed slowly and in silence. both her father and herself realised the nature of the impending situation, but neither of them spoke of it. ah! there was the sound of wheels upon the gravel. so it had come. ida felt like death itself. her pulse sunk and fluttered; her vital forces seemed to cease their work. another two minutes went by, then the door opened and the parlour-maid came in. "mr. cossey, if you please, sir." "oh," said the squire. "where is he?" "in the vestibule, sir." "very good. tell him i will be there in a minute." the maid went. "now, ida," said her father, "i suppose that we had better get this business over." "yes," she answered, rising; "i am ready." and gathering up her energies, she passed out to meet her fate. chapter xliii george is seen to laugh ida and her father reached the vestibule to find edward cossey standing with his face to the mantelpiece and nervously toying with some curiosities upon it. he was, as usual, dressed with great care, and his face, though white and worn from the effects of agitation of mind, looked if anything handsomer than ever. as soon as he heard them coming, which owing to his partial deafness he did not do till they were quite close to him, he turned round with a start, and a sudden flush of colour came upon his pale face. the squire shook hands with him in a solemn sort of way, as people do when they meet at a funeral, but ida barely touched his outstretched fingers with her own. a few random remarks followed about the weather, which really for once in a way was equal to the conversational strain put upon it. at length these died away and there came an awful pause. it was broken by the squire, who, standing with his back to the fire, his eyes fixed upon the wall opposite, after much humming and hawing, delivered himself thus: "i understand, mr. cossey, that you have come to hear my daughter's final decision on the matter of the proposal of marriage which you have made and renewed to her. now, of course, this is a very important question, very important indeed, and it is one with which i cannot presume even to seem to interfere. therefore, i shall without comment leave my daughter to speak for herself." "one moment before she does so," mr. cossey interrupted, drawing indeed but a poor augury of success from ida's icy looks. "i have come to renew my offer and to take my final answer, and i beg miss de la molle to consider how deep and sincere must be that affection which has endured through so many rebuffs. i know, or at least i fear, that i do not occupy the place in her feelings that i should wish to, but i look to time to change this; at any rate i am willing to take my chance. as regards money, i repeat the offer which i have already made." "there, i should not say too much about that," broke in the squire impatiently. "oh, why not?" said ida, in bitter sarcasm. "mr. cossey knows it is a good argument. i presume, mr. cossey, that as a preliminary to the renewal of our engagement, the persecution of my father which is being carried on by your lawyers will cease?" "absolutely." "and if the engagement is not renewed the money will of course be called in?" "my lawyers advise that it should be," he answered sullenly; "but see here, ida, you may make your own terms about money. marriage, after all, is very much a matter of bargaining, and i am not going to stand out about the price." "you are really most generous," went on ida in the same bitter tone, the irony of which made her father wince, for he understood her mood better than did her lover. "i only regret that i cannot appreciate such generosity more than i do. but it is at least in my power to give you the return which you deserve. so i can no longer hesitate, but once and for all----" she stopped dead, and stared at the glass door as though she saw a ghost. both her father and edward cossey followed the motion of her eyes, and this was what they saw. up the steps came colonel quaritch and george. both were pale and weary-looking, but the former was at least clean. as for george, this could not be said. his head was still adorned with the red nightcap, his hands were cut and dirty, and on his clothes was an unlimited quantity of encrusted filth. "what the dickens----" began the squire, and at that moment george, who was leading, knocked at the door. "you can't come in now," roared the squire; "don't you see that we are engaged?" "but we must come in, squire, begging your pardon," answered george, with determination, as he opened the door; "we've got that to say as won't keep." "i tell you that it must keep, sir," said the old gentleman, working himself into a rage. "am i not to be allowed a moment's privacy in my own house? i wonder at your conduct, colonel quaritch, in forcing your presence upon me when i tell you that it is not wanted." "i am sure that i apologise, mr. de la molle," began the colonel, utterly taken aback, "but what i have to say is----" "the best way that you can apologise is by withdrawing," answered the squire with majesty. "i shall be most happy to hear what you have to say on another occasion." "oh, squire, squire, don't be such a fule, begging your pardon for the word," said george, in exasperation. "don't you go a-knocking of your head agin a brick wall." "will you be off, sir?" roared his master in a voice that made the walls shake. by this time ida had recovered herself. she seemed to feel that her lover had something to say which concerned her deeply--probably she read it in his eyes. "father," she said, raising her voice, "i won't have colonel quaritch turned away from the door like this. if you will not admit him i will go outside and hear what it is that he has to say." in his heart the squire held ida in some awe. he looked at her, and saw that her eyes were flashing and her breast heaving. then he gave way. "oh, very well, since my daughter insists on it, pray come in," and he bowed. "if such an intrusion falls in with your ideas of decency it is not for me to complain." "i accept your invitation," answered harold, looking very angry, "because i have something to say which you must hear, and hear at once. no, thank you, i will stand. now, mr. de la molle, it is this, wonderful as it may seem. it has been my fortune to discover the treasure hidden by sir james de la molle in the year !" there was a general gasp of astonishment. "_what!_" exclaimed the squire. "why, i thought that the whole thing was a myth." "no, that it ain't, sir," said george with a melancholy smile, "cos i've seen it." ida had sunk into a chair. "what is the amount?" she asked in a low eager voice. "i have been unable to calculate exactly, but, speaking roughly, it cannot be under fifty thousand pounds, estimated on the value of the gold alone. here is a specimen of it," and harold pulled out a handful of rials and other coins, and poured them on to the table. ida hid her face in her hand, and edward cossey realising what this most unexpected development of events might mean for him, began to tremble. "i should not allow myself to be too much elated, mr. de la molle," he said with a sneer, "for even if this tale be true, it is treasure trove, and belongs to the crown." "ah," said the squire, "i never thought of that." "but i have," answered the colonel quietly. "if i remember right, the last of the original de la molles left a will in which he especially devised this treasure, hidden by his father, to your ancestor. that it is the identical treasure i am fortunately in a position to prove by this parchment," and he laid upon the table the writing he had found with the gold. "quite right--quite right," said the squire, "that will take it out of the custom." "perhaps the solicitor to the treasury may hold a different opinion," said cossey, with another sneer. just then ida took her hand from her face. there was a dewy look about her eyes, and the last ripples of a happy smile lingered round the corners of her mouth. "now that we have heard what colonel quaritch had to say," she said in her softest voice, and addressing her father, "there is no reason why we should not finish our business with mr. cossey." here harold and george turned to go. she waved them back imperiously, and began speaking before any one could interfere, taking up her speech where she had broken it off when she caught sight of the colonel and george coming up the steps. "i can no longer hesitate," she said, "but once and for all i decline to marry you, mr. cossey, and i hope that i shall never see your face again." at this announcement the bewildered squire put his hand to his head. edward cossey staggered visibly and rested himself against the table, while george murmured audibly, "that's a good job." "listen," said ida, rising from her chair, her dark eyes flashing as the shadow of all the shame and agony that she had undergone rose up within her mind. "listen, mr. cossey," and she pointed her finger at him; "this is the history of our connection. some months ago i was so foolish as to ask your help in the matter of the mortgages which your bank was calling in. you then practically made terms that if it should at any time be your wish i should become engaged to you; and i, seeing no option, accepted. then, in the interval, while it was inconvenient to you to enforce those terms, i gave my affection elsewhere. but when you, having deserted the lady who stood in your way--no, do not interrupt me, i know it, i know it all, i know it from her own lips--came forward and claimed my promise, i was forced to consent. but a loophole of escape presented itself and i availed myself of it. what followed? you again became possessed of power over my father and this place, you insulted the man i loved, you resorted to every expedient that the law would allow to torture my father and myself. you set your lawyers upon us like dogs upon a hare, you held ruin over us and again and again you offered me money, as much money as i wished, if only i would sell myself to you. and then you bided your time, leaving despair to do its work. "i saw the toils closing round us. i knew that if i did not yield my father would be driven from his home in his old age, and that the place he loved would pass to strangers--would pass to you. no, father, do not stop me, i _will_ speak my mind! "and at last i determined that cost what it might i would yield. whether i could have carried out my determination god only knows. i almost think that i should have killed myself upon my marriage day. i made up my mind. not five minutes ago the very words were upon my lips that would have sealed my fate, when deliverance came. and now _go_. i have done with you. your money shall be paid to you, capital and interest, down to the last farthing. i tender back my price, and knowing you for what you are, i--i despise you. that is all i have to say." "well, if that beant a master one," ejaculated george aloud. ida, who had never looked more beautiful than she did in this moment of passion, turned to seat herself, but the tension of her feelings and the torrent of her wrath and eloquence had been too much for her. she would have fallen had not harold, who had been listening amazed to this overpowering outburst of nature, run up and caught her in his arms. as for edward cossey, he had shrunk back involuntarily beneath the volume of her scorn, till he stood with his back against the panelled wall. his face was white as a sheet; despair and fury shone in his dark eyes. never had he desired this woman more fiercely than he did now, in the moment when he knew that she had escaped him for ever. in a sense he was to be pitied, for passion tore his heart in twain. for a moment he stood thus. then with a spring rather than a step, he advanced across the room till he was face to face with harold, who, with ida still half fainting in his arms, and her head upon his shoulder, was standing on the further side of the fire-place. "damn you," he said, "i owe this to you--you half-pay adventurer," and he lifted his arm as though to strike him. "come, none of that," said the squire, speaking for the first time. "i will have no brawling here." "no," put in george, edging his long form between the two, "and begging your pardon, sir, don't you go a-calling of better men than yourself adwenturers. at any rate, if the colonel is an adwenturer, he hev adwentured to some purpose, as is easy for to see," and he pointed to ida. "hold your tongue, sir," roared the squire, as usual relieving his feelings on his retainer. "you are always shoving your oar in where it isn't wanted." "all right, squire, all right," said george the imperturbable; "thin his manners shouldn't be sich." "do you mean to allow this?" said cossey, turning fiercely to the old gentleman. "do you mean to allow this man to marry your daughter for her money?" "mr. cossey," answered the squire, with his politest and most old-fashioned bow, "whatever sympathy i may have felt for you is being rapidly alienated by your manner. i told you that my daughter must speak for herself. she has spoken very clearly indeed, and, in short, i have absolutely nothing to add to her words." "i tell you what it is," cossey said, shaking with fury, "i have been tricked and fooled and played with, and so surely as there is a heaven above us i will have my revenge on you all. the money which this man says that he has found belongs to the queen, not to you, and i will take care that the proper people are informed of it before you can make away with it. when that is taken from you, if, indeed, the whole thing is not a trick, we shall see what will happen to you. i tell you that i will take this property and i will pull this old place you are so fond of down stone by stone and throw it into the moat, and send the plough over the site. i will sell the estate piecemeal and blot it out. i tell you i have been tricked--you encouraged the marriage yourself, you know you did, and forbade that man the house," and he paused for breath and to collect his words. again the squire bowed, and his bow was a study in itself. you do not see such bows now-a-days. "one minute, mr. cossey," he said very quietly, for it was one of his peculiarities to become abnormally quiet in circumstances of real emergency, "and then i think that we may close this painful interview. when first i knew you i did not like you. afterwards, through various circumstances, i modified my opinion and set my dislike down to prejudice. you are quite right in saying that i encouraged the idea of a marriage between you and my daughter, also that i forbade the house to colonel quaritch. i did so because, to be honest, i saw no other way of avoiding the utter ruin of my family; but perhaps i was wrong in so doing. i hope that you may never be placed in a position which will force you to such a decision. also at the time, indeed never till this moment, have i quite realised how the matter really stood. i did not understand how strongly my daughter was attached in another direction, perhaps i was unwilling to understand it. nor did i altogether understand the course of action by which it seems you obtained a promise of marriage from my daughter in the first instance. i was anxious for the marriage because i believed you to be a better man than you are, also because i thought that it would place my daughter and her descendants in a much improved position, and that she would in time become attached to you. i forbade colonel quaritch the house because i considered that an alliance with him would be undesirable for everybody concerned. i find that in all this i was acting wrongly, and i frankly admit it. perhaps as we grow old we grow worldly also, and you and your agents pressed me very hard, mr. cossey. still i have always told you that my daughter was a free agent and must decide for herself, and therefore i owe you no apology on this score. so much then for the question of your engagement to miss de la molle. it is done with. "now as regards the threats you make. i shall try to meet them as occasion arises, and if i cannot do so it will be my misfortune. but one thing they show me, though i am sorry to have to say it to any man in a house which i can still call my own--they show me that my first impressions of you were the correct ones. _you are not a gentleman_, mr. cossey, and i must beg to decline the honour of your further acquaintance," and with another bow he opened the vestibule door and stood holding the handle in his hand. edward cossey looked round with a stare of rage. then muttering one most comprehensive curse he stalked from the room, and in another minute was driving fast through the ancient gateway. let us pity him, for he also certainly received his due. george followed him to the outer door and then did a thing that nobody had seen him do before; he burst out into a loud laugh. "what are you making that noise about?" asked his master sternly. "this is no laughing matter." "_him!_" replied george, pointing to the retreating dog-cart--"_he's_ a-going to pull down the castle and throw it into the moat and to send the plough over it, is he? _him_--that varmint! why, them old towers will be a-standing there when his beggarly bones is dust, and when his name ain't no more a name; and there'll be one of the old blood sitting in them too. i knaw it, and i hev allus knawed it. come, squire, though you allus du say how as i'm a fule, what did i tell yer? didn't i tell yer that prowidence weren't a-going to let this place go to any laryers or bankers or thim sort? why, in course i did. and now you see. not but what it is all owing to the colonel. he was the man as found it, but then god almighty taught him where to dig. but he's a good un, he is; and a gintleman, not like _him_," and once more he pointed with unutterable scorn to the road down which edward cossey had vanished. "now, look here," said the squire, "don't you stand talking all day about things you don't understand. that's the way you waste time. you be off and look after this gold; it should not be left alone, you know. we will come down presently to molehill, for i suppose that is where it is. no, i can't stop to hear the story now, and besides i want colonel quaritch to tell it to me." "all right, squire," said george, touching his red nightcap, "i'll be off," and he started. "george," halloaed his master after him, but george did not stop. he had a trick of deafness when the squire was calling, that is if he wanted to go somewhere else. "confound you," roared the old gentleman, "why don't you stop when i call you?" this time george brought his long lank frame to a standstill. "beg pardon, squire." "beg pardon, yes--you're always begging pardon. look here, you had better bring your wife and have dinner in the servants' hall to-day, and drink a glass of port." "thank you, squire," said george again, touching his red nightcap. "and look here, george. give me your hand, man. here's a merry christmas to you. we've gone through some queerish times about this place together, but now it almost looks as though we were going to end our days in peace and plenty." "same to you, squire, i'm sure, same to you," said george, pulling off his cap. "yes, yes, we've had some bad years, what with poor mr. james and that quest and cossey (he's the master varmint of the lot he is), and the bad times, and janter, and the moat farm and all. but, bless you, squire, now that there'll be some ready money and no debts, why, if i don't make out somehow so that you all get a good living out of the place i'm a dutchman. why, yes, it's been a bad time and we're a-getting old, but there, that's how it is, the sky almost allus clears toward night-fall. god almighty hev a mind to let one down easy, i suppose." "if you would talk a little less about your maker, and come to church a little more, it would be a good thing, as i've told you before," said the squire; "but there, go along with you." and the honest fellow went. chapter xliv christmas chimes the squire turned and entered the house. he generally was fairly noisy in his movements, but on this occasion he was exceptionally so. possibly he had a reason for it. on reaching the vestibule he found harold and ida standing side by side as though they were being drilled. it was impossible to resist the conclusion that they had suddenly assumed that attitude because it happened to be the first position into which they could conveniently fall. there was a moment's silence, then harold took ida's hand and led her up to where her father was standing. "mr. de la molle," he said simply, "once more i ask you for your daughter in marriage. i am quite aware of my many disqualifications, especially those of my age and the smallness of my means; but ida and myself hope and believe that under all the circumstances you will no longer withhold your consent," and he paused. "quaritch," answered the squire, "i have already in your presence told mr. cossey under what circumstances i was favourably inclined to his proposal, so i need not repeat all that. as regards your means, although they would have been quite insufficient to avert the ruin which threatened us, still you have, i believe, a competence, and owing to your wonderful and most providential discovery the fear of ruin seems to have passed away. it is owing to you that this discovery, which by the way i want to hear all about, has been made; had it not been for you it never would have been made at all, and therefore i certainly have no right to say anything more about your means. as to your age, well, after all forty-four is not the limit of life, and if ida does not object to marrying a man of those years, i cannot object to her doing so. with reference to your want of occupation, i think that if you marry ida this place will, as times are, keep your hands pretty full, especially when you have an obstinate donkey like that fellow george to deal with. i am getting too old and stupid to look after it myself, and besides things are so topsy-turvy that i can't understand them. there is one thing more that i want to say: i forbade you the house. well, you are a generous-minded man, and it is human to err, so i think that perhaps you will understand my action and not bear me a grudge on that account. also, i dare say that at the time, and possibly at other times, i said things i should be sorry for if i could remember what they were, which i can't, and if so, i apologise to you as a gentleman ought when he finds himself in the wrong. and so i say god bless you both, and i hope you will be happy in life together; and now come here, ida, my love, and give me a kiss. you have been a good daughter all your life, and so quaritch may be sure that you will be a good wife too." ida did as she was bid. then she went over to her lover and took him by his hand, and he kissed her on the forehead. and thus after all their troubles they finally ratified the contract. * * * * * and we, who have followed them thus far, and have perhaps been a little moved by their struggles, hopes, and fears, will surely not grudge to re-echo the squire's old-fashioned prayer, "god bless them both." god bless them both. long may they live, and happily. long may they live, and for very long may their children's children of the race, if not of the name of de la molle, pass in and out through the old norman gateway and by the sturdy norman towers. the boisseys, who built them, here had their habitation for six generations. the de la molles who wedded the heiress of the boisseys lived here for thirteen generations. may the quaritchs whose ancestor married ida, heiress of the de la molles, endure as long! surely it is permitted to us to lift a corner of the curtain of futurity and in spirit see ida quaritch, stately and beautiful as we knew her, but of a happier countenance. we see her seated on some christmas eve to come in the drawing-room of the castle, telling to the children at her knees the wonderful tale of how their father and old george on this very night, when the gale blew long years ago, discovered the ruddy pile of gold, hoarded in that awful storehouse amid the bones of saxon or danish heroes, and thus saved her to be their mother. we can see their wide wondering eyes and fixed faces, as for the tenth time they listen to a story before which the joys of crusoe will grow pale. we can hear the eager appeal for details made to the military-looking gentleman, very grizzled now, but grown better-looking with the advancing years, who is standing before the fire, the best, most beloved husband and father in all that country side. perhaps there may be a vacant chair, and another tomb among the ranks of the departed de la molles; perhaps the ancient walls will no longer echo to the sound of the squire's stentorian voice. and what of that? it is our common lot. but when he goes the country side will lose a man of whom they will not see the like again, for the breed is dead or dying; a man whose very prejudices, inconsistencies, and occasional wrong-headed violence will be held, when he is no longer here, to have been endearing qualities. and for manliness, for downright english god-fearing virtues, for love of queen, country, family and home, they may search in vain to find his equal among the cosmopolitan englishmen of the dawning twentieth century. his faults were many, and at one time he went near to sacrificing his daughter to save his house, but he would not have been the man he was without them. and so to him, too, farewell. perchance he will find himself better placed in the valhalla of his forefathers, surrounded by those stout old de la molles whose memory he regarded with so much affection, than here in this thin-blooded victorian era. for as has been said elsewhere the old squire would undoubtedly have looked better in a chain shirt and bearing a battle axe than ever he did in a frock coat, especially with his retainer george armed to the teeth behind him. * * * * * they kissed, and it was done. out from the church tower in the meadows broke with clash and clangour a glad sound of christmas bells. out it swept over layer, pitle and fallow, over river, plantain, grove and wood. it floated down the valley of the ell, it beat against dead man's mount (henceforth to the vulgar mind more haunted than ever), it echoed up the castle's norman towers and down the oak-clad vestibule. away over the common went the glad message of earth's saviour, away high into the air, startling the rooks upon their airy courses, as though the iron notes of the world's rejoicing would fain float to the throned feet of the world's everlasting king. peace and goodwill! ay and happiness to the children of men while their span is, and hope for the beyond, and heaven's blessing on holy love and all good things that are. this is what those liquid notes seemed to say to the most happy pair who stood hand in hand in the vestibule and thought on all they had escaped and all that they had won. * * * * * "well, quaritch, if you and ida have quite done staring at each other, which isn't very interesting to a third party, perhaps you will not mind telling us how you happened on old sir james de la molle's hoard." thus adjured, harold began his thrilling story, telling the whole history of the night in detail, and if his hearers had expected to be astonished certainly their expectations were considerably more than fulfilled. "upon my word," said the squire when he had done, "i think i am beginning to grow superstitious in my old age. hang me if i don't believe it was the finger of providence itself that pointed out those letters to you. anyway, i'm off to see the spoil. run and get your hat, ida, my dear, and we will all go together." and they went and looked at the chest full of red gold, yes, and passed down, all three of them, into those chill presences in the bowels of the mount. then coming thence awed and silent they sealed up the place for ever. conclusion good-bye on the following morning such of the inhabitants of boisingham as chanced to be about were much interested to see an ordinary farm tumbrel coming down the main street. it was being driven, or rather led, by no less a person than george himself, while behind it walked the well-known form of the old squire, arm-in-arm with colonel quaritch. they were still more interested, however, when the tumbrel drew up at the door of the bank--not cossey's, but the opposition bank--where, although it was boxing day, the manager and the clerk were apparently waiting for its arrival. but their interest culminated when they perceived that the cart only contained a few bags, and yet that each of these bags seemed to require three or four men to lift it with any comfort. thus was the gold safely housed. upon being weighed its value was found to be about fifty-three thousand pounds of modern money. but as some of the coins were exceedingly rare, and of great worth to museums and collectors, this value was considerably increased, and the treasure was ultimately sold for fifty-six thousand two hundred and fifty-four pounds. only ida kept back enough of the choicest coins to make a gold waistband or girdle and a necklace for herself, destined no doubt in future days to form the most cherished heirloom of the quaritch family. on that same evening the squire and harold went to london and opened up communications with the solicitor to the treasury. fortunately they were able to refer to the will of sir edward de la molle, the second baronet, in which he specially devised to his cousin, geoffrey dofferleigh, and his heirs for ever, not only his estates, but his lands, "together with the treasure hid thereon or elsewhere by my late murdered father, sir james de la molle." also they produced the writing which ida had found in the old bible, and the parchment discovered by george among the coin. these three documents formed a chain of evidence which even officials interested for the treasury could not refuse to admit, and in the upshot the crown renounced its claims, and the property in the gold passed to the squire, subject to the payment of the same succession duty which he would have been called upon to meet had he inherited a like sum from a cousin at the present time. and so it came to pass that when the mortgage money was due it was paid to the last farthing, capital and interest, and edward cossey lost his hold upon honham for ever. as for edward cossey himself, we may say one more word about him. in the course of time he sufficiently recovered from his violent passion for ida to allow him to make a brilliant marriage with the only daughter of an impecunious peer. she keeps her name and title and he plays the part of the necessary husband. anyhow, my reader, if it is your fortune to frequent the gilded saloons of the great, you may meet lady honoria tallton and mr. cossey. if you do meet him, however, it may be as well to avoid him, for the events of his life have not been of a nature to improve his temper. this much then of edward cossey. if after leaving the gilded saloons aforesaid you should happen to wander through the london streets, you may meet another character in this history. you may see a sweet pale face, still stamped with a child-like roundness and simplicity, but half hidden in the coarse hood of the nun. you may see her, and if you care to follow you may find what is the work wherein she seeks her peace. it would shock you; but it is her work of mercy and loving kindness and she does it unflinchingly. among her sister nuns there is no one more beloved than sister agnes. so good-bye to her also. harold quaritch and ida were married in the spring and the village children strewed the churchyard path with primroses and violets--the same path where in anguish of soul they had met and parted on that dreary winter's night. and there at the old church door, when the wreath is on her brow and the veil about her face, let us bid farewell to ida and her husband, harold quaritch. the end the homesteader [illustration: from a painting by w.m. farrow. "something happened and i was strangely glad and came here because i--i--just _had_ to see you, jean."] the homesteader _a novel_ by oscar micheaux author of "the forged note" _illustrated by w.m. farrow_ sioux city, iowa western book supply company publishers copyright, , by oscar micheaux all rights reserved beloved mother this to you publishers to the reader _how much of the story of jean baptiste is a work of the author's own imagination and how much comes from an authentic source we do not consider it necessary to say. but that he has in this instance drawn more largely and directly from fact than is the practice of the novelist is admitted, and we have his consent therefore, to make certain statements concerning himself that relate to the story, and why he has written it._ _to begin with, that which any writer has been more closely associated with, are the things he can best portray. wherefore, in "the homesteader," oscar micheaux has written largely along the lines he has lived, and, naturally of what he best knows. his experience has been somewhat unusual; his association largely out of the ordinary. born thirty-three years ago in southern illinois, he left those parts at an early age to come into his larger education in the years that followed through extensive traveling and a varied association. purchasing a relinquishment on a homestead in south dakota at the age of twenty; five years later he had succeeded and owned considerable lands in the country wherein he had settled. always literarily inclined he wrote articles for newspapers and magazines as a beginner, and then during his twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh years occurred the conflicting incident that changed the whole course of his life, and gave him more than anything else, the subsequent material for the building of this story._ _shortly after this his first book appeared, and he at last had found his calling. he wrote his second book two years later. but the episode that had changed his life from ranching to writing was ever in his mind and always so forcibly until he was never a contented man until he had written it--and "the homesteader" is the story._ contents epoch the first chapter page i agnes ii the homesteader iii at the sod house iv she could never be anything to him v when the indians shot the town up vi the infidel, a jew and a german vii the day before viii an enterprising young man ix "christine! christine!" x "you have never been this way before" xi what jean baptiste found in the well xii miss stewart receives a caller xiii the coming of the railroad xiv the administrating angel xv oh, my jean xvi "bill" prescott proposes xvii harvest time and what came with it epoch the second i regarding the intermarriage of races ii which? iii memories--n. justine mccarthy iv orlean v a proposal: a proposition; a certain mrs. pruitt--and a letter vi the prairie fire vii vanity viii married ix orlean receives a letter and advice x eugene crook xi reverend mccarthy pays a visit xii reverend mccarthy decides to set baptiste right, but-- xiii the wolf xiv the contest xv compromised xvi the evil genius xvii the coward epoch the third i chicago--the boomerang ii the great question iii glavis makes a promise iv the gambler's story v the preacher's evil influence vi more of the preacher's work vii a great astronomer viii n. justine mccarthy preaches a sermon ix what the people were saying x "until then" xi "it's the wrong number" xii mrs. pruitt effects a plan xiii mrs. merley xiv "oh, merciful god! close thou mine eyes!" xv "love you--god, i hate you!" xvi a strange dream epoch the fourth i the drought ii the foreclosure iii irene grey iv what might have been v "tell me why you didn't answer the last letter i wrote you" vi the story vii her birthright "for a mess of pottage" viii action ix gossip x a discovery--and a surprise xi the bishop's inquisition xii the bishop acts xiii where the weak must be strong xiv the trial--the lie--"as guilty as hell!" xv grim justice xvi a friend xvii the mystery xviii "vengeance is mine. i will repay" xix when the truth became known xx as it was in the beginning illustrations "something happened and i was strangely glad and came here because i--i just _had_ to see you, jean" _frontispiece_ facing page he was young, the homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous he raised on an elbow and looked into her face while she staggered forward in great surprise "but, jean, the cases are not parallel. what i did for you i would have done for anybody. it was merely an act of providence; but yours--oh, jean, _can't you understand_!" "miss pitt was so anxious to meet you and i was, too, because i think you and her would like each other. she's an awfully good girl and willing to help a fellow" "he's going to kill you out here to make him rich, and then when you are dead and--" "please don't, father!" she almost screamed. she knew he was going to say: "in your grave, he will marry another woman to enjoy what you have died for," but she could not quite listen to that he tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to hang on like grim death. and as he stood enmeshed in its sinister thraldom, he thought he saw her rise and point an accusing finger at him leading characters agnes, _whose eyes were baffling_ jean baptiste, _the homesteader_ jack stewart, _agnes' father_ augustus m. barr, _an infidel_ isaac syfe, _a jew_ peter kaden, _the victim_ n. justine mccarthy, _a preacher_ orlean, _his daughter, without the courage of her convictions_ ethel, _her sister, who was different_ glavis, _ethel's husband_ eugene crook, _a banker_ epoch the first the homesteader chapter i agnes their cognomen was stewart, and three years had gone by since their return from western kansas where they had been on what they now chose to regard as a "wild goose chase." the substance was, that as farmers they had failed to raise even one crop during the three years they spent there, so had in the end, therefore, returned broken and defeated to the rustic old district of indiana where they had again taken up their residence on a rented farm. welcomed home like the "return of the prodigal," the age old gossip of "i told you so!" had been exchanged, and the episode was about forgotten. but there was one in the family, the one with whom our story is largely concerned, who, although she had found little in western kansas to encourage her to stay there, had not, on the other hand, found much cheer back in old indiana so long as they found no place to live but "nubbin ridge." although but a girl, it so happened through circumstances over which she had no control, that whatever she thought or did, concerned largely the whole family's welfare or destiny. her father was a quaint old scotchman, coming directly from scotland to this country, a highlander from the highest of the highlands, and carried the accent still. but concerning her mother, she had never known her. indeed, few had known her mother intimately; but it was generally understood that she had been the second wife of her father, and that she had died that agnes might live. she was the only offspring by this marriage, although there were two boys by the first union. these lived at home with her and her father, but were, unfortunately, half-witted. naturally agnes was regarded as having been fortunate in being born of the second wife. but, what seemed rather singular, unlike her half brothers who were simple, she, on the other hand, appeared to be possessed with an unusual amount of wit; rare wit, extraordinary wit. she was now twenty, and because she possessed such sweet ways, she was often referred to as beautiful, although, in truth she was not. her face was somewhat square, and while there was a semblance of red roses in her cheeks when she smiled, her complexion was unusually white--almost pale. her mouth, like her face, was also inclined to be square, while her lips were the reddest. she had a chin that was noticeable due to the fact that it was so prominent, and her nose was straight almost to the point where it took a slight turn upwards. it was her hair, however, that was her greatest attraction. unusually long, it was thick and heavy, of a flaxen tint, and was her pride. her eyes, however, were a mystery--baffling. sometimes when they were observed by others they were called blue, but upon second notice they might be taken for brown. few really knew their exact color, and to most they were a puzzle. there was a flash about them at times that moved people, a peculiarity withal that even her father had never been able to understand. at such times he was singularly frightened, frightened with what he saw, and what he didn't see but felt. always she then reminded him of her mother whom he had known only briefly before taking her as his wife. he had loved her, this wife, and had also feared her as he now feared this daughter when her eyes flashed. her mother had kept a secret from him--and the world! in trust she left some papers. what they contained he did not know, and would not until the day before she, agnes, was to marry; and should she not marry by the time she reached thirty, the papers were to be given her then anyhow. and so jack stewart had resigned himself to the situation; had given her the best education possible, which had not been much. she had gone through the grade schools, however, and barely succeeded in completing two years of the high school course. the love that he had been deprived of giving her mother because of her early death he had given to agnes; she was his joy, his pride. she read to him because his eyes were not the best; she wrote his letters, consulted with him, assisted and conducted what business he had, and had avoided the society of young men. so we have met, and know some little of the girl we are to follow. in the beginning of our story, we find her anything but contented. living in quaint old "nubbin ridge," could not, to say the most, be called illustrious. it was a small district where the soil was very poor--as poor, perhaps, as indiana afforded. so poor indeed, that it was capable of producing nothing but nubbins (corn) from which it derived its name. when a man went to rent a farm in "nubbin ridge" he was considered all in, down and out.... to continue life there was to grow poorer. it was a part of the state wherein no one had ever been known to grow rich, and stewarts had proven no exception to the rule. but this story is to be concerned only briefly with "nubbin ridge," so we will come back to the one around whom it will in a measure center. her chief accomplishments since their disastrous conquest of western kansas had been the simple detail of keeping a diary. but at other times she had attempted musical composition and had even sent the same to publishers, one after another. of course all she sent had duly come back, and she had by this time grown to expect the returned manuscripts as the inevitable. but since sending the same gave her a diversion, she had kept it up--and had today received a letter! a letter, that was all, and a short one at that; but even a letter in view of her previous experiences was highly appreciated. it stated briefly that her composition had been carefully examined--studied, but had, they very much regretted to inform her, been found unavailable for their needs. although they had returned the same, they wished to say that she had shown some merit--"symptoms" she thought would have sounded better--and that they would always be patient and glad to examine anything she might be so kind as to submit! she read the letter over many times. not that she hoped that doing so would bring her anything, but because in her little life in "nubbin ridge" there was so little to break the usual monotonous routine. when she had read and studied it until she knew every letter by heart, she sighed, picked up her diary, and wrote therein: there is little to record tonight. today just passed was like yesterday, and yesterday was like the day before that, except it rained yesterday, and it didn't the day before. papa and bill and george have just completed picking corn--nubbins, the kind and only thing that grows in nubbin ridge. verily does the name fit the production! we will perhaps have enough when it is sold to pay the rent, send to sears & roebuck for a few things, and that's all. george wants a gun and thinks he's worked hard enough this summer to earn one. he has found one in the catalogue that can be had for $ . and is all heart that papa will get it for him; along with four boxes of shells that will, all told, reach $ . . little enough, to say the least, for a summer's work! bill has his mind set on a watch, but papa bought him a suit of clothes that cost $ . two months ago when we sold the hogs, so i don't think bill will get in on anything this fall or winter. as for me, i would like to have a dress that i see can be had through a catalogue for a reasonable sum; but if it will crowd papa i will say nothing about it. he has the mortgage on the horses to pay, and by the time we get the few other necessities, it will not leave much, if anything. later--papa has been growing very restless of late. i don't wonder, either. any one that had any energy, any spark of ambition, would grow restless or crazy in nubbin ridge! the very name smacks of poverty, ignorance and degeneration! but a real estate man from south dakota has been in the neighborhood for a week, and has told some wonderful tales of opportunities out there. he has made it plain to papa that western kansas has been a failure to thousands of people for forty years; that south dakota is different; that the rainfall is abundant; the climate is the best, and that every renter in indiana should there proceed forthwith. i'm surprised that he should waste his time talking with papa who has no money, but he seems to be just as anxious for him to go as he is for others. perhaps it's because he wishes a crowd. a crowd even though some are poor would, i imagine, appear more like business. bill and george are full for going, and papa has hinted to me as to whether i would like it. how should i know? it couldn't be worse than this place even if it was the jumping off place of all creation! i have about come to the place where i am willing to try anywhere once. there surely must be some place in this wide world where people have a chance to rise. of course, with us--poor bill and george, and papa's getting old, i don't suppose we will ever get hold of much anywhere. but the real estate man says we could all take homesteads; that in those parts--i cannot quite call the name, i'll study a while.... the rosebud country, is what he called it--there had been a great land opening, and there would be another in a few years. that we could go out now and rent on a place, raise big crops and get in good financial circumstances by the time the opening comes, go forth then and all take homesteads and grow rich! it sounds fishy--us growing rich; but since we have nothing we couldn't lose. he says that people have grown wealthy in two years; that among the successful men--those who have made it quickly--is a colored man out there who came from--he couldn't say just where; but that if a colored man could make it, and get money together, surely any one else should. i will close this now because it is late, the light is low; besides i'm sleepy, and since that is surely one thing a person can do with success in "nubbin ridge," i will retire and have my share of it. a month later--it has happened! we are going west! the real estate man has gone back, and papa has been out there. he is carried away with the country. says it is the greatest place on earth. i won't attempt to put down the wonders he has told of. rich land to be rented for one-third of the crops--and we pay two-fifths in nubbin ridge where there is no soil, just a sprinkling of dust over the surface. has rented a place already, and has made arrangements with the man that we owe to give him a year's time to pay the two hundred dollars. so we have enough to get out there and buy seed next spring! everybody says we are going on another "wild goose chase," but they would say that if we were going into the next county. it would seem better, however, if we would wait until spring, but papa is getting ready to go right after xmas. that settles it! i will make no more notes in this diary until we have reached the "promised land." in the meantime i am full of dreams, dreams, dreams! i had a strange dream last night; a real dream in which things happened! always i have those day dreams, but last night i had a real dream. i dreamed that we went out to this country and that we rented and lived on a farm near the colored man the real estate man spoke of. i dreamed that he was an unusual man, a wonderful personality, and that we--he and i--became very close friends! that a strange murder occurred near where we went; a murder that no one could ever understand; but that in after years it was all made plain--and i was involved! think of such a dream! me being involved in anything; i, of "nubbin ridge!" i am sure that if i told out there the name of the place from where we came they would think we were crazy! but that was not all the dream--and it was all so plain! it frightens me when i think of it. i cannot realize how i could have had such a strange dream. i dreamed after we had been there a while that i fell in love--but it's the man i fell in love with which makes the dream so unusual, and--impossible! yet there is a saying that nothing is impossible! i will not record here or describe the one with whom i fell in love. strangely i feel that i should wait. i cannot say why, but something seems to caution me; to tell me not to say more now. there remains but one thing more. yesterday i happened to glance at myself in the mirror. as if by magic i was drawn closer and studied myself, studied something in my features i had never seen before--at least not in that way. i observed then my hands. they, too, appeared unlike they had been before. it seems to have been the dream that prompted me to look--and the dream that revealed this about myself that i cannot understand. my eyes did not appear the same; they were as if--as if, they belonged to some other! my lips were red as usual; but there was about them something too i had not seen before: they appeared thicker, and as i studied them in the mirror more closely, i couldn't resist that singularity in my eyes. they became large and then small; they were blue, so blue, and then they were brown. it was when they appeared brown that i could not understand. i will close now for i wish to think. my brain is afire, i must think, think, think! chapter ii the homesteader the day was cold and dark and dreary. a storm raged over the prairie,--a storm of the kind that seem to come only over the northwest. over the wide, unbroken country of our story, the wind screamed as if terribly angry. it raced across the level stretches, swept down into the draws, where draws were, tumbled against the hillsides, regained its equilibrium and tore madly down the other side, as if to destroy all in its path. a heavy snow had fallen all the morning, but about noon it had changed to fine grainy missiles that cut the face like cinders and made going against it very difficult. notwithstanding, through it--directly against it at most times, the homesteader struggled resolutely forward. he was shielded in a measure by the horses he was driving, whose bulks prevented the wind from striking him in the face, and on the body at all times. at other times--and especially when following a level stretch--he got close to the side of the front wagon with its large box loaded with coal, which towered above his head and shoulders. before him, but not always, the dim line of the trail, despite the heavy snow that had fallen that morning, was outlined. perhaps it was because he had followed it--he and his horses--so often before in the two years since he had been west, that he was able to keep to its narrow way without difficulty today. and still, following it was not as difficult as following other trails, for it was an old, old trail. so old indeed was it, that nobody knew just how old it was, nor how far it reached. it was said that custer had gone that way to meet his massacre; that sitting bull knew it best; but to the homesteader, he hoped to be able to follow it only as long as the light of day pointed the way. when night came--but upon that he had not reckoned! to be caught upon it by darkness was certain death, and he didn't want to die. he was young, the homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous. his height was over six feet and while he was slender he was not too much so. his shoulders were slightly round but not stooped. his great height gave him an advantage now. he followed his horses with long, rangy strides, turning his head frequently as if to give the blood a chance to circulate about and under the skin of his wide forehead. the fury of the storm appeared to grow worse, judging from the way the horses shook their bridled heads; or perhaps it was growing colder. almost continually some of the horses were striking the ice from their nosepoints; while very often the homesteader had to rest the lines he held while he forced the blood to his finger tips with long swings of his arms back and forth across his breast. his claim lay many miles yet before him, and his continual gaze toward the west was to ascertain how long the light of day was likely to hold out. behind, far to the rear, lay the little town of bonesteel which he had left that morning, and now regretted having done so. but the storm had not been so bad then, and because the snow was falling he had conjectured it would be better to reach home before it became too deep or badly drifted. as it was now he was encountering all this and some more. [illustration: from a painting by w.m. farrow. he was young, the homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous.] "damn!" he cried as they passed down a slope to where the land divided, and where the wind seemed to hit hardest. his course lay directly northwest, straight against the wind which he could only avoid by hanging the lines over the lever of the brake and fall in behind the trail wagon. but this, unfortunately, placed him too far away from the horses. he had walked all the way, for to walk was apparently the only way to keep from freezing. he soon reached the other side of the draw, and when he had come to the summit beyond, he groaned. ahead of him just above the dark horizon the sun came suddenly from beneath the clouds. on either side of it, great, gasping sundogs struggled. they seemed to vie with the red sinking orbit; and as he continued his anxious gazing in that direction they seemed to have triumphed, for as the sun sank lower and lower, they appeared suddenly empowered with a mighty force for only a few minutes later the sun had fallen into the great abyss below and the night was on! "we can make it yet, boys," he cried to his horses as if to cheer them. and as if they understood, they crashed forward with such vigor that he was thrown almost into a trot to keep up. as to how long it went on thus, or as to how far they had gone, he was not able to reckon; but out of the now pitch darkness he became conscious of a peculiar longing. he had a vision of his sod house that stood on the claim, and he saw the small barn with its shed and the stalls for four. he saw the little house again with its one room, the little monkey stove with an oven on the chimney, and imagined himself putting a pan of baking powder bread therein. he saw his bed, a large, wide, dirty--'tis true--but a warm bed, nevertheless. he fancied himself creeping under the covers and sleeping the sound way he always did. he could not understand his prolific thoughts that followed. he thought of his boyhood back in old illinois; he took stock of the surroundings he had left there; he lived briefly through the discontentment that had ultimately inspired him to come west. and then he had again those dreams. regardless of where his train of wandering thoughts began or of where they followed, always they were sure to end upon this given point, the girl. the girl of his dreams--for he had no real girl. there had never been a real girl for jean baptiste, for this was his name. in the years that had preceded his coming hither, it had been one relentless effort to get the few thousands together with which to start when he finally came west. at that he had been called lucky. he had no heritage, had jean baptiste. his father had given him only the french name that was his, for his father had been poor--but this instant belongs elsewhere. his heritage, then, had been his indefatigable will; his firm determination to make his way; his great desire to make good. but we follow jean baptiste and the girl. only a myth was she. she had come in a day dream when he came west, but strangely she had stayed. and, singularly as it may seem, he was confident she would come in person some day. he talked with her when he was lonely, and that was almost every day. he told her why he had come west, because he felt it was the place for young manhood. here with the unbroken prairie all about him; with its virgin soil and undeveloped resources; and the fact that all the east, that part of the east that was iowa and illinois had once been as this now was, had once been as wild and undeveloped and had not then been worth any more--indeed, not so much. here could a young man work out his own destiny. as iowa and illinois had been developed, so could this--so _would_ this also be developed. and as railways had formed a network of those states, so in time would they reach this territory as well. in fact it was inevitable what was to come, the prime essential, therefore, for his youth, was to begin with the beginning--and so he had done. so he had come, had jean baptiste, and was living alone with a great hope; with a great hope for the future of this little empire out there in the hollow of god's hand; with a great love, too, for her, his dream girl. so in his prolific visions he talked on with her. he told her that it was a long way to the railroad now--thirty-two miles. he had that far to haul the coal he and others burned. there were yet no fences, and while there were section lines, they were rarely followed. it was nearer by trail. but he was patient, he was perseverant. time would bring all else--and her. he had visions of her, she was not beautiful; she might not be vivacious, for that belonged to the city; but she was good. always he understood everything that was hers, and he was confident she would understand him. her name was sweet and easily pronounced. how he loved to call it! he staggered at times now and didn't know why. he had wanted to be home and in his bed where he could sleep; but home as he now regarded it was too far. he couldn't make it, and didn't need to. why should they blunder and pull so hard to get home when all about them was a place where they could rest. the prairie was all about; and he had slept on the ground before with only the soft grass beneath him. why, then, must he continue on and on! the air was pleasant--warm and luxuriant, and he, jean baptiste, was very tired--oh, how tired he really was! it was settled! he had gone far enough. he would make his bed right where he was. he called to the horses. but somehow they didn't seem to hear. he called again then, he thought, louder, and still they failed to hear. he wondered at their stubbornness. they were good horses and had never disobeyed before. he called now again at the top of his voice, but they heeded him not; in the meantime forging onward, onward and onward! it occurred to him to drop the reins, but such had never been a custom. within his tired, freezing and brain-fagged mind, there was a resolution that made him cling to them, but struggling to pull them down to a stop he continued. and as he followed them now onward toward the sod house that stood on the claim, all realism seemed to desert him; he became a chilled mechanician; he seemed to have passed into the infinite where all was vague; where turmoil and peculiar strife only abided.... for jean baptiste did not understand that he was on the verge of freezing. * * * * * stewarts were pleased with the country. they had arrived in early january. the weather had not been bad, although the wind blew much stronger here than it did in indiana. however, they had not forgotten how it blew in western kansas and were therefore accustomed to it. the house upon the place they had rented was small, just four rooms, but it was well built and was warm. a village was not far. the people in it called it a town, but you see they were enthusiastic. to be more amply provided they could get what they needed at gregory which was seven miles. seven miles was not far to one who could ride horseback, and this agnes had learned in western kansas. "you had best not go to town today, my girl," cautioned jack stewart, her father, as she made ready to ride to gregory after ordering bill to saddle dolly, the gray mare that was their best. "tut, tut, papa," she chided. "this is a day to take the benefit of this wonderful air. the low altitude of nubbin ridge made me sallow; there was no blood in my cheeks. here--ah, a nice horseback ride to gregory will be the best yet for me!" "i don't like the wind--and so much snow with it," he muttered, looking out with a frown upon his face. "but the snow is not like it was," she argued, almost ready. "it's letting up." "it's growing finer, which is evidence that it is growing colder." "better still," she cried, jumping about frolickingly, her lithe young body as agile as an athlete's. "now, dada," she let out winsomely, "i shall dash up to gregory, get all we need, and be back before the sun goes down!" and with that she kissed away further protest, swung open wide the door, stepped out and vaulted lightly into the saddle. a moment later she was gone, but not before her father cried: "if you should be delayed, stay the night in town. above all things, don't let the darkness catch you upon the prairie!" chapter iii at the sod house she enjoyed the horseback ride to gregory. although she trembled at times from the sting of the intense cold, the exercise the riding gave her body kept the blood circulating freely, and she made the trip to the little town without event. once there, after thawing the cold out of her face and eyes, she proceeded to do her trading, filling the saddlebags to their fullest. "which way do you live from town?" inquired the elderly man who waited upon her at the general store where she was doing her trading. "seven miles southeast," she replied. "indeed!" he cried as if surprised. "but you didn't come from there today--this afternoon? that would be directly against this storm!" she nodded. "well, now, who would have thought you could have made it! 'tis an awful day without," he cried as he regarded her in wonder. "it _wasn't_ warm, i admit," she agreed; "but i didn't seem to mind it so much!" "you will not go back today--rather tonight?" "oh, yes." "but it would be very risky. look! it's grown dark already!" she looked out and observed that it had really grown almost pitch dark during the few minutes she had lingered inside. she was for a moment at a loss for a reply, then, conscious that the wind would be to her back, she laughed lightly as she said: "oh, i shan't mind. it will take me less than forty minutes, and then it'll all be over," and she laughed low and easily again. the man frowned as he pursued: "i don't like to see you start, a stranger in such a night as this. since settlement following a trail is rather treacherous. one may leave town on one, but be on some other before they have gone two miles. and while the wind will be to your back, the uncertainty of direction, should you happen to look back or even around, is confusing. one loses sense of the way they are going. i'd suggest that you stick over until morning. it would be safer," he concluded, shaking his head dubiously. "oh, i am not afraid," she cried cheerfully. she was ready then, and with her usual dash, she crossed the short board walk, vaulted into the saddle, and a few minutes later the dull clatter of her horse's hoofs died in the distance. with the wind to her back she rode easily. she enjoyed the exercise the riding gave her, and was thrilled instead of being frightened over what was before her. she followed quite easily the trail that had taken her into the village. in due time she passed a house that she had observed when going in that stood to one side of the trail, and then suddenly the mare came to an abrupt halt. she peered into the darkness before her. a barbwire fence was across the trail. she could not seem to recall it being there on her way in. yet she argued with herself that she might have come around and not noticed it. for a moment she was in doubt as to which way to go to get around it. as she viewed it, it did not extend perhaps more than a quarter mile or a half at the most, after which she could come around to the other side and strike the trail again. she gave the ever faithful mare rein and they sailed down the fence line to where she estimated it must shortly end. she did not know that this was the old u-cross fence, and that because it stood on indian land, it had not been taken up when the great ranch had been moved into the next county when giving up to the settler. in truth only a few steps to her right she had left the trail she had followed into town. the old trail had been cut off when the homesteader in whose house she had seen the light, had laid out his claim, and it was this which caused the confusion. she did not know that one could go to town, or to the railroad today and returning on the morrow, find the route changed. homesteaders were without scruples very often in such matters. the law of the state was that before a followed trail was cut off, it should be advertised for five weeks in advance to that effect; but not one in twenty of the settlers knew that such a law existed. so agnes stewart had ridden fully two miles before she became apprehensive of the fact that she had lost her way. now the most practical plan for her would been to have turned directly about and gone back to where she had started down the fence. but, charged with impatient youth, she sought what she felt to be the quickest way about. now upon looking closely she could see that wires hung down in places and that a post here and there had sagged. she urged the mare over a place and then, once over, went in the direction she felt was home. the stiff, zero night air had somewhat dulled her, and she made the mistake of looking back, thereby confusing her direction to the point where after a few minutes she could not have sworn in what direction she was going, except that the wind was still at her back. she peered into the darkness before her. she thought there would be lights of homesteaders about, and while there was, the storm made it impossible for her to see them. after a time she became alarmed, and recalled her father's warning, also the store-keeper's. but her natural determination was to go on, that she would get her bearings, presently. so, with a jerking of her body as if to stimulate circulation of the blood, she bent in the saddle and rode another mile or more. she had crossed draws, ascended hills, had stumbled over trails that always appeared to lead in the wrong direction, and at last gave up for lost at a summit where the wind and fine snow chilled her to the marrow. she was thoroughly frightened now. she thought to return to gregory, but when she turned her eyes against the wind, she could catch no sight of anything. she was sure then that she could not make it back there had she wished to. not knowing what to do she allowed the mare to trot ahead without any effort to direct her. she had not gone far before she realized that they were following a level stretch. and because she seemed to keep warm when the horse moved, she allowed the mare to continue. a half mile she estimated had been covered when out of the darkness some dark shape took outline. she peered ahead; the mare was ambling gently toward it, and she saw after a time that it was a quaint, oblong structure, a sod house apparently, many of which she had observed since coming west into the new country. she was relieved. at least she was not to freeze to death upon the prairie, a fact that she had begun to regard as a possibility a few minutes before. the mare fell into a walk and presently came up to a low, square house, built of sod, with its odd hip roof reposing darkly in the outline. she called, "hello," and was patient. the wind bit into her, and she was conscious of the bitter cold, and that she was beginning to feel its severe effects. there was no response, and she called again, dismounting in the meantime. when she saw no one she went around to where she observed a low door at which she knocked vigorously. from all appearances the place was occupied, but no one was at home. she tried the knob. it gave, and she pushed the door open cautiously. all was darkness within. then, dropping the bridle reins she ventured inside. she could not understand why her feet made no sound upon the floor, but in truth there was no floor except the earth. she felt in her coat pocket and presently produced a match. when the flaring light illuminated the surroundings, she gazed about. it was, she quickly observed, a one room house. there was at her side a monkey stove with an oven on the pipe; while at her left stood a table with dishes piled thereupon. there was also a lantern on the table and this she adjusted and lighted before the blaze died. she swung this about, and saw there was a bed with dirty bed clothing, also a trunk, some boxes and what nots. "a bachelor, i'd wager," she muttered, and then blushed when she considered her position. she looked about further, and upon seeing fuel, proceeded to build a fire. this done, she passed outside, found a path that extended northwest, and, leading the horse, soon came to a small barn. here she saw two stalls with a manger filled with hay. she had to push the mare back to keep her from entering and making herself at home. she passed around the barn and entered the door of a small shed, for cattle obviously, but empty. hay was in the manger, and, taking the bits from the mare's mouth, she tied the reins to the manger, unsaddled, and, leaving the shed after fastening the door, she carried the saddle with her to the house. the little stove was roaring from the fire she had started, and she was surprised to find the room becoming warm. she placed the saddle in a convenient position and lifted her cap, whereupon her heavy hair fell over her shoulders. she caught it up and wound it into a braid quickly, guiltily.... she unbuttoned her coat then, and took a seat. "there is no one here," she muttered to herself. "so since i don't know the way home, and there's no one here to tell me, guess i'll have to give it up until morning." she was thoughtful then. this _was_ something of an adventure. lost upon the prairie: a bachelor's homestead: there alone. then suddenly she started. from the storm swept outside she thought she caught a sound, and thereupon became quickly alert, but the next moment her tension relaxed. it was only the wind at the corner of the house. the room had become warm, she was uncomfortable with the heavy coat about her. she was conscious, moreover, that her eyes were heavy, sleep was knocking at her door. she shook off the depression and fell again to thinking. she wondered who could live there and she continued in her random thinking until shortly, unconsciously, she fell into a doze. she could not recall whether she had dozed an hour or a minute, but she was awakened suddenly and jumped to her feet; for, from the storm she had caught the sound of horses and wagons passing the house at only a short distance. she stood terrified. her eyes were wide, her lips were apart as she listened to the grinding of the wagon wheels--and they went directly toward the barn. then all was silent, and she placed her hand to her heart, to still the frightened beating there. she heard the horses shake in their harness, and came to herself. the man of the place had returned; she had taken charge of his house, he a bachelor and she a maid. she felt embarrassed. she got into her coat and buttoned it about her hurriedly; and then drawing the cap over her head, she waited, expectantly, although she was sure that time sufficient had expired, whoever drove the teams had not come toward the house. she could hear the horses, but she could not ascertain that they were being unhitched. she was undecided for a moment, then, catching up the lantern, she quickly went outside. two wagons loaded heavily with coal greeted her. she passed to the front and found four horses, white with the frost from perspiration, standing hitched to the loads. she passed to their heads. no one was about, and she was puzzled. she passed around to the other side, and as she did so, stumbled over something. with the lantern raised, she peered down and then suddenly screamed when she discovered it was a man. then, on second thought, fearing he had fallen from the wagon and become injured, she put her arm through the bail of the lantern, reached down, caught him by the shoulders and shook him. he was not injured, she was relieved to see; but _what was_ the matter? in the next moment she gave a quick start. she realized in a twinkling then, that the man was freezing--perhaps already frozen! [illustration: from a painting by w.m. farrow. he raised on an elbow and looked into her face while she staggered in great surprise.] with quick intuition she reached and caught him beneath the arms, and turning, dragged him to the house. she opened the door, and lifting his body, carried him in her arms across the room and laid him upon the bed. then, realizing that the night was severely cold, she rushed out, closing the door behind her, and a half hour later had the horses unhitched, unharnessed and tied in their stalls. this done she returned hurriedly to the house to find the man still unconscious, but breathing heavily. she did not know at once what to do, but going to his feet, took off his shoes. this was rather difficult, and she feared that from the way they felt, his feet were frozen. she rubbed them vigorously, and was relieved after a time to feel the blood circulating and the same giving forth warmth. she sighed with relief and then pulling off the heavy gloves, she exercised the same proceeding with the hands, and was cheered to feel them give forth warmth after a time. she unbuttoned the coat at his throat, and rolling him over, managed to get it off of him. next she unbuttoned the collar, drew off the cap, and for the first time saw his face. it was swollen and very dark, she thought. she brought the lantern closer and looked again. she gave a start then and opened her mouth in surprise. then she fell to thinking. she went back to the chair beside the fire and reflected. "it is all the same, of course," she said to herself. "but i was just surprised. it all seems rather singular," she mused, and tried to compose herself. the surprise she had just experienced, had, notwithstanding her effort at self possession, disconcerted her. she turned suddenly, for she had caught the sound of a noise from the bed. she got up quickly and went to him. he had turned from his side to his back. she stood over him with the lantern raised. to see him better she leaned over, holding the lantern so that her face was full in the light. she had unbuttoned her coat at the throat, and seeking more comfort, had also removed the cap she wore. she had, however, forgotten her hair which had been held about her head by the cap and it now fell in braids over her slender shoulders. on the instant the man's eyes opened. he raised on an elbow, looked into her face, smiled wanly, and murmured: "it is you, agnes. you have come and oh, i am glad, for i have waited for you so long." in the next breath he had fallen back upon the bed and was sleeping again, while she staggered in great surprise. _who was this man_ that he should call her name and say that _he_ had waited? but with jean baptiste, he snored in peace. his dream had come true; the one of his vision had come as he had hoped she would. but jean baptiste was not aware of the debt he owed her; that through strange providence in getting lost she had come into his sod house and saved his life. but what he was yet to know, and which is the great problem of our story, the girl, his dream girl, agnes stewart, happened to be white, while he, jean baptiste, the homesteader, was a negro. chapter iv she could never be anything to him jean baptiste slept soundly all the night through, snoring loudly at times, turning frequently, but never awakening. and while he slept, unconscious of how near he had come to freezing to death upon the prairie, but for the strange coincidence of agnes stewart's having gotten lost and finding him, she sat near, listening to the dull roar of the storm outside at times; at other times casting furtive, anxious and apprehensive glances toward the bed, half in fear. more because the position she realized herself to be in was awkward, not to say embarrassing. her eyes became heavy as the night wore on, and she arose and walked about over the dirt floor in an attempt to shake off the inertia. and in the meantime, the man she had saved slept on, apparently disturbed by nothing. presently she approached him shyly, and, taking the coat he had worn and which lay near, she spread it carefully over him, then tiptoed away and regarded him curiously. her life had never afforded character study in a broad sense; but for some reason, which she could not account for, she strangely trusted the sleeping man. and because she did, she was not in fear lest he awaken and take advantage of the compromising circumstances. but in her life she had met and known no colored people, and knew directly little about the negro race beyond what she had read. therefore to find herself lost on the wide plains, in a house alone with one, a bachelor homesteader, with a terrific storm without, gave her a peculiar sensation. when the hand of the little clock upon the table pointed to two o'clock a.m., she put coal on the fire, became seated in a crude rocking chair that proved notwithstanding, to be comfortable, and before she was aware of it, had fallen asleep. worn out by the night's vigil, and the unusual circumstances in which she found herself, she slept soundly and all sense of flying time was lost upon her. the storm subsided with the approach of morn, and the sun was peeping out of a clear sky in the east when she awakened with a start. she jumped to her feet. quickly her eyes sought the bed. it was empty. the man had arisen. she looked out through the little window. the blizzard had left the country gray and streaked. buttoning her coat collar about her throat, she adjusted her cap by pulling it well down over her head, and ventured outside. never had she looked upon such a scene as met her eyes! everywhere, as far as she could see, was a mantle of snow and ice. here the snow had been swept into huge drifts or long ridges; while there it sparkled in the sun, one endless, unbroken sheet of white frost and ice. here and there over the wide expanse a lonesome claim shack reposed as if lost; while to the northwest, she could see the little town to which she had gone the afternoon before, rising heroically out of the snow. upon hearing a sound, she turned to find the homesteader leading her horse, saddled and bridled from the barn. she turned her eyes away to hide the confusion with which she was suddenly overcome, and at the same time to try to find words with which to greet him. "good morning," she heard from his lips, and turned her face to see him touch the cap he wore. "good morning, sir," she returned, smiling with ease, notwithstanding her confusion of a moment before. "i judge that you must have become lost, the why you happened along," said he pleasantly, courteously. "i did," she acknowledged, marveled at finding herself so much at ease in his presence, and him conscious. in the same instance she took quick note of his speech and manner, and was strangely pleased. "i see," she heard him mutter. she had cast her eyes away as if to think, but now turned again toward him to find him regarding her intently. she saw him give a quick start, and catch his breath as if in surprise, whereupon she turned her eyes away. but she did not understand the cause of his start; she did not understand that while he had recognized her as his dream girl, that only then had he realized that she was white, while he had naturally supposed his dream girl would be of his own blood, ethiopian. he lowered his eyes as this fact played in his mind, and as he hesitated, she again turned her eyes upon him and regarded him wonderingly. and in that moment the instance of the night before when he had awakened and looked up into her eyes for the first time when she stood over him, and had uttered the words she would never as long as she lived, forget, came back. "_it is you, agnes. you have come and, oh, i am glad, for i have waited for you so long._" "how did he know my name and come to say what he did?" was the question she now again, as she had been doing all the night through, asked herself. she prayed that she might find a way to ask him--how deeply her curiosity to know was aroused. and then, while she was so deeply engrossed, abruptly he raised his head, and his eyes fell searchingly again upon her. he saw and wondered at the curious intentness he saw there, and as he did so, he caught that something in her eyes; he saw what she had seen before leaving indiana; and as she had been when she had seen it, he too, was strangely moved and could not understand. apparently he forgot all else as the changing color of her eyes held him, and while so, unconsciously he advanced a step nearer her. she did not move away, but stood as if in a thraldom, with a feeling stealing over her that somewhere she had seen and known him once.... but where--_where, where!_ she had never known an _ethiopian_, she full well recalled; but she was positive that she had seen this man somewhere before. then _where--where, where!_ as for the man, jean baptiste, he seemed to relax after a time, and looked away. he had seen her at last; she had been his dream girl; had come in a dream and as she stood before him she was all his wondrous vision had portrayed. her face was flushed by the cold air, and red roses in full bloom were in her cheeks; while her beautiful hair, spread over her shoulders, and fanned by a light breeze, made her in his eyes a picture of enchantment. when he observed her again and saw that her eyes were blue and then again were brown, he was still mystified; but what was come over jean baptiste now was the fact, the great fact: _the fact that between him and his dream girl was a chasm so deep socially that bridging was impossible._ because she was white while he was black, according to _the custom of the country and its law_, she could never be anything to him.... her back was to the rising sun, and neither had observed that it was mounting higher in the eastern skies. she suppressed the question that was on her lips to ask him, the eternal question, and in that instant he came out of his trance. he turned to her, and said: "it was sure fortunate for me that you lost your way," and so saying his eyes went toward the place she had found him, and she understood. she could not repress a happy smile that overspread her face. he saw it and was pleased. "it was rather providential; but i would forget it. to think that you might have frozen to death out there makes me shudder when i recall it." "i cannot seem to understand what came over me--that i was in the act of freezing while i walked." "it was a terrible night," she commented. "i, too, might have frozen, but for the good fortune of my horse finding your house." "isn't it strange," he muttered abstractedly. "i hadn't the least idea where i was," said she, musingly. "such a coincidence." "indeed it was----, but please, shall we forget it," and she shuddered slightly. "yes," he replied readily. "where do you live?" she pointed to where the smoke curled from the chimney of their home, a mile and a half away. "the watson place? i see. you are perhaps, then, newcomers here?" "we are," and she smiled easily. he did also. he handed her the bridle reins then, and said: "i trust you will pardon my forgetfulness. indeed i was so absorbed in the fact that i had been saved, that i forgot to--to be courteous." "oh, no, sir!" she cried quickly. "you did not. you--" and then she broke off in her speech. it occurred to her that she was saying too much. but strangely she wanted to go on, strangely she wanted to know more of him: from where he had come; of his life, for already she could see that he was a gentleman; an unusual person--but he was speaking again. "you have become chilled standing there--it is severely cold. step back into the house and warm yourself before you start. i will hold your horse while you do so." and he reached for the bridle reins. she looked up into his face, and again trusted him; again she experienced a peculiar gratitude, and turning she obeyed him. as she stood inside over the little monkey stove a moment later, she could see him, and appreciated how thoughtful he was. she returned after a few minutes, stood beside the animal he had brought and was ready to go. suddenly she vaulted into the saddle. she regarded him again intently, while he returned the same a bit abstractedly. she started to urge the mare forward, and then she drew her to a stop before she had gotten fully started. impulsively she leaned forward and stretched her hand toward him. mechanically he took it. she unconsciously gripped his, as she said: "i'm glad it happened.... that i became lost and--and--you were saved." his dark face colored with gratitude, and he had an effort to keep from choking when he tried to reply. in the meantime, she bestowed upon him a happy smile, and the next moment her horse had found the trail and was dashing along it toward the place she lived. and as she went homeward over the hill, the man in whose life she was later to play such a strange and intimate part, stood looking after her long and silently. chapter v when the indians shot the town up the claim of jean baptiste, containing acres of land, adjoined the little town of dallas on the north, and it was one of the surprises that agnes stewart had not wandered into it when she found the sod house and had later found jean baptiste in the snow. the town had been started the winter before. a creek of considerable depth, and plenty of water ran to the south of it a half mile, and up this valley the promoters of the town contended that the railroad would build. it came up the same valley many miles below where at a way station it suddenly lifted out of it and sought the higher land to bonesteel. now the promoters, because the railroad company owned considerable land where the tracks left the valley to ascend to the highland, contended that it was the purpose of the railroad to split the trade country by coming up the valley, and that was why the town had been located where it was, on a piece of land that had once belonged to an indian. there were three other towns, platted by the government along a route that did not strike dallas, and if the railroad should continue the route it was following where its tracks stopped west of bonesteel, it was a foregone conclusion that it must hit the three government townsites. this had ever been, and was, the great contention in the early days of the country of our story. but to get back to the characters in question, we must come back to the little town near the creek valley. the winter preceding, when the town had been started, men had chosen to cast their lot with it, and by the time spring arrived, there was a half dozen or more business places represented. from des moines a man had come and started a lumber yard; while from elsewhere a man had cooperated with the promoters in establishing a bank. two men, whose reputations were rather notorious, but who, nevertheless, were well fitted for what they chose, started a saloon. from a town that had no railroad in the state on the south, a man came with a great stock of merchandise. a weazened creature had been made postmaster; while a doctor, beliquored until he was uncertain, had come hither with a hope of redemption and had hung out his shingle. he was succeeding in the game of reform (?) as the best customer the saloon had. a tired man was conducting a business in a building that had been hauled many miles and was being used as a hotel. many other lines of business were expected, but at this time the interest was largely in who the settlers were that had come, and those who were to come. a beautiful quarter section of land joined the town on the east, and the man who had drawn it had already established his residence thereupon, so that he was known. on the south the land was the allotment of an indian; while the same was true on the west. naturally, when it was reported that a negro held the place on the north, considerable curiosity prevailed to meet this lone ethiopian. but jean baptiste was a mixer, a jolly good fellow of the best type and by this time such was well known. as to where he had come from, we know; but his name had occasioned much comment because it was odd. to make it more illustrious, the settlers had added "saint," so he was now commonly know as st. jean baptiste. the doctor, whose name was slater, had improved even upon this. he called him "st. john the baptist." but nobody took doc very seriously. so full was he of red liquor most of the time, that he was regarded as a joke except in his profession. here he was considered one of the best,--his redeeming feature. the coal the homesteader had hauled from bonesteel was not all for himself, but for the lumber yard which sold it at fifteen dollars the ton, and the quality was soft, and not of the best grade at that. he hauled it into town the morning following the episode of our story, and after unloading it and taking his check for the hauling, returned home, took care of his stock, and upon returning to town, forgot to relate anything concerning his experiences.... _perhaps_ he forgot.... jean baptiste could be depended upon to forget some things.... especially the things that were best forgotten. he walked across the quarter mile that lay between his claim and the town, and up to the saloon. inside he encountered the usual crowd, doc among them. "hello, there, st. john the baptist," cried that one in beliquored delight. "did you crawl through all that storm?" "i'm here," laughed baptiste. "how's doc?" "finer'n a fiddle, both ends in the middle," and called for another drink. just one. it is said that saloons would not be so bad if it was not for the treating nuisance. well, doc could be regarded here then, as practical, for he never bought others a drink. "see you got your nose freezed, baptiste," doc laughed. baptiste went toward the bar, took a look at himself, and laughed amusedly upon seeing the telltale darkness at the point of his nose, his cheeks and his forehead. "t' hell, i didn't know that," he muttered. the crowd laughed. "play you a game of casino?" suggested doc. "you're on!" cried baptiste. after they had played awhile a swede who lived across the creek entered, took a seat and drawing his chair near, watched the game. presently he spoke. "the indians are coming in today, so i guess there will be a shooting up the town." the players paused and regarded each other apprehensively. others overheard the remark, and now exchanged significant glances. this had been the one diversion of the long winter. indians who lived on the creek, coming into town, getting drunk, and then as a sally ride up and down the main street and shoot up the town. the last time this had taken place, the bartender's wife had been frightened into hysterics. and thereupon the bartender had sworn that the next time this was attempted, they would have to reckon with him. the few people about became serious. they knew the bartender was dangerous, and they feared the indians, breeds, mostly, who made this act their pastime. they were annoyed with such doings; but were inclined to lay the blame at the saloon door, for, although the law decreed that indians should not be sold liquor they were always allowed to purchase all that they could possibly carry away with them inside and out. so upon this announcement, those about prepared themselves for excitement. the news quickly spread and to augment the excitement, a few minutes later the breeds in full regalia dashed into town. they tied their horses at the front, and proceeded at once to the bar. "whiskey," they cried, shifting their spurred boots on the barroom floor. "sorry, boys, but i can't serve you," advised the bartender carelessly. "what!" they cried. "can't serve you. it's agin' the law, yu' know." "t' hell with the law!" exclaimed one. "i didn't make it," muttered the bartender. "you've been playing hell enforcing it," retorted another. "now, don't get rough, my worthy," cautioned the bartender. "give us what we called for, and none of this damn slush then," cried one, toying with the gun at his holster. the bartender observed this and got closer to the bar for a purpose. those about, being of the peaceful kind, began shifting toward the door. "we've been breakin' the law to serve you," said the bartender "and you've been breaking the law after we done it. now the last time you were here you pulled off a 'stunt' that caused trouble. so i'll not serve you whiskey, and advise you that if you try shooting up the town again, there'll be trouble." "oh, is that so?" cried the bunch. "well," sniffed one, who was more forward than the rest, "we'll just show you a trick or two. and, remember, when we've shot your little chicken coops full of holes, we are going to return and be served." with a hilarious laugh, they went outside, got into the saddles and had their fun. the population took refuge in the cellars in awed silence. it was over in a few minutes and the breeds, true to their statement, returned to the saloon, and stood before the bar. "whiskey," they cried, and couldn't repress a grin. ordinarily they were cowards, and their boldness had surprised even themselves. "whiskey?" said the bartender, nodding toward the speaker. "that's my order!" the other cried uproarously. the bartender arranged several bottles in a row. this they did not understand at first. they did, however, a moment later. "very well," he cried of a sudden as his eyes narrowed, whereupon, with deliberation he caught the bottles one by one by the neck and as fast as he could let go, threw the same into the faces before him with all the force he could concentrate quickly. so quickly was it all done that those before him had not time to duck below the bar before many had been the recipients of the deluge. within the minute there was a wild scramble for the door--all but three. for while the others disappeared over the hill toward the creek, dr. slater took thirty stitches or thereabouts in the faces of the recalcitrants. chapter vi the infidel, a jew and a german a mile north from where stood the house of st. jean baptiste, there lived a quaint old man. he was a widower; at least this was the general opinion, especially when he so claimed to be. in a new country there may be found among those who settle much that is unusual, not to say quaint and oftentimes mysterious. and in the case of this man, by name illustrious, there was all this and some more. augustus m. barr, he registered, and from england he hailed. how long since does not concern this story at this stage. besides, he never told any one when, or why--well, he had been in america long enough to secure the claim he held and that was sufficient. but that barr had been a man of some note back from where he came, there could be little doubt. among the things to prove it, he was very much of a linguist, being well versed in english, french, polish, german; the scandinavian he thoroughly understood--and latin, that was easy! he had been a preacher and had pastored many years in a baker street church, london. then, it seems, he concluded after all that there was no god; there was no satan nor hell either--so he gave up the ministry and became an infidel. and so we have him. but there was something a.m. barr had never told--but that was the mystery. and while he will be concerned with our story, let us not forget that two miles and more west of the little town of dallas, there lived another, a jew. he was not a merchant, nor was he a trader; then, jews who are not the one or the other are not the usual jew, apparently. well, syfe wasn't, for that was his name, isaac syfe, and from far away assyria he had come. he was dark of visage with dark hair, and piercing but lurking eyes with brows that ran together; while his nose was long and seemed to hang down at the point, reminding one of the ancient judas. his mouth was small and close; and there was always a cigarette between the dark lips. he was of medium size, somewhere in the thirties, perhaps, lived alone, on a homestead that was his own, and so we have isaac syfe. but there is another still. he lived about as far southwest of dallas as syfe lived to the west and, unlike syfe, he was light, a blond, thick, short and stout. his neck was muscular and slightly bull like; while his features were distinctly germanic: his face was rounded and healthy with cheeks soft and red, and they called him kaden, peter kaden. he also held a claim, having purchased a relinquishment in the opening, lived alone as did syfe and numerous other bachelors, and did his own cooking, washing and ironing. augustus m. barr appeared very much impressed with jean baptiste. he was a judge of men, withal, and much impressed with baptiste as a personality; but the fact that baptiste had broken one hundred and thirty acres on his homestead and now had it ready for crop, the first year of settlement; and had wisely invested in another quarter upon which a girl had made proof, delighted barr. he admired the younger man's viewpoint and optimism. so when barr was in town, and the conversation happened around that way, he was ever pleased to speak his praise of baptiste. it was the day of the indian episode when barr, driving a team hitched to a spring wagon, came to town, hoping that the lumber yard had received the much needed coal. "and how about the coal," cried barr to the lumberman before he drew his team to a stop. "coal a plenty," replied the lumberman cheerfully. "good, good, good!" exclaimed barr, his distinguished old face lighting up with great delight. "yep," let out the lumberman, coming toward the buggy. "i've weighed you, and round to the bin is the coal. st. jean baptiste arrived last night--that is, i think he got home last night, although he brought the coal this morning, two loads, four tons." "eighty hundred pounds of coal, you don't say! and it was jean baptiste who brought it! now, say, wasn't that great! not another man on this whole reservation save he could have made it," he ended admiringly. "jean baptiste is the man who can bring it if anybody," rejoined the other. at this moment a large, stout man came driving up in a one horse rig. "any coal?" he called lazily from his seat. "plenty," cried barr. "thank god," exclaimed the other, whose name was stark, and who held the claim that cornered with the town on the northeast, and therefore joined with the baptiste claim on the east. "thank jean baptiste," advised barr. "he's the man that brought it." "so?" said stark thoughtfully. "when?" "yesterday." "yesterday?" "that's what the lumberman said." "well, i'll be blowed!" "you'll be warmed, i guess." "well, i should say!" "that baptiste is _some_ fellow." "well, yes. although i sometimes think he is a fool." "oh, not so rash!" "any man's a fool that would have left bonesteel with loads yesterday." "then i suppose we should be thankful to the fool. a fool's errand will in this case mean many lazy men's comfort." "and last summer you recall how it rained?" "i sure do." "well, you know that fellow would go out and work in the rain." "and has a hundred and thirty acres ready and into crop while i have but thirty." "i have but ten, but--" "you will be in the hole--at least behind at the end of this summer." "but i'm advertised to prove up." "and leave the country when you have done so." "well, of course. i have a house and lot and three acres back in iowa." "and jean baptiste has acres. in a few years he will have a rich, wonderful farm that will be a factor in the local history and development of this country; it will also mean something for posterity." "well, i don't care." "you drew your land and got it free excepting four dollars an acre to the government. baptiste bought his and paid for the relinquishment. you were lucky, but it will be up to jean baptiste and his kind to make the country. had they been as you appear to be, we would perhaps all be in jerusalem, or the jungle. let's load the coal." "good lecture, that," muttered the lumberman when the two were at the bin. "lot's o' truth in it, too. old stark needed it. he's too lazy to hitch up a team, so rides to town in that little buggy with one horse hitched to it." "what are you talking about?" inquired another, coming up at this moment. "jean baptiste." "so?" "barr and stark have just had a set-to about him." "m-m?" "stark says a man that would come from bonesteel a day like yesterday was a fool." "why will he partake of the fuel he brought to keep from freezing, then?" "well, stark is too lazy to care. he's advertised to prove up, you know, and he always has something to say about working." "used to come to town after the mail during the rainy spell last summer, and upon seeing baptiste at work in the field, cry 'just look at that fool nigger, a workin' in the rain.'" both laughed. a few minutes later the town was thrown into an uproar over the incident related in the last chapter. * * * * * now it happened that day that augustus m. barr went to the postoffice and received a heavy envelope. he glanced through the contents with a serious face, and put the papers in his pocket. on the way to his claim, he took them out and went through them again, and returned them to his pocket. a few minutes later he reached into the pocket, drew out what he thought to be the papers, and silently tore them to threads, and flung the bundle of paper to the winds. when jean baptiste left the town for his little sod house on the hill, he saw a.m. barr just ahead of him. he followed the same route that barr had taken, and when he reached the draw on the town site that lay between his place and the town, he espied some papers. he picked them up, continued on his way, and presently observed the torn ball of paper that barr had cast away. he idly opened the package he held. he wondered at the contents and as he read them through he became curious. the papers had to do with something between augustus m. barr, isaac syfe, and peter kaden. "now that is singular," he said to himself. he continued to read through the papers, and as he did so, another fact became clear to him. kaden was a sad character. and because he was so forlorn, never cultivated any friendship, lived alone and never visited, the people had begun to regard him as crazy. but now jean baptiste understood something that neither he, nor any of the people in the country had dreamed of. he read on. he recalled that the summer before a young lady, beautiful, refined but strange at times, had stayed at the barr claim. barr had introduced her as his niece. the people wondered at her seclusion. she had a fine claim. barr had come to him once and spoken about selling it, stating that the girl had fallen heir to an estate in england and was compelled to return therewith.... later he had succeeded in selling the place. she had disappeared; but he had never forgotten the expressions he had observed upon the face of christine.... he had thought it singular at the time but had thought little of it since. he read further into the papers, and learned about some other person, a woman, but concerning her he could gather nothing definite. he could not understand about christine either, except that she had fallen heir to nothing in england; was not there, but not more than three hundred miles from where he stood at that moment. but there was before him what he _did_ understand, and which was that there was something between augustus m. barr, isaac syfe, and peter kaden, _and something was going to happen_. chapter vii the day before never since the night at the sod house had agnes stewart been the same person. she could not seem to dismiss jean baptiste, and the instance of her providence in getting lost and thereby saving him, from her mind. his strange words and singular recognition of her was baffling. being so very curious therefore, she had since learned that he was well known in the community and held in popular favor. she knew little and understood less with regard to predestination; but she had, since meeting him, recalled that he was the one she had seen in her dream--and loved! she tried to laugh away such a freak; but do what she might, she grew more curious to see him again as the days passed; to talk with him, and learn at last what she was anxious to know--curious to know. _how did he come to utter her name and say that he had waited?_ and, coincident with this, she recalled anew what she had learned--which positively was little--regarding her mother. she had been told that she inherited that one's peculiarity; that her mother had possessed rare eyes, which in a measure explained her own. but she had not been told or knew why her mother had arranged the legacy as she had. not until the day before she was to marry must she know. and then should she not have won a husband to herself by the time she had reached thirty, she was to have the same then, anyhow. singular, but in a sense practical. well, it was so, and she could only sigh and be patient. most girls she had known back in "nubbin ridge" were usually married by the time they had reached her present age. but she was not quite like other girls, and did not even have a beau. she wondered if the man she had saved had a sweetheart. and when she thought of this, she had a feeling that she would know in time. and as the days passed she began at last to believe that in some manner he would play a part in her own life. but agnes stewart was too innocent to know--at least appeared not to be aware of--_the custom of the country and its law_, and therefore could not appreciate the invisible and socially invincible barrier between them. 'twas only the man jean baptiste she saw and reckoned according to what she understood. therefore, because she could get nowhere in her wonderings, as a diversion she turned to the little diary and recorded therein: january th, -- i have not had the patience since arriving here to record any of the events that have transpired since we left indiana. we have been here now nearly three weeks. have not as yet had time to draw any conclusion with regard to the country, but this much i can cheerfully say--and which did not prevail back where we came from--there is spirit in the country, the spirit of the pioneer. the weather has been cold, cold every day since we arrived. because we ran out of urgent provisions soon after coming here i ventured to go to gregory, which is seven miles distant, for some more. i have been too much upset over what took place on that memorable trip to say much about it. because i have never kept anything from him, i told papa how i started from the town, became lost, and stayed all night at a house and saved a man thereby. he has been so frightened over what happened that he will not let me go anywhere alone again--not even in the daytime. "just think, my girl," he has said time and again, "supposing you had not stumbled into that house, you would surely have frozen to death on the plains!" i somehow feel that dolly would have brought me home; but that is a matter for conjecture. but what i say to papa in return is: "had i not gotten lost, that man that is known so well about the country must surely have suffered death!" this seems to pacify him, and he is pleased after all to know that my getting lost was so provident and opportune. he has met the man, jean baptiste, (such an odd name,) and likes him very much--in fact, he is very much carried away with him. i have not seen him since the morning i left him at his sod house; but i cannot get out of my mind the events that passed while i was there. always i can see him look up into my eyes with that strange recognition, and then as he turned, call "_agnes, it is you. i'm glad you have come for i've waited for you so long._" what that means i would give most half my life to know. i know that i shall never rest in peace until i have become well enough acquainted with him to ask him why and how he knew me. then followed the morning when he talked to himself and did not know i heard. it is all so vivid in my mind. of late i have had an uncontrollable desire. i have wanted to know more of my mother. it seems that if i could have known her, i would understand myself better. i am positive now, that she must have been a rare person. that she was french and very high tempered, papa has told me; and also that she had lived in the west indies before he met her, but that she was born in france. as to the legacy, he lays that to her peculiarity. she was always peculiar in a way, says he; and that at all times she was mysterious. she had been over almost all the world, and was wise in many things. he thinks i have inherited much of her wit, and that eventually it will express itself in some manner, which is all so strange. i hope, however, it will. to rise in some manner out of the simple, uneventful life i've lived would certainly be appreciated; but whatever it is i cannot conclude. should i ever rise in any way, i feel now it would be due in some manner to my meeting that strange colored man. i have wondered so often since meeting him, how it feels to be a negro. papa and i have discussed it often since. i understand there is a sort of prejudice against the race in this country; that in the south they are held down and badly treated; that in the north, even, they are not fairly treated. papa and i were both agreed about it. we cannot understand why one should be disliked because his skin is dark; or because his ancestors were slaves. but withal i cannot understand how one could deal unfairly with them because of this. it is said that some of the race are very ignorant and vicious; that they very often commit the unspeakable crime. i suppose that is possible. if so, then they should be educated. take this jean baptiste, for instance, an educated man, and what a gentleman! but papa, (he is very vindictive!) he says that only about half the colored people in this country are full blood; that in the days of slavery and since, even, the white man who is very often ready to abuse the black men, has been the cause of this mixture.... i should think their consciences would disturb them. oh, well, i am glad that i have grown up where prejudice against races is not a custom. my mother was french; my father scotch all through, and because i know him and am so ingrained with his liberal traditions--even tho' he be poor,--i am at peace with all mankind. we haven't all the money we need, and the fact worries me. papa says he will hire bill to some one if any one should need help. it might be that the colored man will hire him, maybe. they say he is going to hire a man. papa intends to speak to him about it. the only thing that worries us is that we have to explain that weakness in bill and george. george is impossible: too slow, talks too much, and would never earn his salt. but if one is patient with bill until he catches on, he is an excellent worker, and faithful. i wish the colored man would give him the job. he owns the quarter that corners with us, which he expects to complete breaking out and putting into flax next summer, so we are told. if bill could get that job it would be handy. handy for bill, for mr. baptiste, and for us. we have not met many people as yet. because it is so cold to get out, i haven't met any so to speak; but papa appears to be getting acquainted right along. we are going to town--to gregory again saturday. i am looking forward to it with pleasant anticipation. i sincerely trust it will be a beautiful day. in the meantime the clock has struck one, papa is turning over in bed and i can hear him. i'll hear his voice presently, so i will close this with hopes that saturday will be a beautiful day and that i'll meet and become acquainted with some nice people. chapter viii an enterprising young man when jean baptiste had found the papers belonging to barr, and had come to understand that it had been barr's intention to destroy the same, natural curiosity had prompted him to read into and examine what was in his possession. but after having read them, and realizing fully to return the same then, would be to have barr know, at least feel, that he was in possession of such a grave secret, would make their, up to this time agreeable, relationship rather awkward, he was at a loss as to what to do. so in the end he laid the papers away, and waited. if barr should make inquiries for them, he would try to find some convenient way to return the same. but on after thought, he knew that barr would hardly start an inquiry about the matter--even if he did come to realize he had lost instead of destroyed the papers. a few days later he saw peter kaden in the village, and this time observed him more closely than had been his wont theretofore. always sad, he so remained, and down in baptiste's heart he was sorry for the wretch. it was after he had returned home and lingered at the fire that he heard a light knock at the door. he called "come in." the door was opened and augustus m. barr stood in the doorway. baptiste was for a time slightly nervous. he was glad then that it was dark within the room, otherwise barr must have seen him give a quick start. "ah-ha," began barr, cheerfully, coming forward and taking the chair baptiste placed at his disposal. "quite comfortable in the little sod house on the claim." "quite comfortable," returned baptiste evenly, his mind upon the papers so near. he didn't trust himself to comment. he waited for whatever was to happen. "suppose you are thinking about the big crop you will seed in the springtime," ventured barr. "yes," admitted baptiste, for in truth, the same had been on his mind before barr put in his appearance. "suppose you will put out quite a crop yourself in the spring," he ventured in return. "well, i don't know," said barr thoughtfully. "i fear i'm getting a little old to farm--and this baching!" baptiste thought about christine who was not so far away instead of in england.... he marveled at the man's calm nerve. it did not seem possible that a man of this one's broad education could be so low as to resort to fallacies. "no," he heard barr again. "i don't think that i shall farm next summer. in fact i have about decided to make proof on my claim, and that is what i have called on you in regard to. i suppose i can count you as witness to the fact?" baptiste was relieved. barr still thought he had destroyed the papers. he was smiling when he replied: "indeed, i shall be glad to attest to the fact you refer to." "thanks," said barr, and rose to go. "no hurry." "i must go into town on a matter of business," said barr from the doorway. "well," he paused briefly and then said, "i am applying for a date, and when that is settled i shall let you know." "very well. good day." "good day, my friend," and he went over the hill. baptiste was thoughtful when he was gone. he looked after him and thought about the papers. he marveled again at the man's calmness.... then suddenly he arose as a thought struck him, and going to his trunk, lifted from the top the last issue of the dallas _enterprise_. he glanced quickly through the columns and then his eyes rested on a legal notice. he smiled. "old peter is going to make proof.... so is barr. the eternal triangle begins to take shape...." he got up and went to the door. over the hill he saw barr just entering the town.... "this is beginning to get interesting.... but i don't like the kaden end of it.... i wish i could do something.... something to help kaden...." * * * * * saturday was a beautiful day. to gregory from miles around went almost everybody. so along with the rest went jean baptiste. he fostered certain hopes,--had ulterior purposes in view. firstly, it was a nice day, the town he knew would be filled; and secondly, he was subtly interested in kaden. he had seen by the paper that he was advertised to make proof that day on his homestead.... another thing, whenever he thought of kaden, he could not keep barr, and syfe, and lastly, christine, out of his mind.... he found the little town filled almost to overflowing when he arrived. teams were tied seemingly to every available post. the narrow board walks were crowded, the saloons were full, red liquor was doing its bit; while the general stores were alive with girls, women and children. a jovial day was ahead and old friendships were revived and new ones made. there is about a new country an air of hopefulness that is contagious. here in this land had come the best from everywhere: the best because they were for the most part hopeful and courageous; that great army of discontented persons that have been the forerunners of the new world. mingled in the crowd, jean baptiste regarded the unusual conglomeration of kinds. there were germans, from germany, and there were swedes from sweden, danes from denmark, norwegians from norway. there were poles, and finns and lithuanians and russians; there were french and a few english; but of his race he was the only one. as a whole the greater portion were from the northern parts of the united states, and he was glad that they were. with them there was no "negro problem," and he was glad there was not. the world was too busy to bother with such: he was glad to know he could work unhampered. he was looked at curiously by many. to the young, a man of his skin was something rare, something new. he smiled over it with equal amusement, and then in a store he walked right into agnes, the first time he had seen her since the morning at the sod house. he was greatly surprised, and rather flustrated,--and was glad again his skin was dark. she could not see the blood that went to his face; while with her, it showed most furiously. as the meeting was unexpected, all she had thought and felt in the weeks since, came suddenly to the surface in her expression. in spite of her effort at self control, her blushing face evidenced her confusion upon seeing him again. but with an effort, she managed to bow courteously, while he was just as dignified. they would have passed and gone their ways had it not been that in that instant another, a lady, a neighbor and friend of baptiste's, came upon them. she had become acquainted with agnes that day, and was very fond of baptiste. although her name was reynolds, she was a red blooded german, sociable, kind and obliging. she had not observed that they had exchanged greetings--did not know, obviously, that the two were acquainted; wherefore, her neighborly instincts became assertive. coming forward volubly, anxiously, she caught baptiste by the hand and shook it vigorously. "mr. baptiste, mr. baptiste!" she cried, punctuating the hand shaking with her voice full of joy, her red, healthy face beaming with smiles. "how very glad i am to see you! you have not been to see us for an age, and i have asked tom where you were. we feared you had gone off and done something serious," whereupon she winked mischievously. baptiste understood and smiled. "you are certainly looking well for an old bachelor," she commented, after releasing his hand and looking into his face seriously, albeit amusedly, mischievously. "we were at dallas and got some of the coal you were brave enough to bring from bonesteel that awful cold day. my, jean, you certainly are possessed with great nerve! while that coal to everybody was a godsend, yet think of the risk you took! why, supposing you had gotten lost in that terrific storm; lost as people have been in the west before! you must be careful," she admonished, kindly. "you are really too fine a young man to go out here and get frozen to death, indeed!" baptiste started perceptibly. she regarded him questioningly. unconsciously his eyes wandered toward agnes who stood near, absorbed in all mrs. reynolds had been saying. his eyes met hers briefly, and the events of the night at the sod house passed through the minds of both. the next moment they looked away, and mrs. reynolds, not understanding, glanced toward agnes. she was by disposition versatile. but she caught her breath now with sudden equanimity, as she turned to agnes and cried: "oh, miss stewart, you!" she smiled with her usual delight and going toward agnes caught her arm affectionately, and then, with face still beaming, she turned to where baptiste stood. "i want you, miss stewart," she said with much ostentation, "to meet one of our neighbors and friends; one of the most enterprising young men of the country, mr. jean baptiste. mr. baptiste, miss agnes stewart." she did it gracefully, and for a time was overcome by her own vanity. in the meantime the lips of both those before her parted to say that they had met, and then slowly, understandingly, they saw that this would mean to explain.... their faces lighted with the logic of meeting formally, and greetings were exchanged to fit the occasion. for the first time he was permitted to see her, to regard her as the real agnes. there was no embarrassment in her face but composure as she extended her small ungloved hand this time and permitted it to rest lightly in his palm. she smiled easily as she accepted his ardent gaze and showed a row of even white teeth momentarily before turning coquetishly away. he regarded her intimately in one sweep of his eyes. she accepted this also with apparent composure. she was now fully normal in her composition. that about her which others had understood, and were inspired to call beautiful now seemed to strangely affect him. was it because he was hungry for woman's love; because since he had looked upon this land of promise and out of the visions she had come to him in those long silent days; because of his lonely young life there in the sod house she had communed with him; was it that he had imagined her sweet radiance that now caused him to feel that she was beautiful? she had looked away only briefly, as if to give him time to think, to consider her, and then she turned her eyes upon him again. she regarded him frankly then, albeit admiringly. she wanted to hear him say something. she was not herself aware of how anxious she was to hear him speak; for him to say anything, would please her. and as she stood before him in her sweet innocence, all the goodness she possessed, the heart and desire always to be kind, to do for others as she had always, was revealed to him. his dream girl she was, and in reality she had not disappointed him. if visionary he had loved her, he now saw her and what was hers. her wondrous hair, rolled into a frivolous knot at the back of her head made her face appear the least slender when it was really square; the chestnut glint of it seemed to contrast coquettishly with her white skin; and the life, the healthy, cheerful life that now gave vigor to her blood brought faint red roses to her cheeks; roses that seemed to come and go. her red lips seemed to tempt him, he was captivated. he forgot in this intimate survey that she was of one race while he, jean baptiste, was of another.... and that between their two races, the invisible barrier, the barrier which, while invisible was so absolute, so strong, so impossible of melting that it was best for the moment that he forget it. while all he saw passed in a moment, he regarded her slenderness as she stood buttoned in the long coat, and wondered how she, so slight and fragile, had been able to lift his heavy frame upon the bed where he had found himself. and still before words had passed between them, he saw her again, and that singularity in the eyes had come back; they were blue and then they were brown, but withal they were so baffling. he did not seem to understand her when they were like this, yet when so he felt strangely a greater right, the right to look into and feast in what he saw, regardless of _the custom of the country and its law_.... and still while he was not aware of it, jean baptiste came to feel that there was something between them. though infinite, in the life that was to come, he now came strangely to feel sure that he was to know her, to become more intimately acquainted with her, and with this consciousness he relaxed. the spell that had come from meeting her again, from being near her, from holding her hand in his though formally, the exchange of words passed and he gradually became his usual self; the self that had always been his in this land where others than those of the race to which he belonged were the sole inhabitants. he was relieved when he heard mrs. reynolds' voice: "miss stewart and her folks have just moved out from indiana, jean, and are renting on the watson place over east of you; the place that corners with the quarter you purchased last fall, you understand." "indeed!" baptiste echoed with feigned ignorance, his eyebrows dilating. "yes," she went on with concern, "and you are neighbors." "i'm glad--honored," baptiste essayed. "he is flattering," blushed agnes, but she was pleased. "and you'll find mr. baptiste the finest kind of neighbor, too," cried mrs. reynolds with equal delight. "i'm a bad neighbor, miss stewart," he disdained. "our friend here, mrs. reynolds, you see, is full of flattery." "i don't believe so, mr. baptiste," she defended, glad to be given an opportunity to speak. "we have just become acquainted, but papa has told me of her, and the family, and i'm sure we will be the best of friends, won't we?" she ended with her eyes upon mrs. reynolds. "bless you, yes! who could keep from liking you?" whereupon she caught agnes close and kissed her impulsively. "oh, say, now," cried baptiste, and then stopped. "you're not a woman," laughed mrs. reynolds, "but you understand," she added reprovingly. suddenly her face lit up with a new thought, and the usual smiling gave way to seriousness, as she cried: "by the way, jean. we hear that you are going to hire a man this spring, and that reminds me that miss stewart's father has two boys--her brothers--whom he has not work enough nor horses enough to use, so he wishes to hire one out." she paused to observe agnes, who had also become serious and was looking up at her. at this point she turned to baptiste, and with a slight hesitation, she said: "do you really wish to hire a man--mr.--a--mr. baptiste?" saying it had heightened her color, and the anxiety in her tone caused her to appear more serious. she had turned her eyes up to his and he was for the instant captivated again with the thought that she was beautiful. his answer, however, was calm. "i must have a man," he acknowledged. "i have more work than i can do alone." "why, papa wishes to hire bill--" it was natural to say bill because it was bill they always hired, although george was the older; but since we know why george was never offered, we return to her. "i should say william," she corrected awkwardly, and with an effort she cast it out of her mind and went on: "so if--if you think you could--a--use him, or would care to give him the job," she was annoyed with the fact that bill was halfwitted, and it confused her, which explains the slight catches in her voice. but bravely she continued, "that is, if you have not already given some one else the job, you could speak to papa, and he would be pleased, i'm sure." she ended with evident relief; but the thought that had confused her, being still in her mind, her face was dark with a confusion that he did not understand. hoping to relieve the annoyance he could see, although not understanding the cause of it, he spoke up quickly. "i have not hired a man, and have no other in sight; so your suggestion, miss, regarding your brother meets with my favor. i will endeavor therefore, to see your father today if possible, if not, later, and discuss the matter pro and con." he had made it so easy for her, and she was overly gracious as she attempted to have him understand in some manner that her brother was afflicted. so her effort this time was a bit braver, notwithstanding as anxious, however, as before. "oh, papa will be glad to have my brother work for you, and i wish you would--would please not hire any other until you have talked with him." she paused again as if to gather courage for the final drive. "you will find my brother faithful, and honest, and a good worker; but--but--" it seemed that she could not avoid the break in her voice when she came to this all embarrassing point, "but sometimes--he--he makes mistakes. he is a little awkward, a little bunglesome in starting, but if you would--could exercise just a little patience for a few days--a day, i am sure he would please you." it was out at last. she was sure he would understand. it had cost her such an effort to try to make it plain without just coming out and saying he was halfwitted. she was not aware that in concluding she had done so appealingly. he had observed it and his man's heart went out to her in her distress. he remembered then too, although he had on their first meeting forgotten that he had been told all about her brothers, and had also heard of her. "you need have no fear there, miss stewart," he wilfully lied. "i am the most patient man in the world." he wondered then at himself, that he could lie so easily. his one great failing was his impatience, and he knew it. because he did and felt that he tried to crush it, was his redeeming feature in this respect. but the words had lightened her burden, and there was heightening of her color, as she spoke now with unfeigned delight: "oh, that is indeed kind of you. i am so glad to hear you say so. bill is a good hand--everybody likes him after he has worked a while. it is because he is a little awkward and forgetful in the beginning that worries my father and me. so i'm glad you know now and will not be impatient." in truth while she did not know it, jean was pleased with the prospect. he had not lived two years in the country, the new country, without having experienced the difficulty that comes with the usual hired man. the class of men, with the exception of a homesteader, who came to the country for work usually fell into the pastime of gambling and drinking which seemed to be contagious, and many were the griefs they gave those by whom they were employed. and jean baptiste, now that she had made it plain regarding her brother, had something to say himself. "there is one little thing i should like to mention, miss stewart," he said with apparent seriousness. she caught her breath with renewed anxiety as she returned his look. in the next instant she was relieved, however, as he said: "you understand that i am baching, a bachelor, and the fare of bachelors is, i trust you will appreciate, not always the best." he paused as he thought of how she must feel after having seen the way he kept his house, and hoped that she could overlook the condition in which she knew he kept it. but if he was embarrassed at the thought of it, it was not so with her. for her sympathy went out to him. she was conscious of how inconvenient it must be to bach, to live alone as he was doing, and to work so hard. "it is not always to hired men's liking to forego the meals that only women can prepare, and for that reason it is sometimes difficult for us to keep men." "oh, you will not have to worry as to that, mr. baptiste," she assured him pleasantly. she caught her breath with something joyous apparently as she turned to him. "you see, we live almost directly between your two places, and my brother can stay home and save you that trouble and bother." she was glad that she could be of assistance to him in some way, though it be indirectly. with sudden impulse, she turned to mrs. reynolds who had not interrupted: "it will be nice, now, won't it?" "just dandy," the other agreed readily. "i am so glad we all three met here," she went on. "in meeting we have fortunately been of some service to each other. you will find mr. baptiste a fine fellow to work for. we let our boys go over and help him out when he's pushed, and we know he appreciates it to the fullest." she halted, turned now mischievously to baptiste and cried: "we are always after jean that he should marry. why, just think what a good husband he would make some nice girl." she had found her topic, had mrs. reynolds. of all topics, she preferred to jolly the single with getting married to anything else, so she went on with delight. "he goes off down to chicago every winter and we wait to see the girl when he returns, but always he disappoints us." she affected a frown a moment before resuming: "it is certainly too bad that some good girl must do without a home and the happiness that is due her, while he lives there alone, having no comfort but what he gets when he goes visiting." she affected to appear serious and to have him feel it, while he could do nothing but grin awkwardly. "oh, mrs. reynolds, you're hard on a fellow. my! give him a chance. it takes two to make a bargain. i can't marry myself." he caught the eyes of agnes who was enjoying his tender expression. indeed the subject appealed to him, and he had found it to his liking. she blushed. she enjoyed the humor. "i suspect mrs. reynolds speaks the truth," she said with affected seriousness, but found it impossible to down the color in her flaming cheeks nevertheless. "oh, but you two can jolly a fellow." he became serious now as he went on: "but it isn't fair. there is no girl back in chicago; there is no girl anywhere for me." he was successful in his affectation of self pity, and her feelings went out to him in her words that followed: "now that is indeed, too bad, for him, mrs. reynolds, isn't it? perhaps he is telling the truth. the girls in chicago do not always understand the life out here, and cannot make one feel very much encouraged." she wondered at her own words. but she went on nevertheless. "even back in indiana they do not understand the west. they are--seem to be, so narrow, they feel that they are living in the only place of civilization on earth." her logical statement took away the joke. they became serious. the store was filling and the crowd was pushing. so they parted. a few minutes later as baptiste passed down the street, he saw peter kaden coming from the commissioners' office. across the way he observed barr and syfe stop and exchange a few words. the next moment they went their two ways while he stood looking after them. chapter ix "christine, christine!" one week from the day peter kaden made proof at gregory on the homestead he held, the court record showed that he had transferred the same to some unknown person. in the course of events it was not noticed by the masses. it was because jean baptiste was expecting something of the kind that he happened to observe the record of the transfer in the following week's issue of the paper. he couldn't get the incident out of his mind, and he found his eyes wandering time and again in the direction of the house of augustus m. barr in the days that followed. from what he had gleaned from the papers, he was sure that something sinister was to occur in that new land soon. he tried in vain to formulate some plan of action--rather, some plan of prevention. but the plot, the intrigue, or whatever it may be called, was deep. it had taken root before either had ever seen the country they now called home. and because of its intricate nature, he could formulate no plan toward combatting the thing he felt positively in his veins was to take place. over the hill two miles and more the claim shack of peter kaden could not be seen. but he could always feel where it was and the events that went on therein. this healthy, but sad, forlorn german had aroused his sympathy, and always when he thought of him, strangely he thought of christine. the days passed slowly and things went on as usual. he saw barr occasionally and as often saw the dark syfe. he read as was his wont, and then one evening when his few chores were done, he had a desire to walk. he drew on his overcoat, and, taking a bucket, he walked slowly down the slope that led up to his house, to the well a quarter mile distant. he could never after account for the strange feeling that came and went as he ambled toward the well. he reached it in due time, filled his bucket, and was in the act of returning when out of the night he caught the unmistakable sound of horses' hoofs. some one on horseback was coming. he set the bucket down and bent his ears more keenly to hear the sound. yes, they were hoof beats, an unusual clatter. he gave a start. only one horse in the neighborhood made such a noise with the hoofs when moving, for he had heard the same before, and that horse belonged to a.m. barr, and was a pacer. christine had use to ride him. and when he recalled it, he became curious. christine was not there, he knew, unless she had come that day, which was not likely.... then _who rode the horse_? he had never seen barr on horseback.... they were coming from about where barr's house stood, coming in his direction along the road. he estimated at that moment they must be about a quarter of a mile away. he listened intently. onward they came, drawing closer all the while. he got an inspiration. why should he be seen? he moved back from the road some distance. there was no moon and the night was dark, but the stars filled the night air with a dim ray. he lay upon the ground as the horseman drew nearer. presently out of the shadow he caught the dim outline of the rider. he saw that a heavy ulster was worn, and the collar of the same was around the rider's neck, almost concealing the head; but he recognized the rider as a.m. barr. "now where can he be going," he muttered to himself, standing erect as he listened to the hoof beats on the road below. he pondered briefly. "why does he never ride in the daytime?" from down the road the sound of hoof beats continued. and then baptiste was again inspired. "kaden!" he cried, and fell into deep thought. at his left was a small creek, usually dry. this stream led in an angling direction down toward the larger stream south of the town. it led directly toward the claim of peter kaden, although the homestead lay beyond the creek. by following it, one could reach kaden's house in about two-thirds the distance if going by trail. a few minutes later jean baptiste was speedily following the route that led to the creek. he paused at intervals and upon listening could hear the hoof beats along the trail in the inevitable direction. he reached the creek in a short time, found his way across it, and once on the other side, he hurried through a school section to kaden's cabin that was joined with this on the south. he crossed the school section quickly, and in the night air he could smell, and presently came to see, the smoke curling from the chimney. he approached the house cautiously. he was glad that poor kaden didn't keep a dog. when he had drawn close enough to distinguish the objects before him, he saw barr's horse tied out of the wind, on the south side of the little barn. he looked closer and observed another near. he reckoned that one to be syfe's. "so the triangle is forming," he muttered. he went up to the house noiselessly. he passed around its dark side to where he saw light emanating from the small window. he peered cautiously through it. sitting on the side of the bed, kaden's face met his gaze. he regarded it briefly before seeking out the others. never, he felt, if he lived a hundred years would he ever forget the expression of agony that face wore! upon its usual roundness, perceptible lines had formed; in the light of the dim lamp he caught the darkness about the eyes, the skin under almost sagging and swollen. he permitted his gaze to drift further, and to take in the proportions of the room. on a stool near sat syfe, the jew. he wore his overcoat. indeed, baptiste could not recall having ever seen him without it about him; also he wore his thick, dark cap. his little mustache stood out over the small mouth, between the lips of which reposed the usual cigarette. he was drawing away easily at this, while his ears appeared to be attentive to what was going on. he was listening to barr, who stood in the center of the room, talking in much excitement, making gestures; while he could see the agonized kaden protesting. he could not catch all that was being said, but some of it. barr, in particular, he observed, while speaking forcibly, was nevertheless controlled. it was kaden whose voice reached his ears more often on the outside. "i kept you from australia...." this from barr. "they had you on shipboard.... your carcass would be fit for the vultures now on that sand swept desert you were headed for...." "but i was innocent, i was innocent," protested kaden. "i didn't go to russia that trip. i didn't go to russia, and to jerusalem, i have never been!" "but you hadn't proved it. you were done for. they had you, and all you could do or say wouldn't have kept you in england. it was i, me, do you understand.... you do understand that i kept you from going. i, me, who saved you. no law in this land could keep you here if they knew now where you were...." "but you forget christine, my poor christine! you have her, is that not enough? oh, you are hard. you drive me most insane. tell me about christine. give her back to me and all is yours." a wind rose suddenly out of the west. a shed stood near, a shed covered over with hay and some poles that had been cut green, and the now dry leaves gave forth a moaning sound. he saw those inside start. with the noise, baptiste knew he could hear no more, and might be apprehended. stealthily he departed. and all the way to the sod house that night he kept repeating what he had heard. "_christine, christine! you have her, is she not enough? give her back and all is yours!_" if he could only ascertain what was between kaden and christine--but it was all coming to something soon, and he knew that augustus m. barr was taking the advantage of some one; that kaden was innocent but couldn't prove it; that syfe was in some way darkly connected, and the eternal triangle held to its sinister purpose. chapter x "you have never been this way before" when agnes stewart found her father and they were ready to return home, she inquired: "did he see you?" "see who?" "you? you don't understand. i mean the colored gentleman, mr. baptiste?" "why, no, my dear," her father replied wonderingly. "i saw him, but i had no word with him. i don't understand." "why, i met him. mrs. reynolds, who knows you--she and i became acquainted, and we met and had a long talk with mr. baptiste, and he is going to hire a man, so we discussed bill. he said he would see you." her father drew the team to a stop. "i don't understand. i should see him, and i did, but he was talking with some fellows who live north of town. i think it was about horses. he went with them, so i suppose we may as well go on home and see him later." "i'm so sorry," she said and showed it in her face. "i had hoped he would get to see you, and that it would all be settled and bill would get the job." "don't be so out of hope," said he. "i have no doubt that we will get to see mr. baptiste, and talk it over." "i am worried, because--you know, papa, when we have paid for the seed and feed, we will have very little left." "such a wonderful, such a thoughtful little girl i have," he said admiringly, stroking her hand fondly in the meantime. "i can't imagine how i could get along without my aggie." "see him and get bill hired and i'll not worry any more." "i'll do so, i'll do so tomorrow." "you say you saw him going north of town?" "yes." she was silent, while he was thoughtful. presently he inquired of what passed when she met him. she told him. "i never spoke of having met him before." "you didn't?" "why, no, papa. how could i? it would be hard to explain." "well, now, coming to think of it, it would, wouldn't it?" "it _shouldn't_," she said. she didn't relish the situation. "did he?" "what?" "speak of it." "oh, no! he didn't...." "i wonder has he ever." "i don't think so." "that is very thoughtful of him." "it is. he is a real gentleman." "so everybody says." "and so pleasant to listen to." "indeed." "mrs. reynolds is carried away with him. says he's one of the most industrious and energetic young men of the country." "isn't that fine! but it seems rather odd, doesn't it? him out here alone." "it is indeed singular. but he is just the kind of man a new country needs." "if the country had a few hundred more like him we wouldn't know it in five years." "in three years!" she said admiringly. "how shall we explain in regards to bill?..." "i've explained." "you have!" "oh, i didn't come out and say it in words, of course. i didn't need to." "then how? how did you make him understand?" "it was easy. it was easy because he is so quick witted. he seems to readily understand anything." "i'll bet!" "he spoke of the fact that being a bachelor it was awkward to keep hired men, and this fact seemed to worry him." "but why didn't you explain that bill could stay home?" "i did." "oh!" "and he was so relieved." "i'm sure he was. it is very inconvenient." "it is. and i feel rather sorry for him." "needs a wife." she was silent. "wonder why he doesn't marry?" "i don't know." "will make some girl a fine husband." silence. "i guess he has a girl, though, and will likely marry soon." "i don't think so." "why?" "well," she said slowly. she blushed unseen and went on: "mrs. reynolds joked him about it, and he denied it." "but any man would do that. they like to be modest; to appear like they have no loves. it creates sympathy. men are sentimental, too. they like sympathy." "yes, i suppose so," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "but i don't think he has a girl. in my mind he is a poor lonesome fellow. just like he has no close friends...." he was silent now. "i have thought about it since i met him." "you have?" "why, yes. certainly." her father laughed. "why are you laughing?" she asked, somewhat nettled. "i was thinking." "thinking? thinking of what?" "of jean baptiste." "what do you mean?" "why, there is a good chance for you." "father!" "why not!" "father! how can you!" he laughed. she acted as if angry. he looked at her mischievously. she did not grant him a smile. "tut, tut, aggie! can't you take a joke?" "but you should not joke like that." "oh, come now. it pleased me to joke like that." "why should it please you?" "why, i have a sense of humor." "a sense of humor?" "yes." "but i don't see the joke?" "why, aggie," he turned to her seriously. "almost i don't think it is a joke." "father!" "well, dear? you seem to be so interested in the man." "father, oh, father!" and the next instant she was crying. he reached out and caught her fondly to him. "my girl, my girl, i didn't intend to upset you. now be papa's little darling and don't cry any more!" "you have never been this way before," she sobbed. he caressed her more now. "well, dearest. you see. well, your mother--" "my mother!" she sat quickly up. "we are going to raise a great crop this year. i feel sure of it." "but my mother!" "i think i know where i can get some good seed oats." they rode along in silence the rest of the way, consumed with their own thoughts. no words passed, but agnes was thinking. she would never get out of her mind what her father had started to say. but he had stopped in time.... her mind went back to the strange incidents in her life. she lived over again the day she had looked in the mirror and had seen that strange look, she connected it singularly with what her father had started to say. she was silent thereafter, but her soul was on fire. chapter xi what jean baptiste found in the well "well, my friend," said a.m. barr, stopping before baptiste's hut one day shortly after his visit to kaden's, "i have my date and will make proof on the nd of march. i have listed you as one of my witnesses. guess i may depend on you to be ready that day?" "i shall remember it, mr. barr," answered baptiste. "have you rented your place yet?" "no, i have not. rather, not the buildings. my neighbor across the road, however, will put the thirty acres i have broken into crop, and break a few more." "m-m." "how much do you plan seeding this season?" "all of both places anyhow." "ah, young man, i tell you, you are a worker! such young men as you will be the making of this country. and you'll be rich in time." "oh, no," cried baptiste disdainfully. "if i were young and strong like you, i would be doing the same." "you expect to go away when you have completed your proof...." "well, i don't know," whereupon a.m. barr cast a furtive glance in his direction. baptiste pretended not to see it. "what'll you do with your horses?" another furtive glance. "well, i might advertise a sale," he said boldly. he cast a dark look in baptiste's direction, which the other pretended not to see--but did see nevertheless. "why, what could he know," was in barr's mind. "nothing," he answered his own question. a moment later he was the same barr; the officious englishman when he drove down the road a few minutes later, and none the wiser therefor. march the twenty-second came and went, and augustus offered proof on his homestead, and passed, baptiste assisting him as witness. sunday was the next day, and when it came, all calm and beautiful, baptiste realized that he did not have enough seed wheat to sow all his land that he wished put in wheat. a squaw man had raised a large crop to the southwest of him the year before, and this, he understood, was for sale. he decided to call on the squaw man, ascertain the fact, and if so, purchase a share of it for his purpose. accordingly, sunday morning after he had breakfasted, and piled the dishes bachelor fashion (unwashed) he started out. the route he took carried him directly by peter kaden's claim, and when he had gone that far, and found himself looking at the low, sod house that stood a few paces back from the road, he was curious. he paused unconsciously before the house and observed it idly a few moments. he was struck with the quietness about, and at once became curiously apprehensive. no smoke emerged from the chimney. there was no evidence that any one was about. impelled by his growing curiosity, he approached the house and knocked at the door. there was no response from within. he tried it again. still no response. he tried the knob. it gave. he pushed the door open cautiously, and peered in. the house was empty but for the crude furniture. he entered curiously and looked about. the bed was spread over, there was no fire in the stove, the coldness of the atmosphere within impressed him with a theory that no fire had been in the stove that day or the night before. the dishes were clean and piled on the table with a cloth spread over them. he went outside, closing the door behind him and swept the surrounding country with his gaze which revealed no peter kaden. he lowered his eyes in thought as his lips muttered: "wonder where he is?" a path began at his feet. it led down to a draw some two hundred yards away. he fell into it aimlessly and followed its course for a short way. presently, upon looking up, he saw a well at the side of the draw which obviously was the terminus of the path. forthwith he made the well his objective. in that country wells were not plentiful. the soil was of the richest and blackest loam with a clay subsoil; but water except where there was sand, was not easily found only in or near a draw, or a flat. he reached the well, and, drawing aside the bucket that reposed on the lid, he opened the well and lowered the bucket to the water some thirty feet below. the bright sun rays somewhat blinded him and for a moment he could not see the water clearly. the bucket struck, in due time, however, and he wondered why there was no splash. he jerked it over, and when it struck again there was the sound of water, but it appeared difficult to sink it. he peered down into it again to ascertain what the matter was. a wave of ripples caught his gaze, while the bucket seemed to be resting on something. he gave the rope another jerk and twist, and it came down bottom-side up on the dark object. "hell," he muttered, "this well is dry!" he took another look. "no, it isn't dry. there is something in the well." bending until his face was shaded by the shadow of the well, he searched below very closely with his eyes. he could distinguish that there was something; and that _the something_ seemed to bobble. he withdrew the bucket, unfilled, and, allowing a few moments for the ripples to subside, he searched the darkness below again closely. he became conscious of a cold feeling stealing up his spine, then he caught and held his breath as slowly what was below took outline. it was not a dog, a coyote, a pig, or an animal of any kind. it was _something_ else ... and the _something_ else had features that were familiar. at last realization was upon him, his fingers gripped the boards they held as he gradually straightened up. "my god!" he cried at last, terror stricken. for below him, with white face turned upward as if laughing, was the dead body of peter kaden. chapter xii miss stewart receives a caller coincident with the finding of peter kaden's body in the well, certain things became public with regard to others. but to complete this part of it. after finding the body jean baptiste hurried into dallas and gave the alarm. excitement ran high for a time, and as it was sunday, in a few hours the spot around the well was crowded. from over all the reservation the people came, and the consensus of opinion was that it was suicide.... perhaps jean baptiste was the only one who had his doubts. if it was suicide, then he was positive it was a precipitated suicide. until the coroner arrived there was no disposition made of the remains, and when he did, the decision of suicide was sustained. since the man baptiste had started to see was brought to the spot by the excitement, the business in hand was settled thereupon, and that evening, he went to call on the stewarts with a view to hiring bill. he found agnes alone, but was invited to enter. from her expression, he could see that he was expected, and while he waited for her father who had gone across the road, they fell into amiable conversation. "springtime is knocking at our door," he ventured. "and i am glad to see it, and suppose you are also," she answered. "who isn't! it has been a very severe winter." "i think so, too. are the winters here as a rule as cold as this one has been?" how modest he thought she was. she was dressed neatly in a satin shirtwaist and tailored skirt; while from beneath the skirts her small feet incased in heavy shoes peeped like mice. her neck rose out of her bodice and he thought her throat was so very round and white; while he noticed her prominent chin more today than he had before. he liked it. nature had been his study, and he didn't like a retreating chin. it, to his mind, was an indication of weak will, with exceptions perhaps here and there. he reposed more confidence in the person, however, when the chin was like hers, so naturally he was interested. as she sat before him with folded hands, he also observed her heavy hair, done into braids and gathered about her head. it gave her an unostentatious expression; while her eyes were as he had found them before, baffling. "why, no, they are not," he said. "of course i have not seen many--in fact this is the second; but i am advised that, as a rule, the winters are very mild for this latitude." "i see. i hope they will always be so if we continue to live here," and she laughed pleasantly. "how do you like it in our country?" he inquired now, pleased to be in conversation with her. "why, i like it very well," she replied amiably. "what i have seen of it, i think i would as soon live here as back in indiana." "i have been in indiana myself." "you have?" she was cheered with the fact. he nodded. "yes, all over. what part of indiana do you come from?" "rensselaer," she replied, shifting with comfort, and delighted that by his having been in indiana, he was making their conversation easier. "oh, i see," she heard him. "that is toward the northern part of the state." "yes," she replied in obvious delight. "i have never been to that town, but i have been all around it." "well, well!" she was at a loss in the moment how to proceed and then presently she said: "you have traveled considerably, mr. baptiste, i understand." he felt somewhat flattered to know that she had discussed him with others apparently. "well, yes, i have," he replied slowly. "that must be fine. i long so much to travel." "you have not traveled far?" "no. from indiana to western kansas where we were most starved out, and then back to indiana and out here." he laughed, she also joined in and they felt nearer each other by it. "and how do you like it, mr. baptiste?" "out here, you mean?" "yes, why, yes, of course," she added hastily. "why, i like it fine. i'm thoroughly in love with the country." "that's nice. and you own such nice land, i don't wonder," she said thoughtfully. "oh, well," he replied, modestly, "i think i should like it anyhow." "of course; but when one has property--such nice land as you own, they have everything to like it for." "i'm compelled to agree with you." "i'm sorry we don't own any," she said regretfully. "but of course in a way we are not entitled to. we didn't get in 'on the ground floor,' therefore we must be satisfied as renters." he was silent but attentive. "papa never seems to have been very fortunate. it may be due to his quaint old fashioned manner, but he has never owned any land at all, poor fellow." she said the last more to herself than to him. he was interested and continued to listen. "we went to western kansas with a little money and very good stock, and were dried out two years straight, and the third year when we had a good crop with a chance to get back at least a little of what we had lost, along came a big hail storm and pounded everything into the ground." "wasn't that too bad!" he cried sympathetically. "it sure was! it is awfully discouraging to work as hard and to have sacrificed as much as we had, and then come out as we did. it just took all the ambition out of him." "i shouldn't wonder," he commented tenderly. "and then we went back to indiana--broke, of course, and having no money and no stock; because we had to sell what we had left to get out of western kansas. so since 'beggars can't be choosers' we had to take what we could get. and that was a poor farm in a remote part of indiana, in a little place that was so poor that the corn was all nubbins. they called it 'nubbin ridge.'" he laughed, and she had to also when she thought of it. "well, we were able to live and pay a little on some more stock. because my brothers didn't take much to run around with like other boys but stayed home and worked, we finally succeeded in getting just a little something together again and then a real estate man came along and told us about this place, so here we are." she bestowed a smile upon him and sighed. she had told more of themselves than she had intended, but it had been a pleasant diversion at that; moreover, she was delighted because he was such an attentive listener. "so that is how you came here?" he essayed. "i have enjoyed listening to you. your lives read like an interesting book." "oh, that isn't fair. you are joking with me!" notwithstanding, she blushed furiously. "no, no, indeed," he protested. she believed him. strangely she reposed such confidence in the man that she felt she could sit and talk with him forever. "but it is certainly too bad that you have been so unfortunate. i am sure it will not always be so. you are perseverant, i see, and 'riches come to him who waits.'" "an old saying, but i hope it will not wait too long. papa is getting old, and--my brothers would be unable to manage with any effect alone...." he understood her and the incident was overlooked. "your mother is dead?" "yes, my mother is dead, mr. baptiste." "oh." "died when i was a baby." "well, well...." "i never knew her." "well, i do say!" he paused briefly, while she was silent but thinking deeply.... thinking of what her father had started to say and never finished. "and i venture to say that you have just about raised yourself?" she blushed. "you must be a wonderful girl." she blushed again and twisted her hands about. she tried to protest; but couldn't trust herself to say anything just then. how she liked to hear him talk! "you have my best wishes, believe me," he was at a loss for the moment as to how to proceed. "oh, thank you." she didn't dare raise her eyes. he regarded her as she sat before him, blushing so beautifully, and wished they were of the same race.... footsteps were heard at that moment, and both sat up expectantly. quickly, then, she rose to her feet and went to the door and opened it in time to meet her father who was about to enter. "oh, it's you, father! i'm glad you've come. mr. baptiste is here to see you." "ah-ha, mr. baptiste, i am honored," cried jack stewart, her father, and he marched forward with outstretched hand and much ado; scotch propriety. "glad to know you, judge," baptiste returned warmly, grasping the proffered hand. "be seated, be seated and make yourself comfortable; make yourself at home," he said, pushing forward the chair out of which baptiste had risen. agnes was smiling pleasantly. she could see that the two were going to become friends, for both were so frank in their demeanor. "now, aggie, you must prepare supper for mr. baptiste and myself," he said, taking hold of her arm. "oh, no," disdained baptiste. "don't think of it!" "now, now, my worthy friend," admonished stewart, and then stopped. "why--you have met my daughter?" "yes, we have met," they spoke in the same breath, exchanging glances. "then, while you fix us something good to eat, we will discuss our business." they found no difficulty in reaching a bargain in regard to bill, the bargain being that bill was to board home and sleep there also; and the consideration was to be one dollar per day, and by the time this was completed, agnes called them to supper. "this is an unexpected pleasure, even though it be an intrusion," said baptiste as he was gently urged into a seat. "ah-ha, and i see you have a sense of humor," whereupon jack stewart's eyes glistened humorously behind the old style glasses he wore. baptiste colored unseen, while agnes regarded him smilingly. "we haven't much, but what is here you are welcome to," she said. "it's a feast," said he. "about as good as baching, anyhow," joined stewart. "hush!" "how do you like it?" "didn't i say hush? that should be sufficient!" agnes took a seat and surveyed the table carefully to see that all was there. her father was pious. he blessed the table, and when this was over, fell to eating with his knife. "by the way," cried baptiste near the end of the meal. "did you hear the news?" "what news," they asked in chorus. "the man dead in the well." "is that so!" they exclaimed, shocked. he then told them in detail all about the finding of the body, and the opinion that it was a suicide. they listened with the usual awe and curiosity. but jean baptiste did not voice his suspicions, or tell them anything he knew. at a later hour he took his leave. and neither of the three realized then that the self-same tragedy linked strangely an after event in their lives. but when jean baptiste went over the hill to his sod house that stood on the claim, jack stewart went outside and walked around for almost an hour. he was thinking. thinking of something he knew and had never told. chapter xiii the coming of the railroad it is not likely that the people in the neighborhood of dallas would have ever known any more than they did regarding a.m. barr, had it not been for two accounts. when proof had been offered by him on his homestead and a loan sought, to keep from invalidating the title to his land, he was compelled to admit that he was married; but, fortunately for him, it was not necessary to state when or how long he had been married, and this he obligingly did not state. but the surprise came when upon admittance, he then confessed to the promoters that he had married christine.... of course everybody was positive then that he had been married to christine when he came to the country, and that he was married to her at the time she was holding the claim. perjury was a penitentiary offense. he had sold her claim on pretense that she must go to england. christine, as baptiste had come to know by the papers he found, had not, of course, gone to england; but merely to lincoln, nebraska, where she was safe to keep silent about what she knew in regard to the subtle transactions of augustus m. barr. the incident went the usual route of gossip, the people wondering how such a beautiful girl as christine could be happy as the wife of an old, broken down infidel like barr. but they never came into the truth, the whole truth; they never connected barr with the dark assyrian jew, isaac syfe; nor were they aware that he had ever known the forlorn peter kaden. only jean baptiste knew this, and that, although barr called a sale and immediately left the country, there was something still to be completed. but jean baptiste didn't know then that it would all come back to him in such an unusual manner. however, the public learned a little more concerning the previous activities of this august contemporary before long. it came in the form of a sensational newspaper feature story. and was in brief to wit: while pastor of the baker street church, london, isaac m. barr, and not augustus, mind you, although there was no question about the two being one and the same became very much in the confidence of his flock. of london's great middle class they were and possessed ambition, which barr apparently appealed to. the result was that a great colony set sail for a land of promise, the land being western canada. the full details were not given; but it seems that barr was the trustee and handled the money. on arrival, barr suddenly disappeared and the good people from england never saw him again, which perhaps accounts in some measure for his becoming an infidel.... who would not under such circumstances? * * * * * there is a feature regarding a new country--that is, a country that lays toward the western portion of the great central valley, that is always questioned, and is ever a source for knockers. but we should explain one thing that might be of benefit to those who would go west to settle and develop with hopes of success. and this is rainfall. in this country of our story, which lay near the line where central time is changed to mountain time, near the fifth principal meridian the altitude is about feet above the level of the sea, and the rainfall may be estimated accordingly. rainfall is governed by altitude and is a feature beyond discussion. this is a very serious matter, and could multitudes of people going west to take homesteads, or settle, be impressed with the facts and know then what to expect, much grief could be avoided. but unfortunately this is not so. masses can be convinced--were convinced in the country of our story, and all the west beyond, in other parts, that rainfall was governed by cultivation. an erroneous idea! as has been stated, rainfall is governed by elevation: air pressures are such that when in contact with the heavy air due to the lower elevation, thunder showers and general rains fall more frequently on the whole and this can be certified by the record of any weather bureau, comparing the elevation to the amount of precipitation over a given period, say five or ten years. it is a fact, however, that in the most arid districts cloudbursts do occur, but they are always a detriment to the parts over which they may fall. and it is also true that in a given year or season, more rain may fall over a certain arid district than some well cultivated portion in a country where the fall of rain is beyond question. because of these contending features, many portions of the country have received a boom one season and failed to produce the next. when one year had proven exceedingly wet, the theory was that the whole climatic origin of the country had changed; drought had passed forever, and people and capital flowed in to sometimes go out, broken and shattered in spirits, hopes and finances later. such instances hurt and hinder a country instead of helping it. if, in coming to the country of our story the masses of people could have understood that at an elevation of from two thousand to twenty-two hundred feet, the rainfall over a period of ten years would approximate an average of twenty-five inches annually, it is reasonable to suppose that they would expect dry years and wet years; some cold winters and some fair, open winters; some cloudbursts and some protracted droughts. but when the first years of settlement were accompanied by heavy rains, the boom that followed is almost beyond our pen to detail. from over all the country people came hither; people with means, for it was the land of opportunity. the man who was in many cases wealthy in older portions of the country, had come there with next to and very often with nothing and had grown rich--not by any particular ability or concentrated effort on the part of himself; not by the making and saving, investing and profiting, but because in the early days the land was of such little value and brought so little when offered for sale that it had been a case of staying thereon; result, riches came in the advance later in the price according to demand. such was not the circumstances altogether in the land where jean baptiste had cast his lot in the hope for ultimate success. while opportunity was ripe, a few thousands had been expedient. for what could be had for a small amount here would have cost a far greater amount back east. but while land was selling and selling readily the country would and could not maintain its possible quota of development without railroad facilities. this question, therefore, was of the most urgent anxiety. when would the railroad be extended out of bonesteel westward? at bonesteel they said never. others, somewhat more liberal said it might be extended in twenty years. they argued that since it had taken that many years after bonesteel had been started before the company placed their tracks there, the same would in all probability hold with regards to the country and the towns west. so be it. the promoters of the town of dallas argued that it would not be extended from bonesteel at all; that when it was extended, it would come up the valley from the town some miles below bonesteel, where the tracks lifted to the highlands. meaning, of course that dallas would be the only town in the newly opened portion of the country to get the railroad. jean baptiste and bill had seeded all the land that was under cultivation on baptiste's property, and were well under way of breaking what was left unbroken, when baptiste was offered a proposition that looked good to him. it was acres joining his place near stewart's, the property of an indian, the allotee having recently expired. under a ruling of the department of the interior, an indian cannot dispose of an allotment under twenty-five years from the time he is alloted. this ruling is dissatisfactory to the indian; for, notwithstanding all the rôles in which he is characterized in the movies and dramas as the great primitive hero, brave and courageous, the people of the west who are surrounded with red men, and know them, know that they wish to sell anything they might happen to possess as soon as selling is possible. therefore, when one happens to expire, leaving his land to his heirs who can thereupon sell, dispose, give away or do what they may wish with the land, as long as it accords with the dictates of the indian agent, the tract of land in question can be expected to pass into other hands forthwith. the two hundred acres offered jean baptiste was convenient to his land, and was offered at twenty dollars per acre. other lands about had sold as high as thirty dollars the acre. a thousand dollars down and a thousand dollars a year until paid was the bargain, and he accepted it, paying over the thousand, which was the last of the money he had brought from the east with him. this was before something happened that turned the whole country into an orgy of excitement. a few days after this one of the long rainy periods set in, and the little town was overrun with homesteaders, agreeing that the land that was broken was acting to their advantage: bringing all the good rains, and drought would never be again. then one day a man brought the news. the surveyors were in bonesteel. it was verified by others, and really turned out to be true. the surveyors being in bonesteel was an evident fact that the railroad would follow the highlands and would not come up the valley, and that settled dallas as a town. it was doomed before a stake was set, and here passes out of our story, in so far as a railway in its present location was concerned. but whatever route a railroad took, it meant that the value to a homestead by the extension of the railroad would approximate to exceed ten dollars per acre. and jean baptiste now owned five hundred and twenty acres. since the work now in breaking the extra two hundred acres was before him, and was more than three miles from his homestead, he sought more convenience, by determining to approach the stewarts with a request to board him. it was a rainy day, when he called, only to find jack stewart out, while george and bill were tinkering about the barn. they had not been informed of his purchase. "oh, it is you--mr. baptiste," cried agnes upon opening the door in response to his knock. "come right in." "where's the governor?" he inquired when seated. "search me," she laughed. "papa's always out, rain or shine." "busy man." "yes. busy but never gets anything by it, apparently." she was full of humor, her eyes twinkled. he was also. it was a day to be grateful. rainfall, though it bring delay in the work, such days always are appreciated in a new country. it made those there feel more confident. "lots of rain." "yes. i suppose you are glad," she said interestedly. "well, i should be." "we are, too. it looks as if, should this keep up, we will really raise a crop." "oh, it'll keep up," he said cheerfully, confidently. "it always rains in this country." "how optimistic you are," she said, regarding him admiringly. "thanks." she smiled then and bit her lip. "how's your neighbors across the road? i've never become acquainted with them." "their name is prescott. i don't know much about them; but papa has met them." "how many of them?" "three. the man and wife and a son." "a son?" "m-m." "how old is he--a young man?" "m-m." he smiled mischievously. "oh, it will be great," and she laughed amusedly. "he farms with his parents?" "i don't think so. he has rented a few acres on the place north of us. don't seem to be much force." "you should wake him up." "humph!" "my congratulations," irrelevantly. "please don't. he's too ugly, too lazy; loves nothing but a stallion he owns, and is very uninteresting." "indeed!" suddenly he jumped up. "i have forgotten that i came to see your dad." "i can't say when papa will be home," she answered, going toward the door and looking out. "i wanted to see him regarding a little business about boarding. i wonder if he could board me?" "he'll be home about noon, anyhow." "that won't be so long, now," said he, regarding the clock. "so you are tired of baching," she said with a little twinkle of the eyes. "oh, baching? before i started. but that is not what has expedited my wishing to board. i bought some more land. couple hundred acres of that dead indian land over south." "you did!" "why, yes." he did not understand her exclamation. "oh, but you are such a wonderful man, and to be such a young man!" she was not aware of the intimacy in her reference, and spoke thoughtfully, as if to herself more than to him. he was flattered, and didn't know how to reply. "you are certainly deserving of the high esteem in which you are held throughout the community," and still she was as if speaking to herself, and thoughtful. he could not shut out at once the vanity she had aroused in him. he wished to appear and to feel modest about it, however. after all, he had most of the other land to pay for, which, nevertheless, gave him no worry. his confidence was supreme. he continued silent while she went on: "it must be wonderful to be a young man and to be so courageous; to be so forceful and to be admired." "oh, you flatter me." "no; i do not mean to. i am speaking frankly and what i feel. i admire the qualities you are possessed with. i read a great deal, and when i see a young man like you going ahead so in the world, i think he should be encouraged." how very frankly, and considerately she had said it all. his vanity was gone. he saw her as the real agnes. he saw in her, moreover, that which he had always longed for in his race. how much he would have given to have heard those words uttered by a girl of his blood on his trips back east. but, of course the west was foreign to them. they could not have understood as she did. but the kindness she had shown had its effect. he could at least admire her openly for what she was. he spoke now. "i think you are very kind, miss stewart. i can't say when any one has spoken so sensibly to me as you have, and you will believe me when i say that such shall never be forgotten." he paused briefly before going on. "and it will always be my earnest wish that i shall prove worthy of such kind words." he stopped then, for in truth, he was too overcome with emotion, and could not trust himself to go on. she stood with her back to him, and could he have seen her eyes he would also have observed tears of emotion. they were honest tears. she had spoken the truth. she admired the man in jean baptiste, and she had not thought of his color in speaking her conviction. but withal she felt strangely that her life was linked in some manner with this man's. her father's appearance at this moment served to break the silent embarrassment between them, the embarrassment that had come out of what she had said. they settled with regards to his boarding with them, and a few minutes later he took his leave. as he was passing out, their eyes met. never had they appeared so deep; never before so soft. but in the same he saw again that which he had seen before and as yet could not understand. chapter xiv the administrating angel never before since jean baptiste had come west and staked his lot and future there, doing his part toward the building of that little empire out there in the hollow of god's hand, had he worked so hard as he did in the days that followed that summer. when the rains for a time ceased and the warm, porous soil had dried sufficiently to permit a return to the fields, from early morn until the sun had disappeared in the west late afternoons, did he labor. observation with him seemed to be inherent. ever since he had played as a boy back in old illinois he had been deeply sensitive with regards to his race. to him, notwithstanding the fact that he realized that less than fifty years had passed since freedom, they appeared--even considering their adverse circumstances--to progress rather slowly. he had not as yet come fully to appreciate and understand why they remained always so poor; always the serf; always in the position to gain so little--but withal to suffer so much! oh, the anguish it had so often given him! his being in the west had come of an ulterior purpose. it has been stated that he was a keen observer. while so he had cultivated also the faculty of determination. by now it had became a sort of habit, a sort of second nature as it were. but there were certain things he could not seem to get away from. for instance: it seemed to him that the most difficult task he had ever encountered was to convince the average colored man that the negro race could ever be anything. in after years he understood more fully why this was--but we deal with the present; those days when jean baptiste with a great ambition was struggling to "do his bit" in the development of the country of our story. he struggled with these problems at times until he became fatigued; not knowing that he could never understand until the time came for him to. when he dined late one afternoon and found himself alone with agnes, he spoke of being tired. "you work too hard, jean," she said, kindly. "perhaps so," he admitted. "and, still, the way i choose to see that is, that i'll not know the difference this time next year." "that is quite possible," she agreed thoughtfully. "but your case is this, i think. you seem inspired by some high compulsion; some infinite purpose in the way you work, and in your mind this is so uppermost that you forget the limit of your physical self." she paused and gazed at the knife she held. her mind appeared to deliberate, and he wondered at her deep logic. what a really mindful person she was, and still but a girl. "i cannot help thinking of you and your effort here," she resumed, "and if i was asked, i would advise you to exercise more discretion in regard to yourself. to labor as you do, without regard to rain, sun, or time, is not practical. it would be very sad if, in conducting yourself as you do, something should happen to you before you had quite fulfilled that to which you are aspiring--not to accomplish altogether, but to demonstrate." "you seem to have such a complete understanding of everything, agnes," he said. "you appear to see so much deeper than the people i have met, to look so much beneath the surface and read what is there. i cannot always understand you." he paused while she continued in that thoughtful manner as if she had not heard what he said. "now in your remark of a moment ago, you so defined a certain thing i would like to tell you.... but i shall not now. the instance is always so much in my mind that indeed, i lose sense of physical endurance; i lose sight of everything but the one object. it is not that i care so much for the fruits of my labor; but if i could actually succeed, it would mean so much to the credit of a multitude of others.--others who need the example...." he paused and thought of his race. the individual here did not count so much, it was the cause. his race needed examples; they needed instances of successes to overcome the effect of ignorance and an animal viciousness that was prevalent among them. in this land, for instance, which had been advertised from one end of the country to the other; this land where four hundred thousand acres of virgin soil had been opened to the settler, he was about the only one of that race who had come hither, or paid the instance any attention. such examples of neglected opportunity stood out clearly, and were recorded; and the record would give his race, claiming to be discriminated against, no credit.... such examples of obliviousness to what was around them would be hard to explain away. so in his ambitious youth, jean baptiste's dream was to own one thousand acres of land. he was now twenty-three and possessed half that much. he conjectured that he could reach the amount by the time he was thirty--providing nothing serious happened to retard him.... he had finished his meal and was ready to go back to that little place over the hill. the girl who had made proof on the homestead he had purchased, had lived fourteen months alone in a little sod house her father had built for her in which he now had his bed. she had come of a prosperous family in the east. she had come hither and put in the time, and the requirements, and had sold the land that he had bought at a good profit to herself. such instances were common in that country, so common indeed, that little was thought of it. in his trips back east when baptiste told of such opportunities, he was not taken seriously. the fact that the wealth of the great central valley was right at their door; that from the production there they purchased the food they ate; that sheep were raised whose wool was later manufactured into the very clothes they wore, had no meaning to them. and always he felt discouraged when he returned from a visit among them. he had never seen agnes so serious as she was that night. she arose and followed him to the door, and stood with him a moment before he left. her eyes were tired and she appeared worried. he became possessed with an impulse to shake her hand. she seemed to sense his desire, and as he stepped out into the night, she extended it. he grasped and held it briefly. he whispered goodnight to her, and as he went through the yard and out into the road, she watched him from the open door until he was out of sight. * * * * * jean baptiste thought he had secured a bargain in a team he had purchased a week before, and, from all appearances he had. for, after working them a week, he found them model horses--apparently. as stated, he slept in the little sod house on the place near stewart's, and also had a barn there in which he kept his horses while working. the morning following the conversation with agnes, just related, he went out to curry and feed this team along with the other horses, and received a kick that was almost his ending. right at the temple one spiked him, and he knew no more for hours. "i wonder why jean is so late," said agnes, going to the window and gazing up the road. he was a hardy eater and the fact that he was late for breakfast was unusual. they waited a while longer and then ate without him. bill who had been to care for his horses at the place before breakfast, reported that he had seen baptiste go into the barn. so he had arisen, that was sure; but why had he not come for his meal? the subject was dismissed by all except agnes, who was strangely uneasy. "bill," said she, "see what is the matter with your boss when you go over, and tell him to come to breakfast." bill had no difficulty ascertaining, and returned quickly with the news. "i knew it!" exclaimed agnes, excitedly. "i just felt that something was the matter," whereupon she got into a light coat and followed her father and brothers to where he lay outside the barn door, bleeding freely from the temple. they carried him into their house, and were cheered to see that the blood had ceased to flow. his head was bandaged while bill went for doc. slater, who pronounced the wound serious but not fatal. he awakened later in the day and called for water. it was brought him forthwith by agnes. when he had drunk deeply and lay back weakly upon the pillow, he heard: "how do you feel, jean?" he looked around in the semi-darkness of the room, and upon seeing her, sighed before answering. when he did it was a groan. she came quickly to where he lay and bent over him. "jean," she repeated softly, tenderly. "how do you feel? does your head pain you much?" "where am i?" he said, turning his face toward her. she put her hand lightly over his bandaged head. "you're here, jean. at stewart's. you are hurt, do you understand?" "hurt?" he repeated abstractedly. "yes, hurt, jean. you were kicked on the temple by one of your horses." "is that so?" and he suddenly sat up in the bed. "careful, careful," she cried, excitedly, pushing him gently back upon the pillow. he was silent as if in deep thought, while she waited eagerly. presently she said in a low voice: "do you feel hurt badly, jean?" "i don't know." he raised his hand to his head as if trying to think more clearly. she caught his hands and held them as if trying to estimate his pulse, to see if he had any fever. "how did you come to get kicked, jean?" she asked, speaking in the same low tone. "i don't know. when i opened the barn door i had a vision of one of the horses moving and i knew no more." "you must be very careful and not start the bleeding again," she advised. "you bled considerably." "and you say i am at your house. at where i board?" "yes, jean." he turned and stared at her, and for the first time seemed to be himself. he closed his eyes a moment as if to shut out something he did not wish to see. "and you have me here and are caring for me?" "we brought you here and are caring for you, jean," she repeated. "it is singular," said he. "what is singular?" "that you have twice happened to be where you can serve me when i am injured or in danger." she was silent. she didn't know how to answer, or that there was to be any answer. "has a doctor been here?" "yes." "what did he seem to think of it?" "he said your wound was serious, but not fatal." "did he say i could get up soon?" "he didn't say, jean; but i don't think it would be wise." he groaned. "now you must be patient and not fret yourself into a fever," she said seriously. "but i have so much work to do." "that will have to wait. your health is first," she said firmly. "but the work should be done," he insisted. "but you must consider your health before you can even think about the work." he groaned again. she was thoughtful. she was considerate, and she could see that he would worry about his work and injure himself or risk fever. "i'll speak to papa, and perhaps george can take your place for a few days, a week or until you can get out." "you are so kind, agnes," he said then. "you are always so thoughtful. i don't know how i can accept all you do for me." "please hush--don't mention it." she arose and presently returned with her father. "ah-ha," he always greeted. "so you've come to. thought something would show up in that 'bargain.'" "please don't, father," admonished agnes, frowningly. "i'll look after everything while you are down, old man," said stewart. "i'll start the horses you've been working this afternoon. aggie has explained everything. i understand." "i'm so thankful," he said, then closing his eyes, and a few minutes later had fallen asleep. chapter xv oh, my jean! when jack stewart left indiana, and left owing the two hundred dollars which was secured by a chattel mortgage on his horses, he failed to do something he now had cause to regret. the man to whom he owed this money agreed to give him one year in which to pay it, but didn't renew the mortgage. he was a close friend of jack's, and there had been no worry. but the man died; his affairs fell into the hands of an administrator, whose duties were to clean up, to realize on all due and past due matter. and because the note of jack stewart's was due and past due, the extension being simply a verbal one, the administrator wrote jack demanding that he take up his note at once. we know the circumstances of jack stewart; that because jean baptiste had hired his son bill, and now was boarding with them, he was able to get along; but jack stewart had nothing with which to pay $ notes.... so while jean baptiste was recovering from his illness, jack stewart had cause to be very much worried. possessed, however, with a confidence, jack took the matter up with the banker in the town where he received his mail. now a common saying in a new country is: "i'm going to borrow five dollars and start a bank...." inferring that while there is, as a whole, an abundance of banks in a new country, they do not always have the wherewithal to loan. what they have is usually retained for the accommodation of their regular patrons, and they were unable to accommodate jack, even had they wished to do so. now, he could have secured the money had he been a claimholder or a land owner. but jack, being neither, found himself in a bad plight. he had aggie write a long letter in which he tried to explain matters, and requested until fall to pay, as had been verbally agreed upon. but the class of people in the old east who regard the new west as a land of impossibilities, where drought burns all planted crops to crisp, where grasshoppers eat what is left, who still regard those who would stake their fortunes and chances in the west as fools, were not all dead. the administrator happened to be one of this kind. he had no confidence in the country jack wrote about, the crops he had planted; what he expected to reap, and no patience withal into the bargain. so he wrote jack a brief letter, and also one to the bank in the town, sending the papers with it at the same time, with instructions to foreclose at a given time. and when jack knew more of it, he was confronted with paying the note in thirty days or having his horse taken, and sold at auction. jean baptiste recovered, went back to his work, and noticed that jack stewart and agnes were much worried; but, of course, didn't understand the cause of it. "have you tried elsewhere, father?" said agnes when they had gotten the notice giving them thirty days' grace. "but i am not known, dear. there is not much money in a new country, and it is very difficult to get credit where there is nothing to lend." "there must be some way to avoid this. oh, that man, why couldn't he be reasonable!" "it is always bad when one has to write. if i were back in indiana i could go and see this man and reason it out, but when a thousand miles is between us--it's bad!" "if we could have only just three months." "two months," he exclaimed. the days that followed were days of grave anxiety, of nervous anticipation for them. there was but one person they could turn to at such a time, and that was jean baptiste. agnes thought of him, she started to speak with her father regarding him, but in the end did not bring herself to do so. so the time went on, and the thirty days became twenty; and the twenty fell to ten; and the ten fell to five, and then jean baptiste could bear their worry no longer without speaking. "you and your father have been very kind to me, agnes, and i can see you are greatly worried about something. if i could help you in any way, i would be glad to do so." she was so near to crying when she heard this that she had much difficulty keeping back the tears. but she managed to say: "why, it's nothing serious. just a little matter, that's all," and she went into her room. he pondered. it was more than that. of this he was sure. he left the house and came around to where jack sat, and was moved by his expression. but jack would say nothing. he could not understand. he tried to dismiss the subject from his mind, and so came sunday, the day of days. he was walking from his meal to his place to look over his crops, when from up the road he caught the sound of buggy-wheels. two men, driving a single horse hitched to a light buggy were coming his way. when they caught sight of him, they hurried the animal forward slightly by touching him up with the whip, and beckoned to him to stop. presently they drew up to where he stood and he recognized one as a homesteader, and having a claim near and the other as a professional dealer in horses. they exchanged greetings and some remarks about the weather and crops, and then the trader said: "by the way, jean, where does that old scotchman live out this way? the old fellow who moved out here recently from indiana?" "that's the place there," and baptiste pointed to the top of the house that could just be seen from where they stood. "i see," said the other thoughtfully. "wonder where that dappled gray mare he owns is grazing. i'd like to take a look at 'er." "i think you will see her grazing in the pasture," said baptiste curiously. "how--what kind of animal is it?" "why, she's a hum-dinger," returned baptiste more curiously. his curiosity aroused the other, who, looking at him said: "well, you see the old man is to be sold out--foreclosed, and i thought i'd take a look at his stuff and if i thought there was anything in it, i might save the old scout the humiliation by buying it." "t' hell you say!" exclaimed baptiste. "oh, yes. hadn't you heard about it?" "this is my first knowledge of it." "yes, the sheriff's coming to get the stuff tuesday--that is, providing the old man don't come across with a couple of hundred before that time, and it is not likely he can, i don't think." "well, well!" baptiste exclaimed, thinking of the worry he had observed in the faces of agnes and her father, and at last beginning to understand.' "yes, it's rather bad, that. but this follows the old gent from where he comes, and he is not known here, so i guess i'll mosey along and take a look at the stuff--just a glance at it from the road, you understand. and if things look good, i'll drop by 'n see him later." whereupon they went their way cheerfully, while baptiste resumed his, thoughtfully. he returned to his house by a roundabout way, and, later, hitching a team to a light buggy, he drove into the town where jack traded and looked up the banker. "say, brookings," he opened, "what kind of deal is the old scotchman up against out there? you understand." "oh, yes!" exclaimed the cashier. "the old man out there on the watson homestead! well, it seems like the old fellow stands a good chance of being sold out." he then explained to baptiste regarding the note and the circumstances. "that don't look just right to me," muttered baptiste when he had heard the circumstances. "well, now, it _isn't_ right. but what can be done?" "can't you loan the old man the money?" "i could; but i don't like letting credit to strangers and renters. if he could get a good man on his note i'd fix it out for him, since we've just received quite a sum for deposit." "well, if i should go it," said baptiste suggestively. the other looked quickly up. "why, you! gee, i'd take care of him for ten times the amount if you'd put your 'john henry' on the note." "well, i'll be in town early in the morning," said baptiste, turning to drive away. "all right, jean. sure! i'll look for you." the day was bright and lovely for driving, and baptiste drove to his homestead, and from there to the reynolds' where he had dinner and visited late. the next morning he went to the town, and when jack stewart, exhausted by the strain of worry under which he was laboring, came into town, having decided to try and sell the mare and one of the other horses, thereby leaving him only one with which to complete the cultivating of his corn and the reaping of his crops, he was called into the bank. "now if you'll just sign this, mr. stewart," said brookings, "you can have until december first on that stuff." "you mean the note!" the old man exclaimed, afraid to believe that he had heard aright. "yes, the note that is about to be foreclosed. you've been granted an extension." jack stewart was too overcome to attempt to comment. the realization that he was to be allowed to go on and not be sold out or be forced to dispose of his little stock at such a critical time, was too much for words. he caught up the pen, steadied his nerves, and wrote his name, not observing that the banker held a blotter over the lower line of the note. jean baptiste had cautioned him to do this. in view of the circumstances he had not wished stewart or agnes to know that he had gone on the note. jack stewart hurried home in a fever of excitement. he could not get there fast enough. he thought of agnes, he did not wish her to have a minute more grief than what she had endured. he reached home and stumbled into the house, and to agnes he said: "oh, girl, girl, girl! they have extended the note! the sheriff is not coming! we are saved, saved, saved!" he was too overcome with emotion and joy then to proceed. he sank into a chair, while agnes, carried away with excitement over the news, caressed him; said words of love and care until both had been exhausted by their own emotions. when they at last became calm, she turned to her father who now walked the floor in great joy. "how did they come to extend the note, father?" "why--why, dear, that had never occurred to me! i became so excited when they told me that i had been granted an extension, i can only recall that i signed the note and almost ran out of the bank. the man had to call me back to give me my old note and mortgage. i don't know why they granted the extension." he stood holding his chin now and looking down at the floor as if trying to understand after all how it happened. then his eyes opened suddenly wide. "why, and, do you know, now, since i come to think of it, they did not take a new mortgage on the stock." "i don't believe that the administrator had anything to do with it," she said after a time. "i know that man. he would sell his mother out into the streets. now i wonder who has influenced the bank into giving us this time...." "bless me, dear lord. but right now i am too tickled to try to think who. to be saved is enough all at once. later, i shall try to figure out who has been my benefactor." and with this he left the house and went to walk with his joy in the fields where george was plowing corn, unconscious of the fact that the team he was driving was to have been seized on the morrow and sold for debt. "now i wonder _who_ saved papa," agnes said to herself, taking a seat by the window and gazing abstractedly out into the road. she employed her wits to estimate what had brought it about, and as she sat there, jean baptiste came driving down the road. he had not been there since breakfast the morning before. he had taken his morning's meal at the restaurant in the town. as he drove down the slope that began above the house wherein she sat, his dark face was lighted with a peaceful smile. he drove leisurely along, concerned with the bright prospects of his four hundred acres of crop. he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he passed on by without seeing agnes at the window; without even looking toward the house. upon seeing him agnes had for the moment forgotten what she was thinking about. but when he had passed by, she was suddenly struck with an inspiration. she jumped quickly to her feet: she raised her hands to her breast and held them there as if to still a great excitement, as she cried: "jean! jean, jean baptiste! it was you, you, who did it. it was you who saved my father, saved me; saved us all! oh, my jean!" she was overcome then with a great emotion. she sank slowly upon a chair. and as she did so sobs broke from her lips and she wept long and silently. chapter xvi bill prescott proposes summertime over the prairie country; summertime when the rainfall has been abundant, is a time of happiness to all settlers in a new land. and such a summer it was in the land of our story. god had been unusually kind to the settlers; he had blessed them with abundant moisture; with sunshine, not too warm and not too cold. the railroad was under course of construction and would be completed far enough west for the settlers from the most remote part--from the farthest corner of the reservation to journey with their grain or hogs, chickens or cattle to it and return to home the same day. and now the fields which had been seeded to winter wheat had turned to gold. only a few thousand acres had been sowed over the county, and of this amount one hundred thirty acres grew on the homestead of jean baptiste. the season for its growth had been ideal, and the prospects for a bumper yield was the best. ripe now, and ready to cut, the air was filled with its aroma. he had brought a new self-binder from gregory which now stood in the yard ready for action, its various colors green, red, blue and white, resplendent in the sunlight. so now we see jean baptiste the cheerful, jean baptiste the hopeful, with hopes in a measure about realized; jean baptiste the ethiopian in a country where he alone was black. he whistles at times, he sings, he is merry, cheery and gay. but while jean baptiste was happy, cheerful and gay, there was in him what has been, what always will be that which makes us appreciate the courage that is in some men. bill prescott, from the first day he had seen agnes, had considered a match between her and himself a suggestive proposition. bill prescott might be referred to as a "feature." he was not so fortunate as to have been born handsome, and could not be called attractive. he had not, moreover, improved the situation by cultivation of wit, of art or pride. the west had meant no more to him than had the east, the south--or the west indies, for that matter. because bill had no homestead, no deeded land, and had not tried to get any. his wealth consisted of a few horses, among which, an old, worn out, bought-on-credit-stallion, was his pride. of this stallion bill talked. he told of his pedigree, tracing him back almost to the ark. he was fond of tobacco, was bill prescott; he chewed, apparently, all the time. he had lost his front teeth; wore his thin hair long, and upon his small head a hat, oiled to the point where its age was a matter for conjecture. he had apparently appreciated that the wind blew outrageously over those parts at times, and, therefore, had hung a leather string to his hat which he pulled down over the back of his head to hold his hat in place. this succeeded in frumpling the long, thin hair and kept it in a dishevelled condition. now bill had been a frequent caller at the stewarts' home since they had come west. he did not always take the trouble to remove his hat when inside. that he was fond of agnes was apparent, and smiled always upon seeing her, and at such times showed where his front teeth had been but where tobacco more frequently now was, with lazy delight. he called this day wearing a clean, patched jumper over his cotton shirt. when once inside, sprawling his legs before him, and while jack stewart worked in the sun outside, repairing harness, he said to agnes: "well, old girl, how'd you like to marry?" agnes changed color a few times before she could decide whether to answer or not. in the meantime, patient and in no hurry, bill grinned with pleasure at the ease with which he had started; showed tobacco where his teeth had been, and spat a pound of juice, with plenty of drippings trailing out the window by which she sat. it made considerable argument getting through the screen, but succeeded finally--most of it, the remainder, clung, hesitated, wavered, and finally giving up, dripped slowly to the ledge below. "dog-gone, myself," said bill, getting up heavily from his chair, and going to the window and thumping it lightly, whereupon the hesitant amber, dashed in many directions about. agnes had observed it all with calm disgust. bill, however, not the least perturbed over his apparent breach of impropriety, became reseated, and resumed: "well?" she turned her eyes slowly toward him, surveyed him coldly, and continued at her sewing. bill muttered something. she regarded him again with cold disdain. "haw, haw!" he laughed loudly. "you don't pretend t' hear me, haw! haw! then i guess you're stuck on that nigger you got a hangin' round here." "will you go!" she cried, as she quickly jumped to her feet and swung open the door. she controlled herself with considerable effort. "oh, ho! so that's the way you treat a white man--and honor a d--n nigger!" and with that he dashed out and passed to where the senior worked away over his harness. jack stewart saw and heard bill approaching without looking up. he greeted: "ah-ha, william. and how are you today?" bill was struck with a sudden inspiration. in his way he really liked agnes, and it was all settled in his mind to wed her. he realized now that he had rather bungled matters, and thereupon decided to exercise a little more discretion. so, choking down the anger that was in him, and swallowing a bit of tobacco juice at the same time, he said to stewart: "good morning! ah, by the way, jack, i'd like to marry agnes." so saying, he was pleased with himself again, and spat tobacco juice more easily in the next squirt. jack continued working at his harness. for the moment he did not appear to comprehend, but presently he raised his eyes with the old style glasses before them, and surveyed bill slowly. "you want to do what?" he said, uncomprehendingly. "to marry agnes," bill repeated calmly. he paused, looked away, sucked his soft mouth clean of amber and spat it tricklingly at jack's feet, and looked up and at jack with a wondrous smile. now jack stewart was possessed with certain virtues. he did not smoke, chew, drink, swear nor shave. he was rather put out, but with considerable effort at self control he managed to say: "well, if that's the way you feel about it, why don't you take it up with the girl?" bill hesitated at this point, sucked his mouth clear again of tobacco juice, cleared his throat, spat the juice, and, after a hasty glance toward the house, decided not to mention that he had spoken with agnes. he replied: "well, i thought it best to speak to you, and if it's all right with you, it ought to be all right with the gal." jack stewart drew up, and then tried to relax. he did not think so much of bill; but he did think the world of agnes and wanted her respected by everybody. moreover, he did not like to hear her "galled." he turned to william; he regarded him keenly, and then in a voice and words that were english, but accent that was very much scotch, the which we will not attempt to characterize, he said: "you're a joke. just a great, big joke." he paused briefly, and then continued: "i'd like to be patient with you; but honestly, with you it wouldn't pay. you are not worth it. and in so far as my girl--any girl is concerned, i cannot imagine how you could even expect them to be interested." he paused and looked away, too full up to go ahead. in the meantime he heard bill: "is that so!" "is _it_ so!" cried stewart with a touch of vehemence. "gad! see yourself. see how you go! don't you observe what's around you close enough to see that girls want some sedateness; they admire in some measure cleverness, clothes, and--well, manhood!" "so i don't guess i have it?" retorted william, sneeringly. "oh, you bore me!" jack returned disgustingly. he bent to his work in an attempt to forget it. and then he again heard from bill: "so that's the way yu' got it figgered out, eh!" he drew his mouth tight shut. he gave another soft suck that drew his skin close to his gums, and with his tongue, he cleared his mouth and spat tobacco, juice and all in a soft lump at stewart's feet and said in unconcealed anger: "so that's the way you got me figgered out! and i want to say, now, that i don't think i want yer gal, anyhow. i'm a white man, i am. and what white man would want a gal that a nigger is allowed to hang aroun' and court!" jack stewart was struck below the belt. he was fouled, and for a time everything went dark around him, he was so angry. he did not know that jean baptiste had saved him from losing his stock or being forced to sell them; he had never connected baptiste and agnes as being other than friends, and friends they had a right to be. but jack stewart _did_ regard jean baptiste as a gentleman and gentlemen he respected. his knockout therefore was brief. he soon recovered. he could not speak, he could not even stammer; but with a sudden twitch of the tug his hands held, he came away around with it, and the heavy leather took bill fairly in the mouth, in the middle of the mouth. and then jack got his voice, and ready for another swing; but not before bill found something, too. it was his feet. "you stinkin', low down, pup!" cried stewart, falling over from the force of the swing he had missed. "you trash of the sand hills! you tobacco chewin', ragga-muffin!" getting his balance, and turning after william madly, he resumed: "you ornery, nasty, filthy, houn'! if i get my han's on you, i swear t' god i'll kill you." but bill prescott now held the advantage. he was younger, and more fleet of foot; so therefore out ran jack, who was left before he reached the gate, far to the rear, and bill gained his side of the wide road with a safe lead. jack finally came to a stop before getting off the premises with his blood boiling with such heat that he drew his hat off and beat himself with it. in the meantime, agnes, who had witnessed the controversy from the gate, ventured out to where her father stood and taking him gently by the arm, she led him inside. "my blood's up, my blood's up!" jack kept crying and repeating. "that stinkin', triflin' peace a nothin', has been gittin' smart. tryin' to low rate me; tryin' to low rate my girl. insultin' jean baptiste! dang him, dang him!" "father, father!" cried agnes soothingly. "did you hear'm! did you hear'm! why, the low down, good for nothin', i'm a good mind to go cross the road and skin him alive!" "father, father!" begged agnes. "did you hear what he said," insisted the infuriated senior. "yes, father," she confessed. "i heard him." "you did! 'n that's worse!" whereupon he tore loose and threw up his arms in an angered gesture. "now, papa," agnes argued kindly. "i heard him, and what he said to you. he was in here and insul--spoke to me before he went out there.... i understand all about it.... so you must simply be calm--and forget it. that's all...." "i don't care so much for myself, but that he should speak about you and baptiste! i just wish baptiste could have heard him and just beat the gosh danged manure right out of him." "please be quiet, papa. forget bill prescott and what he has tried to insinuate.... we understand _him_ and what he _is_, and we understand mr. baptiste--and what _he is_, so let us just think of other things." "yes, aggie, i suppose you're right. you always seem to be right. and i will try to forget it; but i'll say this much: if that ornery, lazy cuss ever crosses this road to my place again i'll thresh him within an inch of his life!" "you've agreed to forget it, father...." "i agree again; but it's outrageous that he should say what he did about jean baptiste, now isn't it?" "it is, father," she admitted with downcast eyes. "of course it is. never was there more of a gentleman in the world than jean baptiste." "mr. baptiste is a real gentleman," acknowledged agnes again. "there never was, and he knows it, the pup!" agnes was strangely silent, which jack, in his excitement overlooked. "and even if he should like my girl--" "father!" "well?" "oh, please hush!" "i will, aggie," he said slowly. he bent forward presently, folded her close, kissed her, and then placing his hat on his head, went back to his work.... chapter xvii harvest time and what came with it harvest time, harvest time! when the harvest time is, all worries have passed. when the harvest time is, all doubts, droughts, fears and tears are no more. when the golden grain falls upon the canvas; when the meadow larks, the robins and all the birds of the land sing the song of harvest time, the farmer is happy, is gay, and confident. and harvest time was on in the country of our story. jean baptiste pulled his new binder before the barn, jumped from the seat, and before he started to unhitch, he gazed out over a stretch of land which two years before, had been a mass of unbroken prairie, but was now a world of shocked grain. thousands upon thousands of shocks stood over the field like a great army in the distance. his crop was good--the best. and no crops are like the crop on new land. never, since the beginning of time had that soil tasted tamed plant life. it had seemed to appreciate the change, and the countless shocks before him were evidence to the fact. from where he stood when he had unhitched, he gazed across country toward the southeast where lay his other land. only a part of which he could see. as it rose in the distance he could see the white topped oats; and just beyond he could see the deep purple of the flaxseed blossoms. he sighed contentedly, unharnessed his horses, let them drink, and turned them toward the pasture. he was not tired; but he went to the side of the house which the sun did not strike, and sat him down. at the furthest side of the field he observed bill and george as they shocked away to finish. he was at peace again, as he always was, and thereupon fell into deep thought. "my crop of wheat will yield not less than thirty bushels to the acre," he whispered to himself. "and one hundred and thirty acres should then yield almost four thousand bushels. i should receive at least eighty cents the bushel, and that would approximate about three thousand dollars, with seed left to sow the land again." he paused in his meditation, and considered what even that alone would mean to him. he could pay the entire amount on the land he had purchased, and perhaps a thousand or two more from the flax crop. that would leave him owing but four hundred dollars on the land he had bought, and that amount he felt he would be able to squeeze out somewhere and have acres clear! he could not help being cheerful, perhaps somewhat vain over his prospects. he was now just twenty-three and appreciated that most of his life was yet before him. with, at the most, two or three more seasons like the present one, he could own the coveted thousand acres and the example would be completed. that was the goal toward which he was working. if he or any other man of the black race could acquire one thousand acres of such land it would stand out with more credit to the negro race than all the protestations of a world of agitators in so far as the individual was concerned. "it is things accomplished," he often said to himself. "it is what is actually accomplished that will get notice--and credit! damn excuses! the best an excuse can secure is dismissal, and positively that is no asset." he would then invariably think deeply into the conditions of his race, the race who protested loudly that they were being held down. truly it was an intricate, delicate subject to try to solve with prolific thinkings. he compared them with the jew--went away back to thousands of years before. out of the past he could not solve it either. all had begun together. the jew was hated, but was a merchant enjoying a large portion of the world commerce and success. the negro was disliked because of his black skin--and sometimes seemingly for daring to be human. at such times he would live over again the life that had been his before coming west. he thought of the multitudes in the employment of a great corporation who monopolized the sleeping car trade. indeed this company after all was said, afforded great opportunities to the men. not so much in what was collected in tips and in other devious ways, nor from the small salary, but from the great opportunity of observation that that particular form of travel afforded. but so few made the proper effort to benefit themselves thereby. he continued to think along these lines until his thoughts came back to a point where in the past they were wont to come and stop. he could not in that moment understand why they had not been coming back to that selfsame point in recent months.... since one cold day during the first month of that year.... he gave a start when he realized why, then sighed. it seemed too much for his thoughts just then. he regarded bill and george at their task of trying to finish their work. upon hearing a sound, he turned. behind him stood agnes. "my, how you frightened me!" he cried. she held in her hand a basket containing lunch for him and her brothers. this she had brought every day, but he had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had quite forgotten that she was coming on this day as well. as she stood quietly before him, she seemed rather shorter than she really was, also more slender, and appeared withal more girlish than usual. her eyes twinkled and her heavy hair drawn together at the back of her head, hung over her shoulders. her sunkist skin was a bit tanned; her arms almost to the elbows were bare, brown and were very round. and as jean baptiste regarded her there in the bright golden sunlight she appeared to him like the virgin mary. "you are tired," he cried, and pointed to a crude bench that reposed against the sod house, which he had just left in his prolific thinking of a moment before. "sit down, please, and rest yourself," he commanded. she obeyed him modestly, with a smile still upon her pleasant face. "i judge that bill and george will finish in a few minutes, so i'll wait, that we may all dine together. you'll be so kind as to wait until then, will you not?" he asked graciously, and bowed. "until then, my lord," she smiled, coquettishly. "thanks!" he laughed, good humoredly. suddenly she cried: "oh, isn't it beautiful!" and swept her hands toward the field of shocked wheat. he had been looking away, but as she spoke he turned and smiled with satisfaction. "it is." "just lovely," she cried, her eyes sparkling. "and all safe, that's the best part about it," he said. "grand. i'm so glad you have saved it," she said with feeling. "thank you." "you have earned it." "i hope so. still i thank you." "it will bring you lots of money." "i am hoping it will." "oh, it will." "i was thinking of it before you came up." "i knew it." "you knew it!" "i saw you from a distance." "oh...." "and i knew you were thinking." "oh, come now." "why shouldn't i? you're always thinking. the only time when you are not is when you are sleeping." "you can say such wonderful things," he said, standing before her, the sun shining on his tanned features. "won't--ah--won't you be seated?" she invited. he colored unseen. she made room for him and he hesitatingly took a seat, at a conventional distance, on the bench beside her. "your other crops are fine, too," she said, sociably. "i'm going over to look at them this afternoon." "you should." "where is your father today?" "gone to town." "wish i'd known he was going; i'd had him bring out some twine for me. i think the oats will be ready to cut over on the other place right away, and i don't want to miss any time." "no, indeed. a hail storm might come up." he glanced at her quickly. she was gazing across the field to where her halfwitted brothers worked, while he was thinking how thoughtful she was. presently he heard her again. "why, if it is urgent--you are out, i--i could go to town and get the twine for you." she was looking at him now and he was confused. her offer was so like her, so natural. why was it that they understood each other so well? "oh, why, agnes," he stammered, "that would be asking too much of you!" "why so? i shall be glad--glad to oblige you in any way. and it is not too much if one takes into consideration what you have done for--i'll be glad to go...." "done for what?" he said, catching up where she had broken off, and eyeing her inquiringly. she was confused and the same showed in her face. she blushed. she had not meant to say what she did. but he was regarding her curiously. he hadn't thought about the note. she turned then and regarded him out of tender eyes. she played with the bonnet she held in her lap. she looked away and then back up into his face, and her eyes were more tender still. in her expression there was almost an appeal. "what did you mean by what you started to say, agnes," he repeated, evenly, but kindly. "i--i--mean what you did for papa. what--you--you did about that--that--note." it was out at last and she lowered her eyes and struggled to hold back the tears with great effort. "oh," he laughed lowly, relievedly. "that was nothing." and he laughed again as if to dismiss it. "but it _was_ something," she cried, protestingly. "it _was_ something. it was _everything_ to us." she ended with great emotion apparent in her shaking voice. he shifted. it was awkward, and he was a trifle confused. "please don't think of it, agnes." "but how can i keep from thinking of it when i know that had it not been your graciousness; your wonderful thoughtfulness, your great kindness, we would have been sold out--bankrupted, disgraced, oh, me!" she covered her face with her hands, but he could see the tears now raining down her face and dropping upon her lap. "oh, agnes," he cried. "i wish you wouldn't do that! please don't. it hurts me. besides, how did you know it? i told brookings that your father was not to know it. i did not want it known." he paused and his voice shook slightly. they had drawn closer and now she reached out and placed her small hand upon his arm. "brookings didn't tell. he didn't tell papa; but i knew." she was looking down at the earth. "i don't understand," she heard him say wonderingly. "but didn't you think, jean, that i understood! i understood the very day--a few minutes after papa returned home, brought the old note and told me about the extension." she paused and looked thoughtfully away across the field. "i understood when you drove by a few minutes later. you had forgotten about it, i could see, and your mind was on other things; but the moment you came into my sight, and i looked out upon you from the window, i knew you had saved us." her hand still rested lightly upon his arm. she was not aware of it, but deeply concerned with what she was saying. presently, when he did not speak, she went on. "i understood and knew that you had forgotten it--that you were too much of a man to let us know what you had done. i can't forget it! i have wanted to tell you how i felt--i felt that i owed it to you to tell you, but i couldn't before." "please let's forget it, agnes," she heard him whisper. "i can keep from speaking of it, but forget it--never! it was so much like you, like the man that's in you!" and the tears fell again. "agnes, agnes, if you don't hush, almost i will forget myself...." "i had to tell you, i _had_ to!" she sobbed. "but it is only a small return for what you did for me. do you realize, agnes, had it not been for you, i--i--would not be sitting here now? oh, think of that and then you will see how little i have done--how very little i can ever do to repay!" his voice was brave, albeit emotional. he leaned toward her, and the passion was in his face. she grasped his arm tighter as she looked up again into his face out of her tear bedimmed eyes and cried brokenly: "but jean, the cases are not parallel. what i did for you i would have done for anybody. it was merely an act of providence; but yours--oh, jean, _can't you understand_!" he was silent. "yours was the act of kindness," she went on again, "the act of a man; and you would have kept it secret; because you would never have had it known, because you would not have us feel under obligation to you. oh, that is what makes me--oh, it makes me cry when i think of it." the tears flowed freely while her slender shoulders shook with emotion. [illustration: from a painting by w.m. farrow. "but, jean, the cases are not parallel. what i did for you i would have done for any one; but yours--oh, jean, _can't_ you understand!"] and when she had concluded, the man beside her had forgotten _the custom of the country, and its law_ had passed beyond him. he was as a man toward the maid now. beside him wept the one he had loved as a dream girl. behind him was the house with the bed she had laid him upon when she saved his life. and when he had awakened, before being conscious of where he was or what had happened to him, he had looked into her eyes and had seen therein his dream girl. she was his by the right of god; he forgot now that she was white while he was black. he only remembered that she was his, and he loved her. his voice was husky when he answered: "agnes, oh, agnes, i begged you not to. i almost beseeched you, because--oh, don't you understand what is in me, that i am as all men, weak? to have seen you that night--the night i can never forget, the night when you stood over me and i came back to life and saw you. you didn't know then and understand that i had dreamed of you these two years since i had come here: that out of my vision i had seen you, had talked with you, oh, agnes!" she straightened perceptibly; she looked up at him with that peculiarity in her eyes that even she had never come to understand. they became oblivious to all that was about them, and had unconsciously drawn closer together now and regarded each other as if in some enchanted garden. she sang to him then the music that was in her, and the words were: "jean, oh, jean baptiste, you have spoken and now at last _i_ understand. and do you know that before i left back there from where i came, i _saw_ you: i dreamed of you and that i would know you, and then i came and so strangely met and have known you now for the man you are, oh, jean!" gradually as the composure that had been theirs passed momentarily into oblivion, and the harvest birds twittered gayly about them, his man's arm went out, and into the embrace her slender body found its way. his lips found hers, and all else was forgotten. epoch the second epoch the second chapter i regarding the intermarriage of races it was winter, and the white snow lay everywhere; icicles hung from the eaves. all work on the farms was completed. people were journeying to a town half way between bonesteel and gregory to take the train for their former homes; others to spend it with their relatives, and jean baptiste was taking it for chicago and new york where he went as a rule at the end of each year. he was going with an air of satisfaction apparently; for, in truth, he had everything to make him feel so--that is, _almost_ everything. he had succeeded in the west. the country had experienced a most profitable season, and the crop he reaped and sold had made him in round numbers the sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. he had paid for the two hundred acres of land he had bargained for; he had seeded more land in the autumn just passed to winter wheat which had gone into the winter in the best of shape; his health was the best. for what more could he have wished? and yet no man was more worried than he when he stepped from the stage onto the platform of the station where he was to entrain for the east.... it is barely possible that any man could have been more sad.... to explain this we are compelled to go back a few months; back to the harvest time; to his homestead and where he sat with some one near, very near, and what followed. "i couldn't help it--i loved you; love you--have loved you always!" he passionately told her. for answer she had yielded again her lips, and all the love of her warm young heart went out to him. "i don't understand you always, dear," he whispered. "sometimes there is something about you that puzzles me. i think it's in your eyes; but i _do_ understand that whatever it is it is something good--it couldn't be otherwise, could it?" "no, jean," she faltered. "and did you wonder at my calling your name that night?" "i have never understood that fully until now," she replied. "you came in a vision, and it must have been divine, two years ago gone now," she heard him; "and ever since your face, dear, has been before me. i have loved it, and, of course, i knew that i would surely love you when you came." "isn't it strange," she whispered. "but beautiful." "so beautiful." "was it providence, or was it god that brought you that night and saved me from the slow death that was coming over me, agnes?" "please, jean, don't! don't speak again of that awful night! surely it must have been some divine providence that brought me to this place; but i can never recall it without a tremor. to think that you would have died out there! please, never tell me of it again, dear." she trembled and nestled closer to him, while her little heart beat a tattoo against her ribs. they looked up then, as across the field her halfwitted brothers were approaching. it was only then that they seemed to realize what had transpired and upon realization they silently disembraced. what had passed was the most natural thing in the world, true; and to them it had come because it was in them to assert themselves, but now before him rose the custom of the country, and its law. so vital is this custom; so much is it a part of the body politic that certain states have went on record against it. not because any bad, or good, any wealth or poverty was involved. it had been because of sentiment, the sentiment of the stronger faction.... so it ruled. in the lives of the two in our story, no thought but to live according to god's law, and the law of the land, had ever entered their minds, but now they had while laboring under the stress of the pent-up excitement and emotion overruled and forgot the law two races are wont to observe and had given vent and words to the feeling which was in them.... they stood conventionally apart now, each absorbed in the calm realization of their positions in our great american society. they were obviously disturbed; but that which had drawn them to the position they had occupied and declared, still remained, and that was love. so time had gone on as time will; never stopping for anything, never hesitating, never delaying. so the day went, and the week and the month, and the month after that and the month after that, until in time the holidays were near, and jean baptiste was going away, away to forget that which was more to him than all the world--the love of agnes stewart. he had considered it--he had considered it before he caught the one he loved into his arms and said the truth that was in him.... but there was another side to it that will have much space in our story. down the line a few stations from where he now was, there lived an example. a man had come years ago into the country, there, a strong, powerfully built man. he was healthy, he was courageous and he was dark, because forsooth, the man was a negro. and so it had been with time this man's heart went out to one near by, a white. because of his race it was with him as with jean baptiste. near him there had been none of his kind. so unto himself he had taken a white wife. he had loved her and she had loved him; and because it was so, she had given to him children. and when the children had come she died. and after she had died and some years had passed, he took unto himself another wife of the same blood, and to that union there had come other children. so when years had passed, and these selfsame children had reached their majority, they too, took unto themselves wives, and the wives were of the caucasian blood. but when this dark man had settled in the land below, which, at that time, had been a new country, he decided to claim himself as otherwise than he was. he said and said again, that he was of mexican descent, mongrel, forsooth; but there was no _custom of the country_ with regard to the mexican, mongrel though he be. but the people and the neighbors all knew that he lied and that he was ethiopian, the which looked out through his eyes. but even to merely claim being something else was a sort of compromise. so his family had grown to men and women, and they in turn brought more children into the world. and all claimed allegiance to a race other than the one to which they belonged. once lived a man who was acknowledged as great and much that goes with greatness was given unto him by the public. a negro he was, but as a climax in his great life, he had married a wife of that race that is superior in life, wealth and achievements to his own, the caucasian. so it had gone. the first named, jean baptiste never felt he could be quite like. even if he should disregard _the custom of the country, and its law_, and marry agnes, he did not feel he would ever attempt that. but to marry out of the race to which he belonged, especially into the race in which she belonged, would be the most unpopular thing he could do. he had set himself in this new land to succeed; he had worked and slaved to that end. he liked his people; he wanted to help them. examples they needed, and such he was glad he had become; but if he married now the one he loved, the example was lost; he would be condemned, he would be despised by the race that was his. moreover, last but not least, he would perhaps, by such a union bring into her life much unhappiness, and he loved her too well for that. jean baptiste had decided. he loved agnes, and had every reason to; but he forswore. he would change it. he would go back from where he had come. he would be a man as befitted him to be. he would find a girl; he would marry in his race. they had education; they were refined--well, he would marry one of them anyhow! so jean baptiste was going. he would forget agnes. he would court one in his own race. so to chicago he now sped. he had lived in the windy city before going west, and was very familiar with that section of the city on the south side that is the center of the negro life of that great metropolis. accordingly, he approached a station in the loop district, entered one of the yellow cars and took a seat. he looked below at the hurly-burly of life and action, and then his eyes took survey of the car. it was empty, all save himself and another, and that other was a girl, a girl of his race! the first he had seen since last he was in the city. how little did she know as she sat across the aisle from him, that she was the first of his race his eyes had looked upon for the past twelve months. he regarded her curiously. she was of that cross bred type that are so numerous, full bloods seemingly to have become rare about those parts. she was of a light brown complexion, almost a mulatto. she seemed about twenty-two years of age. of the curious eyes upon her she seemed entirely unaware, finally leaving the train at a station that he was familiar with and disappeared. at thirty-first street he left the train, fell in with the scattered crowd below and the dash of the city life was his again in a twinkling. he found his way to state street, the great thoroughfare of his people. the novelty in viewing those of his clan now had left him, for they were all about. even had he been blind he could have known he was among them, for was not there the usual noise; the old laugh, and all that went with it? he hurried across and passed down thirty-first to dearborn street, darktown proper; but even when he had reached federal, then called armour, he had seen nothing but his race. he had friends--at least acquaintances, so to where they lived he walked briskly. "and if it isn't jean baptiste, so 'elp me jesus," cried the woman, as she opened the door in response to his knock, and without further ceremony encircled his neck with her arms, and kissed his lips once and twice. "you old dear!" she exclaimed with him inside, holding him at arms' length and regarding him fondly. "how are you, anyhow?" "oh, fine," he replied, regarding her pleasantly. "you are certainly looking good," she said, looking up into his face with fun in her eyes. "sit down, sit down and make yourself at home," she invited, drawing up a chair. "well, how's chicago?" he inquired irrelevantly. "same old burg," she replied, drawing a chair up close. "and how's hubby?" "fine!" "and the rest of the family?" "the same. pearl, too." "oh, pearl.... how is pearl?" "still single...." "thought she was engaged to be married when i was here last year?" "oh, that fellow was no good!" "what was the matter?" "what's the matter with lots of these nigga' men 'round chicago? they can't keep a wife a posing on state street." "humph!" "it's the truth!" "and how about the women? they seem to be fond of passing along to be posed at...." "oh, you're mean," she pouted. then: "are you married yet?" "oh, lordy! how could i get married? not thirty minutes ago i saw the first colored girl i have seen in a year!" "oh, you're a liar!" "it's the truth!" "is it so, jean? have you really not seen a colored girl in a whole year?" "i have never lied to you, have i?" "well, no. of course you haven't; but i don't know what i would do under such circumstances. not seeing nigga's for a year." "but i've seen enough already to make up." she laughed. "lordy, me. did you ever see so many 'shines' as there are on state street!" she paused and her face became a little serious for a moment. "by the way, jean, why don't you marry my sister?" "you're shameful! your sister wouldn't have me. i'm a farmer." "oh, yes she would. pearl's getting tired of getting engaged to these negroes around chicago. she likes you, anyhow." "tut, tut," he laughed depreciatingly. "pearl would run me ragged out there on that farm!" she laughed too. "no, she wouldn't, really. pearl is good looking and is tired of working." "she's good looking, all right, and perhaps tired of working; but she wouldn't do out there on the farm." "oh, you won't do. i'll bet you are married already." "oh, mrs. white!" "but you're engaged?" "nope!" "jean. i'll bet you'll marry a white girl out there and have nothing more to do with nigga's." "now you're worse." "and when you marry a white woman, i want to be the first one to shoot you--in the leg." he laughed long and uproariously. "you can laf all you want; but you ain't goin' through life lovin' nobody. you gotta girl somewhere; but do what you please so long as it don't come to that." "come to what?" "marrying a white woman." "wouldn't that be all right?" she looked up at him with a glare. he smiled amusedly. "don't you laf here on a subject like that! lord! i think lots of you, but if i should hear that you had married a white woman, man, i'd steal money enough to come there and kill you dead!" "why would you want to do that?" "_why would i want to do that?_ humph! what you want to ask me such a question for? the idea!" "but you haven't answered my question?" she glared at him again, all the humor gone out of her face. presently, biting at the thread in some sewing she was doing, she said: "in the first place, white people and negroes have no business marrying each other. in the second place, a nigga' only gets a po' white woman. and in the third place, white people and nigga's don't mix well when it comes to society. now, supposin' you married a white woman and brought her here to chicago, who would you associate with? we nigga's 's sho goin' to pass 'er up. and the white folks--you better not look their way!" he was silent. "ain't i done outlined it right?" "you've revealed some very delicate points with regard to the matter," he acknowledged. "of course i have, and you can't get away from it. but that ain't all. now, to be frank with yu'. i wouldn't ceh so much about some triflin' no 'count nigga' marrying some old white woman; but that ain't the kind no white woman wants when she stoops so low as to marry a nigga'. uh, naw! naw indeedy! she don't fool with nothin' like that! she leaves that kind for some poor colored woman to break her heart and get her head broken over. she marries somebody like you with plenty of money and sense with it, see!" he laughed amusedly. "no laffin' in it. you know i'm tellin' the truth. so take warning! don't marry no white woman up there and come trottin' down here expectin' me to give you blessin'. because if you do, and just as sure as my name is ida white, i'm going to do something to you!" "but a white woman might help a fellow to get up in the world," he argued. "yes, i'll admit that, too. but ouh burden is ouh burden, and we've got to bear it. and, besides, you c'n get a girl that'll help you when you really want a wife. that ain't no argument. of course i'd like to see pearl married. but you ain't going to fool with her, and i know it. pearl thinks she would like it better if she could marry somebody from out of chicago; but they'd all be the same after a month or so with her." "well," said he, "i'd better get over to the keystone. you've interested me today. i've learned something regarding the amalgamation of races...." "i hope you have, if you had it in your mind. anything else might be forgiven, but marrying a white woman--never!" they parted then. she to her sewing, and jean baptiste to his thoughts.... chapter ii which? jean baptiste returned to the west after two months' travel through the east, and the spring following, sowed a large crop of small grain and reaped a bountiful yield that fall. about this time the county just west of where he lived was opened to settlement, and a still larger crowd than had registered for the land in the county he lived came hither and sought a quarter section. the opening passed to the day of the drawing, and when all the lucky numbers had secured their filings, contracts for the purchases of relinquishments began. by this time the lands had reached great values, and that which he had purchased a short time before for twenty dollars the acre, had by this time reached the value of fifty dollars the acre. and now he had an opportunity of increasing his possessions to the number coveted, one thousand acres. he had paid a visit to his parents that winter, and found his sisters, who were mere children when he had left home, grown to womanhood, and old enough to take claims. so with them he had discussed the matter. inspired by his great success, they were all heart and soul to follow his bidding; so thereupon it was agreed that he would try to secure three relinquishments on good quarters, and upon one or more of these they would make filings. his grandmother, who had raised a family in the days of slavery agreed and was anxious to file on one; one sister on another, and the third place,--was to be his bride's. by doing this, he could have her use her homestead right, providing she filed on the claim before marrying him. so it was planned. but jean baptiste knew no girl that he could ask to become his wife, therefore this was yet to be. when he had given up his real love to be loyal to his race, he had determined on one thing: that marriage was a business, even if it was supposed to be inspired by love. but when agnes was left out, he loved no one. therefore it must be resolved into a business proposition--and the love to come after. so, resigned to the fact, he set himself to choose a wife. on his trip east the winter before he met two persons with whom he had since corresponded. one, the first, was a young man not long out of an agricultural college whose father was a great success as a potato grower. he and jean became intimate friends. it now so happened that the one mentioned had a sister, and through him jean baptiste was introduced to her by mail. correspondence followed and by this time it had become very agreeable. she proved to be a very logical young woman, and jean baptiste was favorably impressed. she was, moreover, industrious, ambitious, and well educated. her age was about the same as his, so on the surface he thought that they should make a very good match. so be it. in the meantime, however, he had opened a correspondence with another whom he had met on his trip the winter before where she had been teaching in a coal mining town south of chicago. the same had developed mutually, and he had found her agreeable and obviously eligible. her father was a minister, a dispenser of the gospel, and while for reasons we will become acquainted with in due time, he had cultivated small acquaintance with preachers, he took only such slight consideration of the girl's father's profession that he had good cause to recall some time later. about the time he was deeply engrossed in his correspondence with both the farmer's daughter and the young school teacher, he received a letter from a friend in chicago introducing him to a lady friend of hers through mail. this one happened to be a maid on the twentieth century limited, running between new york and chicago. well, jean baptiste was looking for a wife. sentiment was in order, but it was with him, first of all, a business proposition. so be it. he would give her too a chance. he was somewhat ashamed of himself when he addressed three letters when perhaps, he should have been addressing but one. it was not fair to either of the three, he guiltily felt; but, business was business with him. from his friend's sister he received most delightful epistles, not altogether frivolous, with a great amount of common sense between the lines. but what was more to the point, her father was wealthy, and she must have some conception of what was required to accumulate and to hold. he rather liked her, it now seemed. now from the preacher's daughter he received also pleasing letters. encouraging, but not to say unconventionally forward. he appreciated the fact that she was a preacher's child, and naturally expected to conform to a certain custom. but from new york he received the most encouragement. the position the maid held rather thrilled him. he loved the road--and she wrote such letters! it was plain to be seen here what the answer would be. which? he borrowed ten thousand dollars, giving a mortgage upon his land in security therefor. he purchased relinquishments upon three beautiful quarter sections of land in the county lying just to the west. the same, having to be homesteaded before title was acquired, had all ready been in part arranged for. his grandmother and sister were waiting to file on a place each--the third was for the bride-to-be. there remained a few weeks yet in which to make said selection; but, notwithstanding, all must be ready to make filing not later than the first day of october--and september at last arrived. he became serious, then uneasy. which? he wrote all three letters that would give either or all a right to hear the words from him, but did not say sufficient to any to give grounds for a possible breach of promise suit later. he rather liked the girl whose father had made money. yes, it so seemed--more than either of the other two. a match with her on the surface seemed more practical. but for some reason she did not reply within the time to the letter he had written her. oh, if he could only have courted her; could have been in the position to have seen her of a warm night; to have said to her: "----." poor jean baptiste your life might not have later come to what it did.... he waited--but in vain. october was drawing dangerously near when at last he left for somewhere. indeed he had not a complete idea where, but of one thing he had concluded, when he returned he would bring the bride-to-be. at omaha he made up his mind. the girl whose father had made money had had her chance and failed. he regretted it very much, but this was a business proposition, and he had two thousand dollars at stake that he would lose if he failed to get some one to file on that quarter section he had provided, on october first. he was rather disturbed over the idea. he really would have preferred a little more sentiment--but time had become the expedient. "of course," he argued, as he sped toward chicago, "i'll be awfully good to the one i choose, so if it is a little out of the ordinary--why, i'll try to make up for it when she is mine." with this consolation he arrived in chicago, wishing that the girl who lived two hundred miles south of omaha and whose father was well-to-do had replied to his letter. he really had chosen her out of the three. however, he resigned himself to the inevitable--one of the other two. he left the train and boarded the south side l. he got off again at thirty-first street, and found what he had always found before, state street and negroes. he was not interested in either this time. he had sent a telegram to new york from omaha to the effect that he was headed for chicago. it was to the maid, for she had drawn second choice. he planned to meet her at the number her dear friend--and the match maker, lived. so it was to this number he now hurried. "oh, mr. baptiste," cried this little woman, whose name happened to be rankin, and she was an old maid. she gave him her little hand, and was "delighted" to see him. "and you've come! miss pitt will be so glad! she has talked of nobody but mr. baptiste this summer. oh, i'm so glad you have come!" and she shook his hand again. "i sent her a telegram that i was coming, and i trust she will let me know...." "she is due in tomorrow," cried their little friend, and her voice was like delicate music. "i expect a telegram," he said evenly. "i am somewhat rushed." "indeed! but of course, you are a business man, mr. baptiste," chimed miss rankin with much admiration in her little voice. "how miss pitt will like you!" jean baptiste smiled a smile of vanity. he was getting anxious to meet miss pitt himself--inasmuch as he expected to ask her to become his wife on the morrow. "ting-aling-aling!" went the bell on the street door, and little miss rankin rushed forth to open it. "special for mr. jean baptiste," he heard and went to get it. after signing, he broke the seal a little nervously, and drawing the contents forth, read the enclosed message. he sighed when it was over. miss pitt had been taken with a severe attack of neuralgia in new york, was indisposed and under the care of a physician, but would be in chicago in six days. he studied the calendar on the wall. six days would mean october second! too late, miss pitt, your chance is gone. and now we turn to the party of the third part who will follow us through our story. [illustration: from a painting by w.m. farrow. "miss pitt was so anxious to meet you and i was, too, because i think you and her would like each other. she's an awfully good girl and willing to help a fellow."] chapter iii memories--n. justine mccarthy "she will not be in tomorrow," said baptiste, handing the letter to miss rankin. "oh, is that so!" cried miss rankin in a tone of deep disappointment, as she took the letter. "now isn't that just too bad!" "it is," agreed baptiste. "i will not get to see her, since i shall have to return to the west not later than two or three days." he was extremely disappointed. he sat down with a sigh and rested his chin in his palm, looking before him thoughtfully. "i'm sure sorry, so sorry," mused miss rankin abstractedly. "and you cannot possibly wait until next week?" she asked, anxiously. he shook his head sadly. "impossible, absolutely impossible." "it is certainly too bad. miss pitt was so anxious to meet you. and i was, too, because i think you and her would like each other. she's an awfully good girl, and willing to help a fellow. just the kind of a girl you need." he shifted his position now and was absorbed in his thoughts. he had come back to his purpose. he was sorry for miss pitt; but he had also been sorry that miss grey had not answered his letter.... the association with neither, true, had developed into a love affair, so would not be hard to forget. he had agreed with himself that love was to come later. he had exercised discretion. any one of the three was a desirable mate from a practical point of view. after marriage he was confident that they could conform sufficiently to each other's views to get along, perhaps be happy. miss mccarthy was, in his opinion, the most intelligent of the three, as she had been to school and had graduated from college. he had confidence in education uplifting people; it made them more observing. it helped them morally. and with him this meant much. he was very critical when it came to morals. he had studied his race along this line, and he was very exacting; because, unfortunately as a whole their standard of morals were not so high as it should be. of course he understood that the same began back in the time of slavery. they had not been brought up to a regard of morality in a higher sense and they were possessed with certain weaknesses. he was aware that in the days of slavery the negro to begin with had had, as a rule only what he could steal, therefore stealing became a virtue. when accused as he naturally was sure to be, he had resorted to the subtle art of lying. so lying became an expedient. so it had gone. then he came down to the point of physical morality. the masters had so often the slave women, lustful by disposition, as concubine. he had, in so doing of course, mixed the races, jean baptiste knew until not more than one half of the entire race in america are without some trait of caucasian blood. there had been no defense then, and for some time after. there was no law that exacted punishment for a master's cohabitation with slave women, so it had grown into a custom and was practiced in the south in a measure still. so with freedom his race had not gotten away from these loose practices. they were given still to lustful, undependable habits, which he at times became very impatient with. his version was that a race could not rise higher than their morals. so in his business procedure of choosing a wife, one thing over all else was unalterable, she must be chaste and of high morals. orlean mccarthy, however she as yet appeared from a practical standpoint, could, he estimated rightly, boast of this virtue. no doubt she was equally as high in all other perquisites. but strangely he did not just wish to ask miss mccarthy to become his wife. he could not understand it altogether. he was confident that no girl lived who perhaps was likely, as likely, to conform to his desires as she; but plan, do as he would, that lurking aversion still remained--infinitely worse, it grew to a fear. he sighed perceptibly, and miss rankin, catching the same, was deeply sympathetic because she thought it was due to the disappointment he felt in realizing that he was not to see miss pitt on the morrow. she placed her arm gently about his shoulders, leaned her small head close to his, and stroked his hair with her other hand. "well," said he, after a time, and to himself, "i left the west to find a wife. i've lived out there alone long enough. i want a home, love and comfort and only a wife can bring that." he paused briefly in his mutterings. his face became firm. that will that had asserted itself and made him what he was today, became uppermost. he slowly let the sentiment out of him, which was at once mechanically replaced by a cold set purpose. he smiled then; not a sentimental smile, but one cold, hard, and singularly dry. "oh, by the way, miss rankin," he essayed, rising, apparently cheerful. "do you happen to be acquainted with a family here by the name of mccarthy?" "mccarthy?" "yes. i think the man's a preacher. a rev. n.j. mccarthy, if i remember correctly." she looked up at him. her face took on an expression of defined contempt as she grunted a reply. "humph!" "well...." "who doesn't know that old rascal!" "indeed!" he echoed, in affected surprise; but in the same instant he had a feeling that he was to hear just this. still, he maintained his expression of surprise. "the worst old rascal in the state of illinois," she pursued with equal contempt. "oh, really!" "really--yes, _positively_!" "i cannot understand?" "oh well," she emitted, vindictively. "you won't have to inquire far to get the record of n.j. mccarthy. lordy, no! but now," she started with a heightening of color, "he's got a nice family. two fine girls, orlean and ethel, and his wife is a good little soul, rather helpless and without the force a woman should have; but very nice. but that husband--forget him!" "this is--er--rather unusual, don't you think?" "well, it is," she said. "one would naturally suppose that a man with such a family of moral girls as he has, would not be so--not because he is a preacher." she paused thoughtfully. "because you know that does not count for a high morality always in our society.... but n.j. mccarthy has been like he is ever since i knew him. he's a rascal of the deep water if the lord ever made one. and such a hypocrite--there never lived! added to it, he is the most pious old saint you ever saw! looks just as innocent as the christ--and treats his wife like a dog!" "oh, no!" "no!" disdainfully. "well, you'd better hush!" she paused again, and then as if having reconsidered she turned and said: "i'll not say any more about him. indeed, i don't like to discuss the man even. he is the very embodiment of rascalism, deceit and hypocrisy. now, i've said enough. be a good boy, go out and buy me some cream." and smilingly she got his hat and ushered him outside. "well, now what do you think of that," he kept repeating to himself, as he went for the ice cream, "_what do you think of that?_" suddenly he halted, and raised his hands to his head. he was thinking, thinking, thinking deeply, reflectively. his mind was going back, back, away back into his youth, his earliest youth--no! it was going--had gone back to his childhood! "n.j. mccarthy, _n.j. mccarthy_? where did i _know you_! where, where, _where_!" his head was throbbing, his brain was struggling with something that happened a long time before. a saloon was just to his left, and into it he turned. he wanted to think; but he _didn't_ want to think too fast. he took a glass of beer. it was late september, but rather warm, and when the cold beverage struck his throat, his mind went back into its yesterdays. it had happened in the extremely southern portion of the state, in that part commonly referred to as "egypt," where he then lived. he recalled the incident as it occurred about twenty years before, for he was just five years of age at the time. his mother's baby boy they called him, because he was the youngest of four boys in a large family of children. it was a day in the autumn. he was sure of this because his older brothers had been hunting; they had caught several rabbits and shot a few partridges. he had been allowed to follow for the first time, and had carried the game.... how distinctly it came back to him now. he had picked the feathers from the quail, and had held the rabbits while his brothers skinned them. and, later, they had placed the game in cold water from their deep well, and had thereupon placed the pan holding the same upon the roof of the summer kitchen, and that night the frost had come. and when morning was again, the ice cold water had drawn the blood from the meat of the game, and the same was clear and white. "now, young man," his mother said to him the following morning, "you will get into clean clothes and stay clean, do you understand?" "yes, mama, i understand," he answered. "but, mama, why?" he inquired. jean baptiste had always asked such questions and for his doing so his mother had always rebuked him. "you will ask the questions, my son," she said, raising his child body in her arms and kissing him fondly. "but i don't mind telling you." she stood him on the ground then, and pointed to him with her forefinger. "because we are going to have company from town. big people. the preachers. lots of them, so little boys should be good, and clean, and be scarce when the preachers are around. they are big men with no time, or care, to waste with little boys!" "m-um!" he had chimed. "and, why, mama, do the preachers have no time for little boys? were they not little boys once themselves?" "now, jean!" she had admonished thereupon, "you are entirely too inquisitive for a little boy. there will be other company, also. teachers, and mrs. winston, do you understand! so be good." with that she went about her dinner, cooking the rabbits and the quail that he had brought home the day before. it had seemed an age before, in their spring wagon followed by the lumber wagon, the dignitaries of the occasion wheeled into the yard. he could not recall now how many preachers there were, except that there were many. he was in the way, he recalled, however, because, unlike his other brothers, he was not bashful. but the preachers did not seem to see him. they were all large and tall and stout, he could well remember. but the teachers took notice of him. one had caught him up fondly, kissed him and thereupon carried him into the house in her arms. she talked with him and he with her. and he could well recall that she listened intently to all he told her regarding his adventures of the day before in the big woods that was at their back. how beautiful and sweet he had thought she was. when she smiled she showed a golden tooth, something new to him, and he did not understand except that it was different from anything he had ever seen before. after a long time, he thought, dinner was called, and, as was the custom, he was expected to wait. he had very often tried to reason with his mother that he could sit at the corner of the table in a high chair and eat out of a saucer. he had promised always to be good, just as good as he could be, and he would not talk. but his mother would not trust him, and it was understood that he should wait. at the call of dinner he slid from the teacher's lap upon the floor and went outside. he peeped through the window from where he stood on a block. he saw them eat, and eat, and eat. he saw the quail the boys had shot disappear one after another into the mouths of the big preachers, and since he had counted and knew how many quail there were, he had watched with a growing fear. "will they not leave one?" he cried. at last, when he could endure it no longer, he ran into the house, walked into the dining room unseen, and stood looking on. now, the teacher who had the golden tooth happened to turn and espy him and thereupon she cried: "oh, there is my little man, and i know he is hungry! where did you go, sweet one? come, now, quick to me," whereupon she held out loving arms into which he went and he had great difficulty in keeping back the tears. but he was hungry, and he had seen the last quail taken from the plate by a preacher who had previously taken two. upon her knee she had sat him, and he looked up into all the faces about. he then looked down into her plate and saw a half of quail. his anxious eyes found hers, and then went back to the plate and the half of quail thereon. "that is for you, sweetness," she cried, and began to take from the table other good things, while he fell to eating, feeding his mouth with both hands for he was never before so hungry. after a few moments he happened to lift his eyes from the plate. just to the side of the beloved teacher, he observed a large, tall and stout preacher. he wore a jet black suit and around his throat a clerical vest fit closely; while around his neck he wore a white collar hind part before. the preacher's eyes had found jean's and he gave a start. the eyes of the other were upon him, and they were angry eyes. he paused in his eats and gazed not understanding, into the eyes that were upon him. then suddenly he recalled that he had observed that the preacher had been smiling upon the teacher. he had laughed and joked; and said many things that little jean had not understood. as far as he could see, it appeared as if the teacher had not wished it; but the flirtation had been kept up. at last, in his child mind he had understood. his crawling upon the teacher's lap had spoiled it all! the preacher was angry, therefore the expression in his eyes. from across the table his mother stood observing him. she seemed not to know what to say or do, for it had always been so very hard to keep this one out of grown people's way. so she continued to stand hesitatingly. "didn't your mother say that you were to wait," growled the preacher, and his face was darker by the anger that was in it. this frightened jean. he could find no answer in the moment to such words. his little eyes had then sought those of the teacher, who in reply drew him closely to her. "why, reverend," she cried, amazed, "he's a little boy, a nice child, and hungry!" whereupon she caressed him again. he was pacified then, and his eyes held some fire when he found the preacher's again. the others, too, had grown more evil. the preacher's lips parted. he leaned slightly forward as he said lowly, angrily: "you're an impudent, ill mannered little boy, and you need a spanking!" then suddenly the child grew strangely angry. he couldn't understand. perhaps it was because he had helped secure the quail, all of which the preachers were eating, and felt that in view of this he was entitled to a piece of one. he could not understand afterward how he had said it, but he extended his little face forward, close to the preacher's, as he poured: "i ain't no impudent 'ittle boy, either! i went to hunt with my brothers yistidy and i carried all the game, and now you goin' eat it all and leave me none when i'm hungry. you're mean man and make me mad!" as he spoke everything seemed to grow dark around him. he recalled that he was suddenly snatched from the teacher's lap, and carried to the summer kitchen which was all closed and dark inside. he recalled that switches were there, and that soon he felt them. as a rule he cried and begged before he was ever touched; but strangely then he never cried, and he never begged. he just kept his mouth shut tightly, and had borne all the pain inflicted by his mother, and she had punished him longer than she had ever done before. perhaps it was because she felt she had to make him cry; felt that he _must_ cry else he had not repented. after a time he felt terribly dazed, became sleepy, and gradually fell into a slumber while the blows continued to fall. how long he slept he could not remember, but gradually he came out of it. there were no more blows then. yet, his little body felt sore all over. when he looked up (for he was lying on his back in the summer kitchen), his mother sat near and was crying and wiping the tears with her apron, while over him bent the teacher, and she was crying also. and as the tears had fallen unchecked upon his face he had heard the teacher saying: "it's a shame, an awful shame! the poor, poor little fellow! he was hungry and had helped to get the game. and to be punished so severely because he wanted to eat is a shame! oh, mrs. baptiste, you must pray to your god for forgiveness!" and his mother had cried more than ever then. presently he heard a heavy footfall, and peeped upward to see his father standing over him. his father was fair of complexion, and unlike his mother, never said much and was not commonly emotional. but when he was angry he was terrible, and he was angry now. his blue eyes shone like fire. "what is this, belle," he cried in a terrible voice, "you've killed my boy about that d--n preacher!" his father stooped and looked closely into his face. in fear he had opened his eyes. "jean!" he heard his father breathe, "god, but it's a blessing you are alive, or there would be a dead preacher in that house." "oh, fawn," his mother cried and fell on him, weeping. the teacher joined in to pacify him, and in that moment jean was forgotten. stiffly he had slipped from the room, and had gone around near the kitchen step of the big house to a place where the dogs had their bed. here he kept a heavy green stick, a short club. he passed before the door, and observed the preacher still sitting at the table, talking with mrs. winston. he glared at him a moment and his little eyes narrowed to mere slits. then he thought of something else.... it was mose allen, mose allen, a hermit who lived in the woods. it was miles--in his mind--to where mose lived, through heavy forests and timber; but he was going there, he was going there to stay with old mose and live in the woods. he had done nothing wrong, yet had been severely punished. before this he had thought several times that when he became a man he would like to be a preacher, a big preacher, and be admired; but, now--never! he would go to old mose allen's, live in the woods--and hate preachers forever! later, deep into the forest he plodded. deep, deeper, until all about him he was surrounded with overgrowth, but resolutely he struggled onward. he crossed a branch presently, and knew where he was. the branch divided their land with eppencamp's, the german. from there the forest grew deeper, the trees larger, and the underbrush more tangled. but he was going to mose allen and remembered that that was the way. he grasped his green club tighter and felt like a hunter in the bear stories his big brothers had read to him. he crossed a raise between the branch and the creek where the water flowed deeply, and where they always went fishing. he paused upon reaching the creek, for there a footlog lay. for the first time he experienced a slight fear. he didn't like foot logs, and had never crossed one alone. he had always been carried across by his brothers; but his brothers were not near, and he was running away! so he took courage, and approached the treacherous bridge. he looked down at the whirling waters below with some awe; but finally with a grimace, he set his foot on the slick trunk of the fallen tree and started across. he recalled then that if one looked straight ahead and not down at the water, it was easy; but his mind was so much on the waters below. he kept his eyes elsewhere with great effort, and finally reached the middle. now it seemed that he could not go one step further unless he saw what was below him. he hesitated, closed his eyes, and thought of the whipping he had received and the preacher he hated, opened them, and with calm determination born of anger, crossed safely to the other side. he sighed long and deeply when he reached the other side. he looked back at the muddy waters whirling below, and with another sigh plunged into the forest again and on toward mose allen's. he gained the other side of the forest in due time, and came into the clearing. a cornfield was between him and another forest, and almost to the other side of this mose allen lived. the sun was getting low, and the large oaks behind him cast great shadows that stretched before him and far out into the cornfield. he thought of ghosts and hurried on. he must reach mose allen's before night, that was sure. it was a long way he thought when he reached the other side, and the forest before him appeared ominous. he was inclined to be frightened, but when he looked toward the west and home he saw that the sun had sunk and he plunged grimly again into the deep woodland before him. now the people of the neighborhood had made complaints, and it was common talk about the country, that chickens, and young pigs, and calves had been attacked and destroyed by something evil in the forests. at night this evil spirit had stolen out and ravaged the stock and the chickens. accordingly, those interested had planned a hunt for what was thought to be a catamount. it was not until he had gone deeply into the woods, and the darkness was everywhere about him, that he remembered the catamount. he stopped and tried to pick the briers out of his bleeding hands, and as he did so, he heard a terrible cry. he went cold with fear. he hardly dared breathe, and crouched in a hole he had found where only his shoulders and head were exposed. he awaited with abated breath for some minutes and was about to venture out when again the night air and darkness was rent by the terrible cry. he crouched deeper into the hole and trembled, for the noise was drawing nearer. on and on it came. he thought of a thousand things in one minute, and again he heard the cry. it was very near now, and he could hear the crunch of the animal's feet upon the dry leaves. and still on and on it came. presently it was so close that he could see it. the body of the beast became dimly outlined before him and he could see the eyes plainly, as it swung its head back and forth, and its red eyes shone like coals of fire. again the varmint rent the night air with its yell, as it espied its prey crouching in the hole. by watching the eyes he observed the head sink lower and lower until it almost touched the earth. and thereupon he became suddenly calm and apprehensive. he held his breath and met it calmly, face to face. his club was drawn, his eyes were keen and intense. he waited. suddenly the air was rent with another death rendering cry, and the beast sprung. it had reckoned well, but so had he. he had, moreover, struck direct. the blow caught the beast on the point of its nose and muffled and spoiled its directed spring. he quickly came out of the hole and then, before the animal could get out of his reach, he struck it again with such force at the back of the head, that the beast was stunned. again and again he struck until the head was like a bag of bones. when his strength was gone, and all was quiet, he became conscious of a drowsiness. he sank down and laid his head upon the body of the dead animal, and fell into a deep sleep. and there they found him during the early hours of the morning and took him and the dead catamount home. "another beer, cap'n?" he heard from the bartender. he quickly stood erect and gazed about in some confusion. "yes," he replied, throwing a coin upon the bar. he drank the beer quickly, went out, bought miss rankin the cream and after delivering it to her, went outside again and up state street. he was overcome with memories, was jean baptiste. he had a task to accomplish. he was going to vernon avenue where miss mccarthy lived to ask her to become his wife. and the preacher who had been the cause of his severe punishment twenty years before was her father, the rev. n.j. mccarthy. chapter iv orlean "oh, mama," cried orlean e. mccarthy, coming hastily from the hallway into the room where her mother sat sewing, and handing her a note, "mr. baptiste is in the city and wishes to call at the earliest possible convenience." "indeed," replied her mother, affecting a serious expression, "this is rather sudden. have you sent him word when he could?" "yes, mama, i wrote him a note and returned it by the boy that brought this one, that he could call at two o'clock." her mother's gaze sought the clock automatically. "and it is now past one," she replied. "you will have to get ready to receive him," she advised ceremoniously. "all right, mama," said orlean cheerfully, and suddenly bending forward, kissed her mother impulsively upon the cheek, and a moment later hurried upstairs. "what is this i hear about somebody coming to call," inquired another, coming into the room at that moment. mrs. mccarthy looked up on recognizing the voice of her younger daughter, ethel, who now stood before her. she gave a perceptible start as she did so, and swallowed before she replied. in the meantime the other stood, regarding her rather severely, as was her nature. she was very tall, was ethel, and because she was so very thin she appeared really taller than she was. she did not resemble her mother, who was a dumpy light brown skinned woman. she was part indian, and possessed a heavy head of hair which, when let down, fell over her shoulders. ethel, on the other hand, was somewhat darker, had a thin face, with hair that was thick, but rather short and bushy. her eyes were small and dark, out of which she never seemed to look straight at one. they appeared always to be lurking and without any expression, unless it was an expression of dislike. forsooth, she was a known disagreeable person, ostentatious, pompous, and hard to get along with. she was a bride of a few weeks and was then resting after a short honeymoon spent in racine, wisconsin, sixty miles north of chicago. "why, mr. baptiste is coming. coming to call on your sister. he has been corresponding with her for some time, you understand," her mother returned in her mild, trained manner. "oh!" echoed ethel, apparently at a loss whether to be pleased or displeased. she was as often one way as the other, so her mother was apprehensive of something more. "i think you have met him, have you not?" her mother inquired. "yes, i've met him," admitted ethel. "last winter while teaching." "and what do you think of him, my dear?" "well, he has some ways i don't like." "what ways, please?" she had started to say "naturally" but thought better of it. "oh, he does not possess the dignity i like in a man. struck me as much too commonplace." "oh," her mother grunted. she was acquainted with ethel's disposition, which was extremely vain. she loved pomp and ceremony, and admired very few people. "what's he calling to see orlean for?" her mother looked up in some surprise. she regarded her daughter keenly. "why, my dear! why do you ask such a question! why do young men call to see any young ladies?" both turned at this moment to see orlean coming down the stairway, and attention was fastened upon her following. "all 'dolled' up to meet your farmer," commented ethel with a touch of envy in her voice. in truth she was envious. her husband was just an ordinary fellow--that is, he was largely what she was making of him. it was said that she had found no other man who was willing to tolerate her evil temper and that, perhaps, was why she had married him. while with him, he had been anxious to marry her to satisfy his social ambition. although an honest, hardworking fellow, he had come of very common stock. from the backwoods of tennessee where his father had been a crude, untrained preacher, he had come to chicago and had met and married her after a courtship of six years. "you look very nice, my dear," said her mother, addressing orlean. between the two children there was a great difference. although older, orlean was by far the more timid by disposition. an obedient girl in every way, she had never been known to cross her parents, and had the happy faculty of making herself generally liked, while ethel invited disfavor. she was not so tall as ethel, and while not as short as her mother, she was heavier than either. she was the image of her father who was dark, although not black. after her mother she had taken her hair, which, while not as fine, was nevertheless heavy, black and attractive. her eyes were dark like her mother's, which were coal black. they were small and tender. her expression was very frank; but she had inherited her mother's timidness and was subservient unto her father, and in a measure unto her younger sister, ethel. she was a year older than the man who was coming to see her, and had never had a beau. "do i look all right, mama?" she asked, turning so that she might be seen all around. "yes, my dear," the other replied. she always used the term "my dear." she had been trained to say that when she was a young wife, and had never gotten out of the habit. "now sit down, my daughter," she said judiciously, "and before the young man comes to call on you, tell me all about him." "yes, and leave out nothing," interposed ethel. "she is talking to your mother, ethel. you will do her a favor by going to your room until it is over," advised their mother. "oh, well, if i'm not wanted, then i'll go," spit out ethel wickedly, whereupon she turned and hastened up the stairs to her room and slammed the door behind her. "ethel has such a temper," her mother sighed deploringly. "she is so different from you, dear. you are like your mother, while she--well, she has her father's ways." "papa is not as mean as ethel," defended orlean, ever obedient to her mother, yet always upholding her father, it mattered not what the issue. her mother sighed again, shifted in her chair, and said no more on that subject. she knew the father better than orlean, and would not argue. she had been trained not to.... "now where did you meet mr. baptiste, my dear?" she began. "where i taught last winter, mother," she replied obediently. "and how did you come to meet him, daughter?" "why, he was calling on a girl friend of mine, and i happened along while he was there, and the girl introduced us." "m-m. was that the first time you had seen him?" "no, i had met him on the street when he was on the way down there." "i see. did he speak to you on the street?" "oh, no, mother. he did not know me." "but he might have spoken anyhow...." "but he was a gentleman, and he never spoke." she paused briefly, and then, her voice a trifle lower, said: "of course he looked at me. but--" "well, any man would do that. we must grant that men are men. how were you impressed with him when you met him later at this friend's house?" "well, i don't know," returned orlean hesitatingly. "he seemed to be a great talker, was very commonplace, dressed nicely but not showily. he knew quite a few people in chicago that we know, and was born near the town in which i met him. he was just returning from new york, and--well, i rather admired him. he is far above the average colored man, i can say." "m-m," her mother mused thoughtfully, and with an air of satisfaction. she couldn't think of anything more to say just then, and upon looking at the clock which showed ten minutes of two, she said: "well, you had better go in the parlor, and after he has called, when convenient, call me and permit me to meet him. you will be careful, my dear, and understand that we have raised you to be a lady, and exercise your usual dignity." "yes, mama." on the hour the street door bell was pulled with a jerk, and arising, orlean went toward the door expectantly. "oh, how do you do," she cried, a moment later, her face lighted with a radiant smile as she extended her hand and allowed it to rest in that of jean baptiste's. "miss mccarthy," he cried, with her hand in one of his, and his hat in the other, he entered the door. "may i take your hat?" asked orlean, and taking it, placed it on the hall tree. in the meantime, his habitually observing eyes were upon her, and when she turned she found him regarding her closely. "come right into the parlor, please, mr. baptiste, and be seated." she hesitated between the davenport and the chairs; while he, without ado, chose the davenport and became seated, and the look he turned upon her commanded more than words that she, too, be seated. with a little hesitation, she finally sank on the davenport at a conventional distance, beside him. "i was not certain, judging by your last letter, just when you would get here," she began timidly. he regarded her out of his searching eyes attentively. he was weighing her in the balance. he saw in those close glances what kind of a girl she was, apparently, for, after a respite, he relaxed audibly, but kept his eyes on her nevertheless. "i was not certain myself," he said. "i am so rushed these days that i do not know always just what comes next. but i am glad that i am here at last--and to see you looking so well." they exchanged the usual words about the weather, and other conventional notes, and then she called her mother. "mama, i wish you to meet mr. baptiste. mr. baptiste, this is my mother." "mr. baptiste," said her mother, giving him her hand, "i am glad to know you." "the same here, madam," he returned cheerfully. "guess your health is good!" "very good, i'm glad to say." they talked for a time, and all were cheered to find themselves so agreeable. "i think i can slightly recall your people, mr. baptiste," her mother remarked, thoughtfully. "my husband, dr. mccarthy," she said, giving him an honorary term, "pastored the church in the town near where you were born, many years ago." "i do say," he echoed non-commitally. "do you recall it?" she asked. he appeared to be thinking.... he hardly knew what to say, then, after some deliberation he brightened and said: "i think i do. i was very young then, but i think i do recall your husband...." "your name--the name of your family has always remained in my mind," said she then, reflectively. "indeed. it is a rather peculiar name." "it is so, i should say," she cried. "if it is quite fair, may i ask where or how your father came by such a name?" "oh, it is very simple. my father, of course, was born a slave like most--almost all negroes previous to the war--and took the name from his master who i suppose was of french descent." "oh, that explains it. of course that is natural. m-m; but it's a beautiful name, i must say." he smiled. "it is an illustrious name, also," she commented further. "but the man who carries it in this instance, is much to the contrary notwithstanding," he laughed depreciatingly. "it is a very beautiful day without, my dear," she said, addressing her daughter, "and perhaps mr. baptiste might like to walk out and see some of the town." "i most assuredly would," he cried, glad of something for a change. he was restless, and estimated that if he felt the air, with her at his side, it might help him. orlean arose, went upstairs, and returned shortly wearing a large hat that set off her features. he rather liked her under it, and when they walked down the street together, he was conscious of an air of satisfaction. "where would you like to go?" she asked as they neared the intersection. "for a car ride on the elevated," he replied promptly. "then we will go right down this street. this is thirty-third, and there's an elevated station a few blocks from here." they walked along leisurely, she listening attentively, while he talked freely of the west, his life there and what he was doing. when they reached the l. he assisted her upstairs to the station, and in so doing touched her arm for the first time. the contact gave him a slight sensation but he felt more easy when they had entered the car and taken a seat together. a moment later they were gazing out over the great city below as the cars sped through the air. it was growing dark when they returned, and she invited him to dinner. he accepted and thereupon met ethel and her husband. ethel was all pomp and ceremony, while her husband, with his cue from her, acted in the same manner, and they rather bored jean baptiste with their airs. he was glad when the meal was over. he followed orlean back to the parlor, where they took a seat on the davenport again, and drew closer to her this time. soon she said: "do you play?" "lord, no!" he exclaimed; "but i shall be glad to listen to you." "i can't play much," she said modestly; "but i will play what little i know." thereupon she became seated and played and sang, he thought, very well. after she had played a few pieces, she turned and looked up at him, and he caught the full expression of her eyes. he could see that they were tender eyes; eyes behind which there was not apparently the force of will that he desired; but orlean mccarthy was a fine girl. she was fine because she was not wicked; because she was intelligent and had been carefully reared; she was fine because she had never cultivated the society of undesirable or common people; but she was not a fine girl because she had a great mind, or great ability; or because she had done anything illustrious. and this jean baptiste, a judge of human nature could readily see; but he would marry her, he would be good to her; and she would, he hoped, never have cause to regret having married him. and thereupon he bent close to her, took her chin in his hand and kissed her upon the lips. she turned away when he had done this. in truth she was not expecting such from him and knew not just how to accept it. her lips burned with a new sensation; she had a peculiar feeling about the heart. she arose and went to the piano and her fingers wandered idly over the keys as she endeavored to still her beating heart. shortly she felt his hand upon her shoulder and she turned to hear him say: "won't you come back into the parlor? i--would like to speak to you?" she consented without hesitation, and arising followed him timidly back to the seat they had occupied a few minutes before. again seated he drew closely but did not deign to place his arm about her, looked toward the rear of the house where the others were, and, seeing that the doors were closed between them, sighed lightly and turned to her. "now, miss mccarthy," he began, evenly. "i am going to say something to you that i have never said to a woman before." he paused while she waited with abated breath. "i haven't known you long; but that is not the point. what i should say is, that in view of our brief correspondence, it will perhaps appear rather bold of me to say what i wish to. yet, there comes a time in life when circumstances alter cases. "now, to be frank, i have always regarded matrimony as a business proposition, and while sentiment is a very great deal in a way, business considerations should be the first expedient." she was all attention. she was peculiarly thrilled. it was wonderful to listen to him, she thought, and not for anything would she interrupt him. but _what_ did he mean; what was he _going_ to say. "well, i, miss mccarthy, need a wife. i want a wife; but my life has not been lived where social intercourse with girls of my race has been afforded, as you might understand." she nodded understandingly, sympathetically. her woman's nature was to sympathize, and what she did was only natural with all women. "it has not been my privilege to know any girl of my race intimately; i am not, as i sit here beside you able to conscientiously, or truly, go to one and say: 'i love you, dear, and want you to be my wife,' in the conventional sense. therefore, can i be forgiven if i say to you; if i ask you, miss mccarthy," and so saying, he turned to her, his face serious, "to become my wife?" he had paused, and her soul was afire. was _this_ a proposal or was it a play? for a time she was afraid to say anything. she wouldn't say no, and she was afraid to say yes, until--well, until she was positive that he had actually asked her to marry him. as it was, she hesitated. but it was so wonderful she thought. it was so beautiful to be so near such a wonderful young man, such a strong young man. the young men she had known had not been like this one. and, really, she wanted to marry. she was twenty-six, and since her sister had married, she had found life lonely. to be a man's wife and go and live alone with him must be wonderful. she was a reader, and he had sent her books. in all books and life and everything there was love. and love always had its climax in a place where one lived alone with a man. oh, glorious! she was _ready to listen to anything he had to say_. "now, i do not profess love to you, miss mccarthy, in trying to make this clear. i could not, and be truthful. and i have always tried to be truthful. indeed, i could not feel very happy, i am sure, unless i was truthful. to pretend that which i am not is hypocrisy, and i despise a hypocrite. i am an owner of land in the west, and i believe you will agree with me, that it behooves any negro to acquire all he can. we are such a race of paupers! we own so little, and have such little prestige. thankfully, i am at present, on the high road to success, and, because of that, i want a wife, a dear, kind girl as a mate, the most natural thing in the world." she nodded unaware. what he was saying had not been said to her in that way; but the way he said it was so much to the point. she had not been trained to observe that which was practical; indeed, her father was regarded as a most impractical man; but she liked this man beside her now, and was anxious for him to go on. he did. "i own acres of very valuable land, and have consummated a deal for more acres. this land is divided into tracts of acres each, and must be homesteaded before the same is patented. "now, my grandmother, and also a sister are already in the west, and will homestead on two places. the other, i have arranged for you. the proceeding is simple. it will be necessary only for you to journey out west, file on this land as per my directions, after which we can be married any time after, and we can then live together on your claim. do you understand?" "i think so," she said a bit falteringly. "now, my dear, do not feel that i am a charter barterer; we can simply acquire a valuable tract of land by this process and be as we would under any other circumstances. once you were out there all would be very plain to you, but at this distance, it is perhaps foreign to you, that i understand." she looked up into his face trustingly. right then she wanted him to kiss her. it was all so irregular; but he was a man and she a maid, and she had never had a love.... he seemed to understand, and passionately he caught her to him, and kissed her many, many times. it was all over then, as far as she was concerned. she had not said yes or no with words, but her lips had been her consent, and she knew she would love him. it was the happiest hour in the simple life she had lived, and she was ready to become his forever. chapter v a proposal; a proposition; a certain mrs. pruitt--and a letter "oh, mama, mr. baptiste has asked me to marry him," cried orlean, rushing into the room and to the bed where her mother lay reading, after jean baptiste had left. "why, my child, this--this is rather sudden, is it not? mr. baptiste has known you only a few months and has been corresponding with you just a little while," her mother said with some excitement, suddenly sitting erect in the bed. "yes, mama, what you say is true, but he explained. he said--well, i can't quite explain, but he--he wants to marry me, mama, and you know--well, mama, you understand, don't you?" "yes, i understand. all girls want husbands, but it must be regular. so take off your clothes, dear, get into bed and tell me just what mr. baptiste did say." the other did as instructed, and as best she could, tried to make plain what jean had said to her regarding the land and all. she didn't make it very plain, and the matter rather worried her, but the fact that he had asked her to marry him, was uppermost in her mind, and she finally went to sleep happier than she had ever been in her life before. "now, when the young man calls today, you will have him take his business up with me," her mother instructed judiciously the following morning. "he will explain it all, mama. he can do so very easily," she said, glad to be relieved of the difficult task. yet she had her worries withal. her mother was a very difficult person to explain anything to; besides, orlean knew her mother was in constant fear of her father who was a presiding elder, traveling over the southern part of the state, and who came into the city only every few months. and if her mother was hard to make understand anything, her father was worse--and business, he knew next to nothing about although he was then five and fifty. jean baptiste had accomplished a great many more difficult tasks than explaining to his prospective mother-in-law in regard to the land. when she seemed to have sensed what it all meant, he observed that she would give a peculiar little start, and he would have to try it all over again. in truth she understood better than she appeared to; but it was the girl's father whom she feared to anger--for in all her life she had never been able to please him. but she found a way out along late that afternoon when a caller was announced. the visitor was a woman possessed of rare wits, and of all the people that mrs. mccarthy disliked, and of all who disliked mrs. mccarthy, mrs. pruitt was the most pronounced. yet, it was mrs. pruitt who settled the difficulty and saved the day for orlean and jean baptiste. but as to why mrs. pruitt should dislike mrs. mccarthy, and mrs. mccarthy should dislike mrs. pruitt, there is a story that was known among all their friends and acquaintances. when miss rankin had said what she did about rev. n.j. mccarthy, she had not told all, nor had she referred to any woman in particular. she was not a scandal monger. but she knew as all chicago knew, that in so far as the parties in question were concerned there was a friendship between mrs. pruitt and the reverend that was rather subtle, and had been for years. and it was this which caused the two mentioned to dislike each other with an unspoken hatred. but mrs. mccarthy trusted orlean's going eight hundred miles west to file on a homestead, and what might come of it, to mrs. pruitt rather than to herself. while she could--was aware of it--she did not dare venture anything to the contrary where it might come back to her husband's ears, she knew mrs. pruitt had more influence with her husband than had she.... therefore when she invited jean baptiste to meet mrs. pruitt, who had met him years before, she breathed a sigh of relief. it was over in a few hours. mrs. pruitt would accompany orlean to the west and back, with jean baptiste paying expenses, and preparations were made thereto. in two days they had reached gregory where the great land excitement was on. from over all the country people had gathered, and the demand for the land had reached its greatest boom since jean baptiste had come to the country. his sister and grandmother had arrived during his absence, and, after greeting them, he was handed a letter, which read: _my dear mr. baptiste_: your most delightful letter was received by me today, and that you may see just how much i appreciate it, i am answering at _once_ and hope you will receive the same real soon. to begin with: the reason i have not answered sooner is quite obvious. i was away on a short visit, and only returned home today, to find that your _most_ interesting letter had been here several days. think of it, and i would have given most _anything_ to have had it sooner. well, in reference to what you intimated in your letter regarding the land up there, i am deeply interested. nothing strikes my fancy so much as homesteading--which i think you meant. i would the best in the world like to hold down a claim, and am sure i would make a great homesteader. but why write more! an hour with you will explain matters more fully than a hundred letters, so i will close with this: you hinted about coming down, and my invitation is to do so, and do so at _your earliest possible convenience_. i am waiting with great anxiety your honored appearance. in the meantime, trusting that you are healthy, hopeful and happy, please believe me to be, cordially, sincerely--and anxiously yours, irene grey. he regarded the letter a little wistfully, and the next moment tore it to bits, flung it to the winds, and went about his business. chapter vi the prairie fire "my mother grabbed me, kissed and hugged me time and again when i returned," jean baptiste read in the letter he received from his wife-to-be a few days after she had returned to the windy city, and he was satisfied. "she had been so worried, you see, because she had written father nothing about it, and this was the first time in her married life that she has dared do anything without a long consultation with him. but she is glad i went now, and thinks you are a very sensible fellow therefor. papa sent a telegram advising that he had been reappointed presiding elder over the same district, and would come into chicago for a few days before entering into another year of the work. "i am deluged with questions regarding the west, and it gives me a great deal of pleasure to explain everything, and of the wonderful work you are doing. now, papa will be home in a few days, and, knowing how hard he is to explain anything to, i am preparing myself for quite a task. i will close now. with love and kisses to you, believe me to be, "your own, "orlean." jean now went about his duties. his sister and grandmother were with him, and he had planned to put them on their claims at once, so as to enable them to prove up as soon as possible. therefore to their places he hauled lumber, coal and provisions. their claims lay some forty-five miles to the northwest beyond the railroad which now had its terminus at dallas. and, referring to that, we have not found occasion to mention what had taken place in the country in the two years passed. when the railroad had missed dallas and struck gregory and the other two government townsites, dallas was apparently doomed, and in a few months most of the business men had gone, and the business buildings, etc., had been moved to gregory. this town, because of the fact that it was only five miles from the next county line--the county that had been opened and which contained the land that jean baptiste had secured for his relatives and bride--was, for a time, expected to become the terminus. and to this end considerable activity had transpired with a view to getting the heavy trade that would naturally come with the opening and settlement of the county west, which had twice the area of the county in which gregory lay. now, it was shortly after the railroad was under course of construction that one, the chief promoter of the townsite, called on the "town dad's" of gregory with a proposition. the proposition was, in short, to move dallas to gregory, and thereupon combine in making gregory a real city. unfortunately for gregory, her leaders were men who had grown up in a part of the country where the people did not know all they might have known. they consisted in a large measure of rustic mountebanks, who, because, and only because, gregory happened to have been in the direct line of the railroad survey, and had thereby secured the road, took unto themselves the credit of it all. so, instead of entertaining the offer in a logical, business and appreciative manner, gave the promoter the big haw! haw! and turned their backs to him. there was a spell of inactivity for a time on the part of the said promoter. but in the fall, when the ground had frozen hard, and the corn was being gathered, all that was left in the little town of dallas, laying beside the claim of jean baptiste, was suddenly hauled five miles west of the town of gregory. and still before the gregory illogics had time even to think clearly, business was going on in what they then chose to call new dallas--and the same lay directly on the line of the two counties, and where the railroad survey ended. it is needless to detail the excitement which had followed this. "lies, lies, liars!" were the epithets hurled from gregory. "the railroad is in gregory to stay; to stay for"--oh, they couldn't say how many years, perhaps a hundred; but all that noise to the west was a bluff, a simon pure bluff, and that ended it. that is, until they started the same noise over again. but it had not been a bluff. the tracks had been laid from gregory to dallas early in the spring that followed, and now dallas was _the_ town instead of gregory, and the boom that had followed the building of the town, is a matter never to be forgotten in the history of the country. gregory's one good fortune was that she had secured the land office which necessitated that all filings should be entered there, and in this way got more of the boom that was occasioned by the land opening at the west than it had expected to when the railroad company had pushed its way west out of the town. it was about this time while great excitement was on and thousands of people were in the town of dallas that something occurred that came near literally wiping that town off the map. jean baptiste had loaded his wagons and was on the way from his land to the claims of his sister when the same came to pass. the greatest danger in a new country comes after the grass has died in the fall and before the new grass starts in the spring. but in the fall when the grass is dry and crisp, and the surface below is warm and dry, is the time of prairie fires. no time could have been more opportune for such an episode than the time now was. the wind had been blowing for days and days, and had made the short grass very brittle, and the surface below as hot as in july. jean baptiste was within about a mile of where new dallas now reposed vaingloriously on a hillside, her many new buildings rising proudly, defiantly, as if to taunt and annoy gregory, against the skyline, when with the wind greeting him, he caught the smell of burning grass. he reached a hillside presently, and from there he could see for miles to the west beyond, and the sight that met his gaze staggered him. "a prairie fire," he cried apprehensively, and urged his teams forward toward dallas. one glance had been sufficient to _convince_ him what it might possibly mean. a prairie fire with the wind behind it as this was, would bid no good for dallas, and once there he could be of a little service, since he knew how to fight it. when he arrived at the outskirts of the embryo city, he was met by a frightened herd of humanity. with bags and trunks and all they could carry; with eyes wide, and mouths gaped, in terror they were hurrying madly from the town to an apparent place of safety--a plowed field nearby. miles to the west the fire and smoke rose in great, dark reddened clouds, and cast--even at that distance, dark shadows over the little city. as he drew into the town, he could see a line of figures working at fire breaks before the gloom. they were the promoters and the townspeople, and he imagined how they must feel with death possible--and destruction, positive, coming like an angry beast directly upon them. soon, jean baptiste, with wet horse blankets, was with them on the firing line. the speed at which the wind was driving the fire was ominous. soon all the west was as if lost in the conflagration, for the sun, shining out of a clear sky an hour before was now shut out as if clouds were over all. the dull roar and crackle of the burning grass brought a feeling of awe over all before it. the heat became, after a time, intense; the air was surcharged with soot, and the little army worked madly at the firebreaks. rolling, tumbling, twisting, turning, but always coming onward, the hurricane presently struck the fire guards. in that moment it was seen that a mass of thistles, dried manure, and all refuse from the prairie was sweeping before it, as if to draw the fire onward. the fire plunged over the guards as though they had not been made, pushed back the little army and rushed madly into the town. it was impossible now to do more. the conflagration was beyond control. now in the town, an effort was therefore made to get the people out of their houses where some had even hidden when it appeared that all would be swept away in the terrible deluge of fire. one, two, three, four, five, six--ten houses went up like chaff, and the populace groaned, when, of a sudden, something happened. like napoleon's army at waterloo there was a quick change. one of those rare freaks--but what some chose to claim in after years as the will of the creator in sympathy with the hopeful builders, the wind gradually died down, whipped around, and in less than five minutes, was blowing from the east, almost directly against its route of a few minutes before. the fire halted, seemed to hesitate, and then like some cowardly thing, turned around and started back of the same ground it had raged over where it lingered briefly, sputtered, flickered, and then quickly died. and the town, badly frightened, hard worked, but thankful withal, was saved. chapter vii vanity "my father is home, and, oh! but he did carry on when he was informed regarding my trip west to take the homestead," orlean wrote her betrothed in her next letter. "he was so much upset over it that he went out of the house and walked in the street for a time to still his intense excitement. when he returned, however, he listened to my explanation, and, after a time, i was pleased to note that he was pacified. and still later he was pleased, and when a half day had passed he was tickled to death. "of course i was relieved then also, and now i am fully satisfied. i have not written you as soon as i should have on this account. i thought it would be best to wait until papa had heard the news and was settled on the matter, which he now is. he has written you and i think you should receive the letter about the same time you will this. he has never been anxious in his simple old heart for me to marry, but of course he understands that i must some day, and now that i am engaged to you, he appears to be greatly pleased. "by the way, i have not received the ring yet, and am rather anxious. of course i wish to be quite reasonable, but on the whole, a girl hardly feels she's engaged until she is wearing the ring, you know. write me a real sweet letter, and make it long. in the meantime remember me as one who thinks a great deal of you, "from your fond, "orlean." baptiste heard from his father-in-law-to-be in due time, and read the letter carefully, replying to the same forthwith. we should record before going further that the incident which had happened between them in his youth had been almost as completely buried as it had been before the day of its recent resurrection. in his reply he stated that he would come into the city xmas, which meant of course, that they would meet and come to understand each other better. he was glad that the formalities were in part through with, and would be glad when it was over. he did not appreciate so much ado where so little was represented, as it were. he had it from good authority without inquiry that the reverend mccarthy had never possessed two hundred dollars at one time in his life, and the formalities he felt compelled to go through with far exceeded that amount already. and with this in mind he began gathering his corn crop which he had been delayed in doing on account of the stress of other more urgent duties. he had been at work but a few days when snow began to fall. for days it fell from a northwesterly direction, and then turning, for a week came from an easterly direction. this kept up until the holidays arrived, therefore most of the corn crop over all the country was caught and remained in the field all the winter through. by the hardest work his sister and grandmother succeeded in reaching his place from their homesteads, and stayed there while he went into chicago. "mr. baptiste, please meet my father," said orlean when he called, following his arrival in the city again. he looked up to find a tall, dark but handsome old man extending his hand. he regarded him, studied him carefully in a flash, and in doing so his mind went back twenty years; to a memorable day when he had been punished and had followed it by running away. he extended his hand and grasped the other's, and wondered if he also remembered.... they exchanged greetings, and if the other recalled him, he gave no evidence of the fact in his expression. when he had sat beside the teacher, such a long time before, baptiste recalled now, that at the back of the other's head there had been a white spot where the hair was changing color; but now this spot spread over all the head, and the hair was almost as white as snow. with his dark skin, this formed a contrast that gave the other a distinguished appearance which was noticeably striking. but his eyes did not meet with baptiste's favor, though he was not inclined to take this seriously. but as he continued to glance at him at times during the evening he did not fail to see that the other seemed never to look straight and frankly into his eyes; and there was in his gaze and expression when he met baptiste,--so baptiste thought--a peculiar lurking, as if some hidden evil were looking out of the infinite depths of the other's soul. it annoyed baptiste because every time he caught the other's gaze he recalled the incident of twenty years before, and wanted to forget it; declared he would forget it, and to that task he set himself, and apparently succeeded while in the city. with ethel and her husband, whose name was glavis, he never got along at all. ethel was pompous, and known to be disagreeable; while glavis was narrow, and a victim of his wife's temper and disposition. so unless the talk was on society and "big" negroes, which positively did not interest jean baptiste, who was practical to the superlative, there was no agreement. so when jean baptiste returned west, he was conscious of a great relief. the severe winter passed at last and with early spring everybody completed the gathering of the corn and immediately turned to seeding their crops. work was plentiful everywhere, and to secure men to complete gathering his crop of corn, baptiste had the greatest difficulty. stewarts had failed to secure any land at all--either of the four in the drawing, and, being unable to purchase relinquishments on even one quarter at the large sum demanded therefor, had gone toward the western part of the state and taken free homesteads. as for agnes, she had apparently passed out of his life. he labored so hard in the cold, wet muddy fields in trying to get his corn out that he was taken ill, and was not able to work at all for days, and while so, he wrote his fiancée his troubles; and that since he was so indisposed, with a world of work and expense upon him she would do him a great favor if she would consent to come to him and be married. now the mccarthys had given ethel a big wedding although her husband received only thirteen dollars a week for his work. two hundred dollars, so it was reported, had been expended on the occasion. such display did not appeal to the practical mind of jean. he had lived his life too closely in accomplishing his purpose to become at this late day a victim of such simple vanity; the ultra simple vanity of aping the rich. upon this point his mind was duly set. the mccarthys had started to buy a home the summer before which was quite expensive, and had entered into the contract with a payment of three hundred dollars. the reverend had borrowed a hundred dollars on his life insurance and paid this in, while glavis had paid another. ethel had used what money she had saved teaching, to expend in the big wedding, so orlean had paid the other hundred out of the money she had saved teaching school. now, if there was any big wedding for orlean, then he, jean baptiste, knew that he would be expected to stand the expense. therefore, baptiste tried to make plain to orlean in his letters the gravity of his position. she would be compelled to establish residence on her homestead early in may, and this was april, or forfeit her right and sacrifice all he had put into it. but orlean became unreasonable--jean baptiste reasoned. she set forth that she did not think it right for her to go away out there and marry him; that he should come to her. she seemed to have lost sense of all he had written her, regarding the crops, responsibilities, and other considerations. he wrote her to place it up to her mother and father, which she did, to reply in the same tenor. they had not agreed to it, either. he replied then heatedly, and hinted that her father was not a business man else he would have realized his circumstances, and, as man to man, appreciated the same. the next letter he received had enclosed the receipt for the first payment of the purchase price of six dollars an acre, a charge the government had made on the land, amounting to some $ , in the first payment. she released him from his promise--but kept the ring. "now, don't that beat the devil!" he exclaimed angrily, when he read the letter. "as though this receipt is worth anything to me; or that it would suffice to get back the $ , i paid the man for the relinquishment. the only thing that will suffice is, for her to go on the land, so i guess i'll have to settle this nuisance at once by going to chicago and marrying her." so he started for the windy city. at omaha he sent a telegram to her to the effect that he was on the way, and would arrive in the city on the morrow. he arrived. he called her up from the northwestern station, and she called back that it was settled; she had given him her word. the engagement was off. "oh, foolish," he called jovially.... "it isn't," she called back angrily.... "well," said he, "i'll call and see you...." "no need," she said.... "but you'll see me," he called.... "yes, i'll see you. i'll do you that honor...." now when jean baptiste had called over the 'phone, glavis had answered the call, and thereupon had started an argument that orlean had concluded by taking the receiver from his hand. of course she had jilted jean baptiste and had sent back the papers; moreover, she had declared she would not marry him--_under any circumstances_. but she would attend to that herself and did not need the assistance of her brother-in-law.... glavis was quite officious that morning--acting under his wife's orders. when the bell rang, although he should have been at his work an hour before he opened the door. baptiste was there and glavis started to say something he felt his wife would be pleased to know he said. but, being affected with a slight impediment of speech, his tongue became twisted and when he could straighten it out, baptiste had passed him and was on his way to the rear of the house where orlean stood pouting. ethel stood near with her lips protruding, and mrs. mccarthy, whom he had termed, "little mother mary," stood nearby at a loss as to what to say. "indeed, but it looks more like you were waiting for a funeral than for me," as he burst in upon them. pausing briefly, he observed the one who had declared everything against him, turned her face away and refused to greet him. "what's the matter, hon'," he said gaily and laughed, at the same time gathering her into his arms. "will you look at that!" exclaimed ethel, ready to start something. but glavis, countered twice the morning so soon, concluded at last that it was his time to keep his place. so deciding, he cut his eyes toward ethel, and said: "now, ethel, this is no affair of yours," and cautioned her still more with his eyes. "no, ethel," commanded orlean, "this is _my_ affair. i--" she did not finish, because at that moment jean baptiste had kissed her. "it beats anything i ever witnessed," cried ethel, almost bursting to get started. "then don't witness it," said glavis, whereupon he caught her about the waist and urged her up the stairs and locked her in their room. "you've been acting something awful like," chided baptiste, with orlean still in his arms. she did not answer just then. she could not. she decided at that moment, however, to take him into the parlor, and there tell him all she said she would. yes, she would do that at once. so deciding, she caught him firmly by the arm, and commanded: "come, and i will get you told!" he followed meekly. when they reached the parlor she was confronted with another proposition. where would they sit? she glanced from the chairs to the davenport; but he settled it forthwith by settling upon the davenport. she hesitated, but before she had reached a decision, she found herself pulled down by his side--and dreadfully close. well, she decided then, that this was better, after all, because, if she was close to him he could hear her better. she would not have to talk so loud. she did not like loud talking. it was too "niggerish," and she did not like that. but behold! he, as soon as she was seated, encircled her waist with his arm. dreadful! then, before she could tell him what she had made up all the night before to say to him, she felt his lips upon hers--and, my! they were so warm, and tender and soft. she was confused. ethel and her father had said that the country where jean lived was wild; that all the people in it were hard and coarse and rough--but jean's kisses were warm, and soft and tender. she almost forgot what she had intended telling him. and just then he caught her to him, and that felt so--well, she did not know--could not say how it felt; but she was forgetting all she had planned to tell him. she heard his voice presently, and for a moment she caught sight of his eyes. they were real close to hers, and, oh, such eyes! she had not known he possessed such striking ones. how they moved her! she was as if hypnotized, she could not seem to break the spell, and in the meantime she was forgetting more of what she had made up her mind to say. he spoke then, and such a wonderful voice he seemed to have! how musical, how soft, how tender--but withal, how strong, how firm, how resolute and determined it was. she was held in a thraldom of strange delight. "what has been the matter with my little girl?" and thereupon, as if they were not close enough, he gathered her into his arms. oh, what a thrill it gave her! she had forgotten now, all she had had in mind to say and it would take an hour or so, perhaps a day, to think and remember it all over again.... "hasn't she wanted to see me? such beautiful days are these! lovely, grand, glorious!" she looked out through the window. it _was_ a beautiful day, indeed! and she had not observed it before. "and hear the birds singing in the trees," she heard. and thereupon she listened a moment and heard the birds singing. she started. now she had felt she was thoughtful. she really loved to listen to the twitter of birds--and it was springtime. it was life, and sunshine and happiness. she had not heard the birds before that morning, therefore it must have been because she had let anger rule instead of sunshine. and as if he had read her thoughts, she heard his voice again: "and because you were angry--gave in to evil angriness and pouted instead of being cheerful, happy and gay, you have failed to observe how beautiful the sun shone, and that the birds were singing in the trees." she felt--was sensitive of a feeling of genuine guilt. "and away out west, where the sunshine kisses the earth, and the wheat, the corn, the flax, and the oats grow green in great fields, everybody there is about his duty; for, when the winter has been long, cold and dreary, the settlers must stay indoors lest they freeze. so with such days as these after the long, cold and dreary winters, everybody must be up and doing. for if the crops are to mature in the autumn time, they must be placed in the earth through seed in the springtime. but there is, unfortunately, one settler, called st. jean baptiste, by those who know him out there, who is not in his fields; his crops are not being sown; his fields--wide, wide fields, which represent many thousands of dollars, and long years of hard, hard work, are lying idle, growing to wild weeds!" "but, jean," she cried of a sudden. "it is not so?" "unfortunately it is so, my love!" "then--jean--you must go--hurry, and sow your crops, also!" she echoed. "for years and years has jean baptiste labored to get his fields as they are. for, in the beginning, they were wild, raw and unproductive, whereupon naught but coyotes, prairie dogs and wild indians lived; where only a wild grass grew weakly and sickly from the surface and yielded only a prairie fire that in the autumn time burned all in its path; a land wherein no civilized one had resided since the beginning of time." "oh, jean!" "and he has longed for woman's love. for, according to the laws of the christ, man should take unto himself a wife, else the world and all its people, its activity, its future will stop forthwith!" "you are so wonderful!" "not wonderful, am i," quoth baptiste. "just a mite practical." "but it is wonderful anyhow, all you say!" "and yet my orlean does not love me yet!" "i didn't say that," she argued, thinking of what she had written him. "since therefore she has not said it, then methinks that she does not." "i--i--oh, you--are awful!" "and she will not go to live alone with me and share my life--and my love!" "i--oh, i didn't say i wouldn't do all that." she was done for then. she had shot her last defense. "then you will?" he asked anxiously. "you will go back with me, and be mine, all mine and love me forever?" she sought his lips and kissed him then, and he arose and caught her close to him and kissed her again and looked into her eyes, and she was then all his own. chapter viii married "why--why--why, what does this mean!" exclaimed "little mother mary" coming upon them at this minute. notwithstanding the fact that she was surprised, it was obviously a glad surprise. she admired jean baptiste, and had been much upset over their little controversy. she understood the root of the trouble, and knew that it had been on account of what baptiste had written and intimated in the letter regarding the elder. her husband did not admire real men, although of course, he was not aware of it. in truth, he admired no man, other than himself. and when others did not do likewise, he usually found excuses to disagree with them in some manner. jean baptiste was not the type of man to make friends with her husband. he was too frank, too forward, too progressive in every way ever to become very intimate with n. justine mccarthy. to begin with, jean had never flattered his vanity as it was not his wont to give undue praise. and as yet he had no reason especially to admire the reverend. that it had not been orlean who had objected to coming west to marry him he was aware. nor had it been her mother. it had been n. justine who had a way of making his faults and shortcomings appear to be those of others--especially within his family, and in this instance his elder daughter bore the blame. "what would you expect us to do, little mother," he said, turning a beaming face upon her. "but--orlean, i thought--i thought--" "oh, mother," cried jean baptiste, "don't think. it will hurt you. besides, it will not be necessary for you to think any more with regards to us now. we are as we were, and that is all. there is nothing wrong between us--never has been, nor between you and i now either, is there?" whereupon he drew her down and upon the davenport and placed himself between her and her daughter. "now let's reason this thing out together," he began. "there is no need for quarreling. we'll leave that to idle, disagreeable people. the first thing in life is to know what you want--and then go get it. that's the way i do. when i proposed to orlean i did so after due consideration. there has been some little disagreement with regards to my coming to get her, which was due to the fact that i have been so overrun with work until i really felt i had not the time to spare. however, here i am and ready to marry her. so let's get those who are concerned together and have it over with. what do you say to it?" he said, looking from one to the other. in the meantime, ethel had crept down from upstairs to see what was going on, and saw the three on the davenport together, with jean baptiste in the middle. whereupon, she turned and hurried back upstairs to where her husband was, with these words: "glavis, glav--is," she cried all out of breath with exasperation. "i just wish you'd look! just step down there and look!" "why, why--what is the matter, ethel!" he cried, rising from his chair in some excitement. "why, that jean baptiste is sitting down there on the davenport with mama on one side of him and my sister on the other!" "oh, is that all!" he breathed with relief. "is that all!" she echoed in derision, her narrow little face screwed up. "well?" "will you 'well' me when that man just comes in here and takes the house and all that's in it!" "oh, ethel." he argued. "will you use some sense!" "will i use some sense! after what orlean said? you remember well enough what she said, no longer than last night when she received that telegram. that she was through with that man; that she was not going to marry him, and had sent his old papers back to him to prove it!" "well, now, get all excited over the most natural thing in the world! have you never seen a woman who never changed her mind--especially when there was a man in the case?" "of course i have," she shouted. "i am one who has never changed their mind!" "i agree, and that is what's the matter with you," so saying, he made his get-away to avoid what would have followed. "now, you will have to deal with my husband in regard to this matter, mr. baptiste," admonished mother mary. she had given into him along with orlean. it was useless to try to pit their weak wits against the commanding and domineering reason, the quick logic and searching intuition of jean baptiste. so they had quickly resigned to the inevitable, and left him to the rock of unreason, the reverend n. j. mccarthy. "all settled. i'll bounce right out and get him on the wire. best words to send are: 'please come to chicago today. important!' will that be alright?" "jean baptiste, you are a wonder!" cried orlean, and, encircling his neck with her arms, kissed him impulsively. in answer they received by special delivery a letter that night, stating that his honor, n.j., was on the way, and would arrive the following morning. preparations were entered into at once therefore for a simple wedding, only ethel holding aloft from the proceedings. it was while at the supper table that evening that orlean took upon herself to try to set baptiste right with what was before him in dealing with regards to her father. "now, my dear," she said lovingly, "if you would get along with papa, then praise him--you understand, flatter him a little. make him think he's a king." "oh-ho!" he laughed, whereat she was embarrassed. "that's the 'bug,' eh!" "well," she hesitated, awkwardly, "he _is_ rather vain." baptiste was thoughtful. rev. mccarthy was vain.... he must be praised if one was to get along with him.... make him think he was a king. his majesty, newton justine, sounded very well as a title. all he needed now, then, was a crown. if necessary for peace in the family he would praise him, although it was not to his liking. jean baptiste had little patience with people who must be praised. in his association he had chosen men, men who were too busy to look for or care for praise. but he failed to reckon then that he was facing another kind of person, one whom he was soon to learn. his majesty, newton justine, arrived on schedule the next morning, very serious of expression, and apparently tired into the bargain. baptiste recalled when he saw him what he had been advised with regards to making him think he was a king. "well," sighed baptiste, "providing 'his majesty' is not a despot, we may be able to get along for a day or two." later, when convenient, baptiste attempted and was apparently successful in making the matter so plain that despite his reputed dislike for fair reasoning, the elder was compelled to call his daughter and say: "now, orlean, you have heard. are you in love with this man?" the melting smile she bestowed him with was quite sufficient, so seeing, he continued: "and do you wish to become his wife?" she looked down into her lap then, turned her hands in childish fashion, and replied in a very small voice: "yes." "then, that settles it," said the elder, and thereafter made himself very amiable. by the morrow arrangements had been completed for a simple little home wedding, and at two o'clock, the ceremony was performed. and when the bride and groom had been kissed according to custom, a storm without broke of a sudden, and the wind blew and the rain fell in torrents. so terrible became the storm that the piano, which some one played loudly, as if to shut out the roar of the storm outside, could hardly be heard. and in the meantime, so dark did it become that at two thirty the lights had to be turned on, the people could hardly distinguish each other in the rooms. nor did the storm abate as the afternoon wore on, but continued in mad fury far into the night and the guests were compelled to leave in the downpour and wind. and there were among those who departed, many who thought and did not speak. they were, for the most part, the new negro, hence loathe to admit of superstitions--besides, they had great respect for the two who were about to start upon matrimony's uncertain journey. but regardless of what they might have said openly, it was a long time before they forgot. chapter ix orlean receives a letter and advice "jean!" called orlean three months later, as she came out of the house, the house where stewarts had lived, and which jean baptiste had rented for the season so as to be near all his land in the older opened county. "i have something to tell you." "what is it, dear?" he replied, drawing his horses to a stop, while she climbed on the step of the spring wagon he was riding in. he could see she was excited, and he was apprehensive. she got up on the seat beside him, and placing her arms around him, began to cry. he petted her a moment and then, placing his hand under her chin, raised her head and said: "well, now, my dear, what is the matter?" whereupon, he kissed her. drawing his head down then, she whispered something in his ear. "oh!" he cried, his face suddenly aglow with an expression she had never seen in it before. the next instant he caught and drew her closely to him, and kissed her fondly. "i am so happy, dear; the happiest i have been since we married!" "but, jean!" she started and then hesitated. he appeared to understand. "now, my wife, you must not feel that way," he admonished. "that is the ultimate of young married life--children. of course," he added, slowly, "couples are not always ready they feel, but such does not wait. we are not always ready to die, but old death comes when he gets ready and there's no use trying to argue a delay. so now, instead of looking distressed, just fancy what a great thing, a beautiful and heavenly thing after all it is, and be real nice." he kissed her again and assisted her from the buggy, and while he drove to his work she went into the house and picked up a letter. it was from ethel, and ran: "_my dear sister_: "i am writing you to say that i am very unhappy. you cannot imagine how disagreeable, how very inconvenient it is to be as i am. never did i want a child--or children; but that silly man i'm married to is so crazy for a family that he has given me no peace. "as a result i must sit around the house during these beautiful summer days and be satisfied to look out of the window and go nowhere. oh, it is distressing, and i am so mad at times i can seem not to see! can you sense it: him so anxious for a family, when what he earns is hardly sufficient to keep us in comfort and maintain the payments on the home. i have tried to reason with him on the score, but it is no use at all. so while i sit around so angry i cannot see straight, he dances around gleefully, wondering whether it will be a girl or a boy! "now, i thought i would write you in time so that you could protect yourself. i am, therefore, sending you certain receipts which have been given me--but too late! they will not be again, though--trust me to attend to that! don't wait too long, and use them as per direction. do it and run no chance of getting to be as i am. "i hope you are well and write me any time anything happens, and if these don't work, then tell me right quick and i will send you something that is sure. i depend on you taking care of yourself now, and don't let anybody put foolishness in your head. "hoping to hear from you soon, and that you are safe as yet, believe me to be, "as ever your sister, "ethel." when she had completed the letter, she was thoughtful as her eyes wandered out to where her husband worked away in the field beyond. she tried to see a few months ahead. it was then midsummer, and ethel and her father and all the girls were writing her already that they supposed they might as well not expect her until xmas. but jean had intimated already that he did not expect to go to chicago xmas. still, that was several months away, and the dry weather of which he was complaining at the present, might be offset by rain soon. so she might get to see old chicago xmas after all. but she would be unable to go out if she did go to the city xmas with what she knew now. she pondered, and while she did so, she read through certain receipts her sister had sent her. one was very simple, and she was tempted. it stated that the blossom of a certain weed was positive when made into a tea. she was thoughtful a moment, and her eyes wandered again toward where her husband worked in the field. finally they fell upon the creek that ran near the house, and she gave a start as she saw growing upon its banks, a peculiar weed with purple blossom. she wondered what kind of weeds they were. she made a mental note of the same and decided that when her husband came to luncheon she would ask him. she sighed then as she thought of the months to come, and what was to come with it. presently, having nothing else urgent to do, she picked up paper, pen and ink and replied to ethel's letter: "_my dear sister_: "receipt of your recent letter is here acknowledged, and in reply, will say that i have read the same carefully, and made a note of what you said. "i hardly know how to reply to what you set forth in your letter, and i am not fully decided. but i might as well admit that i have just discovered that i also am to become a mother and, jean, like glavis, is tickled to death! i just told him this morning and he said it was the happiest moment he had experienced since we have been married. "i am entirely at a loss what to do; but i will consult him regarding it. i don't think i ought to do as you advise--not let him know anything--because that would hardly be fair. he is just as good to me as he can be, and considers my every need. sometimes i do not think he loves me as much as i would wish, but what can i do! he is my husband and gives me all his attention. i am, therefore, afraid that he will object to the measures you suggest. i am very much afraid he will, but i will ask him. "he's a perfect dear, so jolly, so popular everywhere about, and, i repeat, so good to me that i hardly think my conscience would be clear if i did something in secret and something that he would not like. "in the meantime, thanking you for your suggestions, and begging you not to act foolish, i am, "your affectionate sister, "orlean." jean baptiste drove into the yard at noon singing cheerfully. he was met by his wife at the gate which she opened. the wind was blowing from the south, and the air was very hot. it had been blowing from that direction for days. he stopped singing while he unhitched the horses and gazed anxiously toward the northwest. "what is it, dear?" she inquired, observing the old frown upon his face. he shook his head before replying, and tried to smile. "this wind." "the wind?" "yes. it's terribly hot. it's awfully drying. the oats are suffering, the wheat is hurt. i wish it would rain, and rain soon," whereat he shook his head again and his frown grew deeper. he led the horses to the well to drink and while they were drinking she stood near, holding her hands and looking at the patch of strange weeds that were in blossom near. presently she observed him, and, seeing that his mind was concerned with problems, she would satisfy her mind. "jean!" she called. "yes," he replied abstractedly. "what kind of weeds are those?" and she pointed to the wild blossoms. "those!" he said, his mind struggling between what he was thinking about and the question. "oh, those are evil weeds," he concluded, and turning, led his horses into the barn. "evil weeds!" she echoed. slowly she turned and looked again. she was strangely frightened. then taking courage, she went playfully to where they grew, and, gathering a bunch in a sort of bouquet, carried them into the house, laid them down, and began to place the meal upon the table. "why, orlean," she heard, and turned to meet her husband. "what are you doing with these old things in here! my dear, you could find something better for the table than these things! just outside the fence in the road roses are blooming everywhere, and the air is charged with their sweet fragrance." he paused briefly and held them to his nose. "and, besides, they stink. booh!" he cried, holding them away. "they make me sick! now, if you'll agree i'll throw these things away and run out into the road and get you a big bunch of roses. will that be all right, dear?" "yes," she answered, and he did not understand why her eyes were downcast. "good!" he exclaimed, and she was glad to see that the frown upon his face was gone, if only for a while. "i'll bring you some nice flowers. you know," he paused in the doorway and turned to her, "i never liked this weed, anyhow. i have always connected them with all that's vile and evil." so saying, he turned and a few minutes later she heard his voice coming cheerfully from the road where he picked the various shades of roses. "now, my dear," said he pleasantly, "i have brought you a real bouquet," and he placed the vase containing the same in the center of the table, stood back and regarded the flowers admiringly. "why," he suddenly exclaimed, his eyes widening, "what is the matter?" "oh, nothing," she stammered more than spoke. "now there must be something?" while standing where he was he caught sight of ethel's letter. immediately she reached forth to snatch it from beneath his gaze. he made no effort to take it, but regarded her in the meantime wonderingly. the receipt concerning the weed lay in plain sight, and he could hardly help reading it. she caught it up then, while he still looked after her wonderingly. he raised his hand to his head and was thoughtful, before saying: "why were you so disturbed over me seeing the letter, orlean? you have never been so before. of course," he said, and hesitated, and then went on patiently, "i have no wish to pry into women's affairs or secrets, but i am curious to know why you acted as you did?" she was an emotional girl. never in her life had she violated the rules of her parents, and she had never thought of disobeying, or keeping secrets from her husband. when she was confronted with the situation, she broke down thereupon, and crying on his breast, told him all the letter contained, and what the receipt meant. he listened patiently and when she was through he hesitated before speaking. after a moment he led her to the table, sat down, and fell to eating the luncheon. "when we have dined," he paused after a few minutes to remark, "and you have washed the dishes, we will spare a few minutes for a talk, orlean." "now," he resumed at the appointed time, "when we married, orlean, it was my hope--and i feel sure 'twas yours, that we would live happily." "of course, jean," she agreed tremulously. "then, dear, there are certain things we should come to an understanding thereto lest we find our lives at variance. to begin with, i wish your sister would not write you such letters as the one you received today. but, if she must and offer--yes, criminal advice, i trust you will not incline toward such seriously. you and i, as well as those who have gone before us; and as those who must perforce come after us, did not come into this world altogether by ours or others' providence. and if the world, and the people in the world are growing wicked, as yet, thank god, race suicide has not come to rule!" he was meditatively silent then for a time, gazing as if into space off across the sunkist fields. "first," he resumed, "selfishness is a bad patient to nurse. secondly, we must appreciate that ours--our lives have a duty to fulfill. bringing children into the world and rearing them to clean and healthy man and womanhood is that duty--our greatest duty. and now with regards to that receipt, or receipts. "i will not seek to deny that such practices are not in some measure a custom. such very often are given thoughtlessly as to the infinite harm, ill health and unhappiness they might later bring. but the fact that others cultivate and heed such is no reason, dear, do you feel, that we should?" "no, jean," she admitted without hesitation and very humbly. "i feel more inspired to say this at this point in our new union, orlean, because i cannot believe that it is your nature to be wicked; to wilfully practice and condone the wrong." "oh, jean," she cried, moving toward him; laying her hands upon him, and seeking his eyes with her soul standing out in hers. "you are so noble and so good," and in the next minute she was weeping silently upon his shoulder. * * * * * the dry weather continued over all the west, and for two weeks the wind remained in the south, and blew almost day and night. heretofore, it had been known to blow not more than a week at the most, before the heat would be broken by a rain. and coincident with the heat and drought, the crops began to fire, plants of all kinds to wither, and every one in the country of our story became ominous. but the creator seemed to be with the struggling people of the new country, the drought was broken by rain before the crops were destroyed; the harvest was very good, and with the completion of the same, orlean met her husband one evening with a letter, announcing that her father was coming to visit soon. and the next day they got another letter--no, a paper. it was a summons, and concerned orlean. chapter x eugene crook tripp county, laying just to the west of the town of dallas and where jean baptiste had purchased the relinquishments for his people was a large county and rich in soil. there had been little delay on the part of the railroad company in extending their line into it. but before this occurred--before even the county had been thrown open to the settlers, new promoters, conscious of the great success which had been achieved by the men who had promoted dallas, purchased an allotment from an indian, or a breed and started a town thereon almost directly in the center of the county in a valley of a creek known as the dog ear. and it was about this time that a political ring was formed in the newer county for the avowed and subtle purpose of securing the county seat. settlement on the whole had not as yet been possible, so the politics included the rabble. the cowboy, and the ex-cowboy; saloon men, bartenders--some freighters, squaw men and cattle thieves represented the voters. so it happened that before the bona-fide settlers had a chance in the way of political expression, they found the county organized, controlled and exploited by this ilk. but, as we have already stated, a town in the west--nor the east for that matter--is ever a town until a railway has found its way thither. the difficulty began when the survey was run. notwithstanding the fact that the county seat had been secured by the promoters of the town in the valley of the dog ear, the surveyors, from the route they took, did not seem to have had any orders to go via of lamro, the county seat in question. on the contrary, they went smack through a section of land that had been secured in due time by the promoters who had made dallas possible as a town. where the line of the survey stretched, less than two miles northwest of the county seat, they started a town, and were now bidding the townspeople and business men of the county seat to move their building over. a bitter fight was the answer--at the start. a railroad is everything almost to an aspiring town, and these people were capable of appreciating the fact. as a result, the little town in the valley a few months later, was no more. another election was held and through the same the bona fide settlers asserted their rights and administered a severe rebuke by defeating the town in the valley and electing the new town which had been entitled winner as the county seat. nevertheless, a few people remained in what was left of the valley town. some were unable to move their buildings, others were indifferent, while others still remained there for purposes of their own. among those who remained, there was a banker, whose little bank reposed all alone with caves and broken sidewalks and all the leavings of the moved away town about. his name was crook, eugene crook, and it was common knowledge that he was fond of his name and conducted his affairs so as to justify it. 'gene crook would rather, it was said, acquire something by beating some one in a deal than to secure it honestly. he possessed an auto, and had business to the northwest of the town some fifteen or eighteen miles, and had been seen in the neighborhood quite often. perhaps it was due in some measure to an unscrupulous character who had drawn a claim in those parts, and pretended to be homesteading there; but who in truth homesteaded more around the saloons of winner and crook's town than he did on the claim. his name was james j. spaight. james j. spaight, and eugene crook were very close. 'gene crook had advanced spaight considerable money towards his claim, and had him tied up in many ways, therefore, they were understood cohorts. "they are never here," said spaight, jumping from the auto and sweeping his hand about over a beautiful quarter section of land, one of the finest in the county. "but i see a sod shack over in the draw," returned crook. "they have apparently called themselves establishing a residence on the land." "yes; but let me tell you," said spaight. "i can get you this piece of land--i can win it for you through contest. i know a thing or two, and i believe when we let the fellow know that we've got him dead to right, he'll weaken, and sell it to you for a song." "well," said crook, thoughtfully, "we'll drive back to town and consult duval about it." on the way they drove by the homesteaders near and held subtle conversations with many, always in the end ascertaining how many times the people had been seen on the claim they had just left. when they returned to the town in the valley, and retired into the private office of the little bank, spaight went for duval, a lawyer, who came forthwith. he was a tall, lean creature who attracted attention by his unusual height and leanness. he, also, was one of the "left overs." he was told of the beautiful homestead, and that the claimant had been seen only a few times there, and of the proposition to contest it. "who holds the place, did you say?" inquired duval in his deep, droll voice, crossing his legs judiciously. "why, a nigger woman," said spaight. "a negro woman?" "yes, what do you think of that?" pursued spaight, his eyes widening. "i told crook that if he worked a bluff good and right he could more than likely scare them out. a nigger in a white man's country!" crook smiled; duval was thoughtful. "what's her name--this negress? is she a single woman or married?" "why, she _was_ single when she took it, of course. but she's got married since. i think the guy she married put up the money, and that's where we have them again." "and the name?" inquired duval again. "oh, yes, baptiste. that's it. jean baptiste is her husband's name." "oh, hell!" cried duval, and spat upon the floor. "why--what's the matter?" cried crook and spaight in chorus. "i was struck with the joke." "the joke?" "yes. the bluffing." "but we don't understand?" "then you ought to. jean baptiste, huh! you'll bluff jean baptiste! say, that's funny." suddenly his face took on a cold hard expression. "why, that's one of the shrewdest, one of the wisest, one of the most forcible men in this country. have you never heard of jean baptiste? oh, you fools! he's worth forty thousand dollars--made it himself and is not over twenty-five." "is that so?" they echoed, taken aback. "well, i should say so, and everybody in the county knows it." "but they haven't lived on the place as they should!" protested spaight, weakly. "something like yourself," laughed duval. spaight colored guiltily. "but i can prove it," insisted spaight. "well, in so far as that goes, i wouldn't doubt but they have not lived on the land. baptiste owns a lot of land in the county east, and the chances are that he's been so busy that his wife has neglected to stay on the claim as she should have. yes, that is quite likely." "then we can contest it?" cried spaight. "of course. you can contest any place so far as that goes." "well, that's what we intend to do. and i have the goods on him and am sure we can win." "they're all sure of that when they start," said duval, sarcastically. "but i want to disillusion you. if you contest the place then do so with a realization of what we are up against. don't go down there with any 'rough stuff' or with a delusion that you are going to meet a weakling. go down there with the calm, considerate understanding that you are going to vie with a man all through, and that man is jean baptiste. and while i'll take the case and do what i can, before we start, i'd advise that you keep away from that fellow as much as possible." "well, now, to be frank, duval," said crook, "what do you think of it anyhow?" duval regarded him closely a moment out of his small eyes. and then spoke slowly, easily, carefully. "well, crook, being frank with you, i don't think you can beat that fellow fairly. no one will beat jean baptiste in a fair fight. but of course," he added, "there are other ways. yes, and when the time is right--if ever, you may try the _other_ way." chapter xi reverend mccarthy pays a visit "well," said baptiste to his wife, following the service of the summons. "we're up against a long, irksome and expensive contest case." under his observation had come many of such. only those who have homesteaded or have been closely related to such can in full appreciate the annoyance, the years of annoyance and uncertainty with which a contest case is fraught. great fiction has been created from such; greater could be. oh, the nerve racking, the bitterness and very often the sinister results that have grown out of one person trying to secure the place of another without the other's consent. murder has been committed times untold as a sequel--but getting back to jean baptiste and his wife. he was inclined to be more provoked than ordinarily, for the reason that by sending his wife--at least taking her to the homestead, he knew he could have avoided the contest. as a rule places are not contested altogether without a cause. he felt that it was--and it no doubt was--due to his effort to farm his own land and assist his folks in holding their claims as well. he had discovered before he married orlean that she was likely to prove much unlike his sister, who possessed the strength of her convictions, for she was on the clinging vine order. being extremely childish, this was further augmented by a stream of letters from chicago, giving volumes of advice in regards to something the advisors had not a very keen idea of themselves. he also was cautioned not to expose her. so she had, in truth only gone to her homestead when taken by him, returning when he did as well. the fact that he had arranged in regards to the renting of his land the next season would be no evidence to assist him before the bar that would hear his case. the contest against his wife's homestead did not, of course alter his plans in any way. he would continue along the lines he had started. but there were other things that came to annoy him at the same time. chiefly among these was his wife's father. always there had to be some ado when it came to him. he had reared his daughter, as before intimated, to consider him of the world's greatest men--especially the negro race's, and to avoid friction, baptiste came gradually to see that he would almost have to be beholden unto this creature in whom he was positively not very deeply interested. n. justine mccarthy's accomplishments were of a nature which baptiste would rather have avoided. the fact that he had been a presiding elder in one of the leading denominations of negro churches out of which he managed to filch about a thousand a year, was in a measure foreign to his son-in-law. and the reverend was not an informed or practical man. the truth was that all the pretensions made to the elder, flattering him into feeling he was a great man, jean baptiste came to regard as a deliberate fawning to flatter an extreme vanity. far from being even practical, n.j. mccarthy was by disposition, environment and cultivation, narrow, impractical, hypocritical, envious and spiteful. as to how much he was so, not even did jean baptiste fully realize at the time, but came to learn later from experience. he was expected in early october. the hearing of the contest was to convene a few days later, so as a greeting to his majesty, he was to be given an opportunity to see orlean on the stand and mercilessly grilled by non-sentimental lawyers. baptiste was appreciative of what might result, and wished the visit could have been deferred for a while. another source of irritation continually, was ethel's letters, and his wife's nervousness over the child that was to come. for the first time in her life she had been disobedient. secretly she had, after many misgivings, fears and indecisions, brewed a tea from the weed as per ethel's prescription--but in vain! later, the guilt, the never-to-be-forgotten guilt; the unborn child that refused the poison, seemed to haunt her. and she could not tell her husband. but this was not all. ethel's letters continued to come, filled with the same advice; the same suggestions; the same condemnation of motherhood--and she was compelled to keep it all a hopeless secret from the man she had sworn to love and obey. one thing was agreed upon, they decided not to inform the elder--at least, in so far as orlean was concerned, she left it to jean, and jean, with as many troubles as he cared for and more, to deal with, was becoming perceptibly irritant. so with this state of affairs prevailing, the reverend finally arrived for his long anticipated visit. the letter advising the day he would arrive did not happen to reach them in time to meet him. accordingly, neither was at the station to greet him, but, recalling that baptiste had spoken of the freedom and no narrow prejudices and customs to irk one, the elder went forthwith to the leading hotel in gregory where he was accorded considerable attention as a guest. this indeed satisfied his vanity, and he was taken much notice of by those about because of his distinguished appearance. a fact that he seldom ever lost sight of. but baptiste happened to be in town that night on horseback, and when the train had come and gone, he inquired carelessly of a fellow he met, and who had come in on the train, if he had seen a colored man aboard. "yes," said the other. "an elderly man, very distinguished looking." "my father-in-law!" ejaculated baptiste, and went forthwith to the hotel to find his erstwhile compatriot very much at ease among those filling the place. "and it's a great way to greet me," exclaimed the reverend, cheerfully, upon seeing him. baptiste made haste to explain that he had not been aware of the day when he would arrive. "oh, that's all right, my son," said the other heartily. "and how is orlean?" "fine! she'll be tickled to death to see you." "and i her." the old gent was very cheerful. such a trip was much to him. a life spent among the simple black people to whom he preached afforded little contrast compared with what was about him now. and, pompous by disposition, he was thrilled by the diversity. baptiste decided thereupon to try to make his sojourn an agreeable one. "now, there is an old neighbor of mine in town with a buggy, and i'll see him and figure to have him take you out with him, as i am in on horseback." "very well," returned the elder, and baptiste went for the neighbor who happened to be a german with a very conspicuous voice. he found him at a saloon where the old scout was pretty well "pickled" from imbibing too freely in red liquor. "sure thing," he roared in his big voice when baptiste stated his errand. "bring him down here and i'll buy him a drink." "but he's a preacher," cautioned baptiste with a laugh. "a preacher! well, i'll be damned!" exclaimed the german, humorously. whereupon he ordered drinks for the house, and two for himself. baptiste grinned. "i shall now depart," essayed the german, swaying not too steadily before the bar, and raising his glass, "to become sanctimonious and good," and drained his glass. the crowd roared. "where is he?" called the german loudly, as he drew his team to a stop before the hotel. baptiste got out, went in and called to the reverend. the other came forward quickly, carrying his bags and other accessories. "ah-ha!" roared the german from the buggy, sociably, "so there you are!" "why--jean--the man is--drunk, is he not?" whispered the elder. "but he's alright--gets that way when he comes to town, but is perfectly safe withal." the reverend stood for a moment, regarding the other dubiously. "come on, brother, and meet me!" called the german again in a voice sufficiently loud almost to awaken the dead. "but, jean," said the reverend, lowly but apprehensively, "i don't know whether i want to ride with a drunken man or not." now it happened that the german's ears were very keen, and he overheard the elder's remark, so without ceremony, and while the reverend hesitated on the pavement, the german who did not like to be referred to as drunk, roared: "ah-ha! naw, naw, naw! you don't have to ride with me! naw, naw, naw!" and turning his horses about, he went back to the saloon where his voice rang forth a minute later in a raucous tune as he unloaded another schooner. the reverend beat a hasty retreat back into the hotel, while baptiste called after him: "i'll send orlean for you in the morning," and went to look up his neighbor who had made himself so conspicuous. * * * * * "well, now, if this doesn't beat all," cried the reverend when he had kissed his daughter the following morning and they were spinning along the road on the way to the farm. "i would never have believed three months ago had some one said you could and would be driving these mules!" "oh, i have driven them fifty miles in a day--john!" she called suddenly to the off mule who was given to mischievous tricks. "well, well," commented the reverend, "but it certainly beats all." she was cheered and pleased to demonstrate what she had learned. they sailed along the country side in the autumn air, and talked of home, ethel, her mother, glavis and jean. they came presently to baptiste's homestead and viewed with great delight the admirable tract of land that stretched before them. she talked on cheerfully and told her father all that had passed, of how happy they were, but said nothing about her prospects of becoming a mother. when they had passed her husband's homestead and were nearing a corner where they must turn to reach the house in which they were living, they passed an automobile carrying two men. they bowed lightly and the men returned it. when they had gotten out of hearing distance, one of the men whispered to the other: "that's her!" 'gene crook thereupon turned and looked after the retreating figure of the girl in the buggy whose place he had determined to secure through subtle methods. but not even 'gene crook himself conceived of the unusual circumstances that came to pass and brought him on a visit to these selfsame people, later. chapter xii reverend mccarthy decides to set baptiste right, but-- "now the first thing, daughter," said the reverend, "when jean comes and you have the time, is to go up and see your claim." orlean swallowed, and started to tell him that it was contested; but on second thought, decided to leave the task to her husband, and said instead: "i have a fine claim, papa. jean says it is the best piece of land we have." "now isn't that fine!" "it is," orlean said, thinking of her husband. "your husband has a plenty, my dear, and we have been surprised that you have not been sending money to chicago to have us buy something for you." orlean swallowed again and started to speak; to say that while her husband was a heavy land holder, the crops had not been the best the year before and were not as good this year as he had hoped for. then she thought jean could explain this better, also, instead she said: "i--i haven't wanted for anything, papa." "no, perhaps not. but you know papa always thinks of his baby; always buys her little things and so on, you know." he paused, regarded her and the dress she wore. he recognized it as one that she had bought just before she had gotten married--forgetting that jean baptiste had paid for it--and said: "and you have on the same dress you wore away from chicago! indeed, and that is a spring dress! why do you not wear some of your summer dresses? some you have bought since you have been married?" "i haven't bought--my husband hasn't--i haven't needed any more clothes, really," she argued falteringly. he saw that she was keeping something back, and pursued: "why, dear, what do you mean! you don't mean to say that jean hasn't bought you any dresses since he married you, and him owning so much land!" "but i haven't needed any, papa--i have not asked him for any." he looked at her keenly. he saw that she was shielding the man she married, but with this he had no patience. "now, now, my dear. jean ought not to treat my girl like that. he ought to buy you lots of things, and pretty things. i'm rather inclined to think he is miserly--have rather felt he was all the time." he paused briefly, posed in the way he did when preaching, and then went on. "yes, you are sacrificing a great deal by coming away out here in a new country and living with him. yes, yes, my dear. you see you are deprived of many conveniences; conveniences that you have been accustomed to." he looked around the little house; at its floor with only rugs, and its simple furniture. "just compare this to the home you came out of. the good home. yes, yes. i'm afraid that--that the rough life your husband has been living rather makes him forget the conventions my daughter has been accustomed to. yes, i think so. i'm afraid i'll have to kind of--a--bring such to his attention that he might see his duty. yes, my dear--" "but, papa! i--i--think you had--better not. you see--" and she caught his arm and was thoughtful, looking downward in the meantime. she loved jean baptiste, but she was not a strong willed person by nature, training or disposition. she had inherited her mother's timidness. at heart she meant well to the man she married, but she had always been obedient to her father; had never sauced him and had never crossed him, which was his boast. perhaps it was because of these things and that he knew it, that his nature asserted itself. "i'm afraid you, like any newly married wife, are inclined to forget these things, rather accept your husband's excuse. now your husband has a plenty, and can well afford to give to you. and, besides, you--he should not forget the sacrifices you are making for him. that is what he should see. yes, yes. now take ethel," he suddenly turned to her. "why, glavis only makes thirteen dollars a week, and--why, ethel makes him do just what she wants him to. buys her a dress any time she wants it; a hat, a pair of shoes--and whatever she wishes. that's ethel," he ended, forgetting to add that glavis also bought and paid for the food mrs. mccarthy ate, or that he, himself only brought--and never bought things to eat only when he came into chicago, three or five times a year--and sent a few things infrequently. but orlean had taken a little courage. it was rather unusual, and she was surprised at herself. she was surprised that she dared even argue--just a little--with her father. he had always been accepted as infallible without question. to get along with him--have peace, her mother and she had always followed the rule of letting everything be his way, and be content with their own private opinion without expression as to conclusions. moreover, whether he was right or wrong, abused or accused, the rule was to praise and flatter him notwithstanding. and at such times they could depend on him to do much for them. but she found her voice. jean baptiste was her husband, and she was not ungrateful. he gave her real love and husbandry, and it was perhaps her woman's nature to speak in defense of her mate. so she said: "but jean is not like glavis, papa. they are two different men entirely." "well, yes, my dear," he said slowly, his dark face taking on a peculiar--and not very pleasant expression, "i'm afraid i will have to agree with you. yes. they are different. glavis is a fine boy, though. don't own a thousand acres of land, but certainly takes care of home like a man. no, no. i never have to worry about anything. just come home every few months to see that everything is all right--and find it so. yes, that is glavis. while jean," and his mind went quickly back to an incident that had happened twenty-one years before, "is rather set in his ways. yes, very much so, i fear. that is one of his failings. some people would call it hard headed, but i should not quite call it that. no. then, again," he paused a moment, looked at the floor and looked up. "he's crazy to get rich. you see, dear--of course you don't know that. not old enough. that's where your father has the advantage over you--and jean also. he's older. it's bad when a man is ambitious to get rich, for he is liable to work himself and his wife to death. jean's liable to do that with you. not like your old father, you know." "here he comes now," she cried excitedly, going quickly to the kitchen and making a fire and starting the meal. her father looked after her. he looked out the window to where his son-in-law was unhitching his horses. he looked back to where his daughter was working nervously over the stove, and muttered to himself. "has her trained to run like something frightened at his approach. that's the same spirit i tried to conquer twenty-one years ago and it is still in him. m-m. i'll have to look after that disposition." and with that he went outside to where his daughter's husband worked. "hello, reverend," called jean cheerfully. the "reverend" darkened and glowered unseen. he did not like that term of address. glavis called him "father." that was better. but he returned apparently as cheerful: "hello, my boy. so you are home to dinner?" "yes. guess it's ready. she is very prompt about having my meals on time. yes. orlean is a good girl, and appreciates that i believe in always being on time," he rattled off. "and how are the crops?" "not so good, not so good, i regret to say," said jean moodily. "no; to be truthful, it is the poorest crop i have ever raised. yes," he mused as if to himself. "and i need a good crop this year worse than i have ever needed one. yes, i sure do. "indeed so. got lots of expense. borrowed ten thousand dollars to buy that land out there in tripp county, and have none of it producing anything. and on top of that a guy comes along and slaps a contest on orlean's place, and so i have that on my hands in addition to all the other burdens. so, believe me, it keeps me hopping." "a contest on orlean's place? what does that mean?" "does that mean! but of course you couldn't understand," whereat, baptiste tried to explain to him what it meant. "so you see you find us with our troubles." the reverend made no reply to this. indeed, he had never been able to reply to jean baptiste. in the first place, the man was ever too hurried; moreover, he understood so little regarding practical business matters until their relations had never been congenial. when jean had watered and fed his teams he came back to where the elder stood and said: "well, judge, we'll go in to dinner." now the reverend was almost upset. such flat expressions! such a little regard for his caste. horrid! he started to speak to him regarding his lack of manners, but that one had his face in the tub where the horses had drank, washing himself eagerly. when he was through, he drew water from the well, and pouring it into a wash basin rinsed himself, and called for the towel. no sooner had he done so than out of the house came orlean with the goods. "wash up," cried baptiste, pointing to the horse tub. "jean!" called his wife remonstratingly. "you forget yourself. asking papa to wash where the horses have drank! you must be more thoughtful!" baptiste laughed. "beg pardon, colonel. you see this open life has made me--er--rather informal. but you'll get used to and like it with time. wash up and let's eat!" "he's wild, just wild!" muttered the reverend, as he followed them into the house. chapter xiii the wolf "now, elder," said baptiste, getting up from the table without going through the usual formalities of resting a few minutes after the meal. "i've bought a building in town that i'm going to move onto orlean's place. i'm preparing to jack it up and load it, so if you would like to come along, very well, we'll be glad to have you. but it's rather a rough, hard task, i'll admit." "now, now, son," started the reverend, holding back his exasperation with difficulty. his son-in-law had never addressed him more than once by the same name. it was either colonel, judge, reverend, elder, or some other burlesque title in the sense used. he wanted to tell him that he should call him father, but before he had a chance to do so, that worthy had bounced out of the room and was heard from the barn. the reverend looked after him with a glare. "dreadful!" he exclaimed when the other was out of hearing distance. "what, papa?" inquired his daughter, regarding him questioningly. she had become accustomed to jean's ways and did not understand her father's exclamation. "why, the man! your husband!" "jean?" "such rough ways!" "oh," she exclaimed. "that's his way. he has always lived alone, you know. and is so ambitious. is really compelled to hurry a little because he has so much to do." "well, i never saw the like. i'm afraid he and ethel would never get along very well. no, he--is rather unusual." "oh, father. you must pay no attention to that! jean is a fine fellow, a likeable man, and is loved by every one who knows him," she argued, trying to discourage her father's mood to complain. she had never been able to bring her father and husband very close. perhaps it was because of their being so far apart in all that made them; but she was aware that jean had never flattered her father, and that was very grave! no relation had ever risked that. her father was accustomed to being flattered by everybody who was an intimate of the family, and jean baptiste had come into the family, married her, and apparently forgot to tell the reverend that he was a great man. moreover, from what she knew of her husband, he was not likely to do so. her mother had tried to have baptiste see it, she recalled, her little mother of whom baptiste was very fond of. as has been stated it was generally known that her father was not very kind and patient, with her mother, and never had been. it was, moreover, no secret that her father was unusually friendly with mrs. pruitt. but she was not supposed to let on that she was aware of such. if she was--and she certainly was--she did not mention the fact. jean baptiste knew of the reverend's subtle practices, and in his mind condemned rather than admired him therefor. he knew that the elder expected to be praised in spite of all these things. now what would it all come to? this thought was passing through orlean's mind when she heard her father again: "now, he said something about a contest." she caught her breath quickly, swallowed, changed color, and then managed, hardly above a whisper, to say: "oh!" "i don't understand. and he never takes the time to explain anything. seems to take for granted that everybody should know, and tries to know it all himself, and it makes it very awkward," he said complainingly. "it's all my fault, papa," orlean admitted falteringly. "your fault!" the other exclaimed, not understanding. "yes," she breathed with eyes downcast. "and what do you mean? how can it be your fault when you have sacrificed the nice home in chicago for this wilderness?" "but, papa," she faltered. "you have never been west before. you--you don't understand!" "don't understand!" cried the reverend, anger and impatience evident. "what is there to understand about this wilderness?" "oh, papa," she cried, now beseechingly. "you--" she halted and swallowed what she had started to say. and what she had started to say was, that if he kept on like he had started, he would make it very difficult for her to be loyal to her husband and obedient to him as she had always been; as she was trying to be. perhaps it was becoming difficult for her already. subservience to her father, who insisted upon it, and obedience and loyalty to her husband who had a right and naturally expected it. it was difficult, and she was a weak willed person. already her courage was failing her and she was beginning to sigh. "it is very hard on my daughter, i fear," said the elder, his face now full of emotion and self pity. "i worked all my life to raise my two darlings, and it grieves me to see one of them being ground down by a man." "oh, father, my husband is not cruel to me. he has never said an unkind word. he is just as good to me as a man can be--and i love him." this would have been sufficient to have satisfied and pacified any man, even one so unscrupulous. but it happens that in our story we have met one who is considerably different from the ordinary man. the substance of n. justine mccarthy's vanity had never been fully estimated--not even by himself. orlean did not recall then, that since she had been married she had not written her father and repeated what a great man he was. she had, on the other hand, written and told him what a great man her husband was. in her simplicity, she felt it was expected of her to tell that one or the other was great. but here she had encountered discouragement. her husband apparently was considerably opposed to flattery. and she had difficulty to have him see that it was an evidence of faith on her part. but her husband had not seen it that way. he had dismissed it as a waste of time and had gradually used his influence with her to other ends; to the road they were following; the road to ultimate success, which could only be achieved by grim, practical methods. and that was one of his words, practical. but her father was speaking again. "now i wish you would explain how you could be at fault for this contest upon your place, and why your husband accuses you of such?" "but jean does not accuse me of being at fault, father," she defended weakly. "i accuse myself. and if you will be just a little patient," she begged almost in tears, "i'll explain." he frowned in his usual way, while she sighed unheard, and then fell to the task before her. "it is like this," she began with an effort at self control. "jean has not wished to ask me to stay on my claim alone as his sister and grandmother have done, you see." "oh, so he has them living out there alone like cattle, helping him to get rich!" "they do not live like cattle, father," she defended in the patient manner she had been trained to. "they have a horse and buggy that he has furnished them, and get all their needs at the stores which is charged to him. they have good neighbors, awfully nice white people--women, too, who live alone on their claims as his sister and grandmother are doing." "but they are not like you, daughter. those are all rough people. you cannot live like them. you have been accustomed to something." she sighed unheard again and did not try to explain to his majesty that most of the people--women included--were in a majority from the best homes in the east, as well as families; that many had wealth where she had none; and that jean's sister had been graduated from high school and was very intelligent. it was difficult, and she knew it, to explain anything to her father; but she would endeavor to tell him of the contest. "well, father, since i was not on my place as i should have been, a man contested it, and now we must fight it out, jean says, so that is it." "m-m-m," sighed that one. "he's going to kill you out here to make him rich. and then when you are dead and--" "please, don't, father," she almost screamed. she knew he was going to say: "and in your grave, he will marry another woman and bring her in to enjoy what you have died for." but she could not quite listen to that. it was not fair. it was not fair to her and it was not fair to jean. she was surprised at the way she felt. she forgot also, and for his benefit, that they had never been very happy at home when he was in chicago. they had only pretended to be. it had been because of him being away all the time and their relation having been confined to letters that they had been contented. but orlean had made herself believe for this occasion that when he came to visit, they were going to have a really pleasant time. and now so soon she was simply worn out. she had become more sensitive of her tasks in life than it had occurred to her she could ever be. for the first time she was getting the idea that, after all they were burdensome. [illustration: from a painting by w.m. farrow. "he's going to kill you out here to make him rich, and then when you are dead and"--"please don't, father!" she almost screamed. she knew he was going to say: "in your grave, he will marry another woman to enjoy what you have died for," but she could not quite listen to that.] "wouldn't you like to go to town, papa?" she cried, trying to be jolly. "jean is ready now, and please come along and see the nice little house he has bought and is going to move on my claim." she was so cheerful, so anxious to have him enjoy his visit that his vanity for once took a back seat, and a few minutes later they were driving into gregory. as they drove along baptiste told of what he was doing; discussing at length the west and what was being done toward its development. when they arrived in the town they approached the small but well made little building that he had purchased for $ , and went inside. "awfully small, my boy," said the reverend, as they looked around. "of course," admitted baptiste. "but it is not practical to invest in big houses in the beginning, you know. we must first build a good big barn, and that, i cannot even as yet afford." "places his horses before his wife, of course," muttered the reverend, but obligingly unheard. "and you say you intend to move it. where? not away down on that farm southeast?" he said, standing outside and looking up at the building. "oh, no," baptiste returned shortly. "onto orlean's place, west of here." "oh. how far is that?" "not so far. about fifty miles." "good lord!" and the reverend could say no more. chapter xiv the contest moving a building fifty miles across even a prairie is not an easy task, and before jean baptiste reached his wife's homestead with the building he had purchased, he had suffered much grief. and with the reverend along, ever ready to keep their minds alive to the fact, it was made no easier. but because he was so chronic, he was left to grumble while his son-in-law labored almost to distraction into getting the building to the place before he would be compelled to turn back and face the contest which was scheduled for an early hearing. they succeeded in getting it within twenty miles of the claim when they were compelled to abandon the task for the time and return to gregory to fight the contest. this developed at times into a rather heated argument, and a prolonged one that tried the patience of all, dragging over a period of three days. it became obvious during the proceedings that the contestant and his cohorts desired as much as possible to keep away from baptiste and on the other hand to concentrate their cross-fire upon his wife. but, expecting this, they found him on his guard, countering them at every angle, and, assisted by an able land attorney, he was successful in upsetting in a large way, their many, subtle and well laid plans, causing them to fail in making the showing they had expected to. to begin with their corroborating witness, james j. spaight, developed before the close to more definitely corroborate for the defense. he had come to the trial with false testimony prepared, and had, under a fusillade of cross-examinations, broken down and impaired and weakened the prosecution. in all such cases the one contesting is placed at a moral disadvantage, and the fact that crook was a banker, fully able to have purchased relinquishment as others over all the county had done, was ever in the witness' mind, and did not help his case. baptiste's wife proved much stronger after the first day. this was due largely to the fact that her father had been present on the first day, and had kept her so much alive to what she was sacrificing in struggling to assist her husband in his ambition to be rich, until she was perceptibly weak. the time limit on his ticket having about expired he had been compelled to return to chicago the morning of the second day of the trial. it was the consensus of opinion that she would retain her claim, though with so many cases to consider, it was obvious that it would take many months, and possibly a year to get a hearing--that is, before the officers of the local land offices could settle the case. this done, jean baptiste returned and completed moving the house on the claim, fixed it up, dug a well, fenced in a small pasture and returned to gather his corn which amounted to about half a crop. so time passed and the holidays approached and another phase in their relations took shape when the reverend insisted that they come to chicago to spend the holidays. it was very annoying. orlean was expecting to become a mother in the early spring, and because they had never informed him of the fact, it brought considerable embarrassment to all. it was difficult to explain to his majesty that they would not come into the city for the holidays. the elder had insisted that he would send them tickets, and because jean baptiste had scoffed at the idea, trouble was brewing as a result. it was then he lost his patience. "can your father not understand, orlean," he complained, with a deep frown, "that i cannot accept his charity? because i have made up my mind not to go to chicago, does not mean that i am not able to purchase our transportations there and back. it's the expense of the trip and what goes with it that has caused me to decide to dispense with it. but it's almost useless to try to reason anything with him, and i'll not waste the effort." whereupon he would say no more. he was having troubles of his own. he owed ten thousand dollars, and upon this, interest accrued every few months, and the rate was high. besides, he had other pressing bills, and the grain he had raised was bringing very low prices. therefore, he was in no mood to dally with a poverty poor preacher whose offer was more to show himself off and place baptiste in a compromising position, than his desire for them to be home. he made no effort to appreciate the sentiments or to understand jean baptiste. and the fact that his daughter loved her husband and was willing to help him seemed to be lost sight of by n. justine mccarthy. being accustomed to having people flatter him as a rule, was so engraved in his shallow nature, that he was unable to see matters from a liberal point of view. their relations reached a climax when orlean was with his sister on the claim a few days before the yuletide. baptiste received a letter addressed to her from the elder. thinking that, since she was on the claim, it might be something urgent, he opened it. it _was_ urgent. it contained a money order covering the price of a ticket to chicago with a trite note that he expected her soon, and that he, her husband, could come on later. we shall not attempt to describe the anger that came over jean baptiste then. and, as is most likely the case when a man is angry, he does the thing he most likely would not do when his feelings are under control. with hands that trembled with anger, he turned the note over, wrote in a few words that he had defined his position with regards to coming to chicago; that he would be obliged if the other would mind his own business; that he had married his wife and was trying to be a husband in every way to her; but that he was running his house, and was therefore returning the money therewith. it served as a declaration of the war between the two that had been impending for months. we are too well acquainted with their regard for each other, so upon this we will not dwell; but upon receipt of baptiste's letter, the reverend sang his anger in a letter that fairly scorched the envelope in which it was enclosed. he threatened to turn the world over, and set it right again if the other did not do thus and so. to the threats, baptiste made no reply. in a measure he was relieved; he had at last made his position clear to the other, and his wife, of course, was with him in the controversy. in view therefore, of the manner in which she had been trained, this made matters rather awkward. the yield of crops had not been one half the average, and it took almost all he had made to pay the interest, taxes and expenses. baptiste was not cheerful; but orlean was to become a mother, and he was a practical man. so together they passed a happy xmas after all. in fact the only cloud upon their horizon of happiness was her father. evidently he voiced what he had done to near friends, and they had not endorsed his action. orlean was the wife of jean baptiste and if he expected her to stay with him, it was their affair, even if the reverend had only intended to help. attempting to force charity on others is not always sensible, so the elder wrote later that it was "up to them," and if they had agreed to stay in the west xmas, it was alright with him. this was very considerate of him--apparently, after all the noise he had made, and orlean was much relieved, and loved her father still. her husband was also relieved, and forgot the matter for the time. but did the reverend? well, that was not his nature. he never forgot things he should forget. oh, no! he had not been a hypocrite forty years for nothing! in the meantime, the xmas passed as it has for more than nineteen hundred years, winter set in, and the spring was approaching when the catastrophe occurred. chapter xv compromised "please don't go, jean," she begged. "i don't want you to go. stay with me." "now, orlean," he said gently. "i have such a lot of work to do. i will go, tear down some of the old buildings on the homestead and be back before many days." she cried for a time while he held her in his arms. crying was nothing new with her. as the time for her delivery drew near, she was given to such spells. he was patient. after a few moments she dried her eyes and said: "well, dear, you can go. but hurry back. i want you to be home then, you understand." "of course i want to be home then, wifey, and sure want it to be a boy." "it _will_ be a boy, jean," she said with a strange confidence. "i believe it. i am sure it will." "i shall love you always then, my wife. all our cares and burdens will vanish into the air, and we shall be as happy as the angels." "oh, jean, you can make life seem so light." "life should be made to appear light, sweetheart," he said, caressing her. "grandmother will be here with you and if you need for anything, draw a check and have the neighbors below bring it out. it is only three miles over the hill to carter, you understand." "by the way, dear," she said suddenly, going into the bedroom, and returning presently with a letter. "this is from mama. she writes that they have never told papa yet, and hopes that nothing serious will happen for then she would never--we would never be forgiven by him." "dear little mother mary," he said fondly. "i hope nothing will happen, orlean, for our sakes." and then he paused. he had started to say that he was not worried about her father's forgiveness. he had lost what little patience he had ever had with that one, and did not propose to be annoyed with his love, the love that he had to be continually making excuses and apologies to entertain. but before he had spoken he thought better of it, and decided to say nothing about it. his wife had been trained to regard her father as a king, and because he had succeeded in letting her see that after all he was just a negro preacher with the most that went with negro preachers in him, she had at last ceased to bore him with telling him how great her father was. they were at her claim, and he was about to depart for his original homestead to clean up work preparatory to moving onto her claim permanently as he had intended to do. already his wagons with horses hitched thereto stood near, and he was only lingering for a few parting words with her. "i am kind of sorry we placed mother in this position," he heard her say as if talking more to herself than he. "in what position, orlean?" "in keeping this a secret." "from your father, you mean?" said he, frowning. "yes." "well, orlean, i have tried to be a husband to you." "and you have been, jean." "then it is our business if i chose to keep such a secret." "yes, jean," she said, lowering her eyes and thinking. "but the one burden of our married life has been your father. i never anticipated that his love would be such a burden. ever since we have been married we have had to waste our substance on fear over what he will think. he seems to lose sight of a husband's sentiment or right. i can fancy him in my position with regard to your mother before they had been married long. my god, if any father or mother would have ventured any suggestion as to how they should live or what they should do i can see him!" his wife laughed. "have i spoken rightly?" "yes," she agreed and was momentarily amused. "yes. but he just makes our life a burden with his kind of love. now take this matter for instance. why should we be keeping this a secret from him--rather, why should i? it's just simply because i have too much other cares to be annoyed with a whole lot of to-do on his part. if he knew you were going to become a mother, he would just make our life unbearable with his insistences and love. your mother knows it, and ethel. ethel who would have had you dispose of that innocent, knows it and keeps it from him, with fear all the while of what will come of it, should anything happen. "now, i'll say this much. i don't propose to make any excuses to him about anything i do or have you do hereafter. i'm going to be husband and master, and have nothing to do with what he does with regard to your mother. as long as i am good and kind to you, and don't neglect you, then i have a right, and positively will not be annoyed even by your father!" "please hush, jean," she begged, her arms about him. but he was aroused. he had made himself forget as he should have forgotten the punishment he had been given twenty-two years before. but he did not like the man's conduct. everywhere and with everybody back in illinois who knew n. justine mccarthy, he was regarded as an acknowledged rascal. "just look how he treats your mother!" she pulled at him and tried to still his voice; but speak he would. "if i was ever guilty of treating you as your father has treated your mother ever since he married her, i hope the christ will sink my soul into the bottom-most pit of hell!" "jean, my god, please hush!" "but i speak the truth and you know it. would you like to look forward and feel that you had to go through all your life what your mother has endured?" "oh, no, no, no! but you must hush, jean, in heaven's name, hush." he did then. the storm that had come over him had spent its force and he kissed her, turned then, went to where his teams stood, got into the front wagon, and looking back, drove upon his way. "poor jean," murmured orlean. "father and he will never be friends and it makes it so hard for me." she continued to stand where he left her, looking after him until he had disappeared over the hills to the east. arriving at gregory late that afternoon, jean found a lyceum concert, the number consisting of negroes, one of whom, a girl, he had known some years before, for she had lived next door to where he then roomed. he attended and afterward renewed their acquaintance. it so happened that a lumber company was going out of business in the next town east from gregory, and some coal sheds there were for sale. desiring something of the kind to use as a granary on his wife's claim, baptiste journeyed hither the following day to look the same over. now it also happened that the same concerters were billed for the same town for an evening performance of that day. the day after being sunday, and the company laying over until monday, the days were passed together, with baptiste scheduled to go out to his old place sunday night. it was a cheer to revive old acquaintances; to talk of chicago and olden days with those who still lived there. it was a cheer to all, but jean baptiste had cause to regret it as we shall later see. in the meantime, he went to his old place as per schedule, returning to the little town the following morning, where he purchased a hundred foot shed and prepared to move it to his wife's claim forthwith. a few miles only had been traversed before an intermittent thaw set in, the soft uncertain surface of the earth making it hazardous to pull a heavy load over. so when he reached his old place, he decided to leave it there, tear down his old granary and haul the lumber instead. while in this act, his sister, who had been on a visit to kansas, returned, and worried with regards to his wife, alone with his grandma out on the homestead, he hurried her therewith at once. the next day he was relieved to receive a letter from orlean, advising that she was well, but to come home as soon as possible. a week had passed and saturday was upon him again before he was ready to make a start. now there often comes in the springtime in the west, severe winds that may blow unchecked for days. and one came up just as jean baptiste had set out, and blew a terrific gale. it almost upset his wagons, and made driving very difficult. this was augmented further, because the wind was right in his face, and there was no way to avoid it. however, he finally reached a town about eleven miles west of dallas, by the name of colome that day. the next morning the wind had gone down and the day was beautiful, and he was cheered to think he could reach home that day, by getting started early. but bad luck was with jean baptiste that day, which was sunday, and when he was going down a hill, the wagon struck a rocky place, bounced, and the right front wheel rolled out ahead of him. the axle had broken, and his load went down with a crash. he went to a house he saw near, secured a wagon, and there met a man who had known his father, and had lived and run a newspaper in the same town near where he was born twenty-six years before. he wasted hours getting his load transferred to another wagon, and finally got started again. but not two miles had been covered before the coupling pole snapped, and his loads almost went down again. what trick of fate was playing him, he wondered, and swore viciously. hours it took before the break was repaired, and he pulled into winner, eighteen miles from home, late that night. early morning found him, however, resolutely on the way. he had covered about half the distance when he met a man who lived neighbor to him on his wife's claim, who told him he had tried to get him on the 'phone saturday, at gregory and again at dallas; that his wife had given birth to a baby which had come into the world dead, on a saturday. he almost tumbled from the wagon when he heard this. "dead!" he repeated. finally he heard himself speaking, and in a voice that seemed to come from far away: "ah--well--did my wife have--attention?" "oh, yes," said the other. "your sister, and two doctors. yes, she had all the attention necessary. but i'm sorry for you, old man. it was sure a big, fine kid. she couldn't give it birth, so they had to kill it in order to save her life." he started to resume his journey east, while baptiste, now with unstrung nerves, started to resume his way west. but before his horses had gone many steps he suddenly drew them down to a halt, and, turning, heard the other call out: "i went to carter and sent her father a telegram as per a request of hers. i suppose it was all right," and continued on his way. "to him!" cried baptiste inaudibly. "_to_ him!" he repeated. "to him no doubt, that the baby--which he had not known was to be, had come and--dead!" mechanically he drove upon his way. he did not think, he did not speak. he said nothing for a long, long time; but down in his heart _jean baptiste knew that he was coming nearer to the parting of the ways_. back in old illinois n. justine mccarthy, upon receiving the telegram, he realized would in all probability depart at the earliest convenience for the west. and when he arrived, would learn still more than the message had told; would learn that he had been absent when his wife had given birth to the dead baby. oh, his child, why could it not have lived.... yes, she had had all the attention that was possible; but such would not be credited by n. justine mccarthy. the fact that not every man had found it possible to be present at the bedside of their wives when children came, would not be considered by n. justine mccarthy. _the fact that he himself had been absent when his own orlean came into the world_ would be no counter here. jean baptiste's absence at the critical time would serve as an excuse for the reverend to vent his spite, and he would demand a toll. jean baptiste was compromised, and would have to make a sacrifice.... chapter xvi the evil genius "oh, jean," breathed orlean, from the bed, "where have you been?" he had come unto the house then, and the man in him was much downcast. he was, and had cause to feel discouraged, sorrowful and sad. so he explained to the one who lay upon the bed where he had been, and what had happened to him, and why he had been delayed. she sighed when he was through and was sorry. for a long time he was on his knees at the bedside, and when an hour had passed, she reached and placed her arm about his neck, and was thankful that he was spared to her, and they would live on hopeful; but both felt their loss deeply. "i sent papa a telegram," she said presently. because he knew he made no answer. he knew the other would come, and he was resigned as to what would follow. she sighed again. perhaps it was because she knew and also feared what was to follow.... she had not known her father her lifetime without knowing what must happen. but she loved her husband, and now in the weak state the delivery had left her she was struggling to withstand the subtle attack her father was sure to make. two days passed, and she was progressing toward health as well as could be expected. since her marriage her health on the whole had improved wonderfully. the petty aches and pains of which she complained formerly had gradually disappeared, and the western air had brought health and vigor to her. and then on the third day he arrived. moreover, he brought ethel with him. they rode over the hill that led to the claim in a hired rig, and baptiste espied them as soon as they were in sight. our pen cannot describe what jean baptiste read in the eyes of n.j. mccarthy when he alighted from the buggy and went into the house. but suffice to say, that what had passed twenty-two years before had come back. there was to be war between them and as it had been then baptiste was at a disadvantage, and must necessarily accept the inevitable. ethel was crying, and her tears meant more than words. she had never cried for love. it had always been something to the contrary. but we must turn to the one in bed--and helpless! she saw her father when he stepped from the buggy, and understood what he carried behind his masklike face. he did not allow his eyes to rest on jean baptiste, and she noted this. she settled back upon the pillow, and tried to compose herself for the event that was to be. her husband was compromised, and could not defend himself.... therefore it fell upon her and from the sick bed to defend him. he was inside the house now, and came toward her, and she was frightened when he was near and saw his face and what it held. hatred within was there and she shuddered audibly. she closed her eyes to shut it out. oh, the agony that came over her. she opened her eyes when his lips touched hers, and then began the struggle that was to be hers. "papa," she whispered, and in her voice there was a great appeal. "don't blame jean. jean has burdens, he has responsibilities--he's all tied up! he's good to me, he loves me, he gives me all he has." but before she had finished, she knew that her appeal had fallen upon deaf ears. her father had come--and he had brought a purpose to be fulfilled. he caressed her; he said many foolish things, and she pretended to believe him; she made as if his coming had meant the saving of her life; but she knew behind all he pretended was the evil, the evil that was his nature, and the fear that filled her breast made her weaker; made her sick. the doctor had said that she would be able to leave the bed in ten days, probably a week; but now with grim realization of what was before her she became weak, weaker, weakest. and all the time she saw that it was being charged to jean baptiste, and to his neglect. we should perhaps try to make clear at this point in this story that jean baptiste could have settled matters in a very simple manner.... true, the manner in which he could have settled it, would be the manner in which wars could be avoided--by sacrificing principle. he could have gone to his majesty and played a traitor to his nature by pretending to believe the elder had been right and justified in everything; whereas, he, jean baptiste, had been as duly wrong. he could have acted in such a manner as to have his majesty feel that he was a great man, that he had been honored by even knowing him, much less in being privileged to marry his daughter. this, in view of the fact that having been absent from her bedside at that crucial time, he was compromised, would have satisfied the elder, and baptiste would not have been compelled to forego all that later came to pass in their relations. _but jean baptiste had a principle, and was not a liar, nor a coward, nor a thief._ and, although, he had been so unfortunate as not to have been by the bedside of his wife during that hour, he could have sentimentally appeased his father-in-law, but jean baptiste had not nor will he ever in the development of this story, sink so low. of what was to come--and the most is--in this story, jean baptiste at no time sacrificed his manhood for any cause. n. justine mccarthy, and this is true of too many of his race and to this cause may be attributed many of their failures, was not a reader. he never read anything but the newspapers briefly and the bible a little. he was, therefore, not an informed man. as a result he took little interest in, and appreciated less, what the world is thinking and doing. he had never understood because he had not tried, what the people around where jean baptiste had come were doing for posterity. yet he claimed very loudly to be an apostle of the race--to be willing--and was--sacrificing his very soul for the cause of ethiopia. he took great pride in telling and retelling how he had sacrificed for his family--wife included. as he was heard by others, he had no faults; could do no wrong, and would surely reach heaven in the end! so while they lingered at the bedside of orlean, he and ethel, as a pastime argued with each other, and involved everybody but themselves with wrongs. for instance, the reverend, affecting much piety, would in discussing his wife, whom he ever did in terms regarding her faults, find occasion to remark in a burst of self pity--and of self pity he had an abundant supply: "after all i have done for that woman; after all i have sacrificed for her; after all the patience i have endured while she has held me down--kept me from being what i would have been and should, she is ever bursting out with: 'you're the meanest man in the world! you're the meanest man in the world!'" whereupon he would affect a look of deep self pity and eternal mortification. unless we lengthen the story unnecessarily, we would not have the space to relate all he said in reference to his son-in-law in subtle ways during these days. but jean baptiste was too busy building a barn and other buildings to listen to these compliments the elder was bestowing upon his wife with regard to him. "yes, my dear," he said time and again, "if jean was like your father, you would not be here now with your child lying dead in the grave. no, no. you would be in the best hospital in chicago, with nurses and attendants all about you and your darling baby at your side," and, so saying, he would affect another sigh of self pity. at first she had struggled to protest, but after a few days she gave up entirely and became resigned to the inevitable. she received an occasional diversion, however, when the elder and ethel entered into a controversy. unlike orlean, ethel was not afraid of her father, especially when he had something to say about glavis. the truth was, that while he so pretended, n.j. mccarthy had no more love for glavis than he had for baptiste; but he could tolerate glavis because glavis endeavored to satisfy his vanity. baptiste, on the other hand, while he now accepted all his father-in-law chose to pour upon him in the way of rebuke for what he had done and should not have, and what he had not done and should have, he never told the elder that he was a great man. the first few days the elder had held the usual prayer; but after some days he dispensed with this, and turned all his energy to rebuking jean baptiste, when he was out of sight. "now, don't you talk about glavis," cried ethel one day when his majesty had tired of abusing baptiste and sought a diversion by remarking that glavis had come from a stumpy farm in the woodlands of tennessee. "no, you don't! glavis is my husband and you can't abuse him to his back like you are doing baptiste!" "just listen how she treats her father, orlean," cried the elder, overcome with self pity. orlean then rebuked ethel and chided her father. but the part which escaped her, was that ethel defended her mate, while orlean suffered to have hers rebuked at will. the greatest reason why ethel and her father could not agree, as was well known, was that they were too much alike. when jean baptiste had completed his barn, and his wife was out of danger, according to the doctor--but would never be according to the elder--who insisted that the only cure would be for her to return to chicago with them,--he was ready to go to work. his wife wanted to go to chicago, for what the reverend had done to her in the days he had sat by her and professed his great love, would have made her wish to go anywhere to appease him for even a day. "now, after the expense we have been to," said baptiste, "i hardly know whether i can let you go to chicago or not." the elder sighed, and said to her low enough for her husband's ears not to hear: "just listen to that. after all i have done! then i will have to pay your way to chicago where i shall endeavor to save your life, your dear life which this man is trying to grind out of you to get rich." "but i'll think it over," said baptiste. "we have lots of work this summer, and will try to get caught up," and the next moment he was gone. "did you hear that, daughter?" said the reverend, now aloud, when the other's back was turned. "oh, it's awful, the man you have married! just crazy, crazy to get rich! and puts you after his work; after his horses; after his everything! and after all your poor old father has done for you," whereupon he let escape another sigh, and fell into tears of self pity. orlean stroked his head and swallowed what she would have offered in defense of the man she had married. it was useless to offer defense, he had broken this down long since. "yes, he is wanting to kill, to kill my poor daughter after all she has sacrificed," he sobbed, "and when you are dead and in your grave like your baby is out in this wild country," his voice was breaking now with sobs, "he will up and marry another woman to enjoy the fruits of your sacrifice!" he was lost in his own tears then, and could say no more. "now, dear," she suddenly heard her husband, and looked up to find that he had returned. he stooped and kissed her fondly, and then went on: "i am going up to my sister's homestead to start the men to work with the engine breaking the land and i must haul them the coal, which i will get at colome. now i will not be back for several days, but will make up my mind in the meantime as to whether i can let you go to chicago or not." "all right, dear," she said, raising from the bed and caressing him long and lingeringly. she could not understand how much she wanted him then, it seemed that she could hold him so forever. she kissed him again and again, and as he passed out of the room she looked after him long and lingeringly, and upon her face was a heavenly smile as he passed out of sight and disappeared over the hill. as he did so, the elder got from his position at the other side of the bed, went to the door, and also watched him out sight. as he turned away, baptiste's grandmother who had fed many a preacher back there in old illinois, the reverend included, started. she had seen his face, and what she had seen therein had frightened her. when he went back into the room and to the bed where orlean lay, she dropped by the table and buried her face in her old arms and sobbed, long and silently. and a close observer could have heard these shaken words: "poor jean, poor jean, poor orlean, oh, poor orlean! you made all the fight you could but you were weak. you were doomed before you started, for he knew you and knew you were weak. but would to god that the world could end today, for it will end tomorrow for you two. poor orlean, poor jean!" chapter xvii the coward "hello, jean," cried a friend of his at colome some days later, as he was leading his horses into the livery barn, after loading the coal he was hauling to the men who were breaking prairie on his sister's claim with a steam tractor. "were those your folks i seen driving into town a while ago?" "my folks?" "yeh. three of them. a man and two women. one of the ladies appears to be sick." "oh," he echoed, and before he could or would have answered in his sudden surprise, the other passed on. it was some moments before he recovered from the shock the other's words had given him. he knew without stopping to think that the ones referred to were the reverend, ethel and his wife. he had written his wife a few days before that he would be home the following sunday, and when he would be caught up in his hauling sufficiently and could spend a few days there. "so he moves without my consent or bid," he breathed, and for a time he was listless from the feeling that overcame him. he attended to his horses, mechanically, had supper and went to verify what he had heard. he had little difficulty in doing so, for the town was small, but that night, happened to be full of people, and the reverend had found some difficulty in securing lodging. the day had not been a beautiful one by any means. it was in early april and the month had borrowed one of the dreary days of the previous month. light snow had fallen, which, along toward evening had turned into a dismal sleet. a bad day to say the least, to be out, and a sick person of all things! he went directly to the preacher when he saw him. he was aroused, and the insults he had suffered did not make him pleasant. "now, look here, reverend mccarthy," he said and his tone revealed his feelings, "what kind of a 'stunt' are you pulling off with my wife?" and he blocked his way where they stood upon the sidewalk. "now, now, my son--" "oh, don't 'son' me," said the other impatiently. "you and i might as well come to an understanding right here tonight as any other time. we are not friends and you know it. we have never since we have known each other been in accord--not since we met--yes, twenty-two years ago. oh, you remember it." the other started guiltily when jean referred to his youth. "you remember how my mother licked me for letting miss self help me upon her lap and fed me, thereby disturbing your illegitimate flirtation...." the other's pious face darkened. but it was not his nature to meet and argue openly as men should and do. always his counter was subtle. so while jean baptiste was in the mood to come to an understanding, to admit frankly to the other, that enemies they were, the elder permitted a womanish smile to spread over his face and patted the other on the back, saying: "now, now, jean. you are my daughter's husband, and it is no time or place to carry on like this. the girl lays sick over here and if you would be a husband you would go to her. now let's dispense with such things as you refer to and go forth to the indisposed." he appeared more godly now than he had ever. distrust was in the face of baptiste. he knew the preacher was not sincere, but his wife, the girl he had married, lay ill. he suspicioned that the elder had intended stealing her away without his knowledge; he knew, moreover, that all his affected tenderness was subtle; but he hushed the harsh words that were on his tongue to say and followed the other. "yes, my children," his pious face almost unable to veil the evil behind the mask, "here we are together," he said when he entered the room followed by baptiste. orlean was in bed and made no effort to greet her husband; while ethel sat sulkily in a chair nearby and kept her mouth closed. jean went to the bed and sat by his wife and regarded her meditatively. she did not seem to recognize him, and he made no effort to arouse her to express her thoughts which seemed to come and go. he was lost in thoughts, strange and sinister. verily his life was in a turmoil. the life he had come into through his marriage had revived so many old and unpleasant memories that he had forgotten, until he was in a sort of daze. he had virtually run away from those parts wherein he had first seen the light of day, to escape the effect of dull indolence; the penurious evil that seemed to have gripped the populace, especially a great portion of his race. in the years jean baptiste had spent in the west, he had been able to follow, unhampered, his convictions. but now, the reverend's presence seemed to have brought all this back. in a conversation one day with that other he had occasion to mention the late james j. hill, in his eulogy of the northwest and was surprised to find--and have the reverend admit--that he had never even heard of him. indeed, what the elder knew about the big things in life would have filled a very small book. but when it came to the virtues of the women in the churches over which he presided, he knew everything. and whenever they had become agreeable in any way, it was sure to end with the reverend relating incidents regarding the social and moral conduct of the women in the churches over which he presided. moreover, the elder sought in his subtle manner, to dig into the past life of members of baptiste's family, of what any had committed that could be used as a measure for gossip. and this night, as they sat over jean's wife whose sentiment and convictions had been crushed, the elder attempted to dwell on the subject again. "yes, when your older sister taught in murphysboro, and got herself talked about because she drew a revolver on professor alexander, that was certainly too bad." "looks as if she was able to take care of herself," suggested baptiste, deciding to counter the old rascal at his own game. "but that's what i'm trying to show you, and you could see it if you wasn't inclined to be so hard headed," argued the elder. "we'll leave personalities out of it, if you please," said baptiste, coloring. "oh, but if your sister had had protection, such a deplorable incident would not have happened. now, for instance," argued the elder, "my girls have never had their good names embarrassed with such incidents." "oh, they haven't," cried baptiste, all patience gone. "then what about their half brother in east st. louis, eh? and the other one who died--was stabbed to death. those were yours, and you were never married to their mother!" the other's face became terrible. the expression upon his face was dreadful to behold. he started to rise, but baptiste was not through. he was thoroughly aroused now, and all he had stood from this arch sinner had come back to him. therefore, before the other could deny or do anything, said he: "oh, you needn't try to become so upset over it. your morals are common knowledge to all the people of illinois, and elsewhere. and let me tell you, you can--as you have--in your family, force those who know it and condemn it to keep quiet by making yourself so disagreeable that they will honey you up to get along with you. but it is not because they, or all those who know you, are not aware of it! that's your reputation, and some day you are going to suffer for it. you deliberately make people miserable to satisfy your infernal vanity; your desire to be looked upon and called great. now right here you are bent upon crucifying your own daughter's happiness just because i haven't tickled your rotten vanity, and lied." he arose now, and pointed a threatening finger at the other. "you are out to injure me, and you are taking advantage of your own child's position as my wife to do so. i'm going to let you go ahead. orlean's a good girl, but she's weak like the mother that you have abused for thirty years! but remember this, n.j. mccarthy, and i've called you reverend for the last time. the evil that you do unto others will some day be done unto you and will drag your ornery heart in its own blood. mark my words!" and the next instant he was gone. the other looked after him uneasily. the truth had come so forcibly, so impulsively, so abruptly, that it had for the time overcome his cunningness; but only for a moment after the other had disappeared was he so. he regained his usual composure soon enough, and he turned to the sick woman for succor--to her whom he was dragging down to the gutter of misery for his own self aggrandizement. "did you hear how he abused your father?" he cried, the tears from his piggish eyes falling on her cheeks. she reached and stroked his white hair, and mumbled weak words. "oh, i never thought i would come to this--be brought to this through the daughter that i have loved so much. oh, poor me, your poor old father," whereupon he wept bitterly. "you see, you see," cried ethel, who had risen and stood over her, pointing her finger to orlean as she lay upon the bed. "this is what comes of marrying that man! i tried, oh, i tried so hard to have you see that no good could come of it, no good at all!" the other sighed. she was too weak from mortification to reply in the affirmative, or the negative. "i tried, and i tried to have you desist, but you would! when i had at last gotten you to quit him, and you swore you had, no sooner did he come and place his arm about you and whisper fool things in your ear, than did you but up and consent to this. this, this, do you hear? this that has brought your poor father to that!" and she stopped to point to where that one lay stretched across the bed, sobbing. the night was one long, miserable, quarrelsome night. ethel and the elder wore themselves out abusing baptiste, and along toward morning all fell into a troubled sleep. baptiste met them the next morning as they came from the rooms, and helped his wife across the street to a restaurant. when they had finished the meal, he said to her as they came from the restaurant, "now, dear, i'll step into the bank here and get you some money--" "no, no, no, jean," she said quickly, cutting him off before he completed what he had started to say. "well," and he started toward the bank again as if he had not understood her. "no, no, no, jean," she repeated, and caught his arm nervously. "no, don't!" "but you are going away, dear, and will surely need money?" he insisted. "yes, but--jean--jean--i have money." "you have money?" repeated the other uncomprehendingly. "but how came you with money? that much money?" "i--i had--a--check cashed. that is--papa had one cashed for me." "oh, so that was it. m-m. _your father_ had it cashed for you?" he understood then, and his suspicion that the elder had intended taking her to chicago without letting him know it was confirmed. they walked down the street toward the depot, and while she held nervously to his arm, his mind was concerned with his thoughts. it occurred to him that he should take his wife back to the claim right then. he felt that if she went to chicago there would be trouble. he began slowly to appreciate that in dealing with reverend mccarthy he was not dealing with a man; nor a near man. he was not dealing with a mere liar, or a thief, even--he was dealing with the lowest of all reptiles, a snake! then why did not he, jean baptiste, act? perhaps if he had, we should never have had this story to tell. jean baptiste did not act. he decided to let her go. beyond that he had no decision. it seemed that his mind would not work beyond the immediate present. soon she heard him, as she clung to his arm, allowing her body to rest against his shoulder: "how much for, orlean?" "two--two--hundred dollars." "why--two hundred dollars!" he cried. "why, orlean, what has come over you?" she burst into tears then, and clung appealingly to him. and in that moment she was again his god-given mate. "besides," he went on, "i haven't such an amount in the bank, even." he looked up. a half a block in their lead walked reverend mccarthy, carrying the luggage. "papa, p-a-pa!" called orlean at the top of her voice. "pa-p-a," she called again and again until she fell into a fit of coughing. he halted, and was uneasy, baptiste could see. they came up to him. orlean was running despite her husband's effort to hold her back. "papa, papa! my god, give jean back that money. give it back, i say! oh, i didn't want to do this, oh, i didn't want to! it was you who had me sign that check, you, you, you!" she was overcome then, and fell into a swoon in her husband's arms. he stood firmly, bravely, then like the rock of gibraltar. his face was very hard, it was very firm. his eyes spoke. it told the one before him the truth, the truth that was. and as the other ran his hand to his inside vest pocket and drew forth the money, he kept saying in a low, cowardly voice: "_it was her, it was her. she did it, she did it!_" baptiste took the money. he looked at it. he took fifty dollars from it and handed the amount to the other. he spoke then, in a voice that was singularly dry: "i will not keep her from going. she can go; but you know i ought not let her." they carried her to where the cars stood, and made her comfortable when once inside. she opened her eyes when he was about to leave upon hearing the conductor's call. she looked up into his eyes. he bent and kissed her. she looked after him as he turned, and called: "jean!" "yes, orlean!" "goodby!" he stood on the platform of the small western station as the train pulled down the track. a few moments later it disappeared from view, and she was gone. epoch the third epoch the third chapter i chicago--the boomerang the reverend mccarthy had scored. he had succeeded in separating his daughter from the man she married. the fact that there was positively no misunderstanding between the two, was not seen or considered by him. jean baptiste had opposed him, and that was enough. he hated any member of his household, or any one related to the one of his household who dared disagree with him. of course his "majesty" did not see it that way. he saw himself as the most saintly man in the world and sympathized with himself accordingly. no man thought himself more unjustly abused than did n. justine mccarthy. but there were other things to complete. he had not wilfully participated in what had just passed--in fact, he had not meant to part the couple at all. he prided himself with having some judgment. he was merely undertaking that which in a way had grown common to him--the task of getting even. now he had estimated that he knew jean baptiste, although studying characters and their natural tendencies had not been a part of his theme in life. he felt albeit, that he had this one's tender spot clearly before him. to begin with: he put himself right with his own conscience by believing that baptiste was a vain, selfish character, bent on one purpose--getting rich! he concluded--because he wished to--that baptiste did not, and had never, loved orlean. the fact that orlean had not said anything to the contrary did not matter. he was her father, and therefore predicated and privileged to think and act for her. that was why he had always been of so much service, such fatherly help. he was protecting his daughter from the cruelty of men. but how he had planned it all! "now that hard-headed rascal," meaning of course his son-in-law, "is not going to lay down. oh, no! my poor girl has that claim. he does not want her, but he does want the claim. to hold the claim, he must have her, and have her back on the claim. he's all war now; but when he realizes that to lose her is to lose the claim into the bargain--oh, well, i'll just set right down at home here and wait. yes, i'll wait. he'll be coming along. and when he appears here, then i'll bend his ornery will into the right way of seeing things." so thereupon he took up his vigil, waiting for jean baptiste to put in his appearance. but for some reason the other had not hastened to chicago as soon as the elder had anticipated he would. three weeks had been consumed in the trip west, so he was somewhat behind in his church work. while it was true that ministers in some of the towns in his itinerary collected from the members at the quarterly conference and sent the money to him; on the other hand if he expected to get what was due him in any great measure, it was highly necessary that he be there in person. accordingly, the time he spent in chicago, waiting for the coming of his son-in-law that he might have the satisfaction of bending the other to his will began to grow long and irksome. moreover, if he sat at home, he was obliged to meet and greet the many visitors who called to see his sick daughter. more largely of course for the purpose of securing information for gossip, but compelling him therefore to make or offer some explanation. and here arose another phase of the case that was not pleasant. following jean baptiste's marriage to orlean, and after the reverend had paid them his first visit, he had said a great deal in praise of his "rich" son-in-law. that he was so extremely vain, was why he had done this. it had tickled his vanity to have the people see his daughter marry so well, since it was well known about chicago that jean baptiste was very successful. when the elder had boasted to the people he met of the "rich" man his daughter had married, he wrote telling the young couple of it. to be referred to as "rich" he conjectured, should have flattered any man's vanity--it would have his--and he estimated that he was doing baptiste a great favor when he let him know that he, the elder, was advertising him as rich. but the same had brought no response from that one. he had been too busy to take any interest in being praised. and even after the elder had made his first visit, and returned and told of the wonders his daughter had married into, he still hoped this would soften baptiste's disposition into praising and fawning upon him. it was not until baptiste had returned the money he had sent his daughter for railway fare the xmas before that the reverend had thrown down the gauntlet and declared war. so the very thing he had played up a few months before, came back now to annoy him. because he had never lived as he should have it was proving a boomerang. he had made a practice of pretending not to hear what was being said about him by others. but he could not seal his ears to the fact that the people were asking themselves and everybody else what had happened to his daughter, or between his daughter and the "rich" son-in-law. this was very uncomfortable, it was very annoying. it was reported that he was compelled to go out west and get her, and it was exasperating to explain all without making it seem that what he had said a few months before was boast, pure and simple. "yeh. all you could hear a few months ago, was the 'rich' man orlean had married. yeh. mr. mc. would make it his business to get around so you had to ask 'im about them. then he'd swell up lak a big frog and tell all about it. then of a sudden he jumps up and goes out there and brings her back. ump! now i wonder what is the mattah." during these times, those of the household had little peace. with impatience over baptiste's not showing up so he could read him the riot act, and his work being neglected; with having to listen to no end of gossip that his meddling had brought about, he became the most obstinate problem imaginable about the house. all the love he had pretended for orlean while on the claim, was now changed to severe chastisement. he no longer fondled and wasted hours over her. she had no longer the convenient check book. the fact that she had to have a little medicine, and that she also had to have other necessities; that she had to eat--and the most of this he was forced to provide, made him so irritable, that those near prayed for the day when he would leave. but if jean baptiste would only come so that he could say to him what he had planned to say. just to have the opportunity to bend that stubborn will--that would be sufficient to repay him for all he was now actually sacrificing. as for "little mother mary" these were the darkest days of her never happy married life. of all the men she had met or known, she had truly admired and loved jean baptiste more than any other. in truth it was her disposition to be frank, kind and truthful. she dearly loved her son-in-law for his manly frank and kind disposition. she trusted him, and, knowing that orlean was of her disposition, weak and subservient to the will of those near, she had been relieved to feel that she had married the kind of man that would be patient and love a person with such a disposition. she had been sincere in her praise of him to her many friends. she had told of him to everybody she knew or met. so much so indeed, that the reverend on his last trip west in his daily rebuke, then had said: "and mary has just sickened me with telling everybody she meets about jean." ethel had joined with him in this. the truth was that when her mother had sung her praise to the people regarding jean baptiste, there was nothing left to say about glavis, but more especially about the elder. what the reverend was forced to endure at this time, he promptly of course charged to the indiscretions of jean baptiste. if he had not done this, or if he had done that, the elder would not have been forced to endure such annoyance. if he would only show up with his practical ideas in chicago! every morning when the door bell rang, he listened eagerly for the voice of his son-in-law. he watched the mail, and in assorting the letters, looked anxiously for the western postmark. but a week passed, and no letter and no jean baptiste. then at the end of two weeks, the same prevailed. and at the end of three weeks, he knew he would have to go to work or reckon with the bishop. so on tuesday of the following week, the elder left for his work, and that same afternoon, jean baptiste arrived in chicago. chapter ii the great question the days that followed after the elder had taken his wife away, were unhappy days for jean baptiste. in his life there were certain things he had held sacred. chief among these was the marriage vow. while a strong willed, obviously firm sort of person, he was by nature sentimental. he had among his sentiments been an enemy of divorces. nothing to him was so distasteful as the theory of divorce. he had always conjectured that if a man did not drink, or gamble, or beat his wife there could be no great cause for divorce; whereas, with the woman, if she was not guilty of infidelity a man could find no just cause, on the whole, to ask for a divorce. but whatever the cause be--even a just cause--he disliked the divorcing habit. he persisted in believing that if two people whose lives were linked together would get right down to a careful understanding and an appreciation of each other's sentiments, or points of view, they could find it possible to live together and be happy. fancy therefore, how this man must have felt when he arrived at the little house upon the wife's claim and found his grandmother alone. they had taken his wife and all her belongings. he lived in a sort of quandary in the days that followed. his very existence became mechanical. and one day while in this unhappy state, he chanced to find a little sun bonnet that they had evidently overlooked. she had bought it the summer before, and it was too small. but he recalled now that he had thought that it made her look very sweet. how much the bonnet meant to him now! he placed it carefully away, and when he was alone in the house in after days with only her memory as a companion he would get and bring it forth, gaze at it long and tenderly. it seemed to bring back the summer before when he had been hopeful and happy and gay. it brought him more clearly to realize and appreciate what marriage really meant and the sacred vow. and during these hours he would imagine he could see her again; that she was near and from under the little bonnet that was too small he communed with her and he would thereupon hold a mythical conversation, with her as the listener. was it all because jean baptiste loved his wife? what is there between love and duty? it had never been as much a question with jean baptiste as to how much he loved her as it was a question of duty. she was his wife by the decree of god and the law of the land. whatever he had been, or might have been to others, therefore had gone completely out of his mind when he had taken her to him as wife. and now that she was away, to his mind first came the question, _why_ was she away? yes, that was the great question. _why was she away?_ oh, the agony this question gave the man of our story. not one serious quarrel had they ever had. not once had he spoken harshly to her, nor had she been cross with him. not once had the thought entered his mind that they would part; that they could part; that they would ever wish to part. in the beginning, true, there had been some little difficulties before they had become adjusted to each other's ways. but that had taken only a few months, after which they had gradually become devoted to each other. and so their lives had become. out there in the "hollow of god's hand," their lives had become assimilated, they had looked forward to the future when there would be the little ones, enlarging their lives and duties. and yet, why was his wife in chicago without even a letter from her to him; or one from him to her? why, why, _why_? n. justine mccarthy! oh, the hatred that began to grow--spread and take roots in the breast of this man of the prairie toward the man who had wilfully and deliberately wronged him, wrecked that which was most sacred to him. the days came and went, but that evil, twisting, warping hatred remained; it grew, it continued to grow until his very existence became a burden and a misery. no days were happy days to him. from the moment he awakened in the morning until he was lost in slumbers in the evening, jean baptiste knew no peace. while that perpetrator of his unhappiness waited impatiently in chicago with plans to grind and humiliate him further, this man began to formulate plans also. with all the bitter hatred in his soul against the cause of his unhappiness, his plans were not the plans of "getting even," but merely to see his wife where no subtle influences could hamper her or warp her convictions and reason. he knew that to write to her would be but to prove useless. the letters would be examined and criticized by those around her. he knew that sending her money would be only regarded as an evidence of weakening on his part, and if he was to deal, weakness must have no place. so as to how he might see his wife, and give her an opportunity to appreciate duty, became his daily determination. the great steam tractor, breaking prairie on his sister's homestead was diligently at its task, and while it turned over from twenty to thirty acres of wild sod each day, it also ate coal like a locomotive. so to it he was kept busy hauling coal over the thirty-five miles from colome. on the land he was having broken (for he had teams breaking prairie in addition to the tractor) he had arranged to sow flaxseed. for two years preceding this date, crops had been perceptibly shorter, due to drought. therefore seeds of all kind had attained a much higher price than previously. flaxseed that he had raised and sold thousands of bushels of in years gone by for one dollar a bushel he was now compelled to pay the sum of $ . a bushel therefor. so with a steam tractor hired at an average cost of $ a day; with extra men in addition to be boarded; and with hauling the coal for the tractor himself such a distance and other expenses, jean baptiste, unlike his august-father-in-law, had little time or patience to sit around consuming his time and substance perpetrating a game of spite. but he was positive that he would needs lose his mental balance unless he journey to chicago and see his wife. alone she would have time, he conjectured to think, to see and to realize just what she was doing. why should they be separated? positively there was nothing and never had been anything amiss between them, was what passed daily through his mind. well, he decided that he would go to her as soon as he had arranged matters so he could. he was peeved when he recalled that the spring before he had been forced to make a trip to that same city that could as well have been avoided. but when anything had to be done, jean baptiste usually went after it and was through. in business where he was pitted against men, this was not difficult, and instead of disliking to face such music, he rather relished the zest it gave him. but when a man is dealing with a snake--for nothing else can a man who would sacrifice his own blood to vanity be likened to, it must be admitted that the task worried jean baptiste. if n. justine mccarthy had been a reader, an observer, and a judge of mankind as well as a student of human nature and its vicissitudes he could have realized that murder was not short for such actions as he was perpetrating. but here again jean baptiste was too busy. he had no time to waste in jail--for even if killing the man who had done him such an injury be justified he realized that justice in such cases works slowly. but it would be vain and untruthful to say that with the bitterness in his heart, jean baptiste did not reach a point in his mind where he could have slain in cold blood the man with whom he was dealing. at last came the time when he could be spared from his farm, and to chicago he journeyed. positively this was one trip to that city that gave him no joy. he estimated before reaching there, that he should best not call up the house, but bide his time and try to meet his wife elsewhere. but when he arrived in the city, and not being a coward, he dismissed this idea and went directly to the house in vernon avenue. he was met at the door by "little mother mary," who did not greet him as she might have, but for certain reasons. the most she could do even to live in the same atmosphere with her husband was to pretend to act in accordance with his sentiments. baptiste followed her back to the rear room where she took a seat and he sat down beside her. she had uttered no word of greeting, but he came directly to the point. "where is orlean?" "she's out." "out where?" "she just walked out into the street." "how is she?" "better than when she came home," meaningly. "when she was _brought_ home," he corrected. "well?" "but i am not here to argue whereof. i am here to see her." "but she's out." "however, she'll return, i hope. if not, then, where might i find her?" "she'll return presently." he was silent for a time while she regarded him nervously, listening in the meantime as if expecting some one. she was afraid. her husband had left the city only that morning; but behind him he had left an escutcheon who could--and was, as capable of making matters as disagreeable. it was ethel, and mrs. mccarthy was aware that that one was upstairs. the household had been conducted according to the desires and dictates of the elder. wherefore she was uneasy. baptiste observed her now, and made mental note as to the cause of the expression of uneasiness upon her face. "what's the matter?" he asked. she did not reply, but sighed. "what's the matter, mother mary?" he asked kindly. her love and admiration asserted itself momentarily in the look with which she replied to him. how in that moment she wanted to tell him all, and to be to him as she had always wanted to be. but only a moment was she so, then that look of hunted fear overspread her face again, and she turned uneasily toward the stairs. "won't you tell me what the matter is, mother?" she heard him again. for answer the quick glance over her shoulder was sufficient. it was as if to say. "hush! enemies are near!" he then estimated that the elder had gone to the southern part of the state, but ethel must be near, and it was ethel whom the mother feared. he understood then, that the reverend had a cunning way of having ethel do his bidding. because she was possessed of his evil disposition, he could trust her to carry out anything on this order--that is, providing she disliked the person in question, and that was usually the case, for, like him, there were few people whom she really liked. "what have you been doing to my child?" he heard from mother mary, presently. he studied her face again and saw that she was trying to reckon with him herself, although he knew that it mattered little what she thought or did on the whole. "has she told you what i have been doing to her?" he said. she shifted uncomfortably, looked around a little, listened for a sound that she expected to hear sooner or later, and then replied, and in doing so, he saw that she was again subservient to the old training. "my husband told me," she countered. "oh," he echoed. "you have not acted with discretion," she said again, and he understood her. acting with "discretion" would been never to have given the reverend an excuse for making that trip.... "i have been good to your daughter; a husband to the best of my ability." "but you--you--should not have blundered." again he was reminded of what it meant to displease or give her husband any excuse. "i did not agree in this room a year ago to be regardful of the opinion of others," he defended. "i agreed to the word of the law and of god. i have tried to fulfill that word. i did not intend to be absent when the child came." she shifted again uneasily, and her mind went back to the day orlean was born and that her husband, too, had been away.... "if i can see orlean that will be sufficient," he said. "she went to walk." "mother?" she regarded him again, and then turned her eyes away for she could not stand to look long into his. the truth there would upset her and she knew it. "why must this be so?" she shifted uneasily again. oh, if she could only be brave. if she could only dare--but she was not brave, orlean was not brave. they had lived their lives too long subservient to the will of others to attempt bravery now. she rested her eyes on some sewing she pretended to do and waited. it could only be for a little while. ethel must learn sooner or later of his presence, and then--! there would be a scene or he must go. "it's a shame," said the other. "you should have been careful," she returned meaningly. but in her mind was still the dream. if she could be brave.... "mother!" called some one sharply. jean recognized the voice, the command. the other's face went pale for a moment, while her eyes closed. he understood. the worst had come. in the minutes they had been sitting there, she had almost dared hope that orlean would return, and that in some way--perhaps it would have to come from heaven--they could fly. but chances now were gone. his cohort had appeared. "who is it out there?" she asked, and came toward where they sat. she saw him then, and regarded him coldly. through her mind shot the fact that her father had waited three weeks for him, and had just left that morning. her disappointment was keen. for a moment she was frightened. in truth she held a fearsome admiration for the man, and then she stiffened. she had come back to herself; to the fact that she had a reputation for being disagreeable. she turned to him, and said: "what are you doing here?" he answered her not. her mother was trembling. "get out of this house!" she commanded, getting control of herself. baptiste was in a quandary. he recalled how he had seen her make her husband jump as if trying to get out of his skin when she was in her evil spasms. "did you hear!" she almost screamed. "i am waiting for my wife," he replied then calmly. "she is my sister!" she screamed again. "i suppose i am aware of that." "then you cannot have her!" "she is mine already." "you're a liar!" she yelled, crying now, and her evil little face screwed up horribly in her anger. mrs. mccarthy was trembling as if a chill had come over her. ethel suddenly flew to the 'phone. she got a number, and he heard her scream: "glavis! glav--is.... that man is here!... glav--is!... that man is here!..." he could understand no more, then, but saw that she was frantic. he finally heard mother mary. "you're wanted at the 'phone," she said, tremblingly. he got up and went to it. ethel was dancing about the room like a demon. "hello!" he called. "hello!" came back. "ah--ha--who--who--who is th-is?" the other sputtered, all excitement. "baptiste," replied the other, wondering at his excitement. "wh--at a--re yo--u do-i-ng a--t m-y h-o-u-s-e?" "oh, say," called back baptiste. "there's nobody dead out here. now calm yourself and say what you want to. i'm listening." "we--ll," said the other, a little better controlled. "i ask what you are doing at my house?" "your house!" echoed baptiste, uncomprehendingly. "why, i do not understand you." "i want to know what you are doing at my house after what you said about me!" "at your house after what i said about you!" baptiste repeated. "yes. you said i was 'nothing but a thirteen dollars a week jockey,' and all that." baptiste was thoughtful. he had never said anything about glavis--and then he understood. some more of the elder's work. "now, glavis, i do not understand what you mean when you say what i said about you; but as for my being here, that is distinctly no wish of mine. but you know my wife is here, and it is her i am here to see. no other." "but i want to see you downtown--you come down here!" baptiste was thoughtful. he knew that he could exert no influence over orlean when she did return with ethel acting as she was, so he might as well be downtown for the present as elsewhere. so he answered: "well, alright." ethel slammed and locked the door behind him, and he walked over to cottage grove avenue and boarded a car. chapter iii glavis makes a promise glavis tried to appear very serious when baptiste called at where he worked an hour later, but it was beyond him to be so. it was said that he was in the habit of trying to appear like the reverend, but since the pretended seriousness of that one had never affected jean baptiste, glavis' affectation had still less effect. "well, glavis," he began pointedly. "i'm here as per your suggestion, and since it is quite plain what the matter is, we may as well come directly to the point." "well, yes, baptiste, i guess i may as well agree with you," replied glavis. "then, to begin with. that remark you made over the 'phone regarding what i had said about you, let me say is a falsehood pure and simple. what i said or would say to your back i will say to your face." "well, baptiste," he replied quickly, and his expression confirmed the words that followed, "i believe you." "i have no occasion to lie. it is very plain that our father-in-law and i are not in accord, and while it may be nothing to you perhaps, i do not hesitate to say that there is nothing wrong between orlean and me--and never has been. it is all between her father and me, and he is using her as the means." "well, that is rather direct," suggested glavis. "evidently so; but it's the truth and you know it. it is simply a case which you are supposed not to see all sides of." "now, baptiste," defended glavis, "i am no party to your wife's being here in chicago." "and i agree with you," returned baptiste. "it is not your nature to make trouble between people, glavis. i'll do you that honor. people are inclined to follow their natural bent, and yours, i repeat, is not to cause others misery. therefore, you can rest assured that i do not mean to involve you in any of my troubles." "that is sure manly in you, baptiste," glavis said heartily. "but it is a fact, i venture, that you have been advised that i spoke ill of you--at least, i spoke disparagingly of you while your folks were in the west. am i speaking correctly?" "i'll have to admit that you are," and he scowled a little. "do you believe these statements?" the other scowled again, but didn't have the courage to say that he did--or, perhaps to lie. he knew why he had been told what he had. to unite with the reverend in his getting even with baptiste, glavis had been told that baptiste had "run him down." "well, glavis, the fact that my wife is at your home--under your roof--i, her husband, am therefore placed at a disadvantage thereby. you cannot help being indirectly implicated in whatever may happen." "now, now, baptiste," the other cried quickly. "i do not want to have anything to do with you and orlean's troubles. i--" "it is _not_ orlean and my troubles, glavis. it is her father's and my troubles." glavis shifted uncomfortably. presently he said hesitatingly: "the old man just left town this morning. wished you and he could have had your outs together." "yes, it is too bad we did not. as i see it, i have no business with him. in him i am not interested, and never have been. because i have held aloof from becoming so is the cause of the trouble. i was told before i married orlean, and by her herself, that i should praise her father; that i should make him think that he was a king, if i would get along with him. indeed, i did not, i confess, at the time consider it to be as grave as that, that i _had_ this to do in order to live with orlean." it was positively uncomfortable to glavis. he could find no words to disagree with the other because he knew that he spoke the truth. he knew that he had catered to the reverend's vanity to be allowed to pay court to ethel before he was married to her; he knew that he had done so since; and he knew--and did not always like it--that he was still doing so, and boarding the reverend's wife into the bargain, and orlean now was added thereto. he did not relish the task. he earned only a small salary that was insufficient for his own and his wife's needs. up to a certain point his wife defied her father; but since she was so like him in disposition, and had been instrumental in assisting to separate orlean and her husband, she had not the courage to rebel and compel--at least insist--that the reverend take care of his wife and the daughter he had parted from her husband. so it was all thrown onto glavis. he made a few dollars extra each week by various means, and this helped him a little. in truth, he wished that orlean was with her husband, and knowing very well that there was where she wanted to be, he was inclined for the moment to try to help baptiste. besides, he rather admired the man. few people could be oblivious to the personality of baptiste and be honest with themselves. even the elder had always found it expedient to be disagreeable in order to dispel the effect of his son-in-law's frank personality. "the way we are lined up, glavis, you must appreciate that you cannot keep out of it. you are aware that i have no wish to hang around your abode; but i didn't come all the way from the west to fail to see orlean. you know full well that ethel would never let her meet me elsewhere, that her father has left orders to that effect. now, what am i to do? if i call, your wife will make it so disagreeable that nothing can be accomplished." "dammit!" exclaimed glavis suddenly. "it _isn't_ all my fault or the old man's or my wife's! it's orlean's!" "well," agreed baptiste, thoughtfully, "on the whole, that is so." "of course it is! if orlean was a woman she would be right out there with you now where she belongs!" "and i agree with you again, glavis. but orlean isn't a woman, and that is what i have been trying to make her. she has never been a woman--wasn't reared so to be. by nature she is like her mother, and she has grown up according to her training." "she cannot be two things at the same time," glavis argued, "and that is a daughter to her father and a wife to you!" "no, that is where the difficulty lay," said baptiste. "but her father's influence over her is great, you will admit. she has been taught to agree with him, and that--i can never, nor will i try to do." "it certainly beats hell!" "it's the most awkward situation i have ever been placed in. but here's the idea: i took that girl for better or for worse. now, what am i to do? throw up my hands and quit, or try to see orlean and get her around to reason? it isn't orlean. it's her father. so i have concluded to make some sort of a fight. life and marriage are too serious just to let matters go like this." "yes, it is," agreed glavis. "it certainly worries me. and it annoys me because it is so unnecessary." he was thoughtful and then suddenly he said: "i'm sorry you let the old man--er--ah--get you mixed up like this." he appeared as if he wished to say more. to say that: "for when you let him get into it, the devil would be to pay! keep him out of your affairs if you would live in peace." "well," said baptiste, rising, "your time here belongs to the company you are working for, and not to me or my troubles. so i'm going to 'beat' it now out to thirty-first street." "well," returned glavis, "believe me, baptiste, i'm sorry for you, and for orlean. it's rotten." it was remarkable how he saw what was causing it; but how he cleverly kept from directly accusing his father-in-law. "and i'll meet you at thirty-first street after supper. at the keystone, remember." with that he grasped the other's hand warmly, and as jean baptiste went down the stairway from where glavis worked, he knew that he had a friend who at least wanted to help right a most flagrant wrong. the only question was, would e.m. glavis have the courage to go through with it? well, glavis might have the courage--_but ethel was his wife. and jean baptiste realized that of all things in the world, a woman's influence is the most subtle._ chapter iv the gambler's story the keystone was the oldest and most élite hostelry for negroes in chicago and the west for many years. it is located near thirty-first and state street, in the heart of the black belt of the southside of the city. it was built previous to the world's fair and still maintains its prestige as the most popular hangout for negroes of the more ostentatious set. and it was here that jean baptiste went, following his departure with glavis. when chicago was a "wide open" town, gambling had been carried on upstairs as a business. porters, waiters, barbers and politicians who held the best jobs had always found their way eventually to the keystone. likewise did the negroes in business and the professions and workers in all the trades, as well as mail carriers, mail clerks, and the men of the army and actors. in short the keystone was the meeting place for men in nearly all the walks of life. always the freest city in the world for the black man, chicago has the most negroes in the mail service and the civil service; more negroes carry clubs as policemen; more can be found in all the departments of the municipal courts, county commissioners, aldermen, corporation counsels, game warden assistants, and so on down. indeed, a negro feels freer and more hopeful in chicago than anywhere else in the united states. so it was such a crowd that jean baptiste encountered at the keystone that day. there were two real estate men who had once run on the road with him and who had since succeeded in business; also there was another who was a county commissioner; and still another one, an army officer. so, upon seeing him they did all cry: "baptiste! well, well, of all things! and how do you happen to be down here in the spring?" "oh, a little business," he returned, and joined with the crowd, bought a drink for them all, and was apparently jolly. among the number was a gambler by the name of speed. he shook the visitor's hand heartily, and when the visit with the others was over, he went to a table and, sitting down, beckoned for baptiste. when the other responded, he begged him to be seated, and then said: "now, i know what you are down here about--heard about it the day he brought her home." baptiste regarded him wonderingly. "yes, i understand," he said, making himself comfortable as if to tell a long story. "you are wondering how _i_ come to understand about your father-in-law, and if you are not in a hurry, i'll tell you a little story." "well," said the other, "let's have a drink before you start." "i don't care," and he beckoned to the bartender. "small bottle, a schlitz," he said, and turned to baptiste. "make it two," said the other, and turned to hear the story the other had to tell. "it happened fifteen years ago," began speed when their beer had been served. "i was a preacher then.--hold on," he broke off at the expression on baptiste's face. "yes, of course you can hardly believe it; but i was then a preacher. i was the pastor of the church in a little town, and i won't tell the name of the town; but it's all the same, i was a preacher and pastor of this church. i had not been long ordained, and was ambitious to succeed as a minister. the charge had not been long created, and was, of course, not much of a place for money. but it so happened that a quarry was opened about the time i was sent there and it brought some hundred and fifty negro families to live in the town, and in almost a twinkling, my charge became from among the poorest, to one of the best from a financial point of view. the men worked steadily and were paid well, and their families found quite a bit of work to do among the wealthy whites of the town. "there were two young ladies living a few doors from where i preached, girls who made their own living, honestly, nice, clean girls, and i was much impressed with them. i sought, and finally succeeded in getting them interested in the church, and later began keeping company with one. now here is where your folks come in. the reverend mccarthy--old mac, i called him, was filling the same line he now is, presiding elder, and this church was in his itinerary. i was therefore under his recommendation. he had been visiting the church regularly, holding his quarterly conference every three months, and getting his little bit. it was shortly after i had started going with this young lady that mccarthy got awful nice and treated me so good until i became suspicious. then one day it came out. "'by the way, speed,' he said. 'who're those girls living near the church?' i knew who he was referring to because i had seen him trying to smile on them the day before which had been a sunday. but i pretends i don't know what or who he's talking about. "'who?' i inquired as innocent as a lamb. "'oh, those two girls living near the church,' and he called their names. "'why, they are two young ladies who came here not long ago,' i said, and waited. "'is _that_ all?' he asked then, and i looked at him. he grinned, and said: "'aw, come on, speed! be a good fellow. now, _are those girls_ straight?' and he specified the one i had begun going with. "'why,' said i, 'reverend mccarthy, i am surprised at you to ask such a question, or to offer such an insinuation. besides,' i went on, 'why?' "'aw, now, speed,' he laughed easily, his big fat round face shaking. 'be a _good_ sport and put me onto these girls. now, i'll tell you what i want you to do,' he said, drawing his chair close to mine. 'i'll make it my business to get back over here next sunday night, and i want you to "_fix_" it for me with that one, and--' he winked in a way i did not at the time understand--but i did later--'i'll make it _right_ with you. you understand,' he said, rising, '_i'll make it right with you_.' "i was never so put out in my life. here was this man, a minister of the gospel, and a presiding elder, who had just deliberately delegated me to make a _previous_ engagement for him without regard to morals--and with the girl i loved. i don't think he knew i was paying her court, but the moral was the same. "i was outdone! but true to his words, the next sunday night he was back! "'well, speed,' he said when the services were over. 'what's the rip? everything o.k.?' he was very anxious, and i'll never forget his face. but, i was afraid of the old rascal, still i hadn't lost my manhood at that. so i says: "'now, reverend, you place me in a very awkward predicament. to begin with, i have the highest respect for those young ladies. and, again, even if i did not, i could not be expected to cohort as you suggested.' "'aw, speed,' he cut in. 'you're no good. pshaw! i just know the older of those two girls is not straight--am positive of it. and you could fix things if you would,' and i detected a touch of angry disappointment in his tone. "well, to get out of it, i told the old rascal what i thought of his suggestion and left him. i never saw him again until near conference, and then not to speak with him. i was confident that i had satisfied the people, and that i would be sent back without any argument. "so imagine when i went to conference and when the charges were being read off and i heard the secretary call 'reverend speed to mitchfield!' instead of the town from which i had gone. "i was just sick, man; so sick until i almost dropped dead on the floor! oh, the agony it gave me! i finally got outside some way, and stood leaning against the church. how long i stood thus, i never knew; but the church let out by and by, while i still stood there--and let me explain. mitchfield was a charge that contained exactly a dozen members--the reverend mccarthy came out and i looked up straight into his eyes.... i knew then why i had been sent to mitchfield instead of back to the charge i had been at. "well, i went to mitchfield, and by working around town by the day, in connection with the charge, i managed to make it. some months later, i married the girl i have spoken of, and we began to keep house in mitchfield. "it was pretty hard, and sometimes i don't wonder at what later happened. but to make a long story short, i was compelled to get work in a near-by town to make a living for me and my wife, and was gone all the week until saturday night. at the end of six months, reverend mccarthy had taken my wife, and she had left me and was living in st. louis!" baptiste was regarding him strangely. "have you heard the rest of it?" the other paused to ask. "well, reverend mccarthy became the father of her two sons. one was killed some years ago, the other lives in st. louis." "but what--what became of their mother?" baptiste inquired curiously. "her? what becomes of women who are deceived? if you visited st. louis and the _district_, you might find her. she was there the last i heard of her." "and you?" "me?" the other repeated in a strangely hollow voice. "you know what _i_ am. a gambler, and with an old score to settle with that man if i ever get the chance." chapter v the preacher's evil influence with all ethel's excited ways, she was not to be reckoned a fool when she had in mind to accomplish some purpose. she understood full well, that it would be up to her at this time to keep orlean from returning west with her husband, unless she recalled her father. this she did not wish to resort to, until she had exhausted all her force without avail. she appreciated the fact that jean baptiste could and would influence her husband as well as her mother, while as to orlean, she would only need a half a chance to fall away from her influence and go back to her husband. so with this in mind, ethel, who had inherited from her father, much evil and the faculty of making people miserable began, as soon as baptiste had left the house, to formulate plans to counter any effort on his part to see orlean. her first move, therefore, was to recall orlean who was visiting near, a fact which her mother had feared to tell baptiste. she convinced her forthwith that she was sick, in danger, and sent her to bed, not telling her that baptiste was even in town. she followed this by sending her mother to the kitchen, and keeping her there. "now what i must do--succeed in doing," she muttered to herself, "is to keep orlean from seeing or meeting him in private and even in public for as much as an hour." she realized that keeping a man and wife apart was a grave task, and that she could not trust to the sympathy of any friends. but one person could she trust to be an ally in the task she was trying to accomplish, and that was her father. she rather feared her husband at this time, for, while she held him under her control at most all times, he was by disposition inclined to be kind and good. and, although he was jealous of baptiste in a measure, this did not reach proportions where he was likely to be a very ready accomplice with the plan in hand. indeed, if it was left to him, orlean would sleep in her husband's arms that very night! "i wish papa had stayed just another day," she grumbled as she walked the floor and tried to formulate some effective plan of action. "to think that he left only this morning and that man came this afternoon!" she was provoked at such a coincidence. she did not like to think too deeply, or to scheme too long, for it hurt her. so she was compelled to take a chair for a time and rest her mind. she was not positive how long baptiste would stay, and she would have difficulty in keeping her sister in bed for any length of time. but she decided to keep her in the house if she had to sit on guard at the front door. and it was while she was yet undecided upon her plan of action, that glavis came home. once in a great while, when she wanted a change, a diversion, she would have his supper waiting. other times it was left to her mother. he loved her in spite of all her evil, and was always pleased when she had his supper ready. so when she heard his footsteps outside, she was suddenly struck with an inspiration. she rushed toward the rear, and began hurriedly to set the table. her mother had the meal ready, so she affected to be very cheerful when glavis came into the room, and even kissed him fondly. he was so surprised, that the instance made him temporarily forget what was on his mind, which was just what she wished him to do. "where is orlean?" he inquired after a time, whereupon his wife's face darkened. "oh, she's sick, and in bed," replied ethel guardedly. glavis grunted. he was thinking. for a time he forgot all that was around him; his wife, the supper, his work, all but jean baptiste and the wife that was being harbored under the roof that he kept up. he suddenly got up. he walked quickly out of the room and hurried upstairs while his wife's back was turned, and knocked at the door of the room wherein orlean was supposed to lay sick. "come in," called the other. "oh, it's you, glavis," she cried, dropping back into bed when he entered the door. "a--ah--orlean," he said in his stammering sort of way. "a--ah--how are you?" "why, i feel well, glavis," she replied wonderingly. she had never felt just right mentally since before she left the west. and when she allowed herself to think, she found that it hurt her. she had always been obedient--her father had told her that time and again, and gave her great credit for being so. "think of it, my dear," he had so often said, "in all your life you have never 'sassed' your father, or contraried him," whereupon he would look greatly relieved. so her father had laid down the rule she was following--trying to follow. her husband must certainly have been in grave error--not that she had observed it, or that she had been badly treated by him, for she had not. however, whenever she tried to see and understand what it all meant, it hurt her. she was again the victim of those nervous little spells that had harassed her before she married, but which had strangely left her during that time. but to do her father's will--for he never bid--always his was an influence that seemed to need no words--she was trying. so she looked up at glavis, and observed something unusual in his face. "what is the matter, glavis?" she inquired, sitting up in bed again. glavis shifted about uneasily before replying. "ah--why--orlean, it's baptiste, your husband." "jean!" she cried, forgetting everything but her husband--forgetting that she had allowed herself to be parted from him. "what--what is the matter with him, glavis? with jean? has something happened? oh, i'm always so afraid something will happen to jean!" "no, no," exclaimed glavis, pushing her gently back upon the pillow. "nothing has happened. ah--er--ah--" "oh, i'm so relieved," she sighed, as she fell over in the bed. "he's here--in the city," she heard then from glavis. "he is!" she cried, sitting suddenly erect again. for a moment she hesitated, and then, raising her hand to her forehead as if in great pain, she groaned perceptibly. the next moment she had again sunk back upon the pillow, and her breath came hard. perspiration stood upon her brow, and he saw it. "orlean, oh, orlean," he cried then upon impulse. "great god, this is a shame, a shame before god!" he lamented with great emotion. suddenly he rushed to the door and then halted as he heard his wife calling him from below. he turned to where orlean lay in the bed, sick now for true. "aren't you coming down to supper, orlean?" he called. "no, glavis. i am not hungry." "but you should eat something, orlean." "no, glavis," she repeated in a tired voice, a voice in which he detected a sigh. "i couldn't eat anything--now." he looked at her a moment with great tenderness, let escape a sigh, and then as if resigned to the inevitable, he turned and passed down the stairway to where his wife waited below. she regarded him keenly, and during the meal, she kept casting furtive glances in his direction. "i wonder what he's been saying to orlean?" she kept muttering to herself. she concluded then, that she would have to watch him closely. he had never been in accord with her and her father's plan, and they had borne false witness to influence him against baptiste. but he had seen baptiste she knew, and was also aware of the fact that glavis liked both her sister and brother-in-law, and it was going to be a task to keep him from following his natural inclination. she thought about her father again, and wished that he was in chicago. she had never been delegated to handle such a task alone, and she disliked the immense responsibility that was now upon her, and no one to stand with her in the conflict. "well, ethel," glavis said, arising from the table when the meal was over, "i'm going to walk out for a while." she started up quickly. her lips parted to say that he was going to meet baptiste and conspire with him against her father, but she realized that this would not be expedient. he might revolt. she rather feared this at times, notwithstanding her influence over him, therefore she decided to exercise a little diplomacy. accordingly she sank back into the chair, and replied: "very well, dear." he regarded her keenly, but she appeared to be innocently completing her meal. he sighed to think that she did not make herself disagreeable, the anticipation of which had made him fear and dread the task that was before him. but now he was compelled to feel a little grateful because she was apparently very prudent in the matter. he hurried quickly to the hall tree, slipped into a light overcoat, and left the house. as he walked down the street, he was in deep thought. chapter vi more of the preacher's work jean baptiste was thoughtful for a long time after the other had left him. he had heard before he married orlean that the reverend was the father of two illegitimate children, but from speed's story he had met the whole of it. not only was he the father of two illegitimate children, but he had taken another man's wife to become so--and all this while he was one of the most influential men in the church! this fact, however, did not cause baptiste any wonderment. it was something he had become accustomed to. it seemed that the church contained so many of the same kind--from reports,--until it was a common expectation that a preacher was permitted to do the very worst things--things that nobody else would have the conscience to do. he arose presently and going to the bar, ordered another bottle of beer. he looked around the large room while he drank at the usual class who frequented the place. he knew that here and there among them were crooks, thieves, "con" men, gunmen, and gamblers. many of these men had perhaps even committed murder--and that for money. yet there was not one he was positive, that would deliberately separate a man and his wife for spite. and that was the crime this preacher father-in-law of his had committed. always in the mind of this man of the prairie this played. it followed him everywhere; it slept with him, arose with him, and retired with him. and all through long sleepless nights it flitted about in his dreams like an eternal spectre, it gave him no peace. gradually it had brought him to a feeling that the only justifiable action would be to follow the beast to his lair and kill him upon sight. often this occurred to him, and at such times he allowed his mind to recall murder cases of various phases, and wondered if such a feeling as he was experiencing, was the kind men had before committing murder. then if so, what a relief it must be to the mind to kill. he had a vision of this arch hypocrite writhing at his feet, with death in his sinful eyes, and his tongue protruding from his mouth. he drank the beer and then ordered liquor. somehow he wanted to still that mania that was growing within him. he had struggled for happiness in the world, for success and contentment, and he did not wish his mind to dwell on the subject of murder. but he was glad that this man had left the city. a man might be able to accept a great deal of rebuke, and endure much; but sometimes the sight of one who has wronged him might cause him for a moment to forget all his good intentions and manly resolutions. yes, he was glad that reverend mccarthy had left the city, and he shuddered a little when he recalled with a grimace that he had traveled these many miles to see and reckon with his wife. "well, you are here," he heard then, and turned to greet glavis. "oh, hello, glavis," he returned with a tired expression about his eyes from the effect of the strain under which he had been laboring. "have a drink." "an old-time cocktail," glavis said to the bartender. he then turned to baptiste. "well, how's everything over home?" said baptiste, coming directly to the point. "your wife's sick," said glavis a little awkwardly. "and i, her husband, cannot call and see her. i'm compelled to hear it from others and say nothing." he paused and the expression on his face was unpleasant to behold. glavis saw it and looked away. he could not make any answer, and then he heard the other again. "this is certainly the limit. i married that girl in good faith, and i'll bet that she has not told you or anybody else that i mistreated her. but here we are, compelled to be apart, and by whom?" his face was still unpleasant, and glavis only mumbled. "that damn preacher!" "oh, baptiste," cried glavis, frowningly. "yes, i know--i understand your situation, glavis. but you must appreciate what it is to be thrown into a mess like this. to have your home and happiness sacrificed to somebody's vanity. i'm compelled to stand for all this for the simple crime of not lauding the old man. all because i didn't tickle his vanity and become the hypocrite he is, for should i have said what he wanted me to say, then i would have surely lied. and i hate a liar!" "but come, baptiste," argued glavis, "we want to figure out some way that you and your wife can get together without all this. now let's have another drink and sit down." "well, alright," said the other disconsolately, "i feel as if it would do me good to get drunk tonight and kill somebody,--no, no, glavis," he added quickly, "i'm not going to kill anybody. so you needn't think i am planning anything like that. i'm too busy to go to jail." "now, i'm willing to help you in any way i can, baptiste," began glavis, "as long as i can keep my wife out of it. i've got the darndest woman you ever saw. but she's my wife, and you know a man must try to live with the one he's married to, and that's why i am willing to help you." they discussed plans at some length, and finally decided to settle matters on the morrow. but when the morrow came, ethel blocked all the plans. she refused to be sent away across town and let baptiste come into the house and see his wife. she knew what that would mean, so she stood intrenched like the rock of gibraltar. other plans were resorted to, but with the same result. the days passed and baptiste became obsessed with worry. he knew he should be back in the west and to his work; he began to lose patience with his wife for being so weak. if he could only see her he was certain that they would come to some agreement. sunday came and went, and still he saw her not. ethel took confidence; she smiled at the success with which she had blocked all efforts of communication. baptiste wrote his wife notes, but these she intercepted and learned his plans. she convinced her sister that she was sick and should be under the care of a physician. this reached baptiste, and he secured one, a brilliant young man who was making a reputation. he had known him while the other was attending the northwestern medical college, and admired him; but this too was blocked. for when he knocked at the door with the doctor at his side, they were forbade admittance. thereupon baptiste was embarrassed and greatly humiliated at the same time. ethel had a good laugh over it when they had left and cried: "he had his nerve, anyhow. walking up here with a nigger doctor, the idea! i wish papa had been home, he'd have fixed him proper! papa has never had one of those in his house, indeed not. no nigger doctor has ever attended any of us, and never will as long as papa has anything to do with it!" glavis finally succeeded in getting a hearing. by pleading and begging, he finally secured ethel's consent to allow him to bring baptiste to the house and sit near his wife for just thirty minutes--but no more. he did not apprise baptiste of this fact nor of the time limit, but caught him by the arm and led him to the house as though he were a privileged character. he took notice of the clock when he entered, because he knew that ethel, who was upstairs had done so. and he was very careful during the time to keep his eyes upon the clock. he knew that ethel would appear at the expiration of thirty minutes and start her disagreeableness, so at the end of that time he quietly led baptiste away after he had been allowed only to look at his wife, who was like a sphinx from the careful dressing down she had had before and preparatory to his coming. so, having carried out what he considered a bit of diplomacy, glavis was relieved. baptiste could expect no more of him, and so it ended. ethel wrote her father a cheerful letter and stated that that "hardheaded rascal" had been there from the west; but that orlean had declined to see him but once, and had refused to go back at all, whereupon her father smiled satisfactorily. jean baptiste returned to the west, defeated and downcast. he had for the first time in his life, failed in an undertaking. he had never known such before, he could not understand. but he was defeated, that was sure. perhaps it was because he was not trained to engage in that particular kind of combat. he had been accustomed to dealing with men in the open, and was not prepared to counter the cunning and finesse of his newly acquired adversaries. over him it cast a gloom; it cast great, dark shadows, and in the days that followed the real jean baptiste died and another came to live in his place. and that one was a hollow-cheeked, unhappy, nervous, apprehensive creature. he regarded life and all that went with it dubiously; he looked into the elements above him, and said that the world had reached a time whence it would change. the air would change, the earth would become hot, and rain would not fall and that drought would cover all the land, and the settlers would suffer. and so feeling, it did so become, and in the following chapter our story will deal with the elements, and with how the world did change, and how drought came, and what followed. chapter vii a great astronomer not long ago a man died who had made astronomy a specific study for sixty years. he knew the planets, mars and jupiter, and saturn and all the others. he knew the constellations and the zodiac--in fact he was familiar with the solar system and all the workings of the universe. this man had predicted with considerable accuracy what seasons would be wet, and what seasons would be dry. he also foretold the seasons of warmth and those of cold. and he had said that about every twenty years, the world over would be gripped with drought. this drought would begin in the far north, and would cover the extreme northern portion of the country the first year. the second year it would reach further south, and extend over the great central valleys and be most severe near the northern tier of states. following, it would go a bit further south the next year, and so on until it would finally disappear altogether. so according to this man's prediction, the country of our story would experience a severe drought soon, preceded by a slight one as a forerunner. for two years the crops would be inferior but the following year would see it normal again. so be it. it had been dry the year before, and had been just a little bit so the year before that. we know by the shortage of crops jean baptiste had raised that such had been so. so, with hundreds of acres, and the sun shining hot, and the wind blowing from the south, it was no surprise when he became now, an altogether different person. (for you see the life--that life that makes men strong and fearless and cheerful had gone from the body of jean baptiste.) then he began to grow uneasy. it is, perhaps, somewhat difficult to portray a drought and its subsequent disasters. we beg of you, however, that you go back to the early years in the peaceful, hopeful, vigorous country of our story: in the years that had been before when everything had pointed to success. rainfall had been abundant; frost had waited until october before it showed his white coat upon the window sill. land values had climbed and climbed, and had gone so high until only the moneyed could even reckon to own land. and jean baptiste controlled a thousand acres. over all the country, the pounding of steam and gasoline tractors filled the air with an incessant drumming; the black streaks everywhere told the story of conquest. the prairie was giving place to the inevitable settler, and hope was high in the hearts of all. so the wind had blown hot many days before the settlers became apprehensive of anything really serious. never since they had come to this country had they experienced such intense heat; such regular heat; such continued heat. a week passed and the heat continued. it blew a gale, and then a blast; but always it was hot, hot, hot! two weeks passed, and still it blew. before this it had at least subsided at night, although it did begin afresh in the morning. but now it blew all night and all day, and each day it became hotter, the soil became dryer, and presently the crops began to fire. "oh, for a rain!" every settler cried. "for a rain, a rain, a rain!" but no rain came. so every day there was the continual firing of the crops. the corn had been too small in the beginning to require much moisture, and the dry weather had enabled the farmer to kill the weeds, so it stood the gaft quite well, for a time, and grew like gourd vines in the meantime. it was the wheat, the oats, the rye and the barley that were first to suffer. these were at their most critical stage, the time when tiny little heads must dare seek the light. and as they did so, the cruel heat met and burned them until thereupon they cried and died from grief. and still the drought continued. no showers fell. the crops needed water. after the third week of such intense heat, the people groaned and said "' " had returned with all its attendant disaster. and still the wind kept blowing. the air grew hot, hotter; almost to stifling with the odor of the burning plants. the aroma mixed with the intense heat was suffocating. the grass upon the prairie gave up, turned its tiny blades to the sun and died to the roots, while all the grain of the land, slowly became shorter. it struggled, it bent, and at last turned what had pointed upward, downward, and also died of thirst. and then the people awakened to the emergency. they began to take note of the fact that many had gone into debt so deeply until there were many who could never get out unless they sold their land! this had been so with poor managers, speculators, and others before. when they found that they were unable to make it, there had always remained the alternative of selling out. and this had been so easy, because the people at large wanted the land. so instead, heretofore, of retiring in defeat, the weakest had retired in apparent victory. "for my homestead, i received $ , ," or maybe it had been $ , . so it had been. great prices to all who wanted to sell. only a small portion of them, however, had wanted to sell up to date. but when the crops were surely a failure for the most part, hundreds and thousands and even more quarters were offered for sale. then came the shock--the jolt that brought the people to a stern realization of what was before them. the buyers! there were no buyers! no, the buyers now when many wished to sell, stayed in iowa, and illinois and wherever they lived, and refused to come hither! so, for the first time the people in the new country were face to face with a real problem. and this continued to be augmented by the intense heat. hotter it had grown, and at last came a day when all the small grain was beyond redemption, only the corn and the flaxseed were yet a possibility. so to jean baptiste we now return. he had written to his wife, and she had replied to his letter. he read them where he lived, on the homestead she had left, and longed simply for her to return. he lived with his mind in a dull quandary. it was useless to try to find consolation hating the cause of his troubles, so him, he tried much to forget. it would all come right some day, he still hoped, and worried between times over his debts. he had borrowed more money to develop his land; was behind in the interest, now, and also the taxes, and his wife wrote for money. this was what glavis had advised him to do--send her money and all would be right. yes, that was what ethel and her mother and her father had all thought right. send her money. but the day of plenty of money for jean baptiste was slipping. the burning, dried crop that lay in the field, would bring no money. but this he dared not write. if he wrote and told the woman he had married--for a wife she surely was no more--that would be to tell the family. and that prince of evil, the reverend, would say with his wonted braggadocio: "um-m. didn't i tell you right! that is a wild country out there for wild people, only." so baptiste kept what was ruining the crops to himself. he sent her five dollars, and this brought the most pleasant letter he had yet received. it also brought one from glavis, who followed the same with another, which was more to the point. it was this he wrote: "chicago, ill., june, th, -- "_dear friend baptiste_: "i have your recent letter, and it gives me a great pleasure to reply to it. you would have had my last letter sooner; but i left it to ethel to mail, and this she did not do, so that explains the delay. "now we are getting along very well in chicago, and hope the same prevails in the west. by the papers i read where considerable dry weather is prevailing over a part of the west, but hope it hasn't struck your part of the country. appreciating, however, your disposition to come directly to a point, i will now turn to a subject that i am sure will be of greater interest to you than anything else, and which is orlean, your wife. "it gives me a pleasure to state that she appears more relieved of recent than she has since returning home. but i will not hesitate to tell you why. it is because of you, and you only. always she talks of you--to me--and it pleases me to talk with her concerning you, for it is with you her mind is at all times. i fear that you cannot appreciate her now as you were once inclined to do; but really think you would be justified, fully so, if you did. "now, for instance, when you sent the money not long ago, it gave her great delight. that you haven't forgotten that she is your wife and have some regards, in spite of all, meant to her very much. she took it and bought her a pair of shoes, with a part; the other she spent to have pictures made so that she might send you one. and i speak truly that to send you one was the sole object in her having them made. "the poor girl has suffered much--agonies. it is not her disposition to be as she has somehow been compelled to be. i can't quite explain it, but if it was left to orlean's dictates, things would not be as they are. yet, you might not appreciate this, either. but to make it plainer: orlean has her mother's disposition, and that is not to assert her rights. too bad. "well, there was a little incident that touched me the other day, and which i will tell you of. a certain lady was over and seeing her with the new shoes, she asked who had bought them. poor orlean! it is certainly to be regretted that a girl of her temperament, and kind disposition must be placed forever in a false light. frankly it worries me. i trust you will understand that the true state of affairs has not been given to the public, and here i will draw a long line instead of saying what will be best left unsaid----but orlean replied to the lady in these words: 'my husband bought them for me.' "i wish you could understand that it is all one great mistake. i wish you knew the truth and the suffering this poor girl has been put to; for if you did you would know that she is a good girl, and loves the man she has married with all her soul--but orlean is not like other women. she's weak and--oh, well, i must close here because it hurts me to tell more. "i will, however, in conclusion say: do not despair, or grow bitter toward her. this is a strange world, and strange things happen in it. of but one thing i can assure you, and that is: the right must come and rule in the end. yes, nothing but right can stand, all else passes. therefore, hoping that you will be patient, and trust to that i speak of, believe me to be, "always your friend, "e.m. glavis." now it so happened that when glavis had completed this letter, he was called to the phone, and later into the street. he was gone a half hour or more, and in the meantime, ethel came upon it, and read it. her evil little eyes narrowed to mere slits when she had finished. she had noted what had been going on--orlean and her husband always finding each other's company so congenial. "well," she muttered after a time. "the time to strike iron is while it's hot. i'll have to get that man of mine straightened out." whereupon she went to her room, and here is the letter she wrote: chicago, ill., june th, -- "_the reverend n.j. mccarthy, cairo, ill._ "dear father: we received your letter and were glad to hear you say that you expected to come to chicago soon. i was just thinking awhile ago, that if you could come soon, real soon, it might be best. certain matters need your attention. i will not state which, but i, you know, am aware of how you have been slandered and vilified by a certain person that you know. well, that person is again finding a way to influence those who are near to us. so knowing how equal you are to the most arduous task, i take this means of communicating that which is most expedient. "hoping that your health is the best, and that we may see you real soon, believe me to be, as ever, "your loving daughter, "ethel." so it happened that out in the west where the most terrific and protracted drought the country had ever experienced was burning crops and hopes of the people included, jean baptiste was made joyful. he understood glavis' letter; he understood what he had said and what he had not said. he had suffered. he saw disaster creeping upon him from the drought rent fields. is it, therefore, but natural that in his moments of agony and unhappiness, shattered hopes and mortal anguish, that he should turn to the woman who had been his mate. to have her to talk to; her to tell the truth to and share what little happiness there was to be had in life, he became overly anxious? thereupon he wrote her, sending another check for five dollars. july th, -- "_my dear wife_: "i am writing and sending you a little more money, and since you must be well by now, and realize how much i need you, i am enclosing a signed but not filled-in-amount check, with the request that you come home right away. you will start, say the th, that will place you in winner on the night of the eleventh, on saturday, where i will meet you. "i will expect you, dear; and please don't disappoint me. i have not seen you for three months now, and that has not been my preference. the amount will be sufficient for your fare, and expenses please, and i will write no more; but should anything happen that you can not start on that date, then write or wire me that i may know. "with love to you, i am, "as ever, your husband, "jean." chapter viii n. justine mc carthy preaches a sermon the text of reverend n.j. mccarthy's sermon to be delivered on mothers' day, was one of the most inexhaustible. most of his sermons he did not prepare. but because this was one of the greatest days in the annual of the church, he spent a half a day in the preparation thereof. the title he selected for it suited him fully, and he called it: "the claim of the wicked." into it he put all the emotion that was in him. he drew a picture in illustrious words, of the wicked, the vicious man, and the weak, the undefended woman, and made many in his dark congregation burst into emotional discordance thereby. he ridiculed the vain; he denounced, scathingly, the hypocrite; he made scores in his audience turn with perspiration at the end of their noses with conscious guilt. oh, never before in the years since he had mounted to the pulpit and begun what he chose to call, "an effort for the salvation of souls," had he preached such a soul stirring sermon. "live right, live right, i say!" he screamed at the top of his voice. "how many of you are there as you sit here before me, that have done evil unto thy neighbor; have made some one unhappy; have cast a soul into grief and eternal anguish? think of it! think of what it means before god to do evil, spite; vent your rotten deceit upon others! i stand before you in god's glory to beseech you to desist; to pray with you to live according to your consciences; to dispense with that evil spirit that in the end you may face your god in peace! go forth hereafter in this world of sin; go to those whom you have wronged and made thereby to suffer, and ask forgiveness; ask there and repent forthwith! oh, i'll tell you it is a glorious feeling to know you have lived right," and he turned his eyes dramatically heavenward, and affected his audience by the aspect. "to feel that unto others you have been just; that you have been kind; that you have not caused them to suffer, but to feel happy! think of the thrill, the sensation such must give you, and then let your conscience be henceforth your guide in all things!" when the services were over, and he had shaken hands with all the sisters, and bowed to the brothers, a boy, the son of the lady where he stayed, approached and handed him a letter. he looked at it with his spectacles pinched upon his nose, and then read it. it was from ethel, and we know the contents. "so," he said easily as he read it. "the evil seeks to influence my household in subtle matters, eh! oh, that man has the brain of a cæsar, but the purpose of satan! drat him, and his infernal scheming! ever since the day i first knew him in the country four miles from this town, he has been wont to annoy, to aggravate me--and after all my daughter, my poor daughter, and myself have done for him!" he began preparation to go to chicago at the earliest convenience. as his work was so urgent, he wrote ethel in reply that same day: "_my dear daughter_: "i am in receipt of your letter and make haste to reply. to begin with, i am not surprised to hear what you wrote in your letter. i am not surprised to hear anything these days. ever since your mother committed the unpardonable blunder of letting my poor child go straggling off into the west, that wild west, where only the rough and the uncivilized live, i have not been surprised with what each day might bring. it is certainly to be regretted that when one has sacrificed as much as i have to raise two of the nicest girls that ever saw the light of day, a fortune hunter should come along and bring misery into a peaceful home as that man has done. god be merciful! but it is to be hoped that we will see fit to adjust rightly the evil that we are threatened with. "i cannot come to chicago until a week from next thursday or friday. i am so behind with god's work, caused by the trip we made to that land of wilderness last spring, that i am almost compelled to be at cairo next sunday. but should anything transpire that will necessitate my presence before that time, wire or write me right quick and i will be there. "from yours in christ, "n. justine mccarthy." in the west jean baptiste got ready for the homecoming of his wife. the small grain crop was gone. while the drought was now burning the corn to bits, his large crop of flax, which had been the most hopeful possible a few days before, was showing the effect of the drought now as well. but with jean baptiste, he could almost forego anything and be happy with the prospects. in his mind this became so much so, until he looked forward to the day he had set for her coming as if all the world must become righted when she was once again near him. now during these months he had only his grandmother for company, and her he wanted to send home. but she would not leave him, always willing to wait until orlean came back. during these long lonesome days he found a strange solace in talking to his horses. there, for instance, was john and humpy, the mules that orlean had driven her father out to their home with when he had come on his first visit. he told them that she was coming back now, and to him they appeared to answer. they had become round and plump since work had closed, and having fully shed their winter's hair, and not yet become sunburned their dapple gray coating made them very attractive. he rearranged the house, bought a few pieces of much needed furniture, and made elaborate preparations for the homecoming. at last the day arrived. it was saturday morning. the wind had died down, and gave threats of rain for the first time in six long, hot dry weeks. he hitched john and humpy to the spring wagon, and with a touch of his old enthusiasm, left his grandmother cheerfully--but for reasons of his own, did not tell her that he was going for orlean. perhaps he wished to surprise her, at least he did not tell her. he drove to winner more filled with hope than he had been for months. the town was filled that day, and because there was an appearance of rain in the air, which could yet save much of the corn, there was an air of hope and cheer abroad. jean thought to board a train and ride a few miles, and return on the evening train on which she would be. then he decided he would wait for her and be ready to drive directly home. as the train was due shortly after nine p.m., he estimated that he could drive the distance in two hours; thereby getting to her claim before midnight and they could spend sunday together celebrating their happy reunion. he had longed to talk with her--and grieve with her over their loss in the fine little boy who never knew his parents. he thought of all this and of the happy days they had spent together the summer before. he felt the love and the devotion she had given him then. he wondered sometimes whether he had ever loved her as he had dreamed he would love his wife; but this thought had ever been replaced by his sense of duty. marriage was sacred; it was the institution of good; he always disliked to see people part. he felt then, as he had ever felt before, that nothing but infidelity could ever make him leave a woman that he had married. he was still an enemy of divorce. he recalled how they had gone to the catholic church once in gregory, and had heard a learned priest discourse on divorce and its attendant evils. never before had anything so impressed him. how plain the priest had made his audience understand why the church did not tolerate divorce. how decidedly he had shown that divorce could and would be avoided if the people could be raised to feel that "until death do us part." and baptiste and the woman he had married had discussed it afterward. they had found books and stories in the magazines to which they subscribed, and had read deeper into it, and had been united in their opinion on the subject. divorce was bad; it was evil; it was avoidable in almost every case. then why should it be? they had agreed that duty toward each other was the first essential toward combating it; that selfishness was a thing that so often precipitated it. in all its phases he had discussed it with her, and in the end, she had agreed with him. and down in their hearts they had felt that such would never be necessitated in the union they had formed. so he lived again through the life that had been his, he did not allow his mind to dwell on the evil that had come into and made his life unhappy; made his days and nights and very existence a misery. he did not, as he lingered on the platform of that little western station, think or dwell on the things that were best forgotten. for a time he became jean baptiste of old. return to him then did all that old buoyancy, all that vigor and great hope, all that was his when he had longed for the love that should be every man's. and she had been away on a visit, to recover from the illness that the delivery had given her. he was sorry for their loss, and he would talk with her this night as they drove along the trail. they would talk of that and all they had lost, and they would talk of that which was to come. oh, it would be beautiful! just to have a wife, the wife that gives all her love and thought to making her husband happy. and he would try to give her all that was in him. and his wife would soon be with him--in his arms, and they would be happy as they had once been! there it was! from down the track the train whistled. it was coming, and his wait was to an end. near he saw john and humpy whom she had been delighted to drive. they were groomed for the occasion, and were anxious to go home. tonight they would haul her and hear her voice. he rose suddenly to his feet when at last the light fell upon the rails and he could see the engine. the roar of the small locomotive was approaching. around him were others whose wives had been away. they, too, were come to meet their loved ones. some were alone while around the others were children--all waiting to meet those dear to their hearts. the train came to a stop at last, and the people emerged from the coaches. there was the usual caressing as loved ones greeted loved ones. little cries of "mama" and "papa" were heard, and for a moment there was quite a hubbub of exclamations. "oh, john," and "jim" with the attendant kiss. in the meantime he looked expectantly down the line to where the car doors opened, and not seeing the one for whom he was looking, he presently jumped aboard the first car, and passed through it. it was empty and he estimated that she would be in the rear car. it was the chair car, and the one in which he naturally would expect her to ride. he passed into it bravely, with his lips ready to greet her. the last of the passengers were filing out. the car was empty, and his wife had not come. slowly he passed out of the car as the brakeman rushed in to change his apparel for the street. across the street was the team waiting. they seemed to know him before he came in sight and they greeted him as though they thought that she had come, too. he got slowly into the wagon, and soon they were hurrying homeward. chapter ix what the people were saying n.j. mccarthy arrived in the city late on friday afternoon and was met by both his daughters. ethel had, of course, read the letters jean baptiste had written his wife requesting her to return home, and so she took orlean with her to meet her father, instead of permitting her to go to the station to return to the husband who had asked for her. the elder was due in about the same time the train that would have taken orlean west was due out. "ah-ha," he cried as he stepped from the car. "and both my babies have come to meet their father! that is the way my children act. always obedient to their father. yes, yes. never have contraried or disobeyed him," a compliment he meant for orlean, but ethel could share it this once, although the times she had contraried or sauced him would have been hard to recount. upon arriving home, they met glavis just returning from work, and he was also greeted in the same effusive manner by the reverend. "and how is everything about the home, my son?" asked the elder in a big voice. at the same time he eyed glavis critically. he had come to the city with and for a purpose, and that purpose was to put down early the intimacy that had been reported as growing up between glavis and baptiste. so he had planned to attend to it diplomatically. "why everything is alright, father," glabbed glavis, grinning broadly and showing his teeth. he was ever affected by the other's lordlyism, and he had never tried matching his wits with those of the other's in an extraordinary manner. the elder was aware of this, and it made him rather grateful. however, he regarded the other closely as glavis stepped about in quick attention to his possible needs or desires. that was as he had hoped to have both his sons-in-law, wherefore his team would have been complete. it made him sigh now regretfully when he recalled how he had failed in the one case. he gave up momentarily to a siege of self pity. how different it would have been had jean baptiste chosen to admire him as glavis apparently did. but--and he straightened up perceptibly when it occurred to him, instead of being as glavis was, the other had chosen to be independent, to call him "judge," "colonel," "reverend," and "elder" and any other vulgar title he happened to think of on the moment. moreover, he had also chosen to ask him a thousand questions about things he did not understand--that was the trouble, though the elder had not seen it that way--asking him questions about things he did not understand. the elder saw it as "impudent." he saw and regarded that persistency which had been the making of the man in jean baptiste as "hardheadedness." he regarded that tenacity to stick to anything in the other, sufficient to characterize "a bulldog." "m-m, my boy," he said now to glavis. "you are certainly a fine young man, just fine, fine, fine!" he paused briefly while glavis could swallow the flattery, and then went on: "never in the thirty years i have been a minister of the gospel and been compelled to be away from home in god's work, has it ever been like it has since you married ethel. i simply do not have to worry at all now; whereas, i used to have to worry all the time." whereupon he paused again, affected a lordly sigh, and permitted glavis to become inflated with vanity before going on. "now, before you married ethel, i was a little dubious." he always said this for a purpose. "i am so well informed and understand men so well, and the ways of men, until i was hesitant to risk trusting you with my daughter's love. you will understand how it is when you have raised children with the care i have exercised in the training of my precious darlings. a man cannot be too careful, and for that reason, i was dubious regarding her marrying you. besides, we, i think you understand, are among the best colored people of the city of chicago, and the state of illinois, so it behooved me to exercise discretion." "yes, father," glavis swallowed. he felt then the dignity of his position as a member of such a distinguished family. "well," went on the other, "you know how much grief i must be enduring when i see this poor baby," pointing to orlean, "as she is. the finest girl that ever trod the earth, and my heart always, and then to see her dragged down to this, and all this attendant gossip, grieves my old heart," whereupon big tears rolled down his dark face. all those about sighed in sympathy and were silent. "oh, it's a shame, a shame, my father, it is a shame!" he cried between sobs. "oh, his immortal soul! come in here like a thief in the night, and with his dirty tongue just deliberately stole her from her good home--her an innocent child to go out into that wilderness and sacrifice her poor soul to make him rich!" he ended with the eloquence that his years of preaching had given him. he shed more tears of mortification, and resumed: "and my wife, her own mother, was a party to it!" he was killing two birds with one stone now. nothing was more gratifying to him than to seize every possible opportunity to place all his failures, all his shortcomings, all his blunders, and last, but not least, all the results of his evil nature, on the shoulders of his little helpless wife. for years--aye, since he had taken her as wife, had it been so. never had she shared even in reflected light the honors that had come to him. she did as he requested, and endeavored to please him in every way. the love he had given her was an affected love. it was not from his heart. he had given her little that was due her as his wife. "i went out there," he went on, "to find this child lying there in the bed with only his sister and grandmother to look after her. the doctor was coming twice a day, but that man asked him, when she could but open her eyes, whether such was necessary; and that when it wasn't, then to come but once. i sat there by her bed, i, her poor old father, and nursed her back to life from the brink of death, the death that surely would have come had it not been for me. and when she was well enough, i went to all the expense of bringing her out of that wilderness back to her home and health. "and for that, for all that i have sacrificed, what am i given? credit? well, i guess not! i am being slandered; i'm being vilified by evil people--and right in my own church! think of it! for thirty years i have preached the law of the gospel and saved so many souls from hell, and now, now when my poor old head is white and my soul is grieved with the evil that has come into my home, i am vilified! "no longer than last week, i was approached by a woman, a woman purporting to be a child of god, but who ups to me and said: 'reverend mac., what is the matter with your daughter and the man she married? i hear they are parted?' i was so put out that i did not attempt to answer, but just regarded her coldly. but did that stop her mouth? well, i guess not! she went right on as flip as she could be: 'well, you know, reverend, there is all kinds of reports about to various effects. one is that you didn't like him because of his independent ways, and because he was successful, and he didn't take much stock in you because he didn't like the way you had lived. and then there's other reports that he made an enemy of you because he didn't praise and flatter you, and that you did it to "get even." they say that you had your daughter to sign her husband's name to a check for a large sum of money and used it to slip away from him and so on. but the one thing that everybody seems to be agreed upon is, that there was nothing whatever wrong between the couple, and that they had never quarreled and never had thought of parting. that all the trouble is between you and your son-in-law.' "i had stood her gab about as long as i could, i was so angry. so all i could say was: 'woman, in the name of heaven, get you away from me before i forget i am a minister of the gospel and you a woman!' but before she had even observed how angry i was, she ups and says: 'why, now, elder, as much as you love the ladies, and then you'd abuse a poor woman like me,' and right there, after such a tonguing as she had let out, fell to crying! "those are some of the things i must endure, my son, in this work. i must endure slander, vilification, misunderstanding, and all that. it's terrible." "people are certainly ungrateful," cried ethel at this point. "and they don't try to learn the truth about anything before they start their rotten gossip. more, they have nerve with it! a certain woman stopped me on the street downtown the other day, a woman who claims to have been my friend and a friend of our family for years. and what do you think she had the nerve to say to me? well, here's what it was, and i _hope_ she said it: 'why, ethel, how is orlean?' i replied that she was getting better. she says: 'is she sick physically, or mentally?' i said: 'i don't understand you?' she looked at me kind of funny as she replied, 'why, don't _you_ know, ethel glavis, that it's the talk around chicago--everybody is saying it, that you and your father went out west there, and made her forge his name to a check for a large sum of money and for spite and spite only, took poor orlean away from her husband and came back here and spread all this gossip about her being sick and neglected when the doctor had come to see her every day? i know jean baptiste and i have not lived in this world for thirty-five years and not able yet to understand people. and jesus christ couldn't make me believe that jean baptiste would mistreat orlean. besides, all this talk comes from you and your father. orlean has said nothing about it. she is just simple and easy like her mother and will take anything off you and your father. now, it's none of my business; but i am a friend of humanity, and i want to say this, that anybody that is doing what you and your father are doing will suffer and burn in hell some day for it!' and she flies away from me and about her business." "it's outrageous," the reverend cried. "we hardly dare show our heads on the street; to greet old friends for fear we are going to be ridiculed and abused for what we have done." "it's certainly an ungrateful world, that's all," agreed ethel. chapter x "until then" it did not rain the night jean baptiste went to winner to meet the wife who failed to come, but the protracted drought continued on into july. for three weeks into this month it burned everything in its path. from canada to kansas, the crops were almost burned to a crisp, while in the country of our story proper, only the winter wheat, and rye, and some of the oats matured. and this was confined principally to the county where jean baptiste had homesteaded. here a part of a crop of small grain was raised, but everything else was a failure. his flaxseed crop in tripp county which had given some promise if rain should come in time, had now fallen along with all else, and when he saw it next, after his trip to winner, it was a scattered mass of sickly stems, with army worms everywhere cutting the stems off at the ground. the whole country as a result, was facing a financial panic. interest would be hard to raise--and this, in view of the fact that the year before had seen less than half a crop produced, was not a cheerful prospect. with baptiste, and others who had gone in heavily, disaster became a possibility; and, unless a radical change intervened, disaster appeared as an immediate probability. during these days there was little to do. he had harvested what little crop he had raised, and having no hauling or anything, to engage him he found going fishing his only diversion. and it was at about this time that he received a letter. it bore the postmark of the town where he had met his wife in the beginning, and read: "_my dear jean_: "i thought i would be bold this once and write you, since it is a fact that you are on my mind a great deal. you will, of course, remember me when i mention that it was in my home that you met your wife. rather, the woman you married, whom, i suppose, from what i hear, has not proven very faithful. i daresay that your trip to my home that day was the beginning of this episode. but it is of him, the reverend, her father, of whom i wish to speak. "he used to speak of you. you see this town is in his itinerary, and i therefore, see him quite often. in fact, he is quite well known to me, and visits my home, and has been here recently. he was here just a week ago yesterday before going into chicago, and i asked about you. he ups with his head when i did so, and i estimated that the trouble that is supposed to be between you and orlean, is possibly between him and yourself. "well, you see, it is like this. after you married orlean, we could hear nothing from him but you. you were the most wonderful, the most vigorous, the wealthiest--in fact you were everything according to his point of view. he preached of you in the pulpit; he set you up as the standard and model for other young men to follow. therefore, you must imagine our surprise when almost over night you had changed so perceptibly. from everything a man should be--or try to be, as a young man, you became the embodiment of all a man should not be. now it is rather singular. apparently the elder must have been possessed with very poor judgment to begin with, or you must have become in a few weeks an awfully bad man. "well, i don't know what to say; but in as much as i have known you some little time--before you met orlean in the house where i write this, i cannot conceive or realize how you could change so quickly. but what is more to the point--i have known the august elder even longer than i have you--know him since i have been large enough to know anybody, and i have known him always to be as he is yet. one wonders how such men can have the conscience to preach and tell people to live right, to do right, so they may be prepared to die right. but somehow we take the elder's subtle conduct down this way as a matter of course. we think no more--i daresay not as much--of what he does in that way than we would the most common man in town. but it is too bad that his daughter must suffer for his evil. orlean is a good girl, but she has been raised to regard that old father as a criterion of righteousness, regardless of the life he does, and always has lived. but withal, honestly, i do feel so sorry for you. i am aware that this letter and the nature of its contents is unsolicited, but it is and has been in my heart to say it. i really feel that it is no more than honest to protest against in some manner, the wrong that man is practicing. but to the point. "the last time he was here, and mama asked him about you, and he was made angry because of it, he remarked among the discredits he endeavored to pay the country and you, that there was no church for her to attend. i remarked that you had said you attended the white churches. thereupon he became very demonstrative. he said you did attend the white churches, and had taken her, but that you went to the catholic church where there was, of course, no religion in the sense to which she had been raised. i hardly knew how to reply to or counter this, but i thought that if you had, and she had belonged to the catholic church, how easy it would be now for you to lay your cause before the priest and have it considered. but if you did such before the ministers of his church--oh, well, i am saying too much. "and only now have i arrived at the event i choose to relate. it is always so when one chooses to gossip, to forget the things that may be of real interest. well, word has come that the elder was taken violently ill in chicago the other day, and grave fears are held of his recovery. i hear that he is very low, and perhaps the lord might see fit to remove a stumbling block.... "i must close. i am sure i have bored you with such a long letter and so much gossip; but i have at least satisfied my own conscience. so hoping that all comes out well with you in the end, believe me to be, "your dear friend, "jessie mansfield." it so happened that the exhausted jean baptiste turned to the hope that illness might claim his enemy, and he exchanged letters with jessie mansfield, regularly, and after a time, found her correspondence a great diversion. and so the summer passed. near the last days of july the severe drought was broken, but too late to benefit the crops which had been so badly burned by the drought. he managed to get considerable land into winter wheat, and the fall came on with only a crop of debts and overdue bills that made him regard the mail box dubiously. winter followed, one of the coldest ever known, and spring was approaching when jean baptiste decided to make his last attempt for a reunion with his wife. in all the months that had followed his previous trip he had planned that if he could only see her, could only see her and be alone with her for a day, they would abridge the chasm that had been forced because of the reverend. that one had not obliged him by dying by any means, but had regained his health in a measure, so baptiste read in the letters he received from jessie. however, she wrote, it seemed that something had come over him, for he was not the same. he had lost much of his great flesh, wore a haggard expression, and seemed to be weighted down with some strange burden. it was april again when at last he took the train for chicago, for the last time, he decided, on the same mission that had taken him there twice before. he planned now, to exercise more discretion. inasmuch as the reverend was as a rule, always out of the city, he trusted to fate that he would be out this time. the bitterness that had grown up in his heart toward the elder, he feared, might make him forget to observe the law of the land if he chanced to encounter that adversary. so when he arrived in the great city, he went about the task of seeing his wife under cover. he first visited a barber shop. he happened into one near van buren on state street, where lady barbers did the trimming. he did not find them efficient, and was glad when he left the chair. he decided that he would act through mrs. pruitt, who he had heard from the fall before, and who was being charged along with mrs. mccarthy, as being the cause of all the trouble. he had not written her that he was coming, calculating that it would be best for her not to have too long to think it over. upon leaving the barber shop, he ventured up state street, through the notorious section of the "old tenderloin" to taylor street, and presently turned and discovered himself in the polk and dearborn street station. he found that slipping about the street under cover like a sneak thief was much against his grain, and he was nervous. in all the months he had contemplated the trip, he had taken great care not to let ethel or any of the family know in advance of his coming. he wanted his wife. the agony of living alone, the dreaded suspense, the long journey and the gradual breaking down of what he had built up, played havoc with his nerves, and he was trembling perceptibly when he took a seat in the station. he encountered a man upon arrival there, whom he had known years before, and because he had been so intent on keeping out of sight, the recognition by the other frightened him. he managed to control himself with an effort, and greeted the other casually. however, he was relieved when he recalled that the other knew nothing of his relations--not even that he had ever married. after he felt his nerves sufficiently calm, he ventured to the telephone booth, and secured mrs. pruitt's number. he paused briefly before calling her to steady his nerves, and then got her in due time. "hello, mrs. pruitt," he called. "hello," came back, and he caught the surprise in her voice. "is it _you_?" she asked, and he noted that her voice was trembling. "yes," he called back nervously. "do you recognize my voice?" "yes," he heard, and the uneasiness with which she answered discouraged him. he had great faith in mrs. pruitt. notwithstanding the gossip that connected her name with the elder's she was regarded as a woman of unusual ability and mental force. she was speaking again in a very low tone of voice. almost in a whisper. "listen," said she. "_call this same number in about ten minutes, understand?_ yes. do that. i'll explain later." he sat before the clock now, in the station, and watched the minutes pass. they seemed like hours. he was now aware that the strain of these months of grief and eternal mortification, had completely unnerved him. his composure was like that of an escaped convict with the guards near. his heart beat so loud until he looked around in cold fear wondering whether those near heard it. and all the while he sat in this nervous quandary, he kept repeating over, and over again: "_mrs. pruitt, mrs. pruitt--surely even you have not gone back on me, too. oh, mrs. pruitt, you can't understand what it means to me, what i have suffered,--the agony, the disgrace--the hell!_" he regarded the telephone booth before him and his eyes were like glass. all the busy station was a hubbub. after what seemed to him an eternal waiting, he was slightly relieved to see that fifteen minutes had passed, and he got up and slipped back into the booth and called mrs. pruitt. "yes, i'm here, jean", she called, "and the reason i told you to call later was that _your_ people--_your father-in-law is right here in the house at this moment_. he was sitting right here by the 'phone when you called awhile ago, so now you understand." "oh," he cried, his head swimming, and everything grew dark around him. after one long year of agony, of eternal damnation, one long year of waiting and suspense, he had banked his chances, and encountered his enemy the first thing. right under the telephone he had been! jean baptiste who had once been a strong, brave and fearless man, was now trembling from head to foot. "now, jean," he heard mrs. pruitt. "i understand _everything_. you are here to see and get orlean if you can; but you want to do so without them knowing anything about it, and i agree with you. you wish me to help you, and i will. i'll do anything to right this terrible wrong, but give me time to plan, to think! in the meantime, he is so near that it is not safe for me to talk with you any longer. so you go somewhere, and come back, say: in about an hour. if he is still here, i will say: 'this is the wrong number,' get it?" "yes, mrs. pruitt," he replied, controlling the storm of weakness that was passing over him. "i _get_ you." "very well, until then." "until then," he called, and hung up the receiver. chapter xi "it's the wrong number" jean baptiste had come eight hundred miles after one terrible year, to the feet of his father-in-law, and when he realized that such was the case upon hanging up the receiver, his composure was gone. bitter agony beyond description overwhelmed him when he came from the booth at the end of his brief conversation with mrs. pruitt. never in his life had he been as miserable as he now was. it seemed to him that in the next hour he must surely die of agony. he found a place in the station where he was very much alone, and for a time gave up to the grief and misery that had come over him. "unless i find some diversion, i will be unfit for anything but suicide!" he declared, trying to see before him. out in the west all was wrong. he was now loaded down with debt. his interest was unpaid, also his taxes. his creditors for smaller amounts he had not even called upon to say that he was unable to meet his financial obligations. he had tried being blind to everything but the instance of his wife. he had just deliberately cast everything aside until he could have her. that was it. he had made himself believe that only was it necessary to see her alone, and together they would fly back to the west. he had not reckoned that his arch enemy would be lying like a great dog right at the door he was to enter. and now, before he was hardly in the city, he was all but confronted with his hypocritical bulk. "oh, i can stand it no longer, no, no, no!" he cried in agonizing tones. the world to him was lost. the strong shall be the weakest when it becomes so, it is said; and surely jean baptiste had come to it in this hour. he had no courage, he had no hope, he had no plans. after minutes in which he reached nowhere; minutes when all the manhood in him crept out, and went away to hide, he staggered to his feet. he straightened his body, and also his face; he became an automaton. he had decided to seek artificial stimulation. thereupon he made his way into the main waiting room. he looked about him as one in a daze, and finally turned his face toward the entrance of the station. when there he had arrived, he hesitated, and looked from right to left. as he did so, his mind went back to some years before when he first saw the city, and had gone about its streets in search of work. a block or two away he recalled clark street, that part of it which had been notorious. he recalled where one could go and see almost _anything_ he wished. now, he was a man, was jean baptiste, a man who had loved a wife as men should; a man who had found a wife and a wife's comfort all he had longed for in life. but that one he had taken as wife had fled. she had left him to the world, and all that was worldly. he was breaking down under the strain, and his manhood was for the time gone. he became as men are, as men have been, and he was at a place where he did not care. he was alone in the world, the prairies had not been good to him, and he felt he must have rest, oh, rest. he stepped from the station, and held himself erect with an effort. he turned to his left, and walked or rather ambled along. he did not know in particular where he was going, but going somewhere he was. he kept his face turned to the west, and after many steps, he came to a side street. it was a narrow street, and he recalled it vaguely. it was called custom house place, and its reputation for the worst, was equalled by none. even from where he stood the sound of ragtime music came to his ears from a gorgeous saloon across its narrow way. he listened to it without feeling, no thrill or inspiration did it give him. he turned into this street after some minutes, and ambled along its narrow walkway. as he went along, from force of habit, he studied the various forms of vice about. in and out of its many ways, he saw the familiar women, the painted faces and the gorgeous eyes. he came presently to where negroes stood before a saloon. they, too, were of the type he understood. characters with soft hands, and soft skin, and he knew they never worked. he turned into it. a bar was before him, and although for liquor he had never cared especially, he could drink. he went forward to the bar and ordered a cocktail. he drank it slowly, as he observed himself, all haggard and worn in the bar mirror, and as he did so, he could see what was passing behind him. a man sat in a small ante room near a door, and he observed that men would pass by this man to a door opening obviously to a stairway beyond. he wondered what _was_ beyond. he ordered another cocktail, and drank it slowly, studying those who passed back and forth through the door that the man opened with a spring. he decided to venture thereforth. when he had drank his cocktail he wandered toward the door also, as if he had been accustomed to entering it. the door opened before him and he entered. he found himself in a hallway, with a flight of stairs before him, and a closed and locked door on the stairway. he stood regarding it, and espied a bell presently. this he approached and touched. the door was opened straightway and the flight of stairs continued to the landing above. he looked up and beheld a woman standing at the top of the stairs, who had seemingly opened the door by pressing a button. he entered and approached her. as he did so, she turned and led him into a small room, then into a larger room, where sat many other women. he was directed to a chair, and became seated. he regarded all the women about wonderingly; for to him, none had said a word. he might as well have been in a house of tombstones, for they said naught to him, and did not even look at him. he sat where he was for perhaps two minutes. then he arose and walked to the door which he had entered, and turned to look back into the room. it was empty, every woman had disappeared without a sound in a twinkling, all except the woman who had admitted him. she stood behind, regarding him noncommittally. "what is this place?" he inquired of her. she looked up at him, and he thought he caught something queer in her eyes. but she replied in a pleasant tone: "why, it is _anything_." "oh," he echoed. she continued to stand, not urging him to go, nor to stay. he looked at her closely, and saw that she was a white woman, perhaps under thirty. "a sort of cabaret?" he suggested. "yes," she replied, in the same pleasant tone of voice. "a _sort_ of cabaret." "so you serve drinks here, then?" "yes, we _serve_ drinks here." "where?" "well," and she turned and he followed her to another room apparently the abode of some one. included in the furniture there was a table and two chairs, and while he became seated in one, she took the other and her eyes asked what he wished. "a cocktail," he said. she went to a tube and called the order. "and something for yourself," he said. she did as he directed, and duplicated his order. she came back to where he sat by the table and sat before him, without words, but a pleasant demeanor. "here's luck," he said, when the drinks had been brought up. "same to you," she responded, and both drank. he told her then to bring some beer, and when the order had been given, he bethought himself of his errand. instantly he became oblivious of all about him, and the old agony again returned. he stretched across the table, and was not aware that he groaned. he did not hear the woman who stood over him when she returned with the beer. he was living the life of a few minutes before,--misery. "here is your beer," she said, but he made no move. presently she touched him lightly upon the shoulder, whereupon he sat erect, and looked around him bewilderingly. "your beer," she said, and he regarded her oddly. "what is the matter?" she said now, and regarded him inquiringly. "i was thinking," he replied. "of something unusual," she ventured. "yes," he answered, wearily. "of something _unusual_." she observed him more closely. she saw his haggard face; his tired, worn expression, and beneath it all she caught that sad distraction that had robbed him of his composure. in some way she really wished to help him. here was an unusual case. she,--this woman who was for sale, became seated again, and regarding him kindly she said: "you are in trouble." he sighed but said no word. "in great trouble." he sighed again, and handed her the money for the beer. "i wish i could help you," she said thoughtfully and her eyes fell upon the table. his hat lay there, and she saw therein the name of the town where it had been purchased. "you don't live here?" she suggested then. "no," he mumbled, trying to dispel the heaviness that was over him. if he could just forget. that was it. if he _could_ forget and be normal; be as he had been until that evil genius had come back again into his life. "no," he repeated, "i don't live here." "and--you--you--have just come?" she said. her voice was kind. "is it--it--a _woman_?" he nodded slowly. "oh," she echoed. "your wife, perhaps?" he nodded again. "oh!" they were both silent then for some moments; he struggling to forget, she wondering at the strange circumstances. "has some one come between you?" she inquired after a time. "yes," he whispered. "oh, that's bad," she uttered sympathetically. "it is bad to come between a man and his wife. and you--" she paused briefly then bit her lip in slight vexation, then observed him with head bent before her. it was rather unusual, and that was what had vexed her. could it mean anything what a woman like her thought of or sympathized. yet, she was moved by the condition of the stranger before her. she felt she had to say something. "and you--you don't look like a bad fellow at all." he looked up at her with expressionless eyes. she returned the look and then went on: "you have such honest, frank and truthful eyes. honestly, i feel sorry for you." "oh, thank you," he said gratefully then. to have some one--even _such a woman_ look at him so kindly, to say words of condolence was like water to the thirsty. he thought then again of that other, and the father that was hers, who at that moment sat in the company of another man's wife. he recalled that mrs. pruitt said that he had been in town for several days and every day since he had been there. naturally. this man courted another man's wife openly, yet was ready with all the force in him, the moment jean baptiste sought his god-given mate, to rise up in pious dignity to oppose him. wrath became his now, and his eyes narrowed. in the moment he wanted to go forth and slay the beast who was making this. he rose slightly. she saw it, and her eyes widened. she reached out and touched his hand where it gripped the table. "please don't do _that_," she said, and in her voice there was a slight appeal. he regarded her oddly, and then understood. he sank back listlessly in the seat, and sighed. "poor boy," she said. "some one has done you a terrible wrong. it is strange how the world is formed, and the ill fortune it brings to some. i can just see that some one has done you a terrible wrong, and that when you rose now you would have gone forth and killed him." he regarded her with gratitude in his eyes, and the expression upon his face told her that she had spoken truly. "but try to refrain from that desire. oh, it's justifiable it seems. but then when we stop to think that we will never feel the same afterward about it, it's best to try to forget our grief. you are young, and there are worlds of nice girls who would love and make for you happiness. some day that will be yours in spite of all. so please, just think and--don't kill the one who has done this." "you are awfully kind," he whispered. he felt rather odd. of all places, this was not where men came to be _consoled_, indeed. but herein he had gotten what he could not get on vernon avenue where church members were supposed to dwell. he arose now.... he reached out his hand and she took it. "i don't quite understand what has happened, but you have helped me." he reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins, and this he handed her. she drew back her hand, but he insisted. "yes, take it. _i_ understand your life here. but you have helped me more than you can think. i was awfully discouraged when i came. almost was i to something rash. take it and try to remember that you have helped some one." he squeezed her hand, and she cast her eyes down, and as she did so, he saw a tear fall to the floor. he turned quickly then and left. he retraced his steps toward the polk street station, and to the booth he had been inside of an hour before. he called mrs. pruitt, and after a time came back over the wire, in a low, meaning voice: "_it's the wrong number._" chapter xii mrs. pruitt effects a plan he had some friends who lived on federal street and to their home he decided to go. he thought of the day when he had married. the man ran on the road. his wife he had known long, her name being mildred, mildred merrill. she had been invited to his wedding but had not attended. when he had seen her a year later, and had asked her why she had not attended, she replied that she had been unable to purchase a suitable wedding gift. her parents had been lifelong friends of his parents, and he had been provoked because she stayed away. she and her husband had been quietly married in the court house and had since lived happily together. "oh, jean," mildred cried, when the door opened and she saw his face. "we have just been talking of you," as she swung the door wide for him to enter. "mama," she called, "here is jean baptiste!" her mother came hurriedly forward, grasped his hand, and exchanged a meaning look with mildred. "and you are back _again_," she said as all three became seated. "yes," he said, and sighed. "it's awful," commented her mother. "isn't it the truth, oh, my god, how can those people be so mean?" cried mildred. "he's in chicago," said her mother. "yes," said mildred, "and i'll bet right over at mrs. pruitt's every day." "he wouldn't be _likely_ to be home," commented her mother. "he returns as a rule along about midnight." the two laughed then, and regarded the man. "you ought to give her up, jean," said mildred. "a woman that has no more will power than she has, isn't fit--isn't worth the grief you are spending." "yes, mildred, it does seem so, but she is my wife, and somehow i feel that i should give her every chance." "the case _is_ unusual," commented her mother again. "the man has a reputation for such actions--rather, he has been known to persecute, and does persecute the preachers that are under his dictation in the church. but that such would extend to the possible happiness of his own children! indeed, it hardly seems credible." "vanity, mama. reverend mccarthy is regarded as the most vain man in the church. jean here has never flattered him--tickled his vanity, and this is the price he's paying." "well," said her mother. "such as this _can't_ keep up. some day he's going to be called on to pay--and the debt will be large." "understand that he aspires for the bishopric in the convention next month," said mildred. "shucks!" exclaimed her mother. "that's all bluff. he seeks to grab off a little cheap notoriety around chicago before he goes to conference. there is as much chance of his being even entered as a candidate for the office as there is of me." "that's what i think," from mildred. "what are your plans, jean?" her mother now inquired of baptiste who sat in a sort of stupor listening to their talk. "i am trying to get to see her without the old man's knowledge." and he told them of his conversation with mrs. pruitt. "isn't that a wife, now!" exclaimed mildred. "afraid to meet the man she has married." "orlean and old lady mccarthy have no voice in that house," said her mother. "first it's the reverend, and then follows ethel." "and it hardly seems credible when one knows how he has always flirted with other women," said mildred. "i asked orlean the last time i saw her," said mildred again, "what was the matter; was jean mean to her, or had he neglected her. she said: no, that he was just as good to her as he could be, but that she could not stay out in that wild country; that it would impair her health, and she just couldn't stay out there, and that was all." "reverend mccarthy," said her mother. "of course. but that is one thing i have observed. they have never got her to lie as they have done, and say that he mistreated her." from mildred. "it's to be regretted that she has not more will to stand up for what she knows to be right," said her mother. "you have taken it up with the right person, jean," said mildred. "if any one can help you in such a delicate undertaking, it is mrs. pruitt. she has more influence with that old rascal than his wife. in fact, his wife, from what i hear, has no influence at all." "well, jean," said mildred's mother, "you are to be admired for the patience you have exercised with orlean. the average man would have knocked that old white headed rascal stiff and let orlean go, and i don't wonder that if i was a man that i wouldn't have done so myself." "if i were that weak, and could see things as i do now, i would want my husband to shoot me. i'm getting out of patience with orlean's weakness," mildred added. "well," said baptiste at this point, "it is now eleven, and i will call up mrs. pruitt to go ahead with certain plans that i have in view. have you a 'phone?" "just outside," said mildred, and opened the door. he got mrs. pruitt directly, and again came back over the wire: "it's the wrong number!" but during the recent conversation he had forgotten for the moment the "counter sign," and continued calling back. frantically he heard again and again, "_the wrong number! you have the wrong number!_" suddenly he caught on, and as suddenly hung up the receiver with a jerk. he didn't go to the keystone that night. he felt as though he wanted to be near some friends. accordingly he went to miss rankin's. she was glad to see him, and, like all his friends, knew his troubles, and welcomed him. "you will awaken me early tomorrow--say, six o'clock?" he asked, and upon being assured she would, he went to bed. all the night through his sleep was fitful. he saw gorgeous processions that frightened him, and then again he was thrilled; but never did he seem to feel just right. then he saw his enemy. he dreamed that he came to him and kissed him; he heard him saying kind words, and saw his wife by his side. they were back in the west and his wife was returning from a visit. he was aroused, and jumped to his feet. he looked at the clock, and the time was half past five. all the agony of the day before came back with a rush, and he was overwhelmed. thereupon he got him up, and, dressing quickly, hurried out of the house and caught a car to where mrs. pruitt lived on the west side, in the basement of an apartment building, of which her husband was janitor. he estimated that the other would go home during the night, and early morning would be the time to form some plan of action. it seemed a long way to the west side, and it was after seven when he arrived there. he was greeted by mrs. pruitt, and the expression upon her face did not disappoint him. "now, jean," she said, "i have prepared you some breakfast, and you must eat first, for i'll wager that not a bite have you eaten since you talked with me yesterday." "it is so, mrs. pruitt," said he, recalling then that eating had not occurred to him for the last eighteen hours or more. "well," said she, becoming seated, "_he_ left here at almost midnight, and i have been planning just what to do, that you may see orlean. i certainly should have little patience with a girl that has no more gumption than orlean; but since i know that she gets it from her mother, who has not as much as a chicken, i have accepted the inevitable. "now, to begin with. if i called up and had her come over here, he would come with her, of course, and also maybe ethel. and you know what that would mean. it is so unusual that such a thing could be, but that is reverend mccarthy. he has always been this way, and i could not change him. you erred when you didn't flatter him. but that you did not have to do, and i don't blame you. he has done you dirty, and some day he's going to pay for it. i wouldn't be surprised if he did not soon, either. he is a disturbed man, he is. never has he been happy as he was before he brought that girl home. the crime he has committed is weighing on him, and i wouldn't wonder if he wouldn't be glad to have orlean go back with you. the only thing is, that he has been associated with a hard headed lot of negro preachers so long, until his disposition is ingrained. he actually _couldn't_ be as he should. he would let orlean go back to you, but he would determine on a lot of ceremony, and something else that you are ill fitted to forego. so the best way, as i can see, is for you to meet orlean somewhere, and there reason it out with her." she paused briefly then, and was thoughtful. "she loves you as her mother loves, in a simple, weak way; but what is a love like that worth! in truth, while i admire your courage, and desire to uphold the sacredness of the marriage vow, you ought to get a divorce and marry a girl with some will and force." "i realize so, mrs. pruitt, but i am determined to live with orlean and protect her if it is within my power." "i understand your convictions and sentiments, jean, and admire you for it. if the world contained more men like you, the evil of divorce would lessen; but on the other hand, as long as it contains men like the reverend, and women like orlean, there will always be ground for divorce." "but every man should exhaust all that is in him for what he feels is right, shouldn't he, mrs. pruitt?" spoke baptiste. "of course," she said somewhat absently. she looked quickly at him then, and her eyes brightened with an inspiration. "by the way, jean," she said. "you remember mrs. merley?" "who? blanche's mother?" "the same." "most sure. why?" "well," said mrs. pruitt. "i have been thinking. she's a friend of yours, a good friend, although you might not have known it." "it is news to me--that is, directly." "well, she is, and has been very much wrought up over the reverend's treatment of you." "indeed!" "yes, it is so. you see, moreover, she is a distant relation of mrs. mccarthy's, and is fairly well-to-do." "so i have understood." "yes, they are, and mccarthys sort of look up to them." "yes?" "mrs. merley is independent, and hasn't much patience with the elder." "so." "no, and for that reason he admires her." "indeed." "yes, and she was over there and sort a 'bawled' them out over what they were doing. understand that she just spat it in the elder's face and he had to take it." "well?" "yes. you see blanche got married this last summer, and didn't quite please her mother." "oh, is that so?" "yes, mary merley is a friend of mine, and frankly she almost told me that she wished blanche had married some one on your order. "oh!...." "yes, she did. and meant it! she admired your type, and i know she would have been more fully pleased in such an event." he was silent. "anyhow, i have planned that it will be through her that you and orlean may be brought together." he was attentive. "but before you go into it, my request is that my name shall be left out." his eyes asked a question that she answered. "it is so. while mary is a friend of mine, she has certain habits that i don't like." he regarded her more questioningly. "i will say no more." his face blanched, and then his mind went back two years. orlean had made just such a remark. he was sorry. "so i don't want you to mention me, since it would do no good." "i understand." "i want her to have the credit for whatever success might come of this." "yes." "and my plans are that you go over there, and see her?" "yes." "jolly her a little, and don't let on that you are aware that she admires you." "very well." "get her to call orlean up, and suggest a show." "i get you." "and there you are." "your plan is simple, but practical," and he smiled upon her thankfully. he was standing now. he held out his hand. she grasped it, and bending forward, kissed him. "be careful, jean," she said. "and don't do anything rash." when he went his way, he understood. chapter xiii mrs. merley the april morn shone beautifully over chicago, when jean baptiste came from the basement of the apartment where mrs. pruitt lived, and had bade godspeed to him. it was election day over all the state, a preferential primary for the purpose of choosing delegates to the g.o.p. convention to be held two months later. and when jean baptiste thought of it, he understood what had brought the reverend to the city. baptiste arrived at mrs. merley's an hour after he left mrs. pruitt, went directly to the number and pulled the bell. it was responded to by a young woman he did not know, but she assured him that the one he sought was in, and after seating him in the parlor, hurried to tell mrs. merley. she came at once all joy and gladness, and greeted him with a shake of both hands, and kissed him into the bargain. "sit right down, sit right down," she said profusely. "and, oh, my, how glad i am to see you!" she smiled upon him happily, proving how glad she really was, and he was moved. "and you came to see me," she continued. "you could have called on no one who would have been more delighted to see you!" "you do me too much honor, mrs. merley," said he gratefully. "indeed," she returned. "i could not do you enough." "i hadn't hoped for so much kindness, i am sure." "but, jean, you don't know how much i have thought about you in the last two years, and i have longed to talk with you!" "oh, really! but i thought i was forgotten by everybody in chicago." "you have never been forgotten by us. and especially have we talked of you in this last year...." he was silent, though he felt he understood her reference. "some dirty sinner ought to be in torment!" and still he did not speak. "oh, i know all that has been done to you, jean," she went on tenderly. "your words give me much relief, mrs. merley." "i wish they could give you more. it is my wish that an opportunity could be given me to help you." he straightened. now was the time to state his mission. but she was speaking again: "i spoke my sentiments to his face, the rascal! all his dirty life has been given to making people miserable, wherever he could." jean said nothing, but was listening nevertheless. "he has been a rascal for thirty-five years, and has made that simple cousin of mine he married, the goat." she paused to get her breath. "i saw orlean not long ago, and asked her where her will was, or if she had any." he was attentive. always he liked to hear her. "she, of course, tried to stand up for that arch hypocrite. but i waived that aside. said i to her: 'orlean, i could never believe you if you said jean baptiste abused, mistreated or neglected you.' she looked down when i had spoken and then said evenly. 'no, jean did not do any of those things,' 'then,' said i. 'why do you live apart from him, the man you married? where is your sense of duty?' 'but, mrs. merley,' she tried to protest. 'i just couldn't live out there in that wilderness, it was too lonesome,' 'oh, orlean,' i said disgustingly, 'do you expect me to believe that? and if even i believed you, how could i respect you?' "but that is it, jean. here is this family posing as among the best negro families in chicago, but with no more regard for what is morally right than the worst thief. indeed, no thief would do what that man is doing." he mumbled something inaudible. she was out to talk, so he heard her on: "i understand the whole line up, and their vain shielding of that old rascal, just because you didn't lie to him and become a hypocrite like he himself is. everybody near him must bow to him and tell him he is great, else he will use what influence is his to 'get even.' so that's the whole output. he took her away from you because he raised her as he has willed my cousin, his wife, to subserve to him. and now he goes around here with all that dirty affected piety and wants people to sympathize with him in his evil." she paused again for breath, and then he spoke: "i am glad to know you have taken the view of this you have, mrs. merley," he said slowly, "and i am wondering therefore, whether you would be willing to help me in a certain christian cause." "why, jean! why ask me? you must know that i would help you in any way i could." he then told her just what he had planned. she interrupted him at times with little bursts of enthusiasm, and there was no hesitancy on her part. "anything, jean, anything! you don't know how anxious i am, and how glad i am to have the opportunity! the only thing i regret is that you ever married such a weakling. you might have heard that blanche is married?" "i have," he replied. "i trust she is happy." "well," said the other slowly, "she appears to be, withal. and for that reason i suppose i should be thankful. but she did not quite please me in her selection." "oh," he echoed. "no," she said slowly, and as if she felt the disappointment keenly. "she did not. her husband, it is true, is good to her, but he did not come up to my hope. yet, and it is singular," she said thoughtfully, "to think that a man with all you possess financially, and mentally, should get 'in' as you have." she paused again a little embarrassed, and then pursued: "i wish blanche had a husband of your disposition and attainments." "blanche, i thought, was a sweet girl," he said reflectively. "and a good girl," said mrs. merley. "i would have given anything to have had her marry a promising young farmer of your order, and be now living in the west." "i love the west, and had hoped others would be loving it too," he said ruefully. "he came back here after his first visit, and sitting right where you are now, said that you was one of the race's most progressive young men. he added to this everywhere he had half a chance and eulogized you to the highest. it happened that the minister who married you, was here, and he, too, very much admired you, and voiced the same to the reverend. that old devil just swelled up like a big frog with vanity. three months later he comes back here, and, to seek to justify his action, he spreads the town with lies that nobody believes." the other shifted his position. "well, jean," she said now more soberly, "just what shall i do?" "if you would not mind--" "oh, don't say that!" "very well, mrs. merley. i would like you to call her up and suggest a matinée." "why not just go to one?" "that would please me if you would condescend?" "i'd be glad to go, and in view of the circumstances, i think it would be a suggestive idea. let her get used to your presence again, without coming directly to the point at once." "a capital idea, i agree!" "call her up and ask her to come over and go with you to the matinée." "that is the plan, and i understand." "i will appreciate your kindness," said he heartily. she arose then and advancing toward him, embraced him impulsively. thereupon she went to the telephone, and succeeded in getting his wife on the wire. he heard her answer the call, and laugh over something humorous mrs. merley said. his heart beat faster, and he was conscious that he was more hopeful than he had been for a long time. "yes...." mrs. merley was saying. "i want you to go with me to a matinée.... be here at one forty-five.... yes, i have the tickets.... and you'll not be late." she was standing before him again, and her face was lighted up with the joy of what she had accomplished. he was grateful, and rose to thank her, whereupon she embraced him again. the next moment she went quickly up the stairs to prepare for the occasion. "you may come upstairs, too, jean," she invited, "and from the front room there, you can watch for yours." "oh, mrs. merley, you make me happier than i have been for a long time," he said, and almost was he emotional. "and i have a nice spare bedroom for you and _her_, tonight. and tomorrow, she is _yours_." jean baptiste waited and watched, and then suddenly he heard a voice. it was that of the girl who had admitted him, who was also watching. "here she comes," she cried, excitedly. jean baptiste looked quickly out of the window and up the street, and saw his wife coming leisurely toward the house wherein he was sitting. chapter xiv oh, merciful god, close thou mine eyes! reverend newton justine mccarthy had once lived in peoria, illinois, and was well acquainted with the late robert ingersoll. moreover, he had admired the noted orator, and although he had not the courage, in truth, he believed as ingersoll believed. and because he did, and was forced to keep his true convictions a secret, while he preached the gospel he did not believe, he had grown to hate almost all people. but n.j. mccarthy was not aware of this fact himself. ever since he brought his daughter home, and had thereby parted her from the man she married, he had never been the same. always he was troubled with something he could not understand. his dreams were bad. the awful sensations he very often experienced while in slumber, grew so annoying that at times he found that he was almost afraid to sleep. then, a persistent illness continually knocked at his door. the truth of it was, that he was battling with a conscience he had for years crucified. but it would persist. so deep had he sowed the habits he followed, and so intrenched were the roots of these habits, until it was no easy task to uproot them. he had left mrs. pruitt near midnight of the day when jean baptiste had arrived on his trip in a last effort to secure his wife. the family had retired before he arrived home, and having some business in the rear of the house, he passed through the room which contained the bed wherein his daughter, orlean, lay in peaceful slumber. when he was returning he paused briefly to observe the face of the sleeping girl in the moonlight. peacefully she slept, and for the first time in his life he saw therein something he had never seen before. he felt his flesh and wondered at the feeling that was come over him. it seemed that he was asleep, but positively he was awake. he _was_ awake, and looking into the sleeping face of his daughter. but if he _was awake, what was it he saw_? surely not. but as he stood over her, he thought he could see her eyes open, and look at him strangely, regard him in a way she had never done before. and as she looked at him, he thought she raised her hand that lay under the cover, and with her forefinger leveled, she pointed at him. in the trance he imagined he could hear her voice. she called him: "father?" and betimes he answered. "yes, daughter." "where is my husband?" he gave a start. he thought he caught at something, and then he heard her again: "you have sent him away, out of my life, and the day is coming when you will be called upon to answer for your sins!" he thought he was trembling. all about him was turmoil. he saw the people, the friends of the family, and all the people he had preached to in thirty years, and all were pointing an accusing finger at him. and out of the chaos he heard them crying: "_shame, oh shame! that you should be so evil, so vile, such a hypocrite, and let your evil fall upon your own daughter!_" he saw then the wife he had taken from speed. he saw that one in his misery, he saw him sink, and renounce from weakness the sentiments he had started in the world to teach. he saw him struggle vainly, and then saw him fall, low, lower, until at last the flames of hell had swallowed him up. "merciful god," he cried, and he was sure he staggered. "was it _i_ who brought all this?" but before he could recover, the procession kept passing. behind speed came the wife he had robbed him of. she carried in her arms a baby that he had given her. by the hand she led the other illegitimate offspring. there they were, the innocents that had no name. he saw the bent head of the woman, and saw the grief and anguish in her face. he saw her suddenly stop and fall, and while she lay upon the earth, her children were taken, and grew up surrounded with all that was bad and evil. he saw one suddenly dead, while still a boy, murdered by the companions he kept. he saw his young body in the morgue. and before all this had passed, he saw this one's mother again, the woman he had fooled, in the depth of the "tenderloin." he saw her a solicitor, and he could hear himself groan in agony. the years passed, and while he grew older, other things came and went; a train of evil deeds he had committed, and at last came his own daughter. he saw her passing and when he saw her face, the agony therein frightened him. was it so! had _he_, done that, too? was _he_ the cause of what he saw in this girl's face? suddenly he saw her change, and in the distance he saw jean baptiste, and all he had suffered. "_oh, merciful god, close thou mine eyes_," he thought he could hear himself call. but his eyes would not close, and the one to whom he appealed appeared to be deaf, and the procession continued. he saw orlean stretch her hands out to baptiste, and he came toward her with arms outstretched, and he thought he heard a voice, the voice of the man jean baptiste. and the words he cried rang in his ears: "my wife, oh, orlean, my wife! come unto me!"--but lo! when the two had came close, and the man would have held her to him, a shadow suddenly rose between them, and shut them out from each other's sight. he thought he raised his voice to call out to the one of the shadow. and when he called to him, and the one of the shadow turned, and behold! it was himself! he suddenly came out of the trance, to see orlean sitting up in bed. he caught his breath and held his hand over his heart, as he heard her voice: "papa, is that you? my, how you frightened me! i--" and then she quickly stopped. she had started to say, "i thought it was jean," for in truth she had dreamed of him, and that he had come for her, and she was glad, and when she arose to go she had awakened to find her father standing over her. "yes, yes, my dear," he said rather awkwardly. "it is i. i stopped to look at you and seemed to forget myself." he hurried away then, and up the stairs to his room and went to bed, but it was near morning when he fell asleep. * * * * * it so happened when jean baptiste had gone upstairs to call on mildred and her mother, he had knocked at the door below. a man lived there whom he had known in the years gone by and who had educated himself to be a lawyer. his name was towles, joseph towles. always before when he was in the city, he had called on towles and his family, and when their door rose before him, on the impulse he had forgotten all else but to greet them. he pushed the bell, and no sooner had he done so than he recalled his mission, and that he was avoiding his acquaintances. he quickly passed upstairs but not before mrs. towles had opened the door and caught a glimpse of him passing. she was aware of his difficulty, and had pretended to sympathize with him. but mrs. towles was a gossipy, penurious woman, and did not get along with her neighbors overhead. so when she saw jean baptiste passing up the stairs, and hurrying from her without speaking, she at once became angry, and with it apprehensive. she went back to where she had been working over some sewing. she was thoughtful, and then regarded the clock. "i wonder what he is doing here?" she mused to herself. and then she suddenly brightened with an inspiration. "_his wife_, of course," she cried, and fell to thinking further. she happened to be a close friend of a certain lady who lived next door to the mccarthys on vernon avenue, and it was to her that she decided to pay a visit on the morrow. and, of course she would discuss the fact that she had gotten a glimpse of jean baptiste, and would try to find out what she could. it was the following afternoon that she found the time to visit her friend in vernon avenue. she passed by the house wherein lived the mccarthys, and made up her mind to call there later in company with her friend to hear the news. "why, mrs. towles!" cried her friend when she saw her face upon opening the door. "how nice it was of you to call, when i was not expecting you! such a pleasant surprise," whereupon they kissed in womanly fashion. she took a seat by the window, for she wished to look into the street. the other took a chair just facing her, and together they fell to talking. as they sat there, orlean suddenly came out of the house next door, down the steps, and passed before mrs. towles' gaze as she went up the street to wabash avenue to fill the engagement with mrs. merley. "oh, look," cried mrs. towles, pointing to the figure of the other. "there goes orlean!" the other strained her neck, and said: "m-m." "and i saw her husband last night." "you did!" exclaimed the other in great surprise. she had a grown daughter who was very much accomplished, but unmarried. so she took a delight in such cases as jean baptiste's.... "i did," replied the other, making herself comfortable and getting ready to relate his strange actions. "well, well, now!" echoed the other, all attention. "yes," said mrs. towles, and then related all that had passed which was not anything but catching a glimpse of baptiste as he had disappeared up the steps. "i don't think they know next door, that he is in town," suggested the other. "don't they?" "why, not likely. you know the last time he was here they wouldn't admit him!" they eyed each other jubilantly, and then went on. "then we ought to go right over and inform them at once!" said mrs. towles. "just what we should do," agreed the other. and so it happened that the reverend learned that jean baptiste was in the city; but for once he was not excited. somehow, he hoped that jean would meet orlean, and he knew then that she had gone out for that purpose. he knew that she was supposed to go to a matinée, and he realized from previous statements, that mrs. merley was the "go between." so he took no part in the gossip that followed, nor did he for once sigh in self pity. perhaps after all he had decided not to interfere. chapter xv "love you--god, i hate you!" the play they witnessed that afternoon was an emotional play, and in a degree it sufficed to arouse the emotion in all three. the meeting between orlean and her husband had been without excitement. as if she had been expecting him, she welcomed him, and they had proceeded directly to a play at the studebaker theater downtown. when they were again in the street, they went to another theater where they purchased tickets to witness robert mantell in richelieu. and, later, taking a surface car on state street, proceeded to a restaurant near thirty-first street where they had supper, after which they retired to the home of mrs. merley. of course that one left them to themselves in due time, and in a few minutes they were engaged in congenial conversation. after a time jean caught her hand, and despite the slight protest she made, he succeeded in drawing her up on his knee. "i ought not to sit here," she said. "why not, orlean?" he said kindly, placing his arm about her waist fondly. "because." "because what, dear?" she looked at him quickly. he met her eyes appealingly. she looked away, and then down at her toes. "how you have fleshened," he commented. "do you think so?" she returned, inclined to be sociable. "it is quite noticeable. and you are better looking when you are so." "oh, you flatter me," she chimed. "i would like to flatter my wife." she did not reply to this. she appeared to be comfortable, and he went on. "don't you know that i have longed to see you, and that it has not been just right that i could not?" and still she made no answer. "i never want to live so again. i want you always, orlean." "when did you leave home?" she asked now. "a couple of days ago." "and how long have you been here?" "i came yesterday afternoon." "and when to mrs. merley's?" "this morning." she was thoughtful then. indeed they were getting along better than he had hoped. there remained but one thing more. if he could persuade her to stay the night at mrs. merley's and not insist on going home. if he could keep her out of her father's sight until morning, he would have no more worry. that, indeed, was his one point of uneasiness. keeping her out of her father's sight. he recalled how he had refrained from buying a revolver when he left home. it would not have been safe after all that had passed between himself and her father for him to have anything of the kind about, and he was glad now that he had been sensible. he drew his wife's head down, turned her face to his, and kissed her lips. he caught the sigh that passed her lips. he saw her eyebrows begin to contract. what was passing in her mind? duty? then, to whom? he kissed her again, and caressed her fondly. this meant much to him. he told her so then, too. "it has been very hard on me, wife, for you to have stayed away a whole year. awfully hard. it was never my plans or intention for such to be." he was full up now. he wanted to talk a long time with her. if they could just retire and talk far into the night as they had done in the eleven months that had been theirs. his confidence was growing. all that was expedient now, he felt sure, was to keep the reverend out of it until morning. by that time no further effort on his part would be necessary. "do you love me, orlean?" he said now, drawing her face close to his again. she made no reply audibly, but she seemed to be struggling with something within herself. in truth she did not want to say that she did, and she _would not_ tell him she did not. she let her arm unconsciously encircle his neck. her hand found his head and stroked his hair, while she was mentally meditative. in the meantime, his head rested against her breast, and he could hear the beating of her heart. "oh, my wife," he cried, intended for himself but she heard it. it aroused her, her emotion began to assert itself. how long would it take for her to be his mate again at this rate? "how is everything back home?" she asked, as if seeking a change. he hesitated. she looked down into his face to see why he did not answer directly. he caught her eyes, and she could see that he was not wishing to tell her something. "what is the matter, jean?" she asked now, slightly excited and anxious. "oh, nothing," he replied. he wanted to tell her the truth, all the truth, but it was not yet time he feared. until she had given up to him, he decided to withhold anything serious. "there is _something_, jean, of that i am sure," she insisted, shifting where she could see his face more clearly. "if there is anything, wife, i would discuss it later. now,--i can think of but one thing, and that is you," whereupon he caressed her again fondly. she sighed then and her emotion was becoming more perceptible. "you are going back home with me tomorrow, dear?" he dared to say presently. for answer she shifted uneasily, and then her eyes espied the clock on the wall. it was five-thirty. "i think i should call up home," she said thoughtfully. he caught his breath, and trembled perceptibly. she regarded him inquiringly. and here again we must remark about jean baptiste. in the year of misery, of agony and suffering in general he had endured, he had settled upon one theory. and that was that if he and his wife were to ever live together again and be happy, the family were to be kept out of it. perhaps if this could have been forgotten by him in this moment, we would not have had this story to tell; but when she mentioned her folks, all that he had wished to avoid--all that he felt he _must_ avoid, came before him. as he saw it now, if she called her father, they would _never_ live together again. he was nervous when he anticipated the fact. he started, and took on unconsciously a fearsome expression. "please don't, orlean," he said, beseechingly. "don't what?" she asked, apprehensive of something she did not like. "call your father," he said. he wanted to tell her that if she called her father, it would mean the end of everything for them, but he withheld this. "now, i wish him to know where i am," she said, protestingly, and arose from his knee. she stood away from where he sat hesitatingly. in that moment, she was not aware that she stood between duty and subservience. as she saw it, she forgot from her training that there _was_ a duty, she only remembered that she was obedient. obedient to the father who had reared her so to be. it was the psychological moment in their union. near her the husband that she had taken, regarded her uneasily. he had come to her to do the duty that was his to do. they were estranged because of one thing, and one thing only, and that was her father, the man her husband would never yield to. and as she hesitated between obedience to one and duty toward the other, her life, her love and future was in the balance. which? "orlean," she heard now, from the lips of her husband. "listen, _before you go to the phone_." he became suddenly calm as he said this. "i married you two years gone now, for better or for worse, and 'until death do us part.' that was the vow that i took and also you. i've done my best by you under the circumstances. i gave you a home and bed that you left. i gave you my love, and am willing to give you my life if that be necessary. but, orlean, i didn't contract to observe the ideas and be subservient to the opinion of others. to force me to regard this is to do me a grave injustice. you cannot imagine, appreciate, maybe, how humiliating it is to be placed in such a position. i cannot explain it with you standing impatiently before me as you are. i have come here to try and have you discuss this matter with me from a practical point of view. surely, having taken me as your god-given mate, you owe me that. you force me to honor and respect certain persons--" "don't you," she cried. "don't you insinuate my father!" she advanced toward him threateningly in her excitement, and all sense of duty was gone. only obedience to the one who had made it so remained. that she should rally to the support of his adversary, displaced his composure. he had hoped to have her reason it out with him, and he had prayed that he be given a little time, and then all would be well. he was aware that she was unequal to a woman's task. not one woman in a thousand he knew would place a father before a husband; but his wife was different. she had been trained to be devoutly subservient to her father. for that reason he was willing to be patient--he had been patient. but at the same time he had suffered much, and her love and obedience to his worst enemy--even if it was her father, unfitted him for that with which he was now confronted. he was fast losing his composure, likewise his patience. nothing in the world should stand between him and his wife. he became excited now, but calmed long enough to say: "go ahead, or come to me. there are two things a woman cannot be at the same time," and he waved his hand toward her resolutely. "a wife to the man she has married, and a daughter to her father." with this statement he sank back into the chair from which he had partly risen. he had said the last statement with such forceful logic, that it made her stop, pause uneasily, and then suddenly she straightened and turning, went to the telephone. but when she called over the wire to her father, all the composure that jean baptiste ever had left him. all the suffering and agony that he had experienced from the hand of the other asserted itself. he arose from the chair and came toward her. his eyes were bloodshot, his attitude was threatening. she called to her father, and the words she said were: "yes, papa.... is this you.... yes.... i am at mrs. merley's.... and--ah--papa," she hesitated and her voice broke from fear. "ah--papa--a--jean is here, papa.... yes, jean. he is here." she was trembling now, and the man standing behind her saw it. he saw her passing out of his life forever, and desperation overtook him. in that moment something within him seemed to snap. he reached over her shoulder and grasped the receiver and pushed her roughly aside. the next instant she was protesting wildly, while mrs. merley was brought to the front by his loud voice screaming over the 'phone. "_hell, hello, you!_" he cried savagely. "_hello, i say!... how am i! my god, how could i be after what you have done to me, my life.... why didn't i come to the house?... why should i come to your house, when the last time i was there i was kicked out, virtually kicked out, do you hear?_" "you get away from here!" he heard in his ear, and turned to see his wife gone wild with excitement. her eyes were distraught, her attitude was menacing, as she struggled at his arm to try and wrest the receiver from his hand. he heard the other saying something in his ear. he did not understand it, he was too excited. everything was in a whirl around him. he became conscious that he had dropped the receiver after a time. he felt himself in contact with some one, and saw the face of his wife. in her excitement she was striking him; she was trying to do him injury. he became alive to what was going on, then. the receiver hung suspended; he was in a grapple with his excited wife. "you--you!" she screamed. "you abuse my father, my poor father! you have abused him ever since i knew you. you will not respect him, and then come to ask me to live with you. you abuser! you devil! do i love you? god, _i hate you_!" he made no effort to protect himself. he allowed her to strike him at will and with a strength, born of excitement, she struck him in his face, in his eyes, she scratched him, she abused him so furiously until gradually he began to sink. he reached out and caught her around the waist as he lost his footing and fell to his knees. as he lingered in this position his face was upturned. she struck him then with all the force in her body. he groaned, as he gradually loosened his hold upon her, and slowly sank to the floor. and all the while she fought him, she punctuated her blows with words, some abusing him, others in defense of her father. at last he lay upon the floor, while around her, mrs. merley and the other girl begged and beseeched. but she was as if gone insane. as he lay with eyes closed and a slight groan escaping from his lips at her feet, she suddenly raised her foot and kicked him viciously full in the face. this seemed, then, to make her more vicious, and thereupon she started to jump upon him with her feet, but mrs. merley suddenly caught her about the waist and drew her away. how long he lay there he did not know, but he opened his eyes when from the outside he heard hurried footsteps. he continued to lay as he was, and then somebody pulled the bell vigorously. mrs. merley went to it, opened it, and let some one in. he looked up through half closed eyes to see the reverend standing over him. in that instant he saw his wife dash past him and fall into the other's arms. he heard her saying words of love, while he was aware that the other pacified her with soft words. they took no notice of the man at their feet. and then he saw them open the door, while the others stood about in awe. while the door was open he caught a glimpse of the street outside--and of glavis on the sidewalk below. the next instant the door closed softly behind them, and she went out of his life as a wife forever. chapter xvi a strange dream when the others had gone, jean baptiste rolled over again upon the floor, and was conscious that one eye was closed and swollen, filled with blood from a wound inflicted by his wife just below it. he rose to a sitting posture presently, and looked around him. he was in the hall, and when he looked through the open door into the parlor, he saw mrs. merley stretched on the settee before him weeping. he staggered to his feet, and went toward her. she looked up when he approached, and dried her eyes. "you spoiled things, jean," she accused, and he noted the disappointment in her voice, and also detected a note of impatience. "yes, i admit i did, mrs. merley, and i'm sorry--for you." "for me?" she repeated, not understanding his import. "yes," he replied wearily. "for _you_." "but--but--why--for _me_?" "well," he said, with a sigh, "it _had_ to be as it was. i wanted her. but it would have been disaster in the end on his account, because i could never have brought myself to honor him, and to have lived with her i should have been forced to--at least pretended to do so, and that would have been worse still." she was thoughtfully silent then for some time, then she regarded him closely, and said as if to herself: "well, i fear you are right. yes, i _know_ you are when i recall how she abused you a while ago. gracious! i did not know that it was in orlean." "nor did i," he said, his face covered with his hands. "_he_ made her that way through the influence he has exerted over her. evil influence. i have a feeling that there will come a day when that influence will work the other way," she said musingly, "_he_ will be the victim, and the punishment will be severe." both were silent for a time, and nothing but the ticking of the clock on the mantel disturbed the quiet. he presently raised his head, and in so doing uncovered his face. it was dark and distorted, swollen a great deal, and one of his eyes was closed. she saw it then for the first time. "my god, jean!" she exclaimed, arising and hurrying to him. "your face is swollen almost beyond recognition. why, my dear, you are in a dreadful fix!" she stood over him scarcely knowing just what to do. then she regained her composure. she caught at his arm, as she cried: "come with me, quick!" he arose and followed her upstairs and into the bedroom she had prepared for him and orlean. in a corner there was a little basin, and to this she led him. she then had him hold his face over the basin while she carefully bathed it. this done, she asked him to go to bed while she went downstairs, returning presently with liniments and towels, and bathed his wounds again and bandaged his face carefully. "now, jean," she said kindly, "i will leave you. but you will do this favor which i ask of you?" he turned his face toward her. "don't advise mr. merley about what has occurred here tonight," she said. "i understand," he replied quietly. thereupon she left him to himself. at the vernon avenue home of the mccarthys, the house was in an orgy of excitement. when the reverend had been advised regarding his son-in-law's presence in the city, he recalled the séance he had experienced the night before. when the women came, he was preparing to go to the west side for his daily visit with mrs. pruitt. but upon this advice, he desisted, and decided to remain home. when the mongers had taken their gossip from his presence, he fell into deep thought. for the first time since he had precipitated the trouble, he saw the situation clearly. he was aware that his act by this time, had helped nobody, had made no one happy or satisfied--not even himself. almost he agreed with himself then, that he had miscalculated; jean baptiste was willing apparently, to forego his wife's loss and the loss of her homestead, before he would do as the elder had planned and estimated he would. his conscience was disturbed. he recalled the unpleasant nights he had endured in the last few months. he recalled that while orlean always pretended to him that she was satisfied, for the first time in his life, he saw that it was due to the training, the subservience to his will, and not to her own convictions. he arose from his seat and walked the floor in meditation. habit, however, had become such a force with him, that he could hardly resist the impulse to commit some action; to rush to mrs. merley's and make himself conspicuous. he struggled between impulse and conscience, and neither won fully. after an hour, however, he reached this decision: he would not go to or call up mrs. merley. he would just leave it to them to solve, and if they should finally reach some agreement between themselves, he would not stand in the way. when he had reached this conclusion, he went into the street, and was surprised at the relief he felt. not for months had he enjoyed a walk as much as he did that one. but while newton justine mccarthy had struggled with his conscience, and at last found solace in admitting at this late hour to what he should have done two years before, he had failed to reckon with other features that asserted themselves later. he had not estimated that if jean baptiste sought his wife secretly, it must have been because he wished to avoid him. he failed to see that this man had suffered bitterly through his evil machinations. he failed, moreover, to appreciate that his training of orlean to the subservient attitude, would prevent her from returning to her husband or reaching any agreement with him until she had first ascertained that such would be agreeable to her father. had he so reckoned the scene just related might not have occurred. it was while they were sitting at supper that the telephone rang. when the conversation ensued, the reverend sought not only to promulgate good will by leaving it to jean baptiste, but he thought also to encourage him by inviting him to the house, and in this he meant well. but behind him stood ethel. she caught the gist of excitement and instantly began to scream. "get orlean, go get my sister! don't let that man have her, owee!" at the top of her voice, she yelled, and glavis and her mother had to hold her. some friends were having dinner with them, and they now stood toward the rear uncertain whether to leave or remain, and heard all that passed. the reverend was laboring frantically to get an answer over the 'phone, and it was at this moment that orlean had gone frantic and was abusing her husband. in the excitement, ethel kept up her tirade at the top of her voice, and in the end, the reverend, followed by glavis, had gone to mrs. merley's. they had now returned, and ethel was pacified. the visitors had departed to spread the gossip, and all but ethel was downcast. orlean, in unspoken remorse, had retired; while the reverend, fully conscious at last of what his interposition had brought, was regretful, but not openly. and the others, not knowing that he had that day repented, sat at their distance and tried to form no conclusion. "it is over--all over," cried orlean now in the bed. "and as i have done all my life, i have failed at the most crucial moment. oh, merciful god, what can you do with a weak woman like i! it has been i all along who has made misery for myself, for _him_, and for all those near me! i! i! _i!_ that i could have cultivated the strength of my conviction; that i could have been the woman he wanted me to be. out there he _tried_ to make me one; he sought in every way he knew how. but a weakling i would remain! and because i have sought to please others and abuse him in doing so, i have brought everybody to the ditch of misery and despair." she cried for a long time, but her mind was afire. all that her weakness and subservience had caused, continued, and at last the event of the night. "and what did i do to him?" she said now, rising in the bed. "i recall that he came to the telephone. he stood listening to what i was saying, and i recall that when i turned slightly and saw his face, it was terrible! then i saw him suddenly snatch the receiver from my hand, and i heard him talking to papa. he was terribly excited, and i shall never forget the expression on his face. i cannot clearly remember what followed. i recall, however, that i struggled with him; that i struck him everywhere i could; that i scratched his face.... and, oh, my god, i recall what passed then!" she suddenly sank back upon the pillow and gave up to bitter anguish, when she recalled what had followed. but the excitement was too great for her to lay inert. she rose again upon her elbow, and looked before her into the darkness of the room as she slowly repeated half aloud what had followed. "yes, i _recall_. _he made no resistance. he did not defend himself, but allowed me to strike him at will. and under the fusillade of blows, i recall that he sank slowly to his knees--sank there with his arms about me, and i striking him with all the strength in my body. upon his knees then, he lingered, while i rained blow after blow upon his upturned face. and now i can recall that his eyes closed, and from his lips i caught a sigh, and then he rolled to the floor. and, here, oh, lord, i added what will follow me throughout my life and never again give me peace._ "_while he lay there upon the floor, with his eyes closed before me, i kicked him viciously full in the face! but even then he did not resist, but only groaned wearily. merciful jesus! nor did i stop there! i jumped on his face with my feet, and then i recall that some one caught me and saved me from further madness!_" she was exhausted then, and lay without words for a long time. almost in a state of coma, she bordered, and while so, she fell into a strange sleep. the night wore on, and the clock downstairs was striking the hour of two when she suddenly awakened. she sat straight up in bed, and jerked her hands to her head, and screamed long and terribly. the household was awakened, and came hurrying to where she lay. but in the meantime she continued to scream loudly, at the top of her voice. and all the while, perspiration flowed from her body. it was nigh onto four o'clock before they succeeded in quieting her, and when they had done so she lay back again upon the pillow with a groan, and the family went back to their beds to wonder what had come over her. all felt strangely as if something evil had crept into their lives, and their excitement was great. all but ethel, who, in her evil way, was delighted, and laughed gleefully when she had returned to bed. "laugh on, ethel, you evil woman!" said glavis at her side. "evil has this night come into our lives. it _wasn't_ right in the beginning; it _isn't_ right now, nor was last night. oh, i have never wanted to see this go along as it has. because your father has trained orlean to obey and subserve to his will, he has done something to her, and she has become a demon instead of a weakling. last night i saw jean baptiste lying prone upon the floor, and knew that she had beaten him down to it, and he had not resisted. she told me as we came home what she had done, but was not aware that she was telling me. nothing good can come of evil, and it is evil that we have practiced toward that man. he is through now, and never again will he make effort to get her to live with him. but just so sure as she has abused him, just so sure will _she_ do injury to those who have brought this about." and with this he turned on his side and feigned sleep. alone orlean lay trying vainly to forget something--something that stood like a spectre before her eyes. but she could not forget it, nor did she _ever_ forget it. it had come, and it was inevitable. she had seen _it_ in her sleep. _it_ had all been so clear, and when she had awakened and screamed so long, she knew, then that it must in time be so. she would never forget it; but realizing its gravity, she decided thereupon never to tell it--the dream--to anybody. the sun shone and the birds sang, and the day was beautiful without when she at last fell asleep again. epoch the fourth epoch the fourth chapter i the drought jean baptiste jumped from the bed and went quickly to where his trousers hung on a chair, and went through the pockets hurriedly. he laid them down when through, and got his breath slowly when he had done so, and the perspiration stood out on his forehead as he concluded that he had been robbed. after a time he raised his hand to his forehead, and appeared puzzled. he was positive he had seen some one enter the room, go to the chair, and take the money from his pockets. it was rather singular, however, he now thought; for if such had happened, and he had seen it, then why had he not stopped the robber? he was deeply puzzled. he had seen the act committed, he felt sure but had made no effort whatever to stop the thief. he scratched his head in vexation, sat down, and as he did so, saw that his coat hung also upon the chair. absently his hands wandered through the pockets, and found his purse and the money in an outside pocket. he was awake then, and went to the basin, removed the bandages, and bathed his face. the swelling had gone down considerably, but the injured eye was dark. he realized then, that nobody had entered the room, for the door was locked with the key inside; but he couldn't recall having his money in his coat pocket. he was awake at last to the fact that it had been a dream. when he had bathed and dressed, he slipped quietly down the stairs, and into the street, and found his way to the thirty-fifth street "l." station. he had no plans. he considered that his relations with his wife were at an end, and from his mind he dismissed this in so far as it was possible--and as far as future plans were concerned. but since he had made no plans, whatever in the event of failure, and since failure had come, he was undecided where he was going or what he would do at once. he decided not to return home directly; he wanted to go somewhere, but did not care to stay in chicago. he took the train that was going down-town, and when he reached the twelfth street station, suddenly decided to go to southern illinois, and visit the girl jessie, with whom he had been corresponding. while walking toward the illinois central station, he purchased a paper, and was cheered to see that his candidate had carried the state in the preferential primary by an overwhelming majority. the train he was to take left at nine-forty, and he was able to forget his grief in the hour and a half he waited, by reading all the details of the election. the journey three hundred miles south was uneventful, but when he arrived at carbondale, the train that would have taken him to where he was going had left, and he was compelled to spend the night there. the next morning he caught an early train and reached the town in which she lived, his first visit there since he met the one he had married. he found jessie, and her kind sympathy, served to revive in a measure his usual composure, and when he left a few days later, he was much stronger emotionally than he had been for a year, and on his return west, determined to try to regain his fortunes that had been gradually slipping from him in the past two years. when he had digested the state of his affairs at home he had a new problem to face. decidedly he was almost "in bad." for a time his interest had been paid by his bankers; but they had left him to the mercy of the insurance companies who held the first mortgages. and these had been protesting and had lately threatened foreclosure. even so, and if the crops be good, he was confident he could make it. but before he could even sow that year's crop, he would have to see a certain banker who lived in nebraska. this man was represented by a son who conducted the bank he controlled at gregory, and the son had issued an ultimatum, and if baptiste would keep his stock that was mortgaged to the bank as security, he realized that it was best to see the boy's father, since the son had made plain his stand. the banker was out of town when he arrived, and to save time, baptiste judged that it would be best to go to sioux city, where he could meet the banker on his way home, and on the way from sioux city to the little town where the banker made his home, he could consult with him, and get an extension. in this he was successful, and returned home with an assurance that he would be given until fall to make good--but in truth, until fall to get ready. to work he went with a sort of fleeting hope. the spring had been good. but he was apprehensive that the summer would be dry as the last, and it was with misgivings that he lived through the days and weeks that followed. seed wheat and oats had been furnished to the settlers in tripp county that spring by the county commissioners, and he had sowed a portion of his land with it. conditions in the new country had gone from bad to worse, and if the season should experience another drought, the worst was come. already there were a few foreclosures in process, and excitement ran high. the country was financially embarrassed. to secure money now was almost impossible. any number of farms were for sale, but buyers there were none. a local shower fell over part of the country in the last days of may, wetting the ground perhaps an inch deep, and then hot winds began with the first day of june. for thirty days following, not a drop of rain fell on the earth. the heat became so intense that breathing was made difficult, and when the fourth of july arrived, not a kernel of corn that had been planted that spring, had sprouted. the small grain crops had been burned to a crisp, and disaster hung over the land. everywhere there was a panic. from the west, people who had gone there three and four years before were returning panic stricken; the stock they were driving--when they drove--were hollow and gaunt and thin. going hither the years before they had presented the type of aggressive pioneers. but now they were returning a tired, gaunt, defeated army. all hopes, all courage, all manhood gone, they presented a discouraging aspect. from canada on the north, to texas on the south, the hot winds had laid the land seemingly bare. everywhere cattle were being sold for a trifle, as there was no grass upon which they could feed. to the north and the south, the east and the west in the country of our story, ruin was in the wake. foreclosures became the order, and suits were minute affairs. from early morn to early morn again, the hot winds continued, and the air was surcharged with the smell of burning plants. and with the hero of our story, he saw his hopes sink with the disaster that was around him; he saw his holdings gradually slipping from him, and after some time became resigned to the inevitable. so it came to pass that another change came into his life, hence another epoch in the unusual life was his. chapter ii the foreclosure early in july when the drought had burned the crops to a crisp, and plant life was beyond redemption, the banks, trust and insurance companies holding notes secured by mortgages against the land and stock of jean baptiste began proceedings for a foreclosure. he read with the cold perspiration upon his forehead the notices that appeared in the papers. attachments were filed against all he personally possessed in gregory county, as well as in tripp county. the fact that he had not had his sister's homestead transferred to him, and that she had just made proof that summer, was a relief to him now, and with a sigh he laid down the newspapers containing the notices. it was no surprise since he had been threatened with such for many months, he regarded it therefore as unavoidable. but when the grim reality of the situation dawned upon him, it weakened him. never had he dreamed that it would come to this. he took mental inventory of his possessions and what he could lay claim to, and he happened to think about his wife's homestead. on this he had made his home since her departure, and no trouble had been given him. while the local land office had rendered a decision in her favor; the contestee had taken an appeal to the general land office and the commissioner and upon being represented by an attorney, the local land office's decision had been reversed. it had been up to him then to go further, which he had done, by appealing the case to the highest office in the land department, the secretary of the interior, and here it rested. to do this, he had agreed to pay the attorney $ to win, and one hundred dollars in the event he should not, the latter amount he had paid, and so the case stood. he had formulated no plans regarding it beyond this as to how he would continue to hold it, since now it was a settled fact in his mind that he and the woman he had married were parted forever. but poverty accompanied by crop failures for three years was a general and accepted thing now. and the fact that he was being foreclosed, occasioned no comment, and at least he could continue on without intensely feeling the attendant disgrace. it was at this juncture in life that a new thought came to jean baptiste. in all his life he had been a thinker, a practical thinker--a prolific thinker. moreover, a great reader into the bargain. so the thought that struck him now, was writing. perhaps he could write. if so then what would he write? so in the days that followed, gradually a plot formed in his mind, and when he had decided, he chose that he could write his own story--his life of hell, the work of an evil power! of writing he knew little and the art of composition appeared very difficult. but of thought, this he had a plenty. well, after all that was the most essential. if one has thoughts to express, it is possible to learn very soon some method of construction. so after some weeks of speculation, he bought himself a tablet, some pencils and took up the art of writing. he found no difficulty in saying something. the first day he wrote ten thousand words. the next day he reversed the tablet and wrote ten thousand more. in the next two days he re-wrote the twenty thousand, and on the fifth day he tore it into shreds and threw it to the winds. he had raised a little wheat and when the foreclosures had been completed and the wheat had been threshed he sowed a large portion of the seed back into the ground on three hundred acres of ground upon which the crop that year had failed. according to the law of the state, when a foreclosure is completed, the party of the first part may redeem the land within one year from the date of the foreclosure. or, better still, he may pay the interest, and taxes at the end of one year from the date of the foreclosure, and have still another year in which to redeem the land. so it is to be seen that if jean baptiste could pay his interest and taxes one year from this time, he would have two years in all to redeem his lost fortunes. hence, in seeding a large acreage of wheat, he hoped for the best. the years, however, had been too adverse to now expect any returns when a crop was sown and it had been merely good fortune that he happened to secure the means with which to sow another, for credit there was for few any more. when this was done, there was nothing to do but listen to the wind that blew dry still, although the protracted drought had been broken by light autumn rains. so took he up his pencil and fell to the task of writing again. through the beautiful, windy autumn days, he labored at his difficult task, the task of telling a story. the greatest difficulty he encountered was that he thought faster than he could write. therefore he often broke off right in the middle of a sentence to relate an incident that would occur to him to tell of something else. but at last he had written something that could be termed a story. he took what appeared to him to be quite sufficient for a book to a friend who had voiced an interest in his undertaking. in fact, although he had said nothing about it, the news had spread that he was writing a story of the country and everybody became curious. of course they were not aware of his limited knowledge of the art of composition. to them, a patriotic, boosting people--despite the ravages of drought which had swept the country, this was a new kind of boost,--a subtle method of advertising the country. so everybody began looking for the appearance of his story in all the leading magazines. the fact helped the newsdealers considerably. but to return to jean baptiste and the story he was writing. the friend was baffled when he saw so many tablets and such writing. he pretended to be too busy, at the time to consider it, and sent him to another. but it was a long time before he found any one who was willing to attempt to rearrange his scribbled thoughts. but a lawyer who needed the wherewithal finally condescended to risk the task, and into it he plunged. he staggered along with much difficulty and managed to complete half of it by christmas. the remainder was corrected by a woman who proved even more efficient than the lawyer, notwithstanding the fact that she was not as well trained. besides, jean baptiste was of quick wit, and he soon saw where he was most largely in error, so he was very helpful in reconstructing the plot, and early in the next year, he had some sort of story to send the rounds of the publishers. and here was the next great problem. he had, while writing, and before, read of the difficulties in getting a manuscript accepted for publication. but, like most writers in putting forth their first literary efforts, he was of the opinion that what he had written was so different from the usual line of literature offered the publishers, that it must therefore receive preference over all. so with its completion, he wrapped it carefully, and sent it to a chicago publisher, while he sighed with relief. it seemed a long time before he heard from it, but in a few days he received a letter, stating that his manuscript had been received, and would be carefully examined, and also thanking him for sending it to them. well, that sounded very encouraging, he thought, so he took hope anew that it would be accepted. in the meantime he was questioned daily as to when and where it would appear. he was mentioned in the local newspapers, and much speculation was the issue. many inquired if he had featured them in the story, and were cheered if he said that he had, while others showed their disappointment when advised that they had not been mentioned. but with one and all, there was shown him deep appreciation of his literary effort. so anxious did he become to receive their "decision" that as the days passed and he waited patiently, he finally went to town to board until he could receive a reply. and as time passed, he became more and more nervous. at last his anxiety reached a point where he was positive that if he received an adverse decision, it would surely kill him. therefore he would entertain no possibility of a rejection. it _must_ be accepted, and that was final. added to this, he took note of all the publicity he had been accorded with regard to the same. how would he be able to face these friends if they failed to accept the book? tell them that it had been rejected as unavailable? this fact worried him considerably, and made him persist in his own mind that the company would accept it. some of his less practical creditors extended his obligation anticipating that his work would net him the necessary funds for settlement--the question of acceptance they did not know enough about to consider. so it went, the time passed, and he could scarcely wait until the stage reached the little town where he now received his mail. he was never later than the second at the postoffice window. he had read in jack london's _martin eden_ that an acceptance meant a long thin envelope. well, that was the kind he watched for--but of course, he estimated, it was possible for it to come in another form of envelope, so he wouldn't take that too seriously. still, if such an envelope should be handed him, he would breathe easier until it was opened. and then one day the letter came. the postmaster, who knew everybody's business, regarded the publishers' name in the upper left hand corner, and said: "there she is! now read it aloud!" baptiste muttered something about that not being the one, and got out of the office. his heart was pounding like a trip hammer; for, while he had concluded that a long thin envelope would not necessarily mean an acceptance, his was a short one, and he was greatly excited. he went blindly down the street, turned at the corner and sought a quiet place, a livery barn. herein he found an empty stall that was dark enough not to be seen, and still afforded sufficient light to read in. he nervously held the letter for some minutes afraid to open and read the contents, and tried to stop the violent beating of his heart. at last, with forced courage, he broke the seal, drew the letter forth and read: "_mr. jean baptiste_, "dear sir: "as per our statement of some time ago, regarding the manuscript you were so kind as to send us, beg to advise that the same has been carefully examined, and we regret to state has been found unavailable for our needs. we are therefore returning the same to you today by express. "regretting that we cannot write you more favorably, but thanking you for bringing this to our attention, believe us to be, "cordially and sincerely yours, "a.c. mcgraw & co." he gazed before him at nothing for some minutes. he was trying to believe he had read awrong. so he read it again. no, it read just the same as it had before. it was done; his last opportunity for redemption seemed to be gone. he turned and staggered from the barn and went blindly up the street. at the corner he met the deputy sheriff, who approached him jovially, and then gave him another shock when he said: "i've got a writ here, baptiste, and will be glad to have you tell me where this stuff of yours is so i can go and get it." he raised his hand to his forehead then, and began thinking. he _had_ to do something, for although all his land had been foreclosed on, he had two years to redeem the same. but this writ--well, the man was there to take the stock, then! chapter iii irene grey men of the type of jean baptiste don't waver and despair regardless as to how discouraged they may at times, under adverse circumstances, become. when he was confronted with the law with the papers to take from him the stock with which to seed his crop, his mental faculties became busy, and in the course of two hours he had been granted an extension on the note and the deputy sheriff had returned to winner as he had come, empty handed. but _what was he to do_! he had no money and no credit. he had the land in tripp county that was broken into winter wheat, while that in the next county east was rented. he could, of course, rent some more land and put it to crop; but he was for the present through with any more large crops until the seasons became more normal. so he was at a loss how to engage himself for the months that were coming. he still lived on his wife's homestead, and had no plans and nowhere else to live. in these days he found reading a great diversion. he simply devoured books, studying every detail of construction, and learning a great deal as to style and effect. then he tried writing short stories, but like the book manuscript, they always came back. he concluded after a time that it was a waste of postage to send them around; that in truth they were not read--and again, that there was no fortune in writers' royalties always, anyhow. he was possessed with a business turn of mind, and one day he met a man who told him that it was possible for him to have his book printed and be his own publisher. that sounded very good--anything sounded good in these dark days in the life of jean baptiste. this was a splendid idea. but it was some time before he was able to find the proper persons with whom to take this up. but, he finally secured the address of a company who would manufacture a book to exceed pages for fifty cents per book. although this was the most encouraging thing he had encountered in his literary effort, the price seemed very high in view of what he had been told. he had planned that it could be made for much less. however he decided to consider it. now jean baptiste had less means at hand than he had ever had in his life. not a dollar did he possess--not even did he have a suit of clothes any more, and wore every day his corduroys. he owed the promoters of the old townsite of dallas more than he was likely to pay very soon, but they still were his friends. but to get to dallas, fifty miles away, was still another problem. he went to a bank in the little town where he had other friends from whom he had never asked credit. they loaned him what he asked for, $ . . with this he went to dallas. the senior member of the firm was in town--that is, senior in age but not in position. jean baptiste possessed great personality, and to be near one was to effect that one with it. "i believe you could do alright with that book, baptiste," this one said when baptiste had told him regarding the company who would put it out for him. "yes, i am confident i can, too, graydon," replied baptiste. "but i am clean, dead broke. i can't go down there." the other was silent for a moment as he stood wrapped in thought. presently he said: "how much do you have to have to go down there?" "oh, thirty-five or forty dollars." "i'll let you have fifty." "i'm ready at any minute," so saying, he went to a store across the street where he had friends, and there was dressed from head to foot, charging the clothes to his account. two days later he walked into the office of the printing firm with which he had been in correspondence. they were rather surprised when they saw that he was an ethiopian, but he soon put them at ease. after several days' of negotiating they finally reached an agreement whereby they would manufacture one thousand copies at seventy-five cents per copy. he was to pay one third of the amount before the book went to press, the balance he was to pay within a reasonable time. an outrageous price, he knew--at least felt. but he was to have all subsequent editions for one half the amount of the original edition, which was some consolation to look forward to. another fence: who would furnish that two hundred and fifty dollars and secure him for the remainder? besides, what would he do with the books when he had them? publishing meant distribution. but what did he know of such? he thought these things over carefully and finally decided that he would sell them himself. he communicated this fact to the firm. it was rather unusual for an author, perhaps, to sell his own works. jean baptiste had never sold anything by solicitation since he had grown up, but when he was young he had been a great peddler of garden vegetables. he would sell his book, and he seemed to convince them that he could. they prepared some prospectuses for him, and back home he returned. he told, in answer to the volumes of inquiries that everything was all right, and that the book would appear soon. he said nothing, however, to the friends he had in view to put up the money and that necessary security. he believed in proving a thing, and all else would necessarily follow. he would go out and secure orders there at home among his friends and acquaintances. but the day he planned to start was very cold--the mercury stood twenty-seven below zero. starting in dallas he received orders for one hundred forty-two copies the first day. very good for a starter. he went to winner the next day. despite the fact that the drought had done no good to the people of that community and town, they all were acquainted with and admired jean baptiste. besides, they would not see dallas beat them. and one hundred fifty-three copies were ordered by them. jean baptiste could prove anything in a fair fight if given a chance. he secured orders for fifteen hundred copies of his book in two weeks. the promoters went his security and put up the cash into the bargain, and he went back to the publishing house victorious. the printers had evidenced their confidence in him, for they had been so impressed with his personality that they had begun work upon the copy when he returned. in thirty days it was ready, and in sixty days from the time he was penniless, he had deposited twenty-five hundred dollars to the credit of the book in the banks. as he was winding up his business preparatory to interviewing his printers, establishing an office and going into the book business for a livelihood, he was the recipient of a telegram from washington advising that the honorable secretary of the interior had reversed the commissioner's decision, which had been adverse to his wife, with regard to the claim. he had won, but as to how he would ever prove up he didn't know, nor did he let it worry him. he was too flushed with success in his new field. he could still hold the claim, but it would be his wife who must offer proof on the same, and his wife he had not heard from for over a year. he did not find his new field of endeavor so profitable when he began to work among strangers. indeed, while he did business the money didn't seem to come in as it should. he conceived an idea of securing agents among the colored people, and in that way effect a good sale. to begin with, this was difficult, for the reason the black man's environment has not been conducive to the art of selling anything except those things that require little or no wide knowledge. they deal largely in hair goods to make their curls grow or hang straighter,--or in complexion creams to clarify and whiten the skin. yet he succeeded in getting many to take the agency and these received orders and sent for the books. he had learned that it was a custom with subscription book companies to allow agents to have the books and give them thirty days in which to remit the money. this proved agreeable to his agents. however, the greater number of them took not only thirty days--but life, and did not send in the money when they died. he was confronted then with the task of learning how he could get the books to them and be assured of his money. to learn this, he went on the road himself appointing agents and selling to bookstores. and it was upon this journey that he met one who had played a little part in his life some years before, at a time when conditions had been entirely different with him. in kansas city she occurred to him. he recalled that it was only twelve miles from the city where her father owned and lived upon one of the greatest farms in the country. he thought of the last letter he had received from her, the letter that had come too late. and then he thought of what had passed since. girls in her circumstances would not be likely to waste their sympathies with grasswidowers; but he wished that he might see her and look just once into the eyes that might have been his. but his courage failed him. he still had spirit and pride, so he gave it up for the time. late in the afternoon of that day, he was engaged with some acquaintances in the bar-room of a club. they became quite jolly as cocktails and red liquor flowed and tingled their veins. he thought again of irene grey, and the memory was exhilarating. and the cocktails gave him the necessary courage. he was bold at last and to the telephone he went and called her over long distance. "is this the greys home?" he called. "yes," came back the answer, and he was thrilled at the mellowness of the voice at the other end. "is miss irene at home?" he called now. "yes," it said. "this is she." he was sobered. all the effect of the cocktails went out of him on the instant. he choked blindly, groped for words, and finally said: "why--er--ah--this is a friend of yours. an old friend. mayhap you have forgotten me." "i don't know," she called back. "who are you?" he still didn't have the courage to tell her, but sought to make himself known by explaining. he then mentioned the state from whence he came, but no further did he get. it so happened that she had heard all about his troubles following his marriage, and, womanlike, feeling that she had been in a way displaced by the other, she had always been anxious to meet and know him. "oh," she cried, and the echo of her voice rang in his ears over the wire for some moments. "is this you?" she cried now, her voice evidencing the excitement she was laboring under. "yes," he admitted somewhat awkwardly, not knowing whether the fact had thrilled and joyed her, or, whether he was in for a rebuke for calling her up. but he was speedily reassured. "then why don't you come on out here?" she cried. "i--i didn't know whether i would be welcome," he replied, happy in a new way. "oh, pshaw! why _wouldn't_ you be welcome? but now," her tone changed. "where are you?" "in kansas city." "let me see," she said, and he knew she was thinking. "it is now four thirty, and a train leaves there that passes through here in forty minutes. it doesn't stop here; but you catch it and go to the station above here, do you understand?" "yes, yes," he replied eagerly. "well, now, listen! the station i refer to is only four miles above this, and when you get off there, catch another train that comes in a few minutes back this way, see?" "yes, yes." "well, that train stops at this station, and there i will meet you." "oh, fine," he cried. "i'll be there." "now you will be sure to catch it," she cautioned. "most assuredly!" "i will depend on it." "count me there!" "i want to talk to you, i'm going to talk all night." "good-by." chapter iv what might have been jean baptiste was so elated over being invited to call early to see miss irene grey, that he went back to the bar where his acquaintances lingered, ordered drinks for all, and imbibed so freely that when he reached the depot, he found the train had left him. his disappointment was keen, and he was provoked with himself. however, since it was so, he went to a booth, called her up, and advised her of the fact. "now wasn't that careless of you," she complained. "i am sure you are _very_ careless." "i wouldn't have missed it for anything in the _world_," he told her. "indeed, i was so delighted over the prospects of seeing you, after these many years, and i indulged so freely that i lost the sense of time." "how is that--did you say that you _drank_?" "well, yes, i do," he admitted frankly; "but not in a dangerous sense. i do not recall having been drunk but once in my life, and trust that i will never have occasion to recall a second occurrence." "oh," she echoed. "i am relieved. i don't trust a drinker, and the fact that you were left made me suspect you." "at least i can reassure you on that score. i am proud to say that i have the strength of my convictions." "i am pleased to hear that. a man has a poor chance to succeed in the world otherwise." "i agree with you." "well, now, let me see when you can get out here," she said meditatively. after a time he heard her voice again. he had never seen her, not even a photograph of her. he could only estimate her appearance from recalling her brother, and from what he had been told. but however she may appear, her voice, to say the least, was the most beautiful he thought that he had ever heard. he listened to every word she said, and thought the tone like sweet music. "you will have to stay in k.c. all night now," she said regretfully. "and i must repeat that i am so disappointed. it had been my dream that i would talk with you all the night through," whereupon she laughed and this was even more beautiful than her voice when speaking. "but, now," she began again, admonishingly, "you will arise at eight--no, seven, do you understand, and catch a train that leaves the city at eight. i will be at the station to meet you again." "i cross my heart that i will catch it." "and if you do not--so help you god!" "i hope to die if i miss it." "well, if you do, don't die--but catch the train, that's all. now good-by, and you are forgiven this once." "good-by." * * * * * whatever happened it is irrelevant to relate, but jean baptiste missed the morning train, and so disgusted was he with himself that he boarded a train for topeka where he went and appointed some agents, intending to get the train back that afternoon. but his "jonah" still clung to him, and when he had it estimated that the train went at five-thirty, it had gone at four fifty-two and he was left again. "i'll catch the morning train if i must sit here all the night through," he swore, so put out with himself that he could say no more. he ascertained the exact minute the morning train left, and this train found him on time. it was sunday in early june, and the day was beautiful. the air was rich, and the growing crops gave forth a sweet aroma. he reached the little town near where she lived, and even from the depot the splendid home in which they lived could be seen reposing vaingloriously upon a hillside. in the community her father was the wealthiest man, having made his fortune in the growing of potatoes and fruit. she was not at the depot to meet him, and he had not expected her. it was perhaps two miles to the big residence on the hill, and to this he set out to walk. when he arrived, the house seemed to be deserted, and, as it was sunday, he surmised that the family were at services. he went up to the front door and knocked loudly. he was conscious at once of whisperings from the inside. presently the door was opened slowly an inch, and he saw an eye peeping out at him. "who are you?" a voice whispered. he told the eye. "oh, yes," cried the voice and it happened to be a boy, and the cause of the whispering and quietness from the inside was due to certain pranks going on inside. "and you're that fellow from up in the northwest," said the youngster, opening the door wide and stepping away to look at him curiously. "yes, i guess that's whom you refer to." "we are certainly glad to see you around here," said the other. "irene's been down to the train to meet you three times and she's sure fighting mad by this time." "oh, say, i really don't blame her a bit--to be put to so much trouble and be disappointed in the end. but, on the square, i had not anticipated being so highly honored." "aw, we've been anxious to know you for years. we boys had sort of planned when you was writing to irene two or three years ago to come up there and get in on some of that land." "that would have been a capital move." "yes, but you quit writing and got married, so we heard, and had bad luck in the end," whereupon he laughed. baptiste looked embarrassed. "where is the family and how many are there of you?" "aw, say! we are so many around here that you'll have to get paper and pencil and mark us down to keep track of how many. my father is in colorado on business, while irene, mama and another sister are at the next town up the line attending a funeral." "and the boys--" "just gettin' ready to go swimmin'. wanta go long?" "say, there hasn't enough water fallen where i've lived for the last three years at the right time to fill a pond deep enough to go swimming in, so i'll just take you up," he cried, full of the idea. it was in the early afternoon when they got back, to find that the folks had returned from the funeral. following the boys, baptiste entered by the kitchen door to encounter the mother and three daughters preparing the meal. hereupon he was caused much embarrassment and discomfiture, for of the three girls, he knew not which one was irene. quickly seeing his confusion, they laughed long and heartily among themselves. finally, his predicament became so awkward that an expression of distress crept into his face. at this point the most attractive one of the three girls walked forward, extended her hand, and he saw by the expression she now wore, that she was sorry for him, as she said: "i'm irene, and you are mr. jean baptiste." she paused then, and looked away to hide the color that had rushed to her face, while he clutched the outstretched hand just a bit dubiously. she looked up then again, and seeing that he was still confused and perhaps in doubt, she reassured him: "the joke is over now, thanks. i'm the one you called up and once wrote to. i'm irene," and with this she led him to the front and showed him her picture, whereupon he was at last satisfied. "and you came at last," she said later, when the two were seated in the parlor. "at last," he laughed and observed her keenly. she noted it, and conjectured that it was from a curiosity that was some years old. it was true, and he was seeing her and perhaps thinking of what might have been. she was beautiful, he could see. a mixed type of the present day negro, she was slightly tall, and somewhat slender, with a figure straight and graceful. her hair was of the silken wavy sort not uncommon among the negro of this type. such hair seems to have had its beginning with the cross between the negro and the indian--a result that has always been striking when it comes to the hair. her face, like her figure was straight and slender; while her eyes were black, quick and small. her nose was high bridged, and straight to a point while the mouth below was small and tempting. but what he observed most of all now, and admired forthwith was the chin. a wonderful chin, long and straight. a strong, firm chin, and as he regarded it he could seem to read the owner. whatever she was or may be, he was confident then that she was possessed of a strong will and in that moment orlean recurred to him. orlean was regarded as a fairly attractive woman; but her chin, unlike that of the one before him, was inclined to retreat. and, of course, he knew only too well, that her will had been the weakest. "you are very successful in missing trains," she ventured. he laughed, and she joined him. he looked up then and caught her regarding him keenly out of her half closed eyes, and as she did so, she reminded him of an indian princess such as he had seen in pictures and read about. there was more about her than he had at first observed, and which was made plain in the look she gave him. for in it there was passion--love to her meant much! "oh, i was so disappointed," she said. "it was not you?" "but how could you have missed the train so often?" "i cannot account for it. i am not in the habit of doing so. indeed, i think it was because i was overly anxious." she laughed then, to herself, elfin like. "i have been curious to see you for a long time." he was silent, and his eyes did not return the look she had given him. "ever since i received _that_ letter...." and still he did not reply. the subject was too suggestive, not to say embarrassing; but she was bold. he couldn't know now whether she was serious or merely joking; but notwithstanding it sounded pleasant to his ears. he could hear her voice for a long time, he was sure, and not grow weary.... we should pause at this point to make known--perhaps explain, that the persons of our story are the unconventional. and with the unconventional what was in their minds was most likely to be discussed. the woman, therefore, was the most curious. she was a woman, and in truth she would have married the man beside her had he have come hither when he had gone to chicago. "what did you do with your little wife?" he raised his eyes then, not to look at her, but because of something he did not himself understand. perhaps it just happened so? she regarded him again; looked him full in the eyes, and his eyes spoke more than words. strangely she understood all, almost in a flash, and was sorry. she regretted that she had spoken so directly. she admired him now. when he had looked up, and like that, she had seemed to see and understand at last the man he was. "pardon me, please," she said, and rising quickly, took a chair nearer his. she reached and touched him on the arm. "i didn't--i--well, i didn't intend to be bold." she paused in confusion, and then went on: "i hope you will pardon me. i am sure i didn't intend to embarrass you." "it is all right," he said. "and since you have asked me, may i explain?" it was she who was now embarrassed. she looked away in great confusion. she was bolder than the conventional girl as a rule; but the subject was delicate. yet she wanted to hear the story that she knew he would never tell. if he did, he was not the type of man she had estimated. "of course you would think me a cad, a--well, i have my opinion of a man that would tell _his_ side of such a story to a _woman_." she looked at him then without any embarrassment in her eyes. she was able to read the man and all that was him clearly. she smiled a smile after this that was one of satisfaction, and at that moment her sisters called that the meal was ready. chapter v "tell me why you didn't answer the last letter i wrote you" "now i wish you would tell me all about yourself, that is, all you _care_ to tell," said irene grey to the man who sat beside her on the veranda of their beautiful home, some time after luncheon had been served. "i have always been peculiarly interested in you and your life alone off there in the northwest," whereupon she made herself comfortable and prepared to listen. "oh," he said hesitatingly, thinking of the series of dry years and their attendant disaster, and hoping that he could find some way of avoiding a conversation in which that was involved. "i really don't consider there is much to relate. my life has been rather--well, in a measure uneventful." "oh, but it hasn't, i know," she protested. "all alone you were for so many years, and you have been, so i have been told, an untiring worker." she was anxious, he could see, but withal sincere, and in the course of the afternoon, she told him of how her father had came to kansas a poor man, bought the land now a part of what they owned on payments, found that raising potatoes was profitable--especially when they were ready for the early market, and later after his marriage to her mother, and with her mother's assistance, had succeeded. from where they sat, their property stretched before them in the valley of the kaw, and comprised several hundred acres of the richest soil in the state. indeed, his success was widely known, and jean baptiste had been rather curious to know the family intimately. after some time he walked with her through three hundred acres of potatoes that lay in the valley before the house, and he had for the first time in his life, the opportunity to study potato raising on a large scale. "from your conversation it seems that you raise potatoes on the same ground every year. i am curious to know how this is done, for even on the blackest soil in the country i live, this is regarded as quite impossible with any success." "well, it is generally so; but we have found that to plow the land after the potatoes have been dug, and then seed the same in turnips is practical. when the turnips, with their wealth of green leaves are at their best, then, we plow them under and the freezing does the rest." "a wonderful mulch!" "it is very simple when one looks into it." they were walking through the fields, and without her knowing it, he studied her. the kind of girl and the kind of family his race needed, he could see. in his observation of the clan to which he had been born, practicability was the greatest need. indeed he was sometimes surprised that his race could be so impracticable. further west in this state, his uncles, who, like all negroes previous to the emancipation, had been born slaves, had gone west in the latter seventies and early eighties, and settled on land. with time this land had mounted to great values and the holders had been made well-to-do thereby. a case of evolution, on all sides. over all the central west, this had been so. at the price land now brought it would have been impossible for any to own land. there happened, then as had recently, a series of dry years--seemingly about every twenty years. to pull through such a siege, the old settlers usually did much better than the new. to begin with, they were financially better able; but on the other hand, they did not, as a rule, take the chances new settlers were inclined to take. because two or three years were seasonable, and crops were good, they did not become overly enthusiastic and plunge deeply into debt as he had done. he could see his error now, and the chances new settlers were inclined to take. because moreover, he had been so much alone--his wedded life had been so brief, and even during it, he was confused so much with disadvantages, that he had never attempted to subsidize his farming with stock raising. perhaps this had been his most serious mistake; to have had a hundred head of cattle during such a period as had just passed, would have been to have gone through it without disaster. he felt rather guilty as he strolled beside this girl whose father had succeeded. but one thing he would not do, and that was make excuses. he had ever been opposed to excusing away his failures. if he had failed, he had failed, no excuses should be resorted to. but as they strolled through the fields of potatoes he could not help observe the contrast between the woman he had married, and the one now beside him that he might have had for wife. here was one, and he did not know her so well as to conclude what kind of girl in all things she was, but it was a self evident fact that she was practical. whereas, he had only to recall that not only had his wife been impractical, but that her father before her had been so. he recalled that awful night before he had taken her away, at colome, when that worthy when he chanced to use the word practical, had exclaimed: "i'm so tired of hearing that word i do not know what to do!" and it was seconded by his cohort in evil, ethel. his race was filled with such as n.j. mccarthy, he knew; but not only were they hypocrites, and in a measure enemies to success but enemies to society as well. how many were there in his race who purported to be sacrificing their very soul for the cause of ethiopia but when so little as medical aid was required in their families, called in a white physician to administer the same. this had been the case of his august father-in-law all his evil life. "would you like to walk down by the river?" she said now, and looked up into his face. she had been silent while he was so deeply engrossed in thought, and upon hearing her voice he started abruptly. "what--why--what's the matter?" she inquired anxiously. "nothing," he said quickly, coloring guiltily. "i was just thinking." "of what?" she asked artfully. "of you," he said evasively. "no, you weren't," she said easily. "on the contrary, i venture to suggest that you were thinking of yourself, your life and what it has been." "you are psychological." "but i have guessed correctly, haven't i?" "i'm compelled to agree that you have." they had reached the river now, and took a seat where they could look out over its swiftly moving waters. "frankly i wish you would tell me of your life," she said seriously. "my brother who, as you know is now dead, told me so much of you. indeed, he was so very much impressed with you and your ways. he used to tell me of what an extraordinary character you were, and i was so anxious to meet you." he was silent, but she was an unconventionally bold person. she was curious, and the more he was silent on such topics, the more anxious she became to know the secret that he held. "i appreciate your silence," she said, and gave him the spell of her wonderful eyes. stretched there under a walnut she was the picture of enchantment. almost he wanted to forget the years and what had passed with them since she wrote him that letter that he had received too late. "i want to ask you one question--have wanted to ask it for years," she pursued. "i want to ask it because, somehow, i am not able to regard you as a flirt." she paused then, and regarded him with her quick eyes, expectantly. but he made no answer, so she went on. "from what _i_ have heard, i think i may be free to discuss this," and she paused again, with her eyes asking that she may. he nodded. "well, of course," she resumed, as if glad that she might tell what was in her mind. "it is not--should not be the woman to ask it, either; but won't you tell me why you didn't answer the last letter i wrote you--tell me why you _didn't_ come on the visit you suggested?" he caught his breath sharply, whereat, she looked up and into his eyes. his lips had parted, but merely to exclaim, but upon quick thought he had hesitated. "yes?" "i heard you." "well?" "i hardly know how to answer you." "please." "don't insist on a reply." "i don't want to, but--" "i'd rather not tell." "well, i don't know as i ought to have asked you. it was perhaps unladylike in me so to do; but honestly i _would_ like to know the truth." he permitted his eyes to rest on the other bank, and as a pastime he picked up small pebbles and cast them into the river, and watched the ripples they made subside. he thought long and deeply. he had almost forgotten the circumstances that led up to the unfortunate climax. she, by his side, he estimated, was merely curious. should he confess? would it be worth while? of course it would not; but at this moment he felt her hand on his arm. "we'll go now." they arose then, and went between the rows of potatoes back to the house. when they arrived there was some excitement, and she was greeted anxiously. "papa has returned," said one of the boys, coming to meet them. "oh, he has," whereupon she caught his hand and led him hurriedly into the presence of the man who was widely known as junius n. grey, the negro potato king. chapter vi the story junius grey inquired at length concerning the land whence he had come, of the prospects, of the climate, and at last relieved baptiste by inquiring as to whether the drought had swept over that section as well as other westerly parts. "i have had the same result with twenty-two hundred acres i own in the western part of the state. but such will come--have come every once in a while since i have been here," he assured him. "if you have been caught with considerable debt to annoy you, and succeed in pulling through, it will be a lesson to you as it has been to others." "it _has_ been a lesson, i admit," said baptiste a little awkwardly. irene, who seemed to be her father's favorite, sat near, and regarded him kindly while he related how the drought had swept over the land, and the disaster that followed. he did not tell them _all_; that he had been foreclosed, but that, he felt, was not necessary. withal, he had met those in his race whom he had longed to meet. of business they could discourse with intelligence, and that was not common. grey's holdings were much, and baptiste was cheered to see that he was possessed with the sagacity and understanding to manage the same with profit to himself. besides, the family about him, while not as conventional as he had found among the more intelligent classes of his race, had grown into the business ways and assisted him. "would you like to attend services at the church this evening," said irene after a time, and when they were again alone. "why, i suppose i might as well." "then i'll get ready." she disappeared then, to return shortly, dressed in a striking black dress covered with fine lace; while on her head she wore a wide, drooping hat that set off her appearance with much artistic effect. "what is your denomination," she asked when they went down the walkway to the road. the church was not far distant, and, in fact was at the corner of his property, and was largely kept up by her father he had been told. "the _big_ church, i guess," he said amusedly. "indeed!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise. "and yours?" "oh, baptist, of course," she replied easily. when she held his arm like she now did, it made him feel peculiar. never, three years before, would he have thought that he would be company again for another woman--at least, under such circumstances. "what do you think of protestantism?" "well," he replied thoughtfully, "it has not been until lately that i have considered it seriously." "so?" "and sometimes i am not inclined to think it has been for the best." "how so?" "well, it appears to me that organization is lacking in so many of the protestant churches." "but is that the fault of protestantism?" "i hardly know how to reply to you. it seems, however, that inasmuch as catholicism requires more effort, more concentration of will force on the part of their members to come up and live up to their standard of religion; and that since it is obviously easier to be some kind of a protestant, then protestantism has afforded a less organized appreciation of the christ." "you make it very plain. and especially is it so in the church to which i belong. but i am sure, however, if the standard of requirement was raised within the negro baptists, it would be better for all." "you mean--" "if it was compulsory for the ministers to possess a college education and attendance for at least three years at a theological seminary, the standard would be raised in the churches conducted by negroes." "i agree with you; and do you know, that since i have been in the book business only these few short months, it has been my experience that ours is a race of notoriously poor readers." "isn't it so! oh, it is dreadful when we come to consider how much needy knowledge we lose thereby." "it is staggering." "why is it so?" "well, to begin with. there is little encouragement to become a reader among negroes themselves. take, for instance, the preacher. by all circumstances a minister--at least should be a reader. is it not so?" "certainly." "well, are they as a whole?" "lord, no!" "then, how can you expect their followers to be?" "we cannot." "another disadvantage, is separate schools." "i don't quite understand?" "well, mix the negro children daily with the whites, and they are sure to become enamored of their ways." "i gather your trend." "the most helpful thing on earth. negro children thereby are able, in a measure, to eradicate the little evils that come from poor homes; homes wherein the parents, ignorant often, are compelled to be away at work." "evil environment, bad influence!" "that is it. there is no encouragement to read, therefore no opportunity to develop thought, and the habit of observation." "how plain you make everything." "and now we have come unto the church, and must end our conversation." "i'm sorry." he was, too, but they filed into the little church. in and around where they now sat, there was quite a settlement of negroes, mostly small farmers. perhaps it was due to the inspiration of the successful grey. she had, earlier in the evening, pointed out here and there where a negro family owned five acres; where somewhere else they lived on and farmed ten acres and fifteen acres and so on. after slavery there had been a tendency on the part of the negro to continue in the industrious ways he had been left in by his former master. the cultivation was strong; but strangely there had come a desire to go into town to see, and to loaf. perhaps it was because he had not been given such a privilege during the days of bondage. but here in this little valley of the kaw, he was cheered to see his race on a practical and sensible basis. only in the pursuit of agriculture can the black man not complain that he is discriminated against on account of his color. when the service was over, they walked leisurely homeward, and their conversation became more intimate. the feeling of a woman by his side thrilled jean baptiste. in his life on the prairies, this had never been afforded, so to him it was something new, and something gloriously sweet. or was it her presence? at least he was moved. he decided that he would go his way soon, because it was dangerous for him to linger in her radiating presence without regretting what fate had willed. "isn't it warm tonight?" she said, when they reached the porch. "dreadfully so down here in your valley." "perhaps you will not care to retire, and would rather sit out where the air is best," she suggested. "i would be glad to." "very well, then," and she found a seat where they were hidden by vines and the shade of the big house. "i'll return presently, when i have put my hat away." when she returned, her curiosity to know why he had not visited her was, he could see again, her chief anxiety. she tried to have him divulge why in subtle ways. late into the night they lingered on the veranda, and he found himself on the verge of confessing all to her. he succeeded in keeping it from her that night, but she was resourceful. moreover, her curiosity had reached a point bordering on desperation. accordingly, she had the boys to hitch a team to a buggy and took him driving over the great estate. for hours during the cool of the morning, she drove him through orchards, and over wheat-fields where the wheat now reposed in shocks. she chatted freely, discoursed on almost every topic, and during it all he saw what a wonderfully courageous woman she was. he loved the study of human nature, and wit. here, he could see, was a rare woman, but withal there was about her something that disturbed him. what was it? he kept trying to understand. he never quite succeeded until that night. a heavy rain had fallen in the afternoon, and he lingered in her company at her invitation and encouragement. that night the sky was overcast, the air was sultry, and the night was very dark. she took him to their favorite seat within the vines, and where nothing but the darkness was their company. and there she resumed her artful efforts to have him tell her all. never in his life had jean baptiste the opportunity to be perfectly free. he had once loved dearly, and he had sought to forget the one he had so loved because of the _custom of the country_ and its law. out of his life she had apparently gone, and we know the fate of the other. there is nothing in the world so sweet as to love a woman. but, on the other hand, mayhap all that is considered love is not so; it may be merely passion, and it was passion he discovered that was guiding irene grey. he saw when this occurred to him, that in such a respect she was unusual. well, his life had been an unhappy life; love free and openly he had never tasted but once, but a law higher than the law of the land had willed against that love, and he had subserved to custom. so he decided to tell her all, and leave on the morrow. "please, jean," she begged, calling him by his first name. "won't you tell it to _me_?" he regarded her in the darkness beside him. she was very close, and he could feel the warmth of her body against his. he reached him out then, and boldly placed his arm about her. she yielded to the embrace without objection. he could feel the soft down of her hair against his face, and it served to intoxicate him; aroused the passion and desire in his hungry soul. "_yes_, irene," he said then. "i will tell _you_ the story, and tomorrow i will go away." "no," she said, and drew closer to him. on the impulse he embraced her, and in the darkness found her lips, and the kiss was like a soul touch. he sighed when he turned away, but she caught his face and drew his lips where she could hear him closely. "tell me," she repeated. "for so long i have wanted to hear." "well, it was like this. you know--rather, perhaps you recall the circumstances under which we met." "i remember _everything_, jean." "i was in love with no one, i can say, but i _had_ loved outside of our race." "our race?" "yes." "you mean," she said, straightening curiously, "that you loved an indian up there? that, i recall is the home of the sioux?" "no, i have _never_ loved an indian." "then _what_?" "a white girl." "_oh, jean_," she said, and drew slightly away. he drew her back to him, and she yielded and settled closely in the curve of his arm, and he told her the story. "honestly, that was too bad. you sacrificed much. and to think that you _loved_ a white girl!" "it was so." "so it came that you sacrificed the real love to be loyal to the race we belong to?" "i guess you may call it that." "it was manly, though. i admire your strength." "it was then i wrote you." "yes. and--" "others." "i understand. you loved none of us, perhaps, and it was because you had not had the opportunity, maybe?" "perhaps it was so." "and now i will hear how it happened." "i must first confess something that pains me." "oh, that confession! but maybe i am entitled to hear it?" "well, yes, i think so. there were three." "oh...." "and you were the first choice." "_me?_" "but i waited for your letter. there was a _time_ limit." "and i was away." "therefore never received it in time." "and you?" "at omaha i hesitated, and then decided that you did not favor it." "o-oh!" "so i went to chicago, to meet the second choice." "such an unusual proceeding, but interesting, oh, _so_ much so. please go on." "_she_ lived in new york." "in new york?" "was a maid on the twentieth century limited." "o-oh!" "but sickness overtook her. she didn't get into chicago when she was due." "such fate." "i wonder at it." "and then you got the _last_ choice." "that is it." not knowing what else to do, she was so carried away with the story, she stared before her into the darkness. "and when _did_ you receive my letter? i understand about the claim business." "when i returned with her to gregory." she was silent. he was too. both were in deep thought and what was in the mind of both was: _what might have been._ chapter vii her birthright "for a mess of pottage" the people of winner and vicinity had no opportunity to rush to the farmers' state bank, of which eugene crook, mentioned earlier in our story was president, and draw any portion of their money before the bank examiner's notice greeted them one morning. the bank was closed by order of the public examiner, so that was settled. the causes became apparent the day before, although those directly interested did not understand. it was in the shape of drafts they had bought and sent away, which came back to them indirectly, marked by the bank upon which they were drawn: "no funds." not much excitement followed the closing, although in some manner crook had worked into the confidence of the people since moving the bank to winner, and was leading the four banks in the town in point of deposits. of course it hit many needy ones quite hard, but the people of the country had become so accustomed to adversities, that even bank failures included did not excite them. but there happened a few days after the failure an incident that has some connection with our story. crook went upon a journey. he was gone several days and when he returned, the unexpected happened. it caused about as much excitement as had the failure of the bank because of its cunningness. when jean baptiste had ended his visit with irene grey, he returned to his office at the publishing house to find considerable mail awaiting him. one letter was from his attorney in washington, and since he had won the claim for baptiste's wife in the contest, baptiste naturally took it for granted that it was a request for the balance of his fee. so he laid the letter aside until he had attended to all other business, and later opened and read it. "washington, d.c., july, -- "_mr. jean baptiste_, "my dear sir: i am informed through your attorney at gregory, that your wife has sold her relinquishment on the homestead i was successful in getting the secretary of the interior to reverse the land commissioners decision on. i am not informed further; but inasmuch as you are living on the place, my advice is that you stick right there, and hold it. you may write and advance me the details concerning the matter, and i will assist you in a legal way in pressing your right to hold the same. "in the meantime, kindly send me a remittance on the fee that is past due at your earliest convenience, and oblige. "very truly, "patrick h. loughran." he reread the letter to be positive that he had understood it correctly. he was thoughtful as he allowed the substance to become clear. his wife had sold her relinquishment on the claim that he had spent thirty-five hundred dollars cash for. and in so doing she had sacrificed his confidence; _had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage_. and she had not received, he was sure, perhaps one tenth part of the amount he had expended for it. he thought a little longer, and as he did so, a vision of his arch enemy rose before him. his mind went back to a day when n.j. mccarthy in all his lordliness had with much vituperation, denounced and condemned eugene crook for having contested his poor daughter's place, and all the white race with him. "and newton justine mccarthy," muttered baptiste, "this is _more_ of your work." he was very calm over it, was jean baptiste; but the _turning point_ in his life had come. at last his manhood had returned, _and he was ready to fight_. he wrote his attorney at once at gregory, and the reply that came back in due time was: "gregory, s.d., july -- -- "_mr. jean baptiste_, "friend jean: replying to yours regarding the claim, it was eugene crook who got it. he went to chicago and bought it from your wife, through her father. i understand that your wife refused to sell, whereupon, crook sent for the reverend who was at cairo, sending him the railroad fare to chicago at the same time. i do not, of course, know just what followed, but it is the report here, that the reverend had his daughter to execute the relinquishment, and crook returned and filed on the claim. "i understand, further, that crook got the idea from reading your book, wherein you told of the preacher and what he had done, although anonymously. it is also reported that crook paid the elder $ for the claim. "very truly yours, "wm. mcconnell." jean baptiste laughed when he had completed the letter, picked up one of his books and looking through it, found the place. "well, old boy, i guess you lost me more than i'll make out of you; but you've given me what i ought to have had three years ago!" he was silent then, but his face took on a cold, hard expression, whereupon he laughed again. "n.j. mccarthy, we vied twenty-five years ago, and we encountered three years since. on both occasions you had me at a disadvantage.... we are _going_ to _vie_ again, now; _but it will be upon an equal basis_." so saying, he looked before him at nothing; his eyes narrowed to mere slits. an hour later his grip was packed. he went that afternoon back to tripp county. his three hundred acres of wheat had failed, so he was unencumbered. he returned to winner, and the next morning he boarded a train for chicago. and of the battle that he fought with his august contemporary, will be the continuance of our story. chapter viii action jean baptiste went directly to an attorney, a negro attorney with offices in the loop district, upon his arrival in chicago, and did not lurk around the depots to keep from being seen this time. he was well acquainted with the one upon whom he called and they greeted each other cordially when he walked into the office. "well, white," he said. "i think i have a little work for you." "that's what i'm here to look after," said the other aimiably. "a suit--want to obtain a judgment?" "we obtain judgments in this old town every day. the question is--" "are they worth anything?" laughed his prospective client. after indulging in a bit of humor the which he was at times given to, his face cleared, his eye-brows contracted and he related the business upon which he was bent, and questioned the attorney concerning the law covering such cases or instances. "yes," said the other, after looking it up in the illinois statutes, "it can be done." "then we will begin at once," said baptiste decidedly. "i'll have the papers drawn up, and have the same ready for service tomorrow afternoon." "very well," said the other, handing him a check for twenty-five dollars as a retainer, and straightway left the office. he caught the state street car and went to visit his friends on federal street. they were delighted and surprised to see him looking so well, and so carefree. "why--what has happened to you," said mildred's mother, looking him over carefully from head to foot. "you infer that i have forgotten my troubles?" "of course," and she laughed. "you'll know in a few days," he returned. soon he bade them good-by and went over to the keystone where he encountered speed. * * * * * "well, i have everything ready now," said the attorney when jean called at his office the following afternoon. "so the next is to get service on my friend," said baptiste. "that's it. where shall we find him?" inquired the lawyer. "i don't know. i suppose you might call up his wife on vernon avenue and find out. of course, she need not know what our business is with her old man...." "of course not." in a few minutes he was talking to her over the telephone. "the elder is in the southern part of the state," baptiste could hear. "yes, madam; but what place.... i see.... he will be there over sunday you say?... i understand.... what do i want with him? why, i have a little _personal_ matter with him.... yes ... that is all." the attorney turned and advised him where the elder was, and would be there until after sunday, and as that day was wednesday, baptiste breathed a sigh of relief. "that's the town near where i first knew him. i was born within four miles of it." "indeed! something of a coincidence." "indeed so." "i'll get these papers off to the sheriff down there on the evening train. he'll get them tomorrow morning, and should get service on him tomorrow afternoon." "then i'll see you about saturday." "all right," and jean was gone. * * * * * the little town near where jean baptiste was born, and where he had met the man who was now his acknowledged enemy, had not changed much. perched on the banks of the ohio, it still lingered in a state of dull lethargy; loafers held to the corners, and arguments were the usual daily routine. when he had left the town, the odd fellows' hall, an old frame building, three stories high, had stood conspicuously on a corner, and had been the rendezvous for loafers for years untold. this had been torn down and replaced since by a more commanding brick structure, at the front of which a shed spread over the walk and made welcome shade in the afternoon. and under it on benches the usual crowd gathered reposing comfortably thereunder from day to day. under it the preachers sometimes paused on their return from the postoffice where they received their mail every afternoon. and it was the afternoon train that brought the papers for n. justine mccarthy. the sheriff who happened at the postoffice at the same time the elder did, received them, and upon his return to his office in the court house, laid the mail on his desk and went at once to serve the papers. he knew that odd fellows' hall was where negroes might be easily found; at least the information as to the whereabouts of any particular one might be obtained. so to that spot he went directly. it so happened that a large crowd of negroes were gathered there this particular afternoon, and that the reverend had paused there on his way from the postoffice to listen to the heated argument that was a daily diversion. at that moment the sheriff came up, listened a moment to the usual harangue, and then inquired aloud for rev. n.j. mccarthy. when the crowd saw who he was the argument desisted forthwith, the crowd became quiet and respectful, moreover expectant. "you refer to me?" said the elder, and wondered what the sheriff could possibly want with him. "n.j. mccarthy?" the other repeated. "that's me," replied the elder. the crowd looked on with curious interest. "some papers," and handed him the same, turned on his heel and went his way. the reverend went down the street later reading the papers. he had never had any experience in legal proceedings, and knew little of such, but he understood the papers and was thoroughly angry. * * * * * "well," greeted the attorney, "got service right off on your friend." "good!" "yes, got my return, and now we may as well draw up the complaint." this they did, but in the meantime, while passing downtown, glavis had espied baptiste. thinking that he was on another mission of trying to persuade his wife to return, and having been loyal to the reverend in his fight on baptiste, he went at once to advise her of the fact. orlean had secured a position in a ladies' tailoring establishment at five dollars and fifty cents a week, and there he went. she was out so he did not get to tell her that her husband was in town. since the selling of her homestead the entire family had been apprehensive of him. they appreciated by now that he was not the kind to give up without a fight, therefore they were on the lookout. in some way the negro papers got hold of enough of it to give the elder a great deal of free advertising; but since mccarthys did not get the papers, they knew nothing of it until the next morning which was sunday. that morning they espied a copy of the paper in their mail box. they never knew how it got there, but thinking it was by mistake, glavis took it into the house and spread it out. pandemonium reigned when they had read the account, and in the same hour they received a special from the elder announcing that he was leaving for chicago that night. that would place him in the city the following morning, and they were anxious all that day. it was the talk of dark chicago that day, and for days and weeks following. moreover, it circulated over all the state where the elder was well known, and gave the gossips great food for delight. the elder arrived the next morning, and after being greeted by the family, with glavis, went at once to a white attorney. they laid the case before him. "and so you are sued for ten thousand dollars," said the attorney, "and by your son-in-law?" "it seems that way," replied the elder. "and to me it looks like a joke." "how so?" "did you ever know a negro preacher that was worth such an amount?" the attorney shared the obvious joke with his prospective client and glavis, and then took on a rather serious expression. "and you are not worth ten thousand?" "lord, no!" the other bit the cigar he held between his teeth, got up and brought a statute from among his many volumes, glanced through it, and stopped at a page and read it. he returned the book to its place and came back and sat down. "what do you think of it?" inquired the elder, still seeming to take it as a joke. "have you ever considered the outcome in case he should get a judgment against you? he accuses you of having alienated the affections of his wife, your daughter." "granting that he secured a judgment?" "and you could not pay it?" "certainly, i could not." "then he could remand you to jail for six months by paying your keep." when the elder, accompanied by glavis, returned home, both understood jean baptiste a little better than they had ever before.... chapter ix gossip "i've been over to the mccarthys today," cried mildred merrill, greeting her mother, as she returned home the sunday following the filing of the suit. "and, oh, mama, they are certainly excited over there!" "mm! guess they'll understand that jean baptiste better now. because he had wished to settle their difficulties--if there were any--like a man, they thought he was afraid of the reverend." "that was it--positively!" "what was the conversation?" "of course it was ethel who was making the most of the noise." "naturally." "and she _made some_ noise!" "i'd wager." "to begin with, they didn't know jean had sued the reverend until they read it in the paper." "is that so!" "yes! you see, it was like this. orlean sold her farm." "gave it away." "quite likely." "it was so. why i understand that baptiste had paid over thirty-five hundred dollars into it, and that the place was supposed to be worth about forty dollars an acre, with one hundred sixty acres bringing the sum of sixty-four hundred dollars. that insurance companies would lend two thousand five hundred dollars on the place if she had proved up on the same as other people were doing and had done, and secured a patent." "isn't that a shame!" "nigga's!" "negroes proper!" "well, what did they say?" "oh, yes! orlean sold her farm some time ago." "for three hundred dollars." "is that all she received?" "every cent." "well, what do you think of that!" "it was the reverend's work, of course." "that dirty old rascal." "ignorant into the bargain." "if i were baptiste i'd kill him." "that would do no good." "no, i guess not." "would make him appear a martyr, also." "well, ever since orlean sold her place, you see, they have been uneasy." "i guess so." "so they had been sort of looking to hear from him." "and they have." mildred laughed. "and they'll hear from him some more!" both laughed. "now, orlean heard that jean was in town before the rest of the family did, and told me so." "she's waited a long time to tell other people things she hasn't told the folks first...." "yes," thoughtfully. "anyhow, glavis met baptiste on the streets downtown, and, of course, glavis, not knowing baptiste's mission, thought he was here after orlean again." "just like him." "the truth." "he was by here awhile ago." "he was?" "yes; but i'll tell you about that later. go on." "when he met jean on the street--rather, after, he goes around to where orlean worked to warn her." "sneak!" "but orlean was out." "yes?" "so when she returned, and was told that a colored man had called and inquired for her, she--" "thought it had been baptiste." "yes." "i'll try to quit interrupting you." "well, orlean told me that she was provoked. she wished that jean would not be calling at where she worked to bother her." "she got fooled--excuse me!" "but she didn't say anything to the folks about it, and they knew nothing of his presence in town--glavis didn't tell it seems, either--until sunday morning." "indeed!" "no, none of them had gone out saturday night, so they hadn't heard any of the talk that was going the rounds." "well, glavis went outside sunday morning and found the _defender_ in the mail box." "so?" "you see, they do not subscribe for it, but the people next door get it--" "and knowing they were not subscribers, they take the paper and place it where they could get it." mildred laughed. "so," resumed mildred, "when they saw the paper, all was excitement." "goody!" "so glavis (he is the reverend's faithful lieutenant, you know), went out to look up baptiste and have a talk with him." "ump!" "he didn't find him." "that was how he happened by here." "but the funny part about it is, that they don't know what baptiste is up to. they don't know that if he secures a judgment, he can remand the elder to jail for six months." "now won't there be some excitement when they learn!" mildred laughed again, her mother joined her. "but getting back to ethel." "tell me about her." "oh, she was on the war path. 'you see,' she cried, standing over orlean. 'you see what you've done by your hard-headedness. i told you all the time not to marry that man!'" "wouldn't that disgust you!" "'but you _would_ go ahead and marry him! you _would_ go ahead and marry him, after all papa and _i_ tried to persuade you not to! and now! you are going to _kill_ your father; going to _kill your poor old father_.' orlean just hung her head like a silly and took it. 'yes,' went on ethel, turning her little slender body around and twisting her jaws as if to grind it out. 'you got him all mixed up with that nigga', and here he comes in here and sues him. think of it! _sues him!_ and now all the nigga's in chicago have the laugh on us--we daren't show our faces in the street! "'and what has he done it for?' 'but, ethel,' orlean protested, 'papa isn't worth anything. he _can't_ do anything with papa if he gets a judgment.' 'what do you know about judgments,' ethel flew up. 'well,' said orlean, 'i recall hearing jean say that if a man was worth nothing, then a judgment was of little or no good.' 'you heard _jean_ say it!' screamed ethel, looking at orlean severely. and then she turned to me. 'do you know, mildred,' she rang out, '_this_ fool woman loves that man yet. yes. y-e-s! _loves_ him yet and would go back to him tomorrow if it wasn't for us!'" "doesn't it beat anything you ever saw!" mildred laughed again as she paused for breath. "well, ethel went on: 'and don't you think that nigga' is a fool. no, no! _never!_ that's a scheming nigga'. he's the schemingest nigga' in the world! _he_ knows what he's about. believe me! he knows papa isn't worth anything. and, besides, he isn't _after_ money, he's after papa. he don't _want_ no money. a scheming nigga' like him can make all the money he wants. oh, yes! he's up to _something_ else.'" "seems they are willing to admit very readily now that which they were not as long as he tried to deal with them like a man." "i should think so," returned mildred. "well, ethel was so excited that she walked up and down the floor in a rage. every little while she would stop before me, and glare into my face: 'but what can he do, what can he do!' 'i have nothing to do with it, ethel,' i replied. 'yes, you have, yes, _you_ have! you know! i know you and i know jean baptiste! he never comes to chicago without coming to see you all. he's told you what he's _up_ to, and i know it! _oh, that nigga'!_' "i looked at orlean, and she sat by looking like the man who has murdered his wife and regrets it. when she met my eyes she sighed, and then said: 'do you think he can hurt papa, mildred? i'm worried. you see, i know jean some. he's shrewd, jean is very shrewd.' i confess that i was rather uncomfortable, knowing what i did. so hoping to find some way to get out of it, i suggested that they walk out. 'no,' exclaimed ethel. 'i'm afraid i'll run into that nigga'.'" "when do they look for the reverend in?" "in the morning. they are afraid to go out until he comes." "i'd like to be around there when they found out what jean is up to." mildred laughed again, and then cried: "and oh, yes, i forgot to tell you that orlean asked me whether jean came direct from the farm here." "what did you tell her?" "why, i said i thought he was visiting down in kansas before coming here." "hump." "she said: 'i guess he was calling on miss irene grey.'" her mother giggled. "i said i thought he remarked something about having visited there, whereupon orlean said: 'he ought to have married her.'" "jealousy." "yes, that was it." "look! there is glavis," cried mildred's mother, pointing to his figure crossing the street. "now for some fun," said mildred, whereupon, both feigned sleepiness, and prepared for some good interesting gossip. "oh, mr. glavis," exclaimed mildred, answering the rap on the door and admitting him. "and how is everybody?" asked glavis, coming in with his head bared, and smiling in his usual way. "fine, mr. glavis," replied mildred's mother, arising to greet him for the second time that day. "and where is my friend, baptiste?" said glavis. "i've just come from the keystone, and while he stops there, i can never catch him in." "he has not been here today, glavis," replied mildred. "that's funny. i'd certainly like to see him." "why would _you_ want to see him?" inquired mildred's mother. "oh, i want to see him, of course, about all this scandal that's in the air." "hump! this appears to be the first time that you have wanted to see him since your father-in-law brought orlean home." "well, of course," said glavis, a little embarrassed. "it has always been a bad affair. a bad affair, and i certainly have wished orlean would have kept us out of all the mess." "why not say you _wished the reverend_ had kept you out of all the mess," ventured mildred's mother, who was out of patience with their conduct. "well, it's rather awkward. baptiste is a little in fault himself." "how's that?" "oh, he sorter had it in for father before he even married orlean. he didn't come into the family like _i_ did." mildred and her mother regarded each other as glavis went on thoughtfully. "yes, baptiste is a good fellow, and i have always rather liked him. but he has always had it in for father; has never treated him as i have.... if he would have, i'm sure we would not be the bone of this scandal." "it seems that this enmity between your 'father' and baptiste, begun way back in the southern part of this state, when baptiste was a small boy...." "i've heard something concerning that, but of course he oughtn't hold such things against a man when he has grown up." "you seem to hold baptiste in fault for everything, when it's common knowledge, from what i can hear, glavis," argued mildred's mother, "that the elder went up there and just broke orlean and baptiste up; made her sign his name to a check for a big sum of money--and a whole lot of other things. how do you account for or explain that?" "well, baptiste could have settled this without all that. if he'd come and seen me before starting this suit," glavis was evasive, "i would have had him and orlean meet and reason their differences out together." "why have _you_ waited so long to take such action, glavis? you had years almost to have gotten them together--to have been at least fair to baptiste. as it is, you have treated--all of you--baptiste like a dog, like a dog. and because he tried to settle an affair like it ought to have been settled, you just ground him--pride and all--right into the ditch." glavis winced under the fusillade with which the elder lady of the house bombarded him. "and now after you do him all the injury you can, you cry about him making a scandal! just because he didn't come around again a whining like the dog you have tried to make him, you profess to be shocked at his conduct. moreover, you had orlean to give away the farm he gave her, and from what i can hear, to the man that tried every way known to law to beat her out of it and failed. and at baptiste's expense!" glavis was very uncomfortable. he shifted uneasily, while his handkerchief was kept busy mopping the perspiration from his brow. "i heard that the reverend just scored the man about trying to beat poor orlean out of her place: preached a great sermon on the evil and intriguing of the white race, and just gave that man, a banker, the devil. then upon top of that he comes down here to chicago and sends your 'father' the money to come here from cairo to sell him the place that baptiste was man enough to trust her with for nothing. i can't figure out where any of you have any cry coming." "well," said glavis, rising, "i want to see baptiste anyhow. if you see him, tell him to come over to the house." "no, glavis, i have nothing to do with it, and i oughtn't to be gossiping as i have been; but i have known baptiste since he was a little boy, and i just can't help protesting--as i have always heretofore protested, about the way you people have treated him." "well, i guess baptiste hates all of us enough to make up." "baptiste has nothing against any one in that house over there but your 'father.' but there would be no use in my telling him to call over there. no use at all, for let me tell you," she said, following him to the door; "the day of baptiste beholding unto you for his wife is past. i don't think he wants orlean any more, and don't blame him after what she has allowed to happen to him through her lack of womanhood. nawsiree, baptiste didn't come into chicago this time crying, he came here like _a man_, and it's the _man_ in him with which you'll have to fight now." "oh, well, i don't know," said glavis, taking a little courage, "i don't think he is so wise after all. any man that will sue a man like father for ten thousand dollars, wouldn't seem so wise." "well," returned the elder lady, "perhaps you had _better_ wait until you see a lawyer." chapter x a discovery--and a surprise jean baptiste called by to see the merrills before leaving the city, and took mildred and her mother one afternoon to a matinée at the colonial theatre. it was a musical repertoire, and a delightful entertainment. before one of the numbers was to appear, the director of the orchestra came upon the stage and announced: "ladies and gentlemen: if i may have your kind attention, i wish to announce that the next number is an extraordinary specialty. miss inez maryland, the young prima donna who has made considerable of a reputation by her beautiful singing in the last year, will this afternoon sing in an introduction, a song that is destined by the critics to be one of the most popular of recent production." whereat, he stepped to one side, and led upon the stage, a charming blonde who was greeted profusely. "i am glad to have you meet miss maryland, who will now sing the discovery of the season, _o, my homesteader_, by miss agnes stewart." in the moment jean baptiste did not quite recall the name, or rather, he did not connect it with an instance in his life; but as the sweet mezzo soprano voice, combined with the strains of the orchestra, floated out over the audience, the years gone by, to him were recalled. he listened to it with a peculiar and growing enchantment, and the night he had lain upon the ground and would have frozen, but for the now composer, came fresh again into his mind. "beautiful." "wonderful." "grand!" came to his ears from over all the theatre and then followed the storm of applause. again and again did the singer have to return to satisfy the audience before her, and when the crowds poured into the street at the close of the performance, every one seemed to be humming the tune that had that afternoon began its initial success. as it would take nine months or a year for the suit to come to trial, jean resumed his efforts in the book business, and was able by borrowing a little, to meet the interest and taxes on the foreclosed property, and was given the customary year's extension. he traveled now from town to town, from city to city, and found agents for his book, and was able in a small way to recuperate his finances. he hired an engine to plow all his land that was not prepared, besides renting a little more, and also took a flier in wheat. the war abroad had been going on a year, and he conceived that if it "happened" to rain at the right time he _might_ get a crop and redeem his land. at least, he could lose only what he put into it by risking the same, so he took the chance. so with all he could get hold of until the last days of october of that year, he put it into winter wheat on his land, and succeeded in getting over acres seeded. and everywhere he went, the people were playing and singing _o, my homesteader_. never, whether it was fifty times a day, or one, could he seem to tire of hearing it. at the stores he saw hundreds of copies of it, and in every home it was. and always it took him back to his youthful days in the land where he had gone with the great hope. and then one day he saw a picture of her. it was in a musical review. it spoke at length of her, and of the simple life she had lived. that she was a product of the prairies and a wonderful future was in store for her because of the fact that her work was original. so the winter passed and springtime came again with all its beauty, and he continued in his book business. he made a trip to gregory and winner to see what the prospects were again in the northwest. the winter for the wheat, he was cheered to learn, had been ideal; but the spring was dry, and that was not to the wheat's advantage. however, he had the best prospects he had had for years, and he returned to the book business with renewed hope. * * * * * and now we are compelled by the course of events to return to certain characters who were conspicuous in the early part of our story. when jack stewart left the farm he had rented near the property of jean baptiste and went west and took a homestead and had george and bill and agnes to do likewise, he was obsessed with a dream that riches had come to him at last. agnes was delighted with the prospects, also, and so they looked forward to a great future in the new land. but there was something that troubled jack stewart, and for days when alone he would shake his head and cry: "dang it. dang it! i oughtn't to have let it go that far, dang it!" but he had kept what was now the cause of his worry to himself so long that he would not bring himself to confess it even to agnes after what had occurred. but never did he forget jean baptiste, and to agnes he would mention him quite often. "by the way, my girl," he said one day when they were settled on their claims, staying mostly on his, of course, for the prospects were hopeful. "do you know that i never did learn who saved me from that foreclosure. no, sir, i never did! i paid the note and was so glad that it was paid, that i tore it up and forgot the whole matter. "now _who_ do you reckon it was that interceded for me?" she paused and looked up from her sewing, and then bent over it again, as she said: "jean baptiste." "jean baptiste!" he exclaimed incredibly. "it was him." "why the stinkin' rascal, he never told me!" she was silent. "and it was him that came to my assistance," the other mused reflectively. "well, now since i come to recall him, it was just like him to do something like that and keep it to himself. well, well, i do say!" he paused then, and looked down at the toe of his boot. suddenly he looked up, and concentrated his gaze on agnes. "and _you knew_ it all the time. he told you." "he didn't tell me." "didn't tell you!" "i knew it when you returned home that morning." "well, well...." "i was positive the administrator hadn't granted you an extension, nor wouldn't have, so it must have been some one near. so who else could it have been but jean baptiste." "of course not, now that i recall it; but did you tell him about it?" her eyes had business in her lap at the moment, _very_ much business. she saw the sewing and she didn't see it. what she was seeing again was _what had happened one day when she had gone to carry his and her brother's luncheon_.... it passed before her, as it had done many times since. _never_, she knew, would she be able to forget _that day, that day_ when the harvest was on, and he had said sweet words to her.... it was all past now, forever, but it was as fresh as the day it was done. she understood why he had gone away, and when he returned and she had seen his face she understood then his sacrifice. she knew that the man's honor, his respect for his race and their struggle had brought him to commit the sacrifice. and strangely, she loved him the more for it. it had been an evidence of his great courage, the great strength with which he was possessed. it was strange that the only man she, a white girl, had ever loved was a negro, and now when that was history, it seemed to relieve her when she could recall that he had been a _man_. "did you hear me, aggie?" her father called now again. she started. "why--yes, father--i heard you," she said, straightening up. "and--of course--i told him about it...." "now i'm glad to hear that you did. it seems that you ought to have told me at the time--at least before we left there, so that i could have thanked him." he was silent for a time then and reflective. "i wonder what sort of woman he married," he mused after a time. "i don't know." "i am sometimes a little afraid that he didn't get the right kind of woman. "he was such a prince of a good fellow, that it would most likely have been his luck to have gotten a woman who would betray him in some way. it is all rather strange, for i don't think he loved any woman but _you_, aggie." he darted his eyes quickly in her direction, recalling a time before when he had intimated something of the kind. this time, however, she did not cry out, but continued at her sewing as though he had not spoken. as he slowly walked out, what was in his mind was the thing that had worried him before. she looked after him and sighed. it was her effort then to forget the past, and in so doing, the inspiration with regard to music came again, and developed in her mind. but her efforts had brought so little encouragement from those to whom she had submitted her compositions that she for a long time despaired of making another effort. so it was not until the great drought swept over the land and drove almost all the settlers from their claims in a search for food, that made her again resort to the effort. the drought was even worse in the part of the country they now called home than it had been in tripp county and other parts farther east. corn that was planted under the sod one spring had actually not sprouted for two years, for the moisture that fell had never wet the earth that deep. so, after two years in which they came nearer to starvation than they had ever before, she secured a position in a hotel in a town farther west, and the money earned thereby, she gave to her father and brothers to live on. it was then she had returned to compositions in a desperate effort and hope to save them from disaster. for a long time she met with the usual rejections, and it was a year or more before anything she composed received any notice. but _o, my homesteader_ was an instantaneous success. while she still worked in the kitchen of the little hotel in the western village, the royalties came pouring in upon her so fast until she could hardly believe it. and coincident with the same, she became the recipient of numerous offers from almost everywhere. most were for compositions; while many were offers to go on the stage, at which she was compelled to laugh. the very thought of her, a dishwasher in a country hotel, going on the stage! but she resigned her position and went back to her father and brothers on the farm. she used her money to pay off their debts and started them to farming, and made herself contented with staying on as she had done before, and keeping house for her father and the boys. she refused to submit any more manuscripts until the success of her first song was growing old, and then she released others which followed with a measure of success. the offers from the east persisted; and with them, drought in the west continued and they saw that trying to farm so far west was, for the present time, at least, impractical. so they returned to gregory where she purchased the place they had lived on. owing to the fact that the drought had been severe there, also, she secured the place at a fair bargain, and they returned to farming the summer following the publication of baptiste's book. when she read it, she hardly knew what to think; but it was rather unusual she thought, because he had told a true story in every detail; but had chosen to leave his experiences with her out of it. she heard of him, and the disaster that had overcome him, and was sorry. she felt that if she could only help him in some way, it would give her relief. and so the time passed, and he came again into her life in a strange and mysterious manner. she was surprised one day to receive a visit in person from the publisher of her works. she was, to say the least, also flattered. he had come direct from chicago to persuade her to come to the city, and while she was flattered and was really anxious to see the city, she refrained from going, but promised to write more music. in the months that followed, he wrote to her, and the experience was new. then his letters grew serious, and later she received the surprise. he came again to see her and proposed. she hardly knew how to accept it, but he was so persistent. to be offered the love of a man of such a type, carried her off her feet, and she made him promise to wait. he was very patient about it, and at last she concluded that while she did not feel that she really loved him yet, she was a woman, and growing no younger, and, besides, he was a successful publisher and the match seemed logical. so after some months in which she tried to make herself appear like the woman she knew he wished her to be, she accepted, but left the date for their wedding indefinite. chapter xi the bishop's inquisition the reverend mccarthy was commonly regarded as a good politician in church affairs, meaning, that he was successful with the bishop in being able to hold the office of presiding elder over such a long period. at every conference other aspirants attempted to oust him. but he had always held with the bishop and had succeeded himself annually until the five-year limit had expired. at the end of this time he had usually succeeded in manipulating matters in such a manner that he had invariably been successful in securing the same appointment over another district in the state. over this he presided another five years, and was then automatically transferred back to the district over which he had formerly presided. for twenty years he had been successful in keeping this up, but in the conference that was to convene after he had been sued by his son-in-law, it became known and talked about that he would not be re-appointed to the presiding eldership, and would necessarily be sent to a charge for a year or more. accordingly, he began early to seek a charge which he was in position to know would be lucrative, since there were few outside the large churches in chicago that would pay as well as the presiding eldership. the fact was, however, he regretted going back to a charge, for his former experience in such work, in gaining and retaining the confidence of the members of his church had not been ideal, to say the least. and again, it was expedient that he should have his family, especially his wife, living in the town with him where he held the charge. perhaps that made it awkward for him, as he was not accustomed to having his wife in such close proximity with him daily. his regard for her was such that he could not bear the thought of that close association. for his experience had been that it was impossible for him to be in the house with her a matter of two days without losing his patience and speaking harshly to her. to avoid this unpleasant domestic state of affairs it had been agreed that orlean should be his housekeeper, and this was settled on before conference--and before he had been sued. this pending suit, however, brought added complications. ever since he had brought orlean home, he had been embarrassed by gossips. nowhere had he been able to turn unless some busy-body must stop him and inquire with regard to his daughter; what was the matter, etc., and so on. it kept him explaining and re-explaining, a subject that was to say the least, delicate. he had, however, succeeded in explaining and conveying the impression that the man she married had mistreated and neglected her, and that he had been compelled to go and get her in order to save her life. this was not satisfactory to him in view of the fact that he decided once to let her return, but jean baptiste not knowing that he had reached such a decision, had felt that his only chance to secure her again was to keep away from her father--well, we know the result of that effort. but inasmuch as that jean baptiste had refused to argue with him over her, he had used this as an excuse to become his old self again, which, after all, was so much easier. so when 'gene crook had approached him with an offer, and convinced him that baptiste was what the elder knew he was not (because the elder was easily to be convinced of anything toward the detriment of his adversary) he easily secured the place and the elder had felt himself ahead. three hundred dollars was a great deal of money to him, and went a long way in taking up the payments in which they were in arrears on the home they were buying in chicago. true, it twitched his conscience, but n.j. mccarthy had a practice--long in effect--of crucifying conscience. so when he had closed the deal--and had been reimbursed for his traveling expenses--he went directly back to his work, and had not been in the city since until called in on the suit. when he left the lawyer's office and returned home, he discussed the matter with glavis, who in turn discussed the matter with white friends who advised him how to answer to the charge. returning to the lawyer's office they engaged counsel. it was very annoying--more than ever--to the elder when he was required to put up twenty-five dollars in cash as a retainer. he had become so accustomed to posing his way through in so many matters--letting some one else put up the money, that when he was forced to part with that amount of money he straightway appreciated the seriousness of the situation. it was no pleasant anticipation in looking forward to the trial, for there he would be compelled to counter the other on equal terms. he was very disagreeable about the house when he returned home, and his wife adroitly kept out of his sight. he sought the street to walk off his anger and perturbation, only to run into a mrs. jones, teacher in the sunday school of one of the large negro churches, and with whom he had been long acquainted. it was, in a measure, because his acquaintances were of long standing that gave them, they felt, the right to question him regarding such delicate affairs. so when he met mrs. jones, he doffed his hat in his usual lordly manner, and paused when she came to a stop. "good evening, reverend mac.," she exclaimed, and extended her long, lean hand. he grasped it, and bowing with accustomed dignity, replied: "good evening, sister jones. i trust that your health is the best." "my health is good, reverend mac. but, say, reverend mac., you don't look so well." "indeed so, my dear madame, i have not been in the best of health for some months." "well, well, that is too bad, indeed. i hear that you have not been, reverend mac. and say, brother mccarthy, what is this i read in the paper about your son-in-law coming in here and suing you for breaking up orlean and he?" his majesty's head went up, while he colored unseen, and would have passed on, but mrs. jones was standing in such a manner that he was unable to do so without some difficulty. "the man is crazy," he retorted shortly, and stiffened. but it took more than stiffness to satisfy this gossip. "well, i thought something was the matter, reverend. for you see, i've heard that you went out there and brought her home to save him from killing her, so you see it is rather strange. that fellow, as a boy--and even yet, when he is in chicago--attends sunday school and sits in my class, and i was rather surprised that he should treat orlean as it is said you said he did." reverend mccarthy would liked very well to have moved on. but mrs. jones was very much interested. "there's all kind of talk around town about it. they say that if he gets a judgment against you, elder, he will put you in jail, and all that; but of course that couldn't be. you stand too well in the church. but you know, reverend, the only thing that looks kind a bad for you is, they say that he wouldn't dare start such a suit unless he had good ground for action. they say--" the elder had extricated himself at last, and now sailed down the street with high head. "may the god crush that hard-headed bulldog into the earth," he muttered between compressed lips, so angry that he could not see clearly. "how long am i to be aggravated with this rotten gossip!" he changed his mind about walking far, and at a convenient corner, he turned back toward home. but when he arrived there, he was confronted with another, and more serious problem. it had been his intention before arriving there, to arraign his wife again for having let orlean go west in the beginning. but now he was confronted with his august honorary, the bishop. "and, now, reverend," said the bishop, after they had gone through the usual formalities, "i am forced to come around to something that embarrasses me very much, in view of our long and intimate relations," and he paused to look grave. the reverend tried to still his thumping heart. all his life he had been a coward, he had bluffed himself into believing, and having his family believe, that he was a brave man, but orlean had told baptiste on several occasions that her father might have risen higher in the church, but for his lack of confidence. "it pertains to all this gossip and notoriety that is going the rounds. i suppose you are aware of what i refer to." the other swallowed, and nodded. "you can appreciate that it is very embarrassing to me, and to the church, more, because i have struggled to raise the standard in this church. we have in the years gone by been subjected to unfair gossip, and some fair because of the subtle practices of some of our ministers. and now, with conference convening in two weeks, it is very awkward that we should be confronted with such a predicament with regard to you, one of our oldest ministers. the subject is made more embarrassing because of its--er, rather personal nature. i would regard it as very enlightening if you would give me an explanation--but, of course, in the name of the church." the reverend swallowed again, struggled to keep his eyes dry, for the rush of self pity almost overcame him. it was, however, no time or place for self pity. the bishop was _not_ an emotional man; he was _not_ given to patience with those who pitied themselves--in short, the bishop was _very much_ of a cold hearted business man, notwithstanding his position. he was waiting in calm austerity for the other's reply. "ah-m ahem!" began the reverend with a great effort at self composure. "it is, to say the least, my dear bishop, with much regret that i am compelled to explain a matter that has caused me no end of grief. to begin with: it was not with my consent that my daughter was allowed to go off into the west and file on a homestead." the other's face was like a tomb upon hearing this. indeed, the elder would have to put forth a more logical excuse. it has been said that the bishop was a practical man which in truth he was, and the fact is, he regarded it as far more timely if a larger number of the members of his race in the city would have taken up homesteads in the west, than for them to have been frequenting state street and aping the rich. also, the bishop had read baptiste's book--although the reverend was not aware of it,--and was constrained to feel that a man could not conscientiously write that which was absolutely false. "but i came into the city here after a conference to find that my daughter had been herded off out west in a wild country to take a homestead." "now, just a minute, reverend," interposed the bishop astutely. "regarding this claim your daughter filed on. what was the nature of the land? you have been over it, i dare say." "of course, of course, my dear bishop! it was a piece of wild, undeveloped land. at the time she took it, it was fifty miles or such a matter from the railroad. she gave birth to a child--" "but," interposed the bishop again, "you say the land was a considerable distance from the railroad at the time your daughter filed on the place? very well. now, reverend, isn't it a fact that in the history of this country, all new countries when opened to the settler may have been some distance from the railroad in the beginning? for instance, somebody started chicago, which was certainly not the convenient place then that it is now in which to live." "of course, my dear bishop, of course." "so the fact that the railroad was, as you say, fifty miles away, could not be held as an argument against it. besides, is it not a fact that there were other people, men and women, who were as far from the railroad and therefore placed at an equal disadvantage?" "of course, of course." "then, my dear reverend, it does not appear to me that that should be a fact to be condemned." "i have not condemned it, my dear bishop. no." "very well, then, my dear reverend, please proceed." now the interposition of the bishop, had rather disconcerted the elder. had he been allowed to proceed in the manner he had planned and started to, he might have made the case from his standpoint, and under the circumstances very clear to the bishop. but the latter's questions threw him off his line, and he started again with some embarrassment, and with the perspiration beginning to appear around the point of his nose. appreciating, however that he was expected to explain, he went resolutely back to the task. "well, my wife allowed my daughter to be taken out there and file on this land that this man had secured on his representation that he wished to marry her, and when i came into the city it was all settled." "pardon me for interrupting you again, my dear elder. but is it not a fact that mrs. pruitt, with whom you are well acquainted, accompanied your daughter on this trip?" "it is so, bishop." "and is it not a fact that mrs. pruitt as well as your daughter, explained it all at the time with satisfaction to you?" "well, ah--yes, she did." "you admit to this, then, my dear reverend?" "under the circumstances at the time, i was rather compelled to, my dear bishop." "meaning that since she had gone and taken the land, you were morally bound to look into and consider the matter favorably?" "yes, i think that explains it." "now, reverend. is it not a fact that a considerable write-up appeared in the chicago _defender_ shortly after this visit, detailing considerable, and with much illustration regarding the trip; that, in short, your daughter had come into considerable land and was regarded as having been very fortunate?" "i think so, my dear bishop." "very well, reverend. now--a--who solicited that write-up? did the editor not have a conversation with you before the article appeared?" "i believe he did, yes, sir. i think he did." "well, now, reverend, if i remember correctly, this young man visited the city the christmas following, and i was introduced to him by you in this same room?" "i think so. yes, bishop, i remember having introduced him to you myself." "and do i quote correctly when i say that you called me up the following spring to perform the ceremony that made your daughter and this jean baptiste man and wife?" "i think you quote correctly, my dear bishop." "m-m. yes, i recall that i was indisposed at the time and was very sorry i could not perform the ceremony," said the bishop thoughtfully, but more to himself than to the other. "well, now. after they had been married some months, my wife visited your wife, and the latter seemed to be greatly impressed with the union. i think if i am correctly informed that you went on a visit to them yourself that fall." "i did, my dear bishop. yes, i did." "and at the conference on your return, you, if i am not mistaken, called on me at my home and discussed the young man at considerable length." "yes, my dear bishop. i did that." "yes," mused the bishop again thoughtfully and as if to himself. "and you appeared greatly delighted with their union. you seemed to regard him as an extraordinary young man, and, from what i have heard, i have been inclined to feel so myself. now it seems that a few months after you were speaking in high praise of him, you made a trip west and on your return brought your girl home with you, and she has not since returned to her husband. of course," he added slowly, "that is your personal affair, but since it has reached the public, the church is concerned, so i am ready to listen to further explanation." "i went out there and found my girl in dire circumstances," defended the elder. "i found her in neglect; i found her without proper medical attention--no nurse was there to administer her needs. in short, i was prevailed upon by my love and regard for my daughter's health, to expedite the step i took." "nobly said, reverend, nobly said," said the bishop, and for the first time during his explanation, the elder felt encouraged. "the man did not marry her for love," the elder went on now somewhat more confident. "he did not marry her to make her happy and comfortable. he married her to secure more land. it is true that i was impressed with him in a way, because the man was rather--er, inspiring, and i entertained hopes. our race does not possess successful men in such a number that we can be oblivious to apparent success as on a young man's part. this man seemed to be such a man--in fact, i grant him that. the man was popular with those who knew him; he was a pusher; but he _was so ambitious to get rich_ that he was in the act of killing my child to accomplish his ends." the reverend finished this with a touch of emotion that made the other nod thoughtfully. and while he paused to gather force and words for further justification of his interposition, the bishop said: "i note by the reports in the newspaper that you are accused of having coerced the girl; that you had her write her husband's name on a check with which you secured the money to bring her from the west." "he gave my daughter the privilege of securing money by such a method for her needs, and it was not i that had her do any such a thing." "but it was--er, rather--a little irregular, was it not? it does not seem reasonable to suppose that he granted her the privilege to sign his name to checks to secure money with which to leave him?" the question was put rather testily and caused the other to shift uncomfortably before making answer. "well, under the circumstances, methods _had_ to be resorted to--er, rather to fit the occasion." the elder's defence was artful. the bishop, not pretending to take his question seriously, pursued: "i note, further, that he accuses you of disposing of some property...." "my daughter sold her place. it was hers, in her name, and the transaction did not require his consent." "m-m--i see. it seems that the property, so he claims, represented an outlay of some thirty-five hundred dollars in cash, and he purports the same as being worth something like sixty-four hundred dollars. what is your opinion, having been on the property, of its actual worth?" "well, i have some sense of values, since i am buying this home, and i do not regard the property as being worth such a sum." "i see," said the other, stroking his beard which was thick and flowing. "a piece of wild, raw land such as that i could not estimate it as being so valuable." "m-m. have you any knowledge of what land has brought in that neighborhood, reverend. you see, value is a very delicate thing to estimate. we cannot always be the judge in such matters. the usual estimate of what anything is worth is what some one is willing to pay. do you recall of having ever heard your daughter or any one say what deeded land in that section sold for?" "well, i have heard my daughter say that a place near there had brought five thousand dollars." "which would not compare with the value you put on the place your daughter held." "it would not seem to." "m-m. you say this was your daughter's place entirely?" "it was," returned the reverend promptly. "and she paid for it out of her own money?" "well, no. she did not." "i see. m-m. then who purchased it for her, reverend?" "i think he did that. yes, i think he did." "i see. do you recall the consideration. i understand that he purchased what is called a relinquishment. i understand such transactions slightly. i have read of such deals in oklahoma. seems to be a sort of recognized custom in securing land in new countries, notwithstanding the subtlety of the transaction." "i think he claimed to have paid two thousand dollars for the relinquishment, which i would consider too much, considerably too much." "but, inasmuch as your knowledge of new countries has been brief, perhaps, you would not set your judgment up as a standard for values there," suggested the bishop, pointedly. "you will grant that the individual in the controversy would likely be able to judge more correctly with regard to values?" "it is obvious." "yes, yes. quite likely." the reverend was very uncomfortable. if the bishop would only stop where he was it wouldn't be so bad, but if he kept on with such questions. that was what he had disliked about jean baptiste.... he had a habit of asking questions--too many questions, he had thought; but this man before him was the bishop, a law unto himself. and he must answer. the bishop knew a great deal more about the west than he had thought he did, however. "who bought your daughter's place, my dear elder? a white man or a negro? which of course, doesn't matter, but if i understand all the details, it would be more clear, you understand." "of course, my dear bishop. naturally. a white man bought the place." "i understand now. a _white_ man," he repeated thoughtfully. during all the questioning, the bishop had looked into the reverend's eyes only occasionally. most of the time he had kept his eyes upon the carpet before him, as if he were studying a spot thereon. "it seems by the paper that the man, according to the accusations set forth in the complaint, had once contested the claim." "yes, he had done so, doctor, he had." "i see. why did he contest the place, my dear reverend?" "why, i do not understand clearly, but such methods appear to be a recognized custom in those parts," countered the elder evasively. "but isn't it a fact that he tried to contest her out of the place, and if he had been successful, he would have had the place for nothing in so far as she was concerned?" "it is quite likely." the elder had nothing but evasive answers now. he tried counters no more. "but he failed, it seems, to get the place through contest, regardless of the fact that your daughter was here in chicago instead of being on her claim." "it seems that way." "and then, forsooth, it must have been your daughter's husband who was instrumental in saving the place for her?" "yes." "and after this, your daughter sold the place to the man who had struggled to beat her out of it and failed through the instrumentalities of her husband, and without consulting her husband with regard to the bargain." "i counciled her, my dear bishop." "ah, _you_ counciled her," and for the first time he turned his sharp, searching eyes on the elder and seemingly looked directly through him. the next moment they were back on the carpet before him, and he resumed his questions. he was thinking then, thinking of what he had read in the book by jean baptiste, and what had recently appeared in all the papers. it seemed to him that the elder's defence was not quite clear; but he would see it through. "it was reported that this man, a banker, whose bank had failed ... sent you the money for your railroad fare from cairo to this city, and also reimbursed for the return. is that quite true?" "that was--the railroad fare--a part of the transaction." "ah-ha. a _part_ of the transaction. you never, i suppose, informed her husband regarding the _transaction_ after the deal was closed?" "no." "what was the consideration, reverend, for this piece of land that your daughter's husband bought, for which he paid $ , placing a house and barn thereon, digging a well, and making other improvements, fighting off a three years' contest--placed there by the man who tried to beat her out of it? what did he pay for the place?" "three hundred dollars." such an awful moment! the elder's head dropped as he said this. but the bishop's eyes were still upon the spot in the carpet. "and so this young man comes hither and accuses and sues you, accusing you of breaking up he and his wife. he published all that you have told me and if he should secure a judgment it is known that he can remand you to jail for six months." he paused again, regarded the spot in the carpet before him very keenly and then arose. the elder arose also, but he was unable to find his voice. in the meantime the bishop was moving toward the door, his hand was upon the knob, and when the door was open, he turned, and looking at the one behind him, said: "well, see you at the conference, newt," and was gone. the other stood regarding the closed door. his brain was in a whirl and he could not quite understand what had happened. but _something_ in that hour had transpired, and while he could not seem to realize what it was just then, he knew he would learn it in due time. chapter xii the bishop acts the conference that followed was one of grave apprehensions for the reverend mccarthy. before, he had always looked forward to this occasion with considerable anxiety. he had usually prepared himself for the battle that was a rule on such occasions. for thirty-five years he had not missed a conference; he had never come away in defeat. true, he had not risen very high, but he had, at least, always been able to hold his own. but, for the first time in his long experience, he went to meet this conference with a feeling in his heart that he would come away defeated. that he was not to be reappointed presiding elder, was a foregone conclusion, but he entertained doubts about getting the appointment he had hoped to secure. ever since the bishop had paid him the visit, he had been uncomfortable. when the prelate bade him good-by that day, he had never been able to get out of his mind the idea that the other had convicted him in his own heart, and had purposely avoided his company. it worried him, and he had been losing flesh for two years, therefore he did not present now the same robust, striking figure as when he had met the conference heretofore year after year. and then, moreover, he had been hounded almost to insanity by gossips. from over all his circuit it was the talk, they brought it to conference and discussed it freely and did not take the trouble to get out of his hearing to do so. nowhere was there, as he well knew, a body that would have delighted more in his downfall than those brother preachers who met the conference that year. always had they been ready to oppose him, but always before the bishop had been with him. he had been able by subtle methods to place himself in the bishop's favor, but this time that august individual artfully kept from meeting him directly. besides, he had not the conscience to seek him, and he had not been able to meet the bishop in the free atmosphere as before. the charge that he had picked out was very good, and it was convenient for his needs for many reasons. of course there were scores of others after the same charge, but with his old influence he need not have worried. however, he had not and could not see the bishop privately long enough to secure from him a promise. and so he met the conference for the first time, unsettled as to where he was to preach the ensuing year. never had a conference seemed so long as that session. the week wore slowly away, and he was forced to be aware of the fact that on all sides they were discussing him, and the fact that he had been sued, and was likely to be remanded to jail as a result, since no one credited him with so large a sum as ten thousand dollars. he could see the unconcealed delight, and the malice that had always been, but which before he had been able to ignore. affairs reached such a point until it was almost a conclusion that it mattered little as to where he was sent, for he would be unable to fill the pulpit because of the fact that he would have to go to jail shortly. it nettled him; it broke down his habitual composure, and it was a relief to him when the conference came to a close. and not until the secretary arose to call the various charges and who had been sent thither, did he know where he was to go. so it was with a sinking of the heart when his name was reached: "reverend mccarthy to mitchfield!" "_reverend mccarthy to mitchfield!_" was the echo all through the audience. impossible! _reverend mccarthy_, one of the oldest, and regarded as one of the strongest, one of the ablest ministers to such a forsaken charge. indeed they could hardly have sent him to a poorer charge, to a less dignified place. it seemed incredible, and the rest of the calls were almost drowned out in the consternation that followed. well, it was done. he had been all but silenced, and lowered as much as the bishop dared to lower him. that was settled, and he returned to chicago without telegraphing the fact to his family. with resignation he made the necessary preparations for the trip, and taking orlean with him, went to the small town. they rented a house, for the place didn't afford a parsonage, and began the long dreary year that was to follow. it was his good fortune, however, when the school board met and decided to separate the negro children from the whites in the public schools, that they employed his daughter to teach the colored pupils for the year. in this way they were able to get along in very good comfort in the months that followed. so the autumn passed, and also the winter. spring came and went, and summer had set in when his attorney wrote him that the case had been called, to come into chicago, and prepare to stand trial in the case of jean baptiste, plaintiff, versus newton justine mccarthy, defendant. chapter xiii where the weak must be strong the trial was called for early june, and baptiste reached the city a week or ten days before the time set. he had become very friendly with the negro lawyer who was conducting his case. he also secured a gregory lawyer, the one who had conducted the contest case. when he arrived in the city, the lawyer advised that, inasmuch as they had a spare bedroom at his home, and that it would be imperative for them to be close to discuss various phases of the prosecution, he could have the room if he liked. so he accepted it. it so happened that the lawyer's home was located in the same block on vernon avenue as was the mccarthys, and on the same side of the street. moreover, it had been built at the same time as had that of the mccarthys, and was very much like in appearance the one in which they were living. one afternoon a few days before the trial, while lingering at the bar of the keystone hotel, baptiste was approached by glavis, who invited him to a table nearby, where they were very much alone. he ordered the drinks, and when they were served he began: "now, baptiste, it seems we ought to be able to get together on this case without going into court." "yes?" replied baptiste, regarding the other noncommittally. "yes, i think we could, and should. i think you and orlean ought to be able to console your differences without such an extreme." "you _think_ so?" "why, i do. orlean has always--ah--rather loved you, baptiste, and i think you two could make up." "but this is not between orlean and me, glavis. you seem to misunderstand. it is between n. justine mccarthy and me." "of course, but it is over orlean. you have sued father for this sum, a sum you know he cannot pay in the event you should secure judgment. so there would be nothing left for you but to remand him to jail, which seems to be your desire." "possibly so." the other was still noncommittal. "then why not you and i get together on this proposition before the trial is called?" "i don't see as i can oblige you, glavis. there comes a time when compromise is impossible, only vindication can suffice. and it's vindication that i want now and, regret to advise, am determined to have." "that seems rather severe, baptiste." "why so?" "well, you see, i understand that the old man kinda--er, gave you the worst of it, but you ought to forget some things. look at it from a broad viewpoint. see how expensive it is going to be, and all that." "i considered all that before i went into it, glavis," replied baptiste calmly. "well, now, baptiste, i want to stop this thing before it goes to court. if you had of kinda flattered the old man a little in the beginning as i did, all would have been well." "why should i have done so when i didn't feel to?" "oh, baptiste, you are _so_ severe!" "when a man has suffered as i have, it is time to be severe, my friend. for your own benefit, i will say that i do not trust your father-in-law. i do not love him and never have. if it wasn't because i wish to observe and subserve to the law of the land, i would have killed him long ago. _even when i think of it now_, my bitterness is so great at times that i must repel the inclination to strike him down for the coward he is. so if that's all, we will call the meeting to an end," so saying he arose, strode toward the bar and ordered drinks for both. he drank his with a gulp when served, and turned and left the saloon. glavis proceeded to his lawyer, and advised him of his inability to dissuade the plaintiff. "couldn't dissuade him, eh?" "couldn't do a thing!" "that's too bad. it might be to your advantage if you could settle this case out of court. when will your father-in-law be in?" "i'm looking for him here in a day or so, now." "m-m." the attorney was thoughtful. "this is rather an unusual case," he resumed, "and i have been studying the complaint of the plaintiff. the old man, it seems to me, committed some very grave blunders." "you think so?" "quite obvious. and while it will be difficult for the plaintiff to secure a judgment in such a case; it is, however, apparent that the sympathy of the court will be against your father-in-law in the proceedings." glavis was uncomfortable. "now i take notice here that the plaintiff states that his wife drew a check for two hundred dollars unknown to her husband, and that the reverend had it cashed. that may be regular, but it will not help her father's case. again, he complains that her father influenced the girl to sell a quarter section of land for less than one-tenth what it cost the plaintiff. of course these are technicalities that while they cannot justify a judgment will win the sympathy of the jury. what the plaintiff must show, however, is that his father-in-law actually was the direct cause of and did alienate the affections of his wife. such a case is not without parallel, but it is uncommon. a father alienating the affections of his daughter. "now where is your sister-in-law?" "at home." "wish you'd bring her down. this is a complicated case, and we've got to conduct it with directness. she can be of great assistance in extricating her father from this predicament." "all right, sir. when shall i bring her?" "oh, any time that is convenient. tomorrow morning at nine will perhaps be the best. and, now, say! have you any idea who the plaintiff is going to use as witnesses?" "why, i think he plans to bring his grandmother from what i can hear, for one." "his grandmother? what does she know about it?" "well, she was in the house when my father-in-law went on the visit and the girl came away with him." "i see. i'd like to know just what passed and what she heard and will testify to. i wonder whether she will testify that she overheard your father-in-law abusing this baptiste to his wife?" "i really don't know." "who else?" "i heard something about him going to bring a doctor down, and also a lawyer." "the doctor, eh?" he shook his head then a little dubiously. "this physician attended the girl while she was confined?" "i think so." "m-m. i see here where we have recorded that your father-in-law claims that the girl was neglected; didn't have proper medical attention. what about this? have you any knowledge as to how many visits this doctor made to the bedside of this girl when she was sick? any knowledge of what kind of bill was rendered by him?" "i hear that his bill amounted to something like two hundred dollars." "two hundred! great scott! and for a dead baby! gee! we'll have to keep away from neglect as an excuse. that's a fact. no jury will believe such a statement if that fellow shows where he's paid such a bill as that!" glavis shifted uneasily. he was seeing another side of the controversy. before he had only seen one side of it, and that side was as the reverend had had him see it. "you send or bring the girl down here tomorrow. it will be up to _her_ to keep her father out of jail, that's all. it will be up to _her_ to convince the court that she never loved this man, that all he did for her was by persuasion, and that her father only followed her instructions. in short, it's almost directly up to her; for the plaintiff has certainly got the goods on her dad if he can prove that she ever loved him." glavis was much disturbed when he went home. for the first time he was able to appreciate the full circumstances. it would be up to orlean to save her father, and that he could see. he would take her to the lawyer, and have her carefully drilled. the success for them depended on her; on her falsifying to the court, for it could not be otherwise. for her to testify that she did not love--and had never loved jean baptiste, he knew would be a deliberate falsehood. it worried him, but he had to go through with it. he accompanied her to the lawyer's office as agreed, and there she was made to understand the gravity of the situation, that everything depended on her statements, _and her statements only_. her father arrived the following day, and at the attorney's office in company with orlean and glavis, he was impressed with the nature of the defense. all were finally drilled in their course of action. that night orlean faced the most serious period in her life. she was a weak woman and her weakness had been the cause of it all. the trial was approaching--and the result was _up to her_. her father's freedom, his continuance in the pulpit, his vindication of the action he had taken depended upon _her_, and _her strength_. and that strength--for on that day she would _have_ to be strong,--_depended upon a lie_. chapter xiv the trial--the lie--"as guilty as hell!" "_not guilty, your honor!_" the court room was silent for a time before any one stirred. it had been apparent that the decision would be so; because there were several reasons why the jury was constrained to render such a verdict. among the reasons, chiefly, was the fact that the plaintiff had failed to produce sufficient evidence to justify a verdict in his favor. his grandmother, his corroborating witness, had answered her last call just before she was to start for chicago to give hers, the most incriminating testimony. the doctor who had attended his wife during her confinement was indisposed, and was represented only by an affidavit. but what had gone harder than anything against the plaintiff was his wife's testimony. under the most severe examination, and cross examinations, she had stood on her statements. she had never loved her husband, and had not been, therefore, actuated by her father's influence into leaving him. she had instructed her father in all he had done, and that he was in no wise guilty as accused. no jury could have rendered a verdict to the contrary under such circumstances, and no one--not even the plaintiff, had expected or even hoped that they would. but in the minds of every man and woman in the crowded court room, n.j. mccarthy stood a guilty man. not even the faintest semblance of doubt as to this lingered in their minds. it was merely a case of insufficient evidence to convict. and while the people filed out into the air at the conclusion, every one had a vision of that arch hypocrite in his evil perpetuation. in their ears would always ring the story jean baptiste had told. told without a tremor, he had recited the evils from the day he had married her up until the day she had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage. so vivid did he make it all that the court was held in a thraldom. for an hour and a half he detailed the evil of his enemy, his sinister purpose and action, his lordly deceit, and his artful cunningness, and brought women to tears by the sorrow in his face, his apparent grief and external mortification. never had the black population of the city listened to or witnessed a more eloquent appeal. but justice had been unable to interfere. the trial was over, and newton justine mccarthy left the court room a free man, with head held high, and walking with sure step. jean baptiste left it calmly in company with his lawyers. they had anticipated losing the case before going into court, for it had been apparent to them that the outcome rested entirely with baptiste's wife. if they failed to shake her testimony; that she had never loved him, then they knew it was hopeless. it had all depended on her--_and she had stood by her father_. "well, i'm satisfied," said baptiste as they went through the street. "i suppose so, in a way." "i wanted vindication. i wanted the people to know the truth." "and they know it now. he goes free, but the people know he is a guilty man, and that your wife _lied_ to save him." "yes," said baptiste a little wearily. somehow he felt relieved. it seemed that a great burden had been lifted from his mind, and he closed his eyes as if shutting out the past now forever. he was free. never would the instance that had brought turmoil and strife into his life trouble him again. always before there had seemed to be a peculiar bond between him and the woman he had taken as wife. always he seemed to have a claim upon her in spite of all and she upon him. but, by the decision of the court, all this had been swept away, and he sighed as if in peace. they found their way to the "l" station that was nearest, and there took a train for the south side. at thirty-first street baptiste left his lawyer and slowly betook himself toward the familiar scenes on state street. while he lost himself in the traffic of state street, the reverend, in company with glavis, ethel, and orlean, boarded an indiana avenue surface car. the reverend was cheery for a great fear had passed. a coward by nature, he had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown before the trial, thinking of what might happen. but now that was over. he was free. that meant everything. the fact that he was guilty in the minds of everybody who heard the trial, did not worry him now. he was free and could claim by the verdict that he was vindicated in the action he had taken. that was the great question. always before he had been sensitive of the fingers of accusation that were upon him, and the worry had greatly impaired his usual appearance. and while he was relieved, glavis, sitting proudly by him, was also. he talked cheerfully of the trial, of the decision, and of the future that was before them. he smiled at all times, and the reverend's large face was also lighted up with a peculiar delight. but there was another who, in spite of the fact that the testimony from her lips had saved the day for the reverend, was not happy, not cheerful, not in a mood to discuss the case. this one was orlean. few knew--in fact maybe only one other, and that was her husband--or appreciated how much that false testimony had cost her. she had lied; lied freely; lied stoutly; lied at every point of the case--_and this for the man who had brought her to it_. and _now_ when it was over she felt not at ease. while jean baptiste was conscious that a burden had been lifted from his mind, and glavis and her father chatted freely, she sat silently by without even a clear thought. she was only conscious that she had lied, that after a life of weakness, a life that had made no one happy or cheerful or gay, she had for the first time in her life, deliberately lied. and as she became more conscious of what had passed, she felt a burden upon her. never since the day she had abused her husband; never since the suffering her actions had brought him; never since as a climax to all this, when he lay upon the floor and she had kicked him viciously in the face, had she experienced a happy or a cheerful day. but today--after that terrible ordeal, she felt as if life held little for her, that she was now unfit to perform any womanly duty. she found no consolation in the fact that she had been encouraged to do as she had done by those who claimed to love her. that seemed to annoy her if anything. she could now, for the first time in her life, realize clearly what duty meant. duty could not be side-tracked, regardless of what might have passed. her husband had been good to her. he had given her the love that was his. never had he abused her in any way, never had he used a cross word in her presence. but she had done everything to him. and as a climax to it all, she had _lied_. oh, that lie would haunt her forever! they arrived at the street where they must leave the car for home. she arose along with the rest. when they stood upon the walkway and had started toward home, her father paused. "by the way, children," he said cheerfully. "i think i should call at the lawyer's office and thank him." he turned his eyes to glavis, his worthy counsellor at all times, and read agreement in his face before the other opened his lips to give sanction. "i think that you should, too, father," he said, whereupon he turned to accompany him. "well, i'll drop by his office. you may go on home with the girls, glavis," he said. so saying he turned toward the attorney's office to settle his account and talk over the case. as he walked along his way, he became reflective. he allowed his mind to wander back into the past--back many years to the time when he had gone into the country to take a meal. he recalled that day at the dinner table where he had sat near a certain school teacher. she had been an attractive teacher, a rare woman in those days. and he admired her. it was a privilege to sit so close to her at the table, to wait on her, and be the recipient of her charming smiles. he saw himself now more clearly in retrospection. he saw a little boy standing hungrily at a distance. he saw again now, that same small boy approach the teacher; saw the teacher's motherly face and her arms reached out and caught that youth and then smother his face with kisses. he felt again the anger that little boy's action had aroused in him. he heard again the cries from the summer kitchen as the mother administered punishment for the same. he recalled briefly the years that followed. he recounted the testimony at the trial. for many, many months he had endeavored to make baptiste suffer, and this day he had succeeded. but still he was not satisfied. the joy that had come of being freed of the accusation after his unhappy and nervous state of fear, had shut all else out of his mind for a time. after all freedom is so much. but was freedom all? he could not account for the feeling that was suddenly come over him. he recalled then again the severe chastisement he had caused jean baptiste to receive when he was a mere child. he recalled also how he had been instrumental in separating him from his daughter. he recalled now the lies, oh, the lies she had resorted to that had kept him out of jail, the tears he had shed from self pity, while baptiste stood stoically by. and thinking thusly, he reached his destination. he found the attorney alone, busy over some papers. he approached him courteously, bowed, and thrusting his hand in his pocket, said: "yes, sir. i thought i would drop in and pay you the balance of the fee that is now due, and thank you for your services." he smiled pleasantly as he spoke, and never appeared more impressive. the other regarded him a moment, held out his hand, accepted his fee, and said: "well, it's over, and you are free." "yes," said the elder, but now found it rather hard to smile. "i am glad it is over for it was a very awkward affair, i must confess." he paused then, perforce. the lawyer was regarding him, and the elder wondered at his expression. he had never seen that look in his face before. what did it mean? he was not kept long in suspense, for soon the other spoke. "yes, you are free and fortunate." "fortunate," the reverend repeated, thoughtfully, and looking up found the lawyer's eyes upon him. they were looking straight into his with the same expression of a moment before. "yes," said the lawyer then coldly, "you are _free_ and _fortunate_, because _you were as guilty as hell_!" chapter xv grim justice agnes decided to visit chicago and planned to be married there. besides, since she was now engaged, the legacy in the bank at rensselaer must be secured, and, according to her mother's will, consulted before she was married. she was curious to know what it was all about. indeed, she was almost as anxious, if not more so to learn the contents of the legacy than she was to become the wife of the man she had consented to marry. accordingly, before the train reached chicago, she became very anxious. it gave her a peculiar and new thrill to recline in the luxurious pullman, to have her needs answered and attended to by servants, and to be pointed out by curious people as the writer and composer of a song that had delighted the whole country. she was experiencing how very convenient life is when one has sufficient means to satisfy one's needs. this had been her privilege only a short time. a newsboy boarded the train and passed hurriedly through the cars with the morning papers. she purchased one, and glanced through the headlines. in the index she saw an account of the suit of jean baptiste, versus his father-in-law. curiously and anxiously she turned to the account and read the proceedings of the trial. she laid the paper aside when through and reviewed her acquaintance with him in retrospection. how strange it all seemed at this late date. beside her, a long, narrow mirror fit between the double windows. in this she studied her face a moment. some years had passed since that day--and the other day, too, at the sod house. she thought of the man that was to be her mate and of what he would think should he ever know that the only man who had ever touched her lips before him, was a negro. she found herself comparing the two men, and she was rather surprised at the difference she could distinguish. she tried to estimate what true love was. the life she had so recently entered was the life she had aspired to. she had hopes for it. the life that could now be hers was the goal of her ambition--and she had attained it! she should be satisfied. but was she? as the train with its luxurious appointments sped along, she felt after all that she was going out of the life that she really loved. was it because she had always been so poor and unable to have the things she could now partake of at will, that such had become a habit, and indispensable to her happiness? for indeed she had a longing for the old life, the dash and open it afforded. she had a vision of jean baptiste and his honor. he had sacrificed her to be loyal to the race in which he belonged. had it not been for this, she knew she would not be journeying to the great city to become the wife of another. but amid all these thoughts and introspectives and otherwise, there constantly recurred to her mind the man she was to marry and what he would think if he knew that she had once loved and would have married--_and even kissed a negro_. she was glad when at last the train drew into the outskirts of the city, and the excitement about drove such reminiscences out of her mind. she had wired him, and of course, she expected him to meet her. "oh, here you are," he cried as she stood upon the platform a half hour later. on hearing him her eyes wandered toward where he stood, and regarded him keenly for a moment. a really handsome man, immaculately attired in the finest tailored clothes and in the fashion of the day. he caught her in his arms and she did not resist the hot kisses he planted upon her cheeks. still, she was greatly confused, and feared that she would create a scene before she had become accustomed to the ways and dash of the city. he had her arm--held it close, as they passed through the station and crossed the walkway to where an inclosed auto stood. into this he ushered her, attended to her luggage, and a moment later followed her inside. through the city with all its bustle and excitement they sped. "i'm going to take you to my aunt's," he said, when they had gotten started. "oh," she chimed. at that moment she could think of nothing to say. it was all so confusing to her. she was so unaccustomed to any kind of a city that she was actually in a fear. she did not realize because of the distinction to which she had attained, that any awkwardness on her part would be looked upon as the eccentricity of a genius. she decided, however, to say as little as possible, to speak only when spoken to. in that way she would try not to cause him any embarrassment or mortification. "you have certainly been a hard one to pull off the farm, dear," she heard now. "oh, do you think so?" she said coyly. "do i think so?" he laughed. "well, say, now, there isn't one person in a thousand who, after writing the hit you have composed, wouldn't have been over all this old land by this time, letting people see them." "oh, i could never wish that," she said quickly. "oh, come, now! get into the limelight." he eyed her artfully, winked playfully, and continued: "you'll like it when you get the modesty out of yourself." "i don't think so." he regarded her quickly out of the corner of his eye, and then looked ahead. "ever heard of state street?" he inquired. "oh, yes. is this it?" "this is state street," he said, and she looked out and started. she didn't know just what she had expected to see, but what met her gaze and made her start was the sight of so many negroes. "what's the matter, dear?" he said, glancing at her quickly. "why--ah--oh, nothing." "i wondered why you started," and he again looked ahead. they were across it now, and approaching wabash avenue. he turned into this, to where his aunt lived some distance out in the most exclusive part of its residence section. agnes, sitting by his side, despite the excitement, the great buildings and fine streets, was thinking of the past, and of what she had just seen. negroes, negroes, and _that_ would have been her life had she married jean baptiste. all such was foreign to her, but she could estimate what it would have meant. she was sure she could never have become accustomed to such an association, it wouldn't have seemed natural. and then she thought of jean baptiste, the man. oh, of him, it was always so different. in her mind he was like no other person in the world. how strange, and singularly sweet had been her acquaintance with him. never had she understood any one as she understood him. she tried to shut him out of her life, for the time had come, and she must. but _could_ she? when she dared close her eyes she seemed to see him more clearly. the car had stopped now, and he was lifting her out before a large house that stood back from the street some distance in sumptuous splendor. as they went up the walkway, the large front doors parted, and a handsome elderly woman came forth. upon her face was written refinement and culture. "oh, aunt, here we are." "i saw you coming because i was watching," said his aunt, coming forward, the personification of dignity. she held out her arms, and agnes felt herself being embraced and kissed. her head was in a whirl. how could _she_ readily become accustomed to such without displaying awkwardness. arm in arm they mounted the steps, were met by the butler, who took her bags, and a moment later she found herself in a large, richly furnished room. "come now, dear," he said, and led her to a couch. she heard his aunt going upstairs to prepare her room, and the next moment she felt him draw her to him, and whatever difference there was in this convenient life, all men loved alike. * * * * * jean baptiste lingered late at the keystone bar. he was alone in the world, he felt, so company of the kind about seemed the best, and was, at least, diverting. it was twelve o'clock and after when he left. he still retained his room at the attorney's residence, and to this he strolled slowly. he attempted to formulate some plans in his mind, and after a time it occurred to him that he should go back west to gregory. he had hired more than seven hundred fifty acres put into wheat. he hadn't heard how it was, or whether there was any wheat there or not. but he had seen in the papers that a drought had affected much of the crop in kansas and nebraska. he half heartedly assumed that it would naturally hit his country also. if so, there was nothing left for him to do but leave that section. but he would depart from the city on the morrow and see what there was up there, and with this settled in his mind, he quickened his step, and hurried to his room. he turned into the right number, as he thought, but upon trying to insert the key in the lock he found that he had made a mistake. he glanced up in confusion and almost uttered a cry. it was not the attorney's home, but that of the reverend mccarthy. "chump!" he said to himself as he turned and started back down the steps. "i'll never sleep inside that house again," and laughed. upon the walk he heard steps, and when he had reached the street, looked up to meet glavis and a strange negro just turning in. glavis glared at him as if to say, "well, what business have you here, now?" but baptiste mumbled some word of apology about having turned in at the wrong number, went directly to his room, retired and forgot the incident. he had no idea how long he had been asleep or what time it was when he was awakened suddenly by a drumming on his door, and the attorney's voice, saying: "heh! heh! baptiste, wake up, wake up, you're wanted!" he turned on his side and drew his hand to his forehead to assure himself that he was awake. then, realizing that he was, he jumped from the bed and going forward, opened the door. two officers, the attorney in a bath robe, and glavis stood at the door. he regarded them curiously. "what is this?" he managed to say, as they came into the room. "seems that they want you," said the attorney. "me?" he chimed. "yep," said one of the officers. "will you go along peacefully or shall we have to put the bracelets on. you're arrested for murder." "for murder! _me_, for murder?" "just go with the officers, baptiste. if you'd been a little earlier you might have gotten away; but it so happened that i met you coming out just as i was going in." "but i don't understand what you're talking about--all of you," persisted baptiste. "who has been murdered, and why am i accused?" the lawyer had been observing him keenly, and now he interposed. "why, your wife and her father have just been found murdered, and glavis here and another assert they met you coming out of the house at midnight or a little after." the incident of the night came back to him then, "well," he muttered, and began to get into his clothes. when he was fully dressed he turned to the attorney and said: "glavis is right in part, white." he was very calm. "i'll call you up when i need you." and then he turned to the officers and said. "i'm ready. the cuffs will not be necessary." chapter xvi a friend because she feared that rising as early as she had been accustomed to might serve to embarrass her fiancé and his aunt, agnes took a magazine from her bag, returned to bed and tried to interest herself in a story the morning following her arrival in the city. about seven, some one knocked lightly at her door, and, upon opening it, she found the maid with the morning paper. "would you care for it?" she asked courteously. "i would be glad to have it," she said as she took it, returned to the bed, and once again therein, turned to read the news. it was but a moment before she started up quickly as she read: strange murder case on vernon avenue negro minister and his daughter found murdered about midnight jean baptiste, who had lost suit against preacher, arrested and held without bail as suspect. was met leaving the house just before discovery of the murder. jean baptiste, negro author and rancher is under arrest at the county jail this morning, accused of the murder of his wife and father-in-law, the reverend n.j. mccarthy, at ---- vernon avenue. the dead bodies of the preacher and his daughter were discovered shortly after midnight last night by his daughter ethel and her husband, upon his return from state street where he had seen baptiste leave the keystone saloon a few minutes after twelve. the murder appears to be the sequence of a long enmity between the preacher and his son-in-law, baptiste. some years ago baptiste had the preacher's daughter take a homestead in the west, on which he had purchased a relinquishment for her. some months later they were married and went to live on the claim he had secured. it seems that bad blood existed between the preacher and baptiste, and some time after the marriage the preacher went on a trip west and when he returned brought his daughter back with him. it is said that the rancher visited chicago several times following in an effort to persuade her to return. about a year ago, the daughter sold a relinquishment on the homestead and baptiste accused the preacher of having influenced her to do so. he also accused him of other things that contributed to the separation, and finally sued the minister in the circuit court of cook county for ten thousand dollars for alienating his wife's affections. the case was brought up, tried, and, yesterday, the minister was adjudged not guilty by the jury. the rancher and author made a strong case against the minister, and it was the consensus of opinion in the court room that the minister was guilty. but it was his daughter's alibi that saved him: she testified that she did not and never had loved her husband, and because the plaintiff was unable to prove conclusively that she had, the jury's verdict was "not guilty." e.m. glavis, also a son-in-law of the dead man, testified and was corroborated by another, a minister, that just as he turned into his yard last night, he met jean baptiste coming out. he moreover claims, that a few days before the trial, he tried to dissuade baptiste from going through with the case, and to settle it out of court. but that baptiste refused to consider it; that he showed his bitterness toward the now dead man, by declaring that if he hadn't wished to observe and subserve to the law, he would have killed the preacher long ago. it is therefore the consensus of opinion that baptiste, disappointed by losing the suit, entered the house and murdered his wife and father-in-law while they slept. the circumstantial evidence is strong, and it looks rather bad for the author. only one phase of the case seems to puzzle the police, however, and that is that the preacher and his daughter were found dead in the same room, the room which the minister occupied. both had been stabbed with a knife that had long been in that same room. the minister's body lay in bed as if he had been murdered while he was sleeping, while that of the daughter lay near the door. it is the opinion also of those who feel baptiste guilty, that he entered the house and went to the preacher's room, and there killed him while he lay sleeping; and that the daughter, who was sleeping downstairs near her mother, was possibly aroused by the noise, went up to the room, and was murdered as the intruder was about to leave. baptiste refused to make any comment further than that he was innocent. "accused of murder!" agnes echoed, staring before her in much excitement. "_jean baptiste accused of murder!_" she read the account again. she arose and stood on the floor. "he _is_ innocent, _he is innocent_!" she cried to herself. "_jean baptiste would not commit murder, no, no, no! no, not even if he was justified in doing so._" suddenly she seized her clothes, and in the next instant was getting hurriedly into them. she completed her toilet quickly, opened the door and slipped down the stairs. the maid was at work in the hall, and she approached her, and said: "will you kindly advise the lady of the house that i have gone downtown on some very urgent business. that i shall return later in the day?" she stepped outside, crossed to state street, inquired of an officer the way to the county jail, and a few minutes later boarded a car for the north side. she had no plans as to what she would or could do, but she was going to him. all that he had been to her in the past had arisen the instant she saw that he was in trouble. especially did she recall his having saved them from foreclosure and disgrace years before. she was determined. she was _going_ to him, he was innocent, she was positive, and she would do all in her power to save him. it was rather awkward, going to a place she had never dreamed of going to, the county jail, but she shook this resolutely from her mind, and a few minutes following her arrival, there she stood before the bailiff. "i am a friend of a man who was arrested in connection with a murder last night," she explained to the officer. "and--ah, would it be possible for me to see and consult with him?" "you refer to that case on vernon avenue, madam?" "yes, sir." "and you would like to see this jean baptiste?" "that is the one." they regarded her closely, and was finally asked to follow the bailiff. they stopped presently before a cell, and when the light had been turned on, she saw baptiste sitting on a cot. he looked up, and upon recognizing her, came forward. "why, agnes--miss stewart, _you_!" he cried in great surprise. he regarded her as if afraid to try to understand her presence there. "yes, jean," she answered quickly. "it is _i_." she hesitated in her excitement, and as she did so, he caught that same mystery in her eyes. they were blue, and again he could swear that they were brown. despite his precarious position and predicament, he could not help regarding her, and marking the changes that had come in the years since he had seen her. she seemed to have grown a trifle stouter, while her hair appeared there in the light more beautiful. her face was stronger, while her lips were as red as ever. withal, she had grown more serious looking. she reminded him as she stood there then, of a serious young literary woman, and he was made hopeful by her visit. "now, jean, i've read all about it in the papers. i happened to be in the city, and so came right over. i know nothing about anything like this, and don't suppose you do either. but, jean," she spoke excitedly, anxiously, and hurriedly, "i am willing to do anything you ask me to, just anything, jean." and she regarded him tenderly. he was affected by it, he choked confusedly. it was all so sudden. she noted his confusion, and cried in a strained little voice, "you must just tell _me_, jean." "why, agnes--i. well, i don't know what to say. i don't feel that i ought to involve you in such a mess as this. i--" "oh, you must not speak that way, jean. no, no, no! i'm here to help you. you _didn't_ kill him, you _didn't_ kill _her_--_you didn't kill anybody, did you, jean_?" "of course i didn't kill anybody, agnes." "of course you didn't, jean!" she cried with relief. "i _knew_ you were innocent. i said so, and i got out of bed and came at once, i did." "how brave, how noble, how kind," he murmured as if to himself, but she reached and placed her hand over his where it rested upon the bar. "shall i hire a lawyer, jean? a great lawyer--the best in the city. that would be the first thing to do, wouldn't it, jean?" he looked at her, and could not believe it was so, but finally he murmured: "i have a lawyer--a friend of mine. you may call on him, agnes. his number is ---- vernon avenue. he will tell me what to do." "and _me_," she said quickly. "yes--_you_," he repeated, and lowered his eyes. "well, i'm going now, jean," and she reached for his hand. he was almost overcome, and could not look at her directly. "be strong, jean. it will come out all right--it must come out all right--" "oh, agnes, this is too much. forget it. you should not--" "please hush, jean," she said imploringly, and he glanced up to see tears in her eyes. she looked away to hide them. as she did so, she cried: "oh, jean, i know what _they_ have been doing to you--how you have been made to suffer. and--and--i--could _never_ stand to see it after all--" she broke away then, and rushed from him and out of the building. he watched her and when she was gone, he went back to the cot and sat him down, and murmured. "agnes, oh, agnes,--_and after all that has passed_!" chapter xvii the mystery after agnes had consulted with the lawyer, who was glad to go into the case, and agreed to engage a worthy assistant, she returned to baptiste and said: "now, jean. don't you think that if i secured a good detective to look into it--this case, it would be the proper thing?" "why--yes, agnes," he said. he could hardly accustom himself to her in such a situation. "i think that would be best," she resumed. "as i was coming downtown on the car i observed the pinkerton office on th avenue and now, jean, if you think that would be a practical move, i will go there at once and have them send a man to you. i'll bring him." "that would be practical, agnes. yes," he said thoughtfully, "since you insist--" "no more, please," and she affected a little smile. "just let me work until we arrive somewhere," and she was gone, returning in due time with a man. "i represent the pinkerton agency, mr. baptiste," he said, after greeting the prisoner, "and now if you will state just where you were; what time, as near as you can recall, that you reached home; also what time you turned into this place where the murder was committed, i shall be glad to get down to work on the case." since baptiste had observed the time by the clock in the keystone before leaving there, he was quite accurate in fixing the time he reached his room. since we have followed him to his room, we know this phase of the case. "well, i'll hike over there and squint around a little. hope i'll get there before the inquest is held." and so saying, he was gone. "i will go back to where i am staying, now, jean," said agnes, after the detective had departed, "and you may expect me at any time. i want to see you out of here as soon as possible, and i will do all in my power to get you out," and she dashed away. the detective went to the mccarthy home forthwith. the bodies had been removed and were then at the morgue. he looked into the room where the tragedy had been committed, and then sought glavis. "who discovered the murder, mr. glavis?" he inquired when they stood in the death room. "why myself and another fellow returned home just after it had been committed." "how did _you_ know it had just been committed?" "well--why, my wife was in the hall-way, and when we entered she had just discovered the bodies." "but that doesn't prove that they had just been murdered." "but my wife says she was awakened by her sister's scream." "i see. so it was your wife who first discovered the bodies, or that they had just been murdered." "yes." "where had you been, and what time did you return home?" "i had been around town, to the keystone where baptiste was until shortly after midnight." "you saw this baptiste leave the hotel?" "i did." "how long after baptiste left was it, before you followed?" "perhaps fifteen minutes." "_perhaps_ fifteen minutes; but you are not positive?" "no, but i am quite certain." "when you left the hotel, where did you go?" "i came here." "you came directly here. didn't stop on the way anywhere?" "i did not." "and when you arrived, what happened? did you meet anybody on the way?" "i passed people of whom i took no notice on the way here, of course. the only person i took notice of was jean baptiste." "where did you meet him?" "coming out of the house upon my arrival." "you met him coming out of the house upon your arrival?" "well, out of the yard. i saw him come down the steps that leads up to the house." "but you _didn't_ see him come out of the house?" "well, no, i didn't see that." "did you exchange any words with him when you met him? did you stop and talk?" "no. but i heard him mutter something." "did you understand the words or any words he muttered?" "i thought he said something about having turned in at the wrong place." "how do you account for him having done so--if so?" "well, the house where he stops is just a few doors--about a half dozen--up the street--" "on the same side or the opposite?" "the same side. and he was stopping there." "did you have any conversation with baptiste after the trial in which he sued your father-in-law?" "no; but i tried to have him settle the case before going to court." "what did he say to it?" "refused to consider it." "did he give reasons?" "yes. he said he wanted vindication." "anything else?" "that he would have killed the elder if it had not been that he was an observer of the law." "where were they murdered?" "she lay near the door, while he lay in bed." "any evidence of a struggle?" "no, not as i could see." "with what were they murdered?" "with a knife that has been in the room here for two or three years." "was baptiste aware that such a knife was in the room?" "not that i know of." "when, to your knowledge, was baptiste last in the house?" "he has not been in the house for more than three years." "then he couldn't have known the knife was there." "well, unless he discovered it when he entered the room." "providing he _entered_ the room. was he aware also that the preacher occupied this particular room? is it not reasonable to suppose that he would not know where the preacher slept if he had not been in the house for three years?" "but he could have looked around." "possibly. but how do you account for the girl's body being here in the room also. where did she sleep?" "downstairs near her mother. it is my theory that she was disturbed by the sound of some one walking, went upstairs, and was in time to see the tragedy of her father, and was in turn murdered by her husband." "that is your _theory_. but why was there no evidence of a struggle? it hardly seems reasonable that she would have allowed herself to be stabbed without some effort to save herself." "well, that is beyond me. jean baptiste acted suspicious in my opinion, and it is certainly strange that he should have been in the position he was at such a crucial time." "may i consult with your wife?" glavis looked around, uneasily. "she is very much torn up by the incident," he suggested. "but this is a very grave matter." "well," and he turned and entered the room wherein ethel had enclosed herself. "ethel, an officer has called and wishes to consult with you." "no, no, no!" she yelled. "send him away. didn't i tell you i didn't want to see no police," and she fell to crying. the detective had entered the room in the meantime, and when she looked up, she saw him. "what are you doing in here?" she fairly screamed. he did not flinch under the glare she turned upon him. indeed, the day was at last come when she could frighten no one. the one she had been able to drive to any lengths with such a propaganda, lay stiff at the morgue. the detective regarded her searchingly, and upon realizing he was not going to jump and run, she ceased that unseemly noise making and began crying, woefully. "you discovered this tragedy, madam?" he inquired calmly, but with a note of firmness in his tone. "yes, yes!--oh, my poor sister! my poor father--and that low down man!" "when did you discover this, madam?" "just as soon as it was done, oh me!" "how did you come to discover it, lady?" "by my sister's scream. she screamed so loud it seemed everybody must have heard it. screamed when he stuck that knife into her breast!" "how long after you heard her scream was it before you came out of the room--your room?" "i came at once," she said sulkily, and tried to cry louder. the detective was thoughtful. "so you came at once! and what did _you see_ when you came out?" at this she seemed overcome, and it was some moments before he could get her answer, and that was after he had repeated. "my sister and father lying murdered in the room there." "is _that all_ you saw?" she was sulky again. after a time she muttered. she wrinkled her face but the tears would not come. presently she said, and the detective caught an effort on her part to say it. "yes. but i think i heard a door slam downstairs." "you _think_ you heard a door slam? what happened next?" "my husband came." "how long after the door slammed was it before your husband came?" "not long." "is it not possible that when you heard the door slam, that it was your husband coming in?" "no. i heard the door slam behind him, too." again he thought he detected something singular in her manner, as if she were not telling all she knew.... the detective went downstairs and talked with mrs. mccarthy a few minutes, and then took his leave. he called up agnes, and made an appointment and met her some hours later. "what have you discovered?" she inquired anxiously, her eyes searching his face. "well," said he, slowly, "a few things, i think." "and jean--mr. baptiste?" he looked up sharply and searched her face. "he is innocent." "thank god!" and she clasped her hands and looked down in great relief. quickly, she looked up, however, and cried: "but the proof. will you--can you _prove_ it?" he toyed idly with a pencil he held in his hands, and after a time, drawled: "i think so. _when the proper time comes._" "the _proper_ time? and--when will that be?" her voice was controlled, but the anxiety was apparent. "well, we'll say at the preliminary hearing tomorrow morning." "and--and--you have no more to report?" "not today. i shall attend the inquest, of course. and where may i see you--say, tomorrow?" "at the hearing." "very well, then. good day." "good day." chapter xviii vengeance is mine. i will repay "jean," she cried joyfully. "the detective says that you are innocent; and that he feels he will be able to place the crime where it belongs!" "i'm glad," he said solemnly. she bestowed upon him a kind smile as she said: "so i thought i would just come over and cheer you up. there is something mysterious about it all, and the newspapers are devoting much space to it. oh, i'm so glad to hope that it will be all over tomorrow, and you will be let out of this place, so you can go back home and cut your wheat." "my wheat?" "yes, of course, jean. you have a fine crop of wheat on all your land." "i have?" "yes, it is so," she reassured him. and then she paused, as something seemed to occur to her. "because of the fact that you have had several failures you cannot realize that you have actually raised a crop, a big crop, better than any crop since--since." she stopped short, and he understood and suppressed a sigh. when he looked up, she was moving down the hallway, her mind filled with something she had almost forgotten during the past two days. he knew of it. she had been given quite a write-up in the social columns of a chicago paper and many lovers of her musical hit, were, unknown to her, curious with regard to her coming marriage. the detective agnes had retained, called on baptiste's lawyers and held a lengthy consultation. when he left them, an understanding had been reached with regard to the hearing, and silence was agreed upon. at the magistrate's office the following morning, the court room was crowded. scores were turned away, and all the family had been subpoenaed. glavis was first called, and related what he knew, which has already been related. next came mrs. mccarthy who knew even less. she was followed by ethel, and the detective and two lawyers questioned her closely. "now, you say you heard your sister scream," said the lawyer after the usual formalities had passed. "will you kindly state to the court just what you overheard and know regarding this affair?" she glared at him, and then her eyes met those of baptiste, and she glared again. she told a varied story of the case, and made it very brief. "you say, madame, that after you heard your sister scream you rushed from your room and to where she was?" "yes," she answered, and those near noticed the sulkiness. "and when you arrived you found her dead near the door, while your father lay murdered in the bed?" "yes." "do you recall, mrs. glavis, whether she screamed long, or whether it was brief?" she hesitated, somewhat confused. presently, she stiffened and said: "it was long." "did it last until after you had left your bed?" "it did." "until you had left the room you were in?" "yes." "in fact she was screaming still when you arrived at the door of the room, no doubt?" the lawyer's tone was very careless, just as though he were not in the least serious. her reply was prompt. "yes." "now mrs. glavis, do you recall having ever heard your sister scream before in a like manner?" she started perceptibly. her eyes widened, as if she were recalling an incident. suddenly she became oblivious of her present surroundings, and conscious of a night two years before.... when she resumed her testimony, she was seen to be weaker. "no," she said bravely. now it so happened that the attorneys for the defense had consulted with a chemist, who was in the court room by request. at this juncture he was called to the stand. he was asked a number of questions, and then ethel was again placed on the stand. "now, madame, the court has decided to investigate this matter thoroughly. you are positive jean baptiste, here, killed your sister, also your father? you remember, of course, in giving your testimony, _that we are going to investigate the case and prosecute for perjury_!" she had been seen to raise her handkerchief to her eyes with the first announcement regarding the investigation. now she uttered a loud cry as the tears flowed unchecked. suddenly she dropped her handkerchief, and with her arms stretched forward, she screamed: "_no, no! orlean, orlean! oh, my god, orlean!_" and in the next instant she would have fallen in a dead faint had those near not caught her. for this is how it happened. * * * * * when the family returned from the court house, orlean had retired at once, complaining of a headache. since she had very often since her father brought her home complained of such, no particular attention had been paid it. she stayed in bed until late in the afternoon. in the meantime her father went over to the west side, presumably to call on mrs. pruitt. it was late when he returned, about eleven o'clock, that night. orlean retired again about ten, and had fallen into a troubled sleep. she felt the same as she did the night she had returned from mrs. merley's, and she could not account for the strange nausea that lingered over her. when n.j. mccarthy returned, he went to the kitchen for a drink of water, after which, he must return through the room in which his daughter, orlean, lay sleeping. as he had done on that occasion two years before, he had paused at the foot of the bed to observe his sleeping daughter. how long he stood thus, he never knew, but after a time he became conscious of that strange sensation that had come over him on the memorable night before. he tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to hang on like grim death. and as he stood enmeshed in its sinister thraldom, he thought he again saw her rise and point an accusing finger at him. out of it all he was sure he heard again her voice in all its agony as it had spoken that other night. but tonight the accusation was more severe. [illustration: from a painting by w.m. farrow. he tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to hang on like grim death. and as he stood enmeshed in its sinister thraldom, he thought he saw her rise and point an accusing finger at him.] "_there you are again, my betrayer_," she said coldly. "_today you completed your nefarious task; you completed the evil that began more than thirty years ago, oh, debaser of women! where is speed, and the wife of his you ruined? where? in hell and its tortures did you say? yes, and where are my brothers? oh, don't tremble, for you should know! no, you made me pretend to feel that you had not committed that sin, and other sins, also. but i knew--yes, i knew! you never told me i had brothers. you said foolish things to deceive me and the mother of mine. you called me by a boy's name, jim, and pretended, because you did not recognize your illegitimate off-spring, that there were none. and then came jean. oh, you had him at a disadvantage always! when he was a little boy, you started your evil, and twenty years later you renewed it. why, oh, you vain sinner, you know! he married me--perhaps he didn't love me then as he might have--as he would have had i tried to be the woman he wished me to be. but you took advantage of the weakness that was in me by the heritage of my mother, and you made me subservient unto your evil will!_ "_well, it's all over now, and from this day henceforth you will never see peace. the evil and misery you have brought unto others, shall now be cast upon you. you are my father, and the creator of my weakness, but you have taken my husband and soul mate, and made a new generation impossible for me to lead. and now i say unto you, go forth and repent. begone from me. for from this day evermore though in weak flesh i may pretend to love you, know that i must hate you!_" he shook himself, and succeeded in casting off the depression. when he looked again, orlean was sitting up in bed, regarding him sleepily. he started, and wondered whether what had passed was real, but in the next moment he was relieved. "papa," she said in her usual, but sleepy-like voice, "is that you?" "yes, daughter," he replied quickly, and as if to still the excitement in his heart, he passed quickly around to where she reposed, and planted a kiss upon her lips, and turning, hurried upstairs. she sat upright for some minutes after he had gone, and became conscious of that singular feeling that she had felt all the day, still lingering over her. as she sat there, she heard the little clock on the table beside her mother strike : . she lay down again, and a few minutes later she was asleep. the reverend retired quickly and wished he could sleep and forget what he thought he had seen and heard. he was successful, and soon he was snoring. he could not understand upon being awakened slowly how long he had slept, but he became conscious that the light was burning brightly. he turned on his back, and when he could see clearly, his eyes fell upon orlean. she stood between him and the door, and he regarded her with a puzzled expression. presently his eyes met hers, and he started up. _what was the matter with her?_ her eyes were like coals of burning fire; her stiff, bushy hair, was unbraided and stood _away from her head giving her the appearance of a savage. but it was the expression of her eyes that disturbed him._ he was held in a thraldom of fear as she slowly advanced toward the bed. "orlean," he at last managed to say. "what is the--" "_i have come at last to right a wrong_," she began in an uncanny voice. never had he seen her appear like that before, nor heard her speak in such a voice. she paused when she was beside the bed, and stood looking down upon him in that demented fashion. the cold perspiration broke out all over him, and he trembled. "_oh, you told me my husband did not love me. while he worked to make us comfortable and happy out there on the claim you sat beside my sick bed and told me lies. while he grieved over the loss of our little one, you conceived a vile plot to 'get even,' oh, you--liar! you sunk his soul into hell for spite. and then today--yesterday you reached your climax by having me go on the stand and testify to a greater lie! to save your wretched soul from disgrace, i swore to the most miserable lie a woman could tell! and now that you have made him suffer unjustly, and spoiled all life held for me, the judgment of god is upon you. the god that you have lied to and made a laughing idol of seeks restitution! so you sinner of all the sins, vengeance is mine, i will repay!_" so saying, she reached quickly and grasped the knife he had found years before, a desperate looking instrument with a six-inch blade and bone handle. she raised it high, and for the first time he was fully awakened. he attempted to struggle upward, but with a strength borne of excitement, she pushed him and he felled backward upon the bed. "_orlean, my child, orlean! my god--oh, my heaven, what do you--_" he got no further. quickly her poised arm descended, and the knife she held sank deeply into his heart. "_oh, god--my beloved god--ah--oh--christ! christo...._" he struggled upward while she stood over him with that same white expression upon her face. as the blood clogged in the cut the knife had made, and all the pulsations concentrated, struggled before ceasing their functions for all time, he turned his dying eyes toward her. regarded her blindly for a moment, and then, dropped limply back from where he had risen, dead. in that moment she regained her sanity. she regarded him a moment wildly, and then she closed her eyes to try to shut out the awful thing she had done and screamed long and wildly--just as she had done that night when she returned from mrs. merley's. then, as the echo died away, the door was pushed open, and before her stood ethel. one terrible look and the mad girl went quickly forward, halted, swayed, and then with a moan, raised the knife and sank it into her own breast. drawing it forth she regarded ethel wildly, and then, throwing the knife against the wall of the room, dropped dead at ethel's feet, just as glavis' steps were heard in the hall below. when he heard his wife scream, and had rushed upstairs, saw the dead father-in-law and her sister, he cried: "jean baptiste did this! i just met him coming out of the house as i entered," and catching his wife he quickly took her back to the room, and proceeded to spread the alarm. even with the grief she was cast into, ethel had quickly seen a chance to spite the man she hated, and instead of telling the truth, she had chosen to keep silent and let jean baptiste be convicted if possible for the crime he knew nothing of. the people were filing out of the court room. ethel's confession, born out of the excitement when the lawyer had mentioned investigating the crime deeply, had cleared everything, and jean baptiste was free. in the court room during the hearing he had observed agnes, but when the trial was over, she was nowhere to be seen. he looked around, but failed to find any trace of her. at last, with a sigh, he went with the lawyers and a few days later was home, to harvest the wheat she had told him was the best, and so he found it. he was saved thereby, and went into the harvest with bill and george again shocking as they had done years before. but there was no agnes to bring the luncheon now, and jean baptiste lived in the memory of what had once been. chapter xix when the truth became known "i have hardly seen you for two days, my dear," he complained when agnes had returned from the hearing. "i have been consumed with some very delicate business," she said, and notwithstanding the excitement she was laboring under, allowed him to caress her. at the same time he was regarding her strangely. for the first time he seemed to be aware of the fact that she was a rather strange person. he was trying to understand her eyes as everybody else had done, even herself. "will agnes tell me what has kept her so busy and away, i know not where?" he asked tenderly. "or would she rather not--now." "she'd _rather_ not--now," and she tried to be jolly, although she knew she must have failed miserably. "very well, my dear. but, sweet one, when are you going to become my own?" she started. in the excitement she had so recently been through, the fact that she was engaged and expected to marry soon, had gone entirely out of her mind. "why, really--when?" she paused in her confusion, and he said quickly: "let's just get married--today!" "oh, no, please don't ask me to so soon." he frowned. then he was pleasant again. "then, when, agnes?" she was still confused, and in that moment thought of the legacy. she was more confused. he caught her hand then, and touched her cheek with his lips. after an hour she had told him of the legacy. "that place is less than a hundred miles from chicago and we can just run down there today and back this evening!" he exclaimed, shifting in anxious excitement. "we can go there and back today, and be married tomorrow." "no," she said slowly. "i'll suggest that we have the legacy brought here, and attended to according to the will and all that has for a lifetime to me been a mystery, be cleared here in your and your aunt's presence. and the day after--i will marry you." she dropped her eyes then in peculiar solemnity. he didn't understand her but the thrill of what was to come overwhelmed him, and in the next instant he held her in his arms. they explained their plans to his aunt, who, because she disliked notoriety, readily agreed, and by special messenger the papers were brought to the city the following day and opened according to her mother's will. the night before, as they were returning from the theatre, he said to her: "agnes, do you know--and i trust you will pardon me if it seems singular, but there is something about you i can never--somehow feel i never _will_, understand." he paused then and she could see he was embarrassed. "it is in your eyes. i see them in this hour and they are blue, but in the next they are brown. has any one ever observed the fact before?" he ended. she nodded, affirmatively. "why is it, dear?" "i don't know." "and you--you have noticed it yourself?" "yes." "and--can't you understand it, either?" she acknowledged the fact with her eyes. "it is strange. i'll be glad when we understand this legacy." "i will, too." "it makes me feel that something's going to happen. perhaps we--you are going to prove to be an heiress." she laughed cheerfully. "and then you will not want to marry me, maybe." she laughed again. "but nothing would keep me from loving you always, agnes," he said with deep feeling. "even if the papers would show me to be descended from some horrible pirate or worse." "nothing in the world could make a difference. indeed, should the papers connect you with something out of the ordinary, i think i would like you better--that is, it would add even more mystery to your already mysterious self." "wonderful!" he kissed her impulsively, and in the next hour she went off to bed. * * * * * "what is this?" said her fiancé's aunt, as the lawyer lifted a small package from the box of documents, and as he did so, an old photograph slipped and fell to the floor. it was yellow with age; but the reflection of the person was clearly discernible. all three looked at it in wonderment. then her fiancé and his aunt regarded her with apprehension. the package was untied, and all the papers gone through and much history was therein contained. but one fact stood above all others. "is _this_ a fact?" said the aunt coldly. never had she appeared more dignified. her nephew stood away, regarding agnes out of eyes in which she could see a growing fear. "well, i hope everything is clear," said the lawyer astutely. "it seems that you have come into something, madam, and i trust it will prove of value." she mumbled something in reply, and stood gazing at the two pictures she now held. all that had been so strange to her in life was at last clear. she understood the changing color of her eyes, and her father's statements that he had never quite explained. _at last she knew who she was._ she turned to find herself alone. she opened her lips and started to call the others, and then hesitated. _why had they left her?_ she looked at the photographs she held--_and understood_. she gathered the documents and placed them in the box, went upstairs, slowly packed her belongings, and called a cab. * * * * * jean baptiste came into the granary on the old claim, and looked out over the place. and as he did so, he regarded the spot where the sod house had once stood and wherein he had spent many happy days. as he thought of it, the past rose before him, and he lived through the sweetness again that a harvest had once brought him. that was years before, and in that moment he wished he could bring it back again. _the custom of the country and its law_ had forbid, and he had _paid the penalty_. he wondered whether he would do the same again and sacrifice all that had been dear and risk the misery that had followed. he shifted, and in so doing his back was toward the road. "withal, it would have been awkward to have married a white woman," he muttered, and reached for the cold lunch he had brought for his meal. bill and george were eating in the field where they worked. "baching is hell," he muttered aloud, and picked up a sandwich. "how very bad you are, jean," he heard, and almost strained his neck in turning so quickly. "_agnes!_" "well, _why_ not?" "but--but--oh, tell me," and then he became silent and looked away, raising the sandwich to his mouth mechanically. "don't eat the cold lunch, jean. i have brought some that is warm," so saying she uncovered the basket she carried, and he regarded it eagerly. "but, agnes, how came you here? i--i--thought you--were _getting married_. are you here on--on your _wedding trip_?" "oh, lord, no! no, jean, i am not going to marry." "_not going to marry!_" she shook her head and affected to be sad, but a little smile played around her lips that he saw but didn't understand. "but--agnes, _why_?" "because the one to whom i was engaged--well, he wouldn't marry me," and she laughed. "i wish you would make it all clear. at least tell me what it means--that it is so." "it _is_ so!" she said stoutly, and he believed her when he saw her eyes. "well, i guess i'll understand by and by." "you _will_ understand, soon, jean," she said kindly. "papa will explain--_everything_." she turned her eyes away then, and in the moment he reached and grasped her hand. in the next instant he had dropped it, as a far away expression came into his eyes as if he had suddenly recalled something he would forget. "jean," she cried, and came close to him. she looked up into his eyes and saw what was troubling him. she got beside him closely then. she placed an arm around him, and with her free hand she lifted his left hand over her shoulder and held his fingers as she looked away across the harvest fields, and sighed lightly as she said: "something happened and i was strangely glad and came here because--because i--just _had_ to see you, jean." "please, jean. you--will--forget that _now_." she paused and was not aware that her arm was around him, and that his hand rested over her shoulder. her eyes were as they had been that day near this selfsame spot years before, kind and endearing. she did not resist as she saw his manly love and felt his body quiver. and almost were his lips touching hers when suddenly, she saw him hesitate, and despite the darkness of his face, she could see that in that moment the blood seemed to leave it. he dropped the arms that had embraced her, and almost groaned aloud. as she stood regarding him he turned and walked away with his eyes upon the earth. she turned then and retraced her steps, but as she went along the roadway she was thinking of him and herself and _who she was at last_. she sighed, strangely contented, and was positive--knew that in due time _he too_ must come to understand. chapter xx as it was in the beginning it was in the autumn time, after the wheat and the oats, the rye, the barley and the flaxseed had all been gathered, and threshed, and also after the corn had been husked. wheat, he had raised, thousands and thousands of bushels. and because there was war over all the old world, and the great powers of the land were in the grim struggle of trying to crush each other from the face of the earth, the power under which he lived was struggling with the task of feeding a portion of those engaged in the struggle. and because black rust had impaired the spring wheat yield those thousands of bushels he raised, he had sold at a price so high that he had sufficient to redeem at last the land he was about to lose and money left for future development into the bargain. he sat alone at this moment in a stateroom aboard a great continental limited, just out of omaha and speeding westward to the pacific coast. as was his customary wont, his thoughts were prolific. but for once--and maybe for the first time, on the whole, he was satisfied,--he was contented--and last, but not least, he was happy. being happy, however, is not quite possible alone. no, and jean baptiste was _not_ alone. and here is what had happened. jack stewart had told him the story. and in the story told, one great mystery was solved. he now understood why agnes' eyes had been so baffling. simple, too, in a measure. to begin with, her mother had possessed rare brown eyes, he had seen by her picture, because agnes' mother had not been a white woman at all, but in truth was of ethiopian extraction. this was a part of the story jack stewart had told him. he had met and married her mother on a trip from the west indies where she had lived, to glasgow; the marriage being decided upon quickly, for in truth the woman was fleeing. in london some years before, she had been the pupil of a learned minister, who had become an infidel, and also unscrupulous. but we know the story--at least a part of it--of augustus m. barr, alias, isaac m. barr; alias--but it does not matter. we are concerned with agnes' mother. her mother had inherited a small fortune from agnes' grandma and this barr had sought to secure. to do so, he had followed jack stewart and his wife, agnes' mother to jerusalem. there he had met isaac syfe, the jew, whom he later brought to america. he did not find the woman he had followed there, but on his return to england he _did_ find peter kaden who was married to christine. kaden was involved in a murder case, was accused, and had been sentenced to australia for the rest of his natural life. it was barr who saved him, and the fee kaden paid was christine. barr accommodated him by bringing him to america where he placed all three, including himself, on homesteads. syfe settled with him in cash by taking a large loan on his homestead and giving barr the proceeds. but kaden was in the way. he had never been comfortable in the new country with christine the wife of another and living so near, so barr sent christine away and drove kaden to suicide. later at lincoln, nebraska she left him and went out of his life forever. barr had secured kaden's homestead, and all this jack stewart knew, but had never disclosed. barr lost track of agnes' mother, but knew that somewhere in the world there was a treasure but not as great as he had thought it was--about ten thousand dollars in all. while jean baptiste was absorbed in these thoughts, the door was opened quietly, and closed. some one had entered the stateroom and his ears caught the light rustle of a skirt. his eyes were upon the landscape, but suddenly they saw nothing, for his eyes had been covered by a pair of soft hands. "i knew it was you," he said, happily, as he drew her into the seat beside him, between himself and the window. "what are you thinking of, my jean," she said then. "of what i have been thinking ever since the day when we understood that you and i after all are of the same blood." "oh, you have," she chimed, and drawing his face close with her hands, she kissed him ardently. "isn't it beautiful, agnes? just grand!" "oh, jean, you make me so happy." "you are _honestly_ happy, dear?" he inquired for the hundredth time. "i _couldn't_ be happier," and she reposed in his arms. "have truly forgotten that you are _an ethiopian_, and _must share_ what is ethiopia's?" "will share what is _yours_, my jean." "always so beautifully have you said that." "have i, now, really?" "do you recall the day when i forgot, dear, _the custom of the country--and its law_?" "how could i forget it?" "and what followed?" "i cannot forget that, either. but jean, do you want me to?" "agnes, we must both forget what followed. still, when we think how kind fate has been to us, after all, we must feel grateful." "oh, how much i do. but, jean--it was _such_ a sacrifice...." he was thoughtful for a time, and from the expression on his face, the present was far away. "please, dear," she said, taking his hand and fondling it. "when you happen to think of it; will you try never to allow yourself to resume that expression--_that_ expression again?" he looked down at her. "expression?" "like you wore just then." "oh." "you see, it seems to bring back events in your life that we want to forget." "you mean, i--" "yes," she said slowly, "you--we understand each other and everything that has concerned each other, don't we, jean?" "of course we do, agnes. we have always--but there, now!" and he smothered the rest of it in a fond caress. "wasn't it strange," she mused after a time. "i could never understand it. i saw it in my eyes before we left indiana. and then i had that strange dream and saw you." she paused and played with his fingers. "but i never felt the same afterwards. somehow i felt that something strange, something unusual was going to happen in my life, and now when i look back upon it and am so happy," whereupon she grasped tightly the fingers she held--"i feel it just had to be." "do you reckon your father understood the love that was between us?" "i think he did. and he started more than once about that time to tell me something. he went so far once as to say that if you liked me, and i cut him off. afterwards i could see that it worried you and my heart went out to you more than ever. and then you reached your decision. i saw it, and it seems that i liked you more for the man you were." "did you love the man you were engaged to?" "jean!" he laughed sheepishly, and patted her shoulder. he was sorry, that he had asked her such a question, and he resolved thereupon never to do so again. something dark passed before him--terrible years when he had suffered much. she was speaking again. "you know i never loved any one in the world but you." the end transcriber's note: obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment. with the exception of obvious printer errors, the following changes have been made in this text: . page : "truck" changed to "struck" in the phrase, "hope it hasn't struck...." . page : "we'll" changed to "he'll" in the phrase, "he'll get them tomorrow morning...." inconsistencies in the author's spelling, punctuation, and use of hyphens have been retained as in the original book. unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not limited to) the following: weazened, page uproarously, page flustrated, page glabbed, page aimiably, page counciled, page distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) the shepherd's calendar. by james hogg, author of "the queen's wake," &c. &c. in two volumes. vol. i. william blackwood, edinburgh; and t. cadell, london. mdcccxxix. advertisement. the greater number of the tales contained in these volumes appeared originally in blackwood's edinburgh magazine. they have been revised with care; and to complete the collection, several tales hitherto unpublished have been added. contents of vol i. page. chap. i. rob dodds, ii. mr adamson of laverhope, iii. the prodigal son, iv. the school of misfortune, v. george dobson's expedition to hell, vi. the souters of selkirk, vii. the laird of cassway, viii. tibby hyslop's dream, ix. mary burnet, x. the brownie of the black haggs, xi. the laird of wineholm, the shepherd's calendar. chapter i. rob dodds. it was on the th of february , on a cold stormy day, the snow lying from one to ten feet deep on the hills, and nearly as hard as ice, when an extensive store-farmer in the outer limits of the county of peebles went up to one of his led farms, to see how his old shepherd was coming on with his flocks. a partial thaw had blackened some spots here and there on the brows of the mountains, and over these the half-starving flocks were scattered, picking up a scanty sustenance, while all the hollow parts, and whole sides of mountains that lay sheltered from the winds on the preceding week, when the great drifts blew, were heaped and over-heaped with immense loads of snow, so that every hill appeared to the farmer to have changed its form. there was a thick white haze on the sky, corresponding exactly with the wan frigid colour of the high mountains, so that in casting one's eye up to the heights, it was not apparent where the limits of the earth ended, and the heavens began. there was no horizon--no blink of the sun looking through the pale and impervious mist of heaven; but there, in that elevated and sequestered _hope_, the old shepherd and his flock seemed to be left out of nature and all its sympathies, and embosomed in one interminable chamber of waste desolation.--so his master thought; and any stranger beholding the scene, would have been still more deeply impressed that the case was so in reality. but the old shepherd thought and felt otherwise. he saw god in the clouds, and watched his arm in the direction of the storm. he perceived, or thought he perceived, one man's flocks suffering on account of their owner's transgression; and though he bewailed the hardships to which the poor harmless creatures were reduced, he yet acknowledged in his heart the justness of the punishment. "these temporal scourges are laid upon sinners in mercy," said he, "and it will be well for them if they get so away. it will teach them in future how to drink and carouse, and speak profane things of the name of him in whose hand are the issues of life, and to regard his servants as the dogs of their flock." again, he beheld from his heights, when the days were clear, the flocks of others more favourably situated, which he interpreted as a reward for their acts of charity and benevolence; for this old man believed that all temporal benefits are sent to men as a reward for good works; and all temporal deprivations as a scourge for evil ones. "i hae been a herd in this hope, callant and man, for these fifty years now, janet," said he to his old wife, "and i think i never saw the face o' the country look waur." "hout, gudeman, it is but a clud o' the despondency o' auld age come ower your een; for i hae seen waur storms than this, or else my sight deceives me. this time seven and thirty years, when you and i were married, there was a deeper, and a harder snaw baith, than this. there was mony a burn dammed up wi' dead hogs that year! and what say ye to this time nine years, gudeman?" "ay, ay, janet, these were hard times when they were present. but i think there's something in our corrupt nature that gars us aye trow the present burden is the heaviest. however, it is either my strength failing, that i canna won sae weel through the snaw, or i never saw it lying sae deep before. i canna steer the poor creatures frae ae knowe-head to another, without rowing them ower the body. and sometimes when they wad spraughle away, then i stick firm and fast mysell, and the mair i fight to get out, i gang aye the deeper. this same day, nae farther gane, at ae step up in the gait cleuch, i slumpit in to the neck. peace be wi' us, quo' i to myself, where am i now? if my auld wife wad but look up the hill, she wad see nae mair o' her poor man but the bannet. ah! janet, janet, i'm rather feared that our maker has a craw to pook wi' us even now!" "i hope no, andrew; we're in good hands; and if he should e'en see meet to pook a craw wi' us, he'll maybe fling us baith the bouk and the feathers at the end. ye shouldna repine, gudeman. ye're something ill for thrawing your mou' at providence now and then." "na, na, janet; far be't frae me to grumble at providence. i ken ower weel that the warst we get is far aboon our merits. but it's no for the season that i'm sae feared,--that's ruled by ane that canna err; only, i dread that there's something rotten in the government or the religion of the country, that lays it under his curse. there's my fear, janet. the scourge of a land often fa's on its meanest creatures first, and advances by degrees, to gie the boonmost orders o' society warning and time to repent. there, for instance, in the saxteen and seventeen, the scourge fell on our flocks and our herds. then, in aughteen and nineteen, it fell on the weavers,--they're the neist class, ye ken; then our merchants,--they're the neist again; and last of a' it has fallen on the farmers and the shepherds,--they're the first and maist sterling class of a country. na, ye needna smudge and laugh, janet; for it's true. they _are_ the boonmost, and hae aye been the boonmost sin' the days o' abel; and that's nae date o' yesterday. and ye'll observe, janet, that whenever they began to fa' low, they gat aye another lift to keep up their respect. but i see our downfa' coming on us wi' rapid strides.--there's a heartlessness and apathy croppen in amang the sheep-farmers, that shows their warldly hopes to be nearly extinct. the maist o' them seem no to care a bodle whether their sheep die or live. there's our master, for instance, when times were gaun weel, i hae seen him up ilka third day at the farthest in the time of a storm, to see how the sheep were doing; and this winter i hae never seen his face sin' it came on. he seems to hae forgotten that there are sic creatures existing in this wilderness as the sheep and me.--his presence be about us, gin there be nae the very man come by the window!" janet sprung to her feet, swept the hearth, set a chair on the cleanest side, and wiped it with her check apron, all ere one could well look about him. "come away, master; come in by to the fire here; lang-lookit-for comes at length." "how are you, janet?--still living, i see. it is a pity that you had not popped off before this great storm came on." "dear, what for, master?" "because if you should take it into your head to coup the creels just now, you know it would be out of the power of man to get you to a christian burial. we would be obliged to huddle you up in the nook of the kail-yard." "ah, master, what's that you're saying to my auld wife? aye the auld man yet, i hear! a great deal o' the leaven o' corrupt nature aye sprouting out now and then. i wonder you're no fear'd to speak in that regardless manner in these judgment-looking times!" "and you are still the old man too, andrew; a great deal of cant and hypocrisy sprouting out at times. but tell me, you old sinner, how has your maker been serving you this storm? i have been right terrified about your sheep; for i know you will have been very impertinent with him of evenings." "hear to that now! there's no hope, i see! i thought to find you humbled wi' a' thir trials and warldly losses; but i see the heart is hardened like pharaoh's, and you will not let the multitude of your sins go. as to the storm, i can tell you, my sheep are just at ane mae wi't. i am waur than ony o' my neighbours, as i lie higher on the hills; but i may hae been as it chanced, for you; for ye hae never lookit near me mair than you had had no concern in the creatures." "indeed, andrew, it is because neither you nor the creatures are much worth looking after now-a-days. if it hadna been the fear i was in for some mishap coming over the stock, on account of these hypocritical prayers of yours, i would not have come to look after you so soon." "ah, there's nae mense to be had o' you! it's a good thing i ken the heart's better than the tongue, or ane wad hae little face to pray either for you, or aught that belangs t'ye. but i hope ye hae been nae the waur o' auld andrew's prayers as yet. an some didna pray for ye, it wad maybe be the waur for ye. i prayed for ye when ye couldna pray for yoursell, and had hopes that, when i turned auld and doited, you might say a kind word for me; but i'm fear'd that warld's wealth and warld's pleasures hae been leading you ower lang in their train, and that ye hae been trusting to that which will soon take wings and flee away." "if you mean riches, andrew, or warld's wealth, as you call it, you never said a truer word in your life; for the little that my forbears and i have made, is actually, under the influence of these long prayers of yours, melting away from among my hands faster than ever the snow did from the dike." "it is perfectly true, what you're saying, master. i ken the extent o' your bits o' sales weel enough, and i ken your rents; and weel i ken you're telling me nae lee. and it's e'en a hard case. but i'll tell you what i would do--i would throw their tacks in their teeth, and let them mak aught o' them they likit." "why, that would be ruin at once, andrew, with a vengeance. don't you see that stocks of sheep are fallen so low, that if they were put to sale, they would not pay more than the rents, and some few arrears that every one of us have got into; and thus, by throwing up our farms, we would throw ourselves out beggars? we are all willing to put off the evil day as long as we can, and rather trust to long prayers for a while." "ah! you're there again, are you?--canna let alane profanity! it's hard to gar a wicked cout leave off flinging. but i can tell you, master mine--an you farmers had made your hay when the sun shone, ye might a' hae sitten independent o' your screwing lairds, wha are maistly sair out at elbows; and ye ken, sir, a hungry louse bites wicked sair. but this is but a just judgment come on you for your behaviour. ye had the gaun days o' prosperity for twenty years! but instead o' laying by a little for a sair leg, or making provision for an evil day, ye gaed on like madmen. ye biggit houses, and ye plantit vineyards, and threw away money as ye had been sawing sklate-stanes. ye drank wine, and ye drank punch; and ye roared and ye sang, and spake unseemly things. and did ye never think there was an ear that heard, and an ee that saw, a' thae things? and did ye never think that they wad be visited on your heads some day when ye couldna play paw to help yoursells? if ye didna think sae then, ye'll think sae soon. and ye'll maybe see the day when the like o' auld andrew, wi' his darned hose, and his cloutit shoon; his braid bannet, instead of a baiver; his drink out o' the clear spring, instead o' the punch bowl; and his good steeve aitmeal parritch and his horn spoon, instead o' the draps o' tea, that costs sae muckle--i say, that sic a man wi' a' thae, and his worthless prayers to boot, will maybe keep the crown o' the causeway langer than some that carried their heads higher." "hout fie, andrew!" quoth old janet; "gudeness be my help, an i dinna think shame o' you! our master may weel think ye'll be impudent wi' your maker; for troth you're very impudent wi' himsell. dinna ye see that ye hae made the douce sonsy lad that he disna ken where to look?" "ay, janet, your husband may weel crack. he kens he has feathered his nest off my father and me. he is independent, let the world wag as it will." "it's a' fairly come by, master, and the maist part o't came through your ain hands. but my bairns are a' doing for themsells, in the same way that i did; and if twa or three hunder pounds can beet a mister for you in a strait, ye sanna want it, come of a' what will." "it is weel said of you, andrew, and i am obliged to you. there is no class of men in this kingdom so independent as you shepherds. you have your sheep, your cow, your meal and potatoes; a regular income of from sixteen to thirty pounds yearly, without a farthing of expenditure, except for shoes; for your clothes are all made at home. if you would even wish to spend it, you cannot get an opportunity, and every one of you is rich, who has not lost money by lending it. it is therefore my humble opinion, that all the farms over this country will soon change occupants; and that the shepherds must ultimately become the store-farmers." "i hope in god i'll never live to see that, master, for the sake of them that i and mine hae won our bread frae, as weel as some others that i hae a great respect for. but that's no a thing that hasna happened afore this day. it is little mair than a hundred and forty years, sin' a' the land i' this country changed masters already; sin' every farmer in it was reduced, and the farms were a' ta'en by common people and strangers at half naething. the welshes came here then, out o' a place they ca' wales, in england; the andersons came frae a place they ca' rannoch, some gate i' the north; and your ain family came first to this country then frae some bit lairdship near glasgow. there were a set o' macgregors and macdougals, said to have been great thieves, came into yarrow then, and changed their names to scotts; but they didna thrive; for they warna likit, and the hinderend o' them were in the catslackburn. they ca'd them aye the pinolys, frae the place they came frae; but i dinna ken where it was. the ballantynes came frae galloway; and for as flourishing folks as they are now, the first o' them came out at the birkhill-path, riding on a haltered pony, wi' a goat-skin aneath him for a saddle. the cunninghams, likewise, began to spread their wings at the same time; they came a' frae a little fat curate that came out o' glencairn to ettrick. but that's nae disparagement to ony o' thae families; for an there be merit at a' inherent in man as to warldly things, it is certainly in raising himsell frae naething to respect. there is nae very ancient name amang a' our farmers now, but the tweedies and the murrays; i mean of them that anciently belanged to this district. the tweedies are very auld, and took the name frae the water. they were lairds o' drummelzier hunders o' years afore the hays got it, and hae some o' the best blood o' the land in their veins; and sae also have the murrays; but the maist part o' the rest are upstarts and come-o'-wills. now ye see, for as far out-bye as i live, i can tell ye some things that ye dinna hear amang your drinking cronies." "it is when you begin to these old traditions that i like to listen to you, andrew. can you tell me what was the cause of such a complete overthrow of the farmers of that age?" "oh, i canna tell, sir--i canna tell; some overturn o' affairs, like the present, i fancy. the farmers had outher lost a' their sheep, or a' their siller, as they are like to do now; but i canna tell how it was; for the general change had ta'en place, for the maist part, afore the revolution. my ain grandfather, who was the son of a great farmer, hired himsell for a shepherd at that time to young tam linton; and mony ane was wae for the downcome. but, speaking o' that, of a' the downcomes that ever a country kenn'd in a farming name, there has never been ought like that o' the lintons. when my grandfather was a young man, and ane o' their herds, they had a' the principal store-farms o' ettrick forest, and a part in this shire. they had, when the great mr boston came to ettrick, the farms o' blackhouse, dryhope, henderland, chapelhope, scabcleuch, shorthope, midgehope, meggatknowes, buecleuch, and gilmanscleuch, that i ken of, and likely as mony mae; and now there's no a man o' the name in a' the bounds aboon the rank of a cow-herd. thomas linton rode to kirk and market, wi' a liveryman at his back; but where is a' that pride now?--a' buried in the mools wi' the bearers o't! and the last representative o' that great overgrown family, that laid house to house, and field to field, is now sair gane on a wee, wee farm o' the duke o' buecleuch's. the ancient curse had lighted on these men, if ever it lighted on men in this world. and yet they were reckoned good men, and kind men, in their day; for the good mr boston wrote an epitaph on thomas, in metre, when he died; and though i have read it a hunder times in st mary's kirk-yard, where it is to be seen to this day, i canna say it ower. but it says that he was eyes to the blind, and feet to the lame, and that the lord would requite him in a day to come, or something to that purpose. now that said a great deal for him, master, although providence has seen meet to strip his race of a' their worldly possessions. but take an auld fool's advice, and never lay farm to farm, even though a fair opportunity should offer; for, as sure as he lives who pronounced that curse, it will take effect. i'm an auld man, and i hae seen mony a dash made that way; but i never saw ane o' them come to good! there was first murray of glenrath; why, it was untelling what land that man possessed. now his family has not a furr in the twa counties. then there was his neighbour simpson of posso: i hae seen the day that simpson had two-and-twenty farms, the best o' the twa counties, and a' stockit wi' good sheep. now there's no a drap o' _his_ blood has a furr in the twa counties. then there was grieve of willenslee; ane wad hae thought that body was gaun to take the haill kingdom. he was said to have had ten thousand sheep, a' on good farms, at ae time. where are they a' now? neither _him_ nor _his_ hae a furr in the twa counties. let me tell ye, master--for ye're but a young man, and i wad aye fain have ye to see things in a right light--that ye may blame the wars; ye may blame the government; and ye may blame the parliamenters: but there's a hand that rules higher than a' these; and gin ye dinna look to that, ye'll never look to the right source either o' your prosperity or adversity. and i sairly doubt that the pride o' the farmers has been raised to ower great a pitch, that providence has been brewing a day of humiliation for them, and that there will be a change o' hands aince mair, as there was about this time hunder and forty years." "then i suppose you shepherds expect to have century about with us, or so? well, i don't see any thing very unfair in it." "ay, but i fear we will be as far aneath the right medium for a while, as ye are startit aboon it. we'll make a fine hand doing the honours o' the grand mansion-houses that ye hae biggit for us; the cavalry exercises; the guns and the pointers; the wine and the punch drinking; and the singing o' the deboshed sangs! but we'll just come to the right set again in a generation or twa; and then, as soon as we get ower hee, we'll get a downcome in our turn.--but, master, i say, how will you grand gentlemen tak wi' a shepherd's life? how will ye like to be turned into reeky holes like this, where ye can hardly see your fingers afore ye, and be reduced to the parritch and the horn spoon?" "i cannot tell, andrew. i suppose it will have some advantages--it will teach us to say long prayers to put off the time; and if we should have the misfortune afterwards to pass into _the bad place_ that you shepherds are all so terrified about, why, we will scarcely know any difference. i account that a great advantage in dwelling in such a place as this. we'll scarcely know the one place from the other." "ay, but oh what a surprise ye will get when ye step out o' ane o' your grand palaces into hell! and gin ye dinna repent in time, ye'll maybe get a little experiment o' that sort. ye think ye hae said a very witty thing there: but a' profane wit is sinfu'; and whatever is sinfu' is shamefu'; and therefore it never suits to be said either afore god or man. ye are just a good standing sample o' the young tenantry o' scotland at this time. ye're ower genteel to be devout, and ye look ower high, and depend ower muckle on the arm o' flesh, to regard the rod and him that hath appointed it. but it will fa' wi' the mair weight for that! a blow that is seen coming may be wardit off; but if ane's sae proud as no to regard it, it's the less scaith that he suffer." "i see not how any man can ward off this blow, andrew. it has gathered its overwhelming force in springs over which we have no control, and is of that nature that no industry of man can avail against it--exertion is no more than a drop in the bucket: and i greatly fear that this grievous storm is come to lay the axe to the root of the tree." "i'm glad to hear, however, that ye hae some scripture phrases at your tongue-roots. i never heard you use ane in a serious mode before; and i hope there will be a reformation yet. if adversity hae that effect, i shall willingly submit to my share o' the loss if the storm should lie still for a while, and cut off a wheen o' the creatures, that ye aince made eedals o', and now dow hardly bide to see. but that's the gate wi' a things that ane sets up for warldly worship in place o' the true object; they turn a' out curses and causes o' shame and disgrace. as for warding off the blow, master, i see no resource but throwing up the farms ilk ane, and trying to save a remnant out o' the fire. the lairds want naething better than for ye to rin in arrears; then they will get a' your stocks for neist to naething, and have the land stockit themsells as they had lang-syne; and you will be their keepers, or vassals, the same as we are to you at present. as to hinging on at the present rents, it is madness--the very extremity of madness. i hae been a herd here for fifty years, and i ken as weel what the ground will pay at every price of sheep as you do, and i daresay a great deal better. when i came here first, your father paid less than the third of the rent that you are bound to pay; sheep of every description were dearer, lambs, ewes, and wedders; and i ken weel he was making no money of it, honest man, but merely working his way, with some years a little over, and some naething. and how is it possible that you can pay three times the rent at lower prices of sheep? i say the very presumption of the thing is sheer madness. and it is not only this farm, but you may take it as an average of all the farms in the country, that _before the french war began, the sheep were dearer than they are now--the farms were not above one-third of the rents at an average, and the farmers were not making any money_. they have lost their summer day during the french war, which will never return to them; and the only resource they have, that i can see, is to abandon their farms in time, and try to save a remnant. things will come to their true level presently, but not afore the auld stock o' farmers are crushed past rising again. and then i little wat what's to come o' ye; for an we herds get the land, we _winna_ employ you as our shepherds,--that you may depend on." "well, andrew, these are curious facts that you tell me about the land having all changed occupiers about a certain period. i wish you could have stated the causes with certainty. was there not a great loss on this farm once, when it was said the burn was so dammed up with dead carcasses that it changed its course?" "ay, but that's quite a late story. it happened in my own day, and i believe mostly through mischance. that was the year rob dodds was lost in the earney cleuch. i remember it, but cannot tell what year it was, for i was but a little bilsh of a callant then." "who was rob dodds? i never heard of the incident before." "ay, but your father remembered it weel; for he sent a' his men mony a day to look for the corpse, but a' to nae purpose. i'll never forget it; for it made an impression on me sae deep that i couldna get rest i' my bed for months and days. he was a young handsome bonny lad, an honest man's only son, and was herd wi' tam linton in the birkhill. the lintons were sair come down then; for this tam was a herd, and had rob hired as his assistant. weel, it sae happened that tam's wife had occasion to cross the wild heights atween the birkhill and tweedsmuir, to see her mother, or sister, on some express; and tam sent the young man wi' her to see her ower donald's cleuch edge. it was in the middle o' winter, and, if i mind right, this time sixty years. at the time they set out, the morning was calm, frosty, and threatening snaw, but the ground clear of it. rob had orders to set his mistress to the height, and return home; but by the time they had got to the height, the snaw had come on, so the good lad went all the way through guemshope with her, and in sight of the water o' fruid. he crossed all the wildest o' the heights on his return in safety; and on the middle-end, west of loch-skene, he met with robin laidlaw, that went to the highlands and grew a great farmer after that. robin was gathering the polmoody ewes; and as they were neighbours, and both herding to ae master, laidlaw testified some anxiety lest the young man should not find his way hame; for the blast had then come on very severe. dodds leugh at him, and said, 'he was nae mair feared for finding the gate hame, than he was for finding the gate to his mouth when he was hungry.'--'weel, weel,' quo' robin, 'keep the band o' the hill a' the way, for i hae seen as clever a fellow waured on sic a day; and be sure to hund the ewes out o' the brand law scores as ye gang by.'--'tammy charged me to bring a backfu' o' peats wi' me,' said he; 'but i think i'll no gang near the peat stack the day.'--'na,' quo' robin, 'i think ye'll no be sae mad!'--'but, o man,' quo' the lad, 'hae ye ony bit bread about your pouches; for i'm unco hungry? the wife was in sic a hurry that i had to come away without getting ony breakfast, and i had sae far to gang wi' her, that i'm grown unco toom i' the inside.'--'the fient ae inch hae i, robie, my man, or ye should hae had it,' quo' laidlaw.--'but an that be the case, gang straight hame, and never heed the ewes, come o' them what will.'--'o there's nae fear!' said he, 'i'll turn the ewes, and be hame in good time too.' and with that he left laidlaw, and went down the middle-craig-end, jumping and playing in a frolicsome way ower his stick. he had a large lang nibbit staff in his hand, which laidlaw took particular notice of, thinking it would be a good help for the young man in the rough way he had to gang. "there was never another word about the matter till that day eight days. the storm having increased to a terrible drift, the snaw had grown very deep, and the herds, wha lived about three miles sindry, hadna met for a' that time. but that day tam linton and robin laidlaw met at the tail burn; and after cracking a lang time thegither, tam says to the tither, just as it war by chance, 'saw ye naething o' our young dinnagood this day eight days, robin? he gaed awa that morning to set our gudewife ower the height, and has never sin' that time lookit near me, the careless rascal!' "'tam linton, what's that you're saying? what's that i hear ye saying, tam linton?' quo' robin, wha was dung clean stupid wi' horror. 'hae ye never seen rob dodds sin' that morning he gaed away wi' your wife?' "'na, never,' quo' the tither. "'why then, sir, let me tell ye, you'll never see him again in this world alive,' quo' robin; 'for he left me on the middle-end on his way hame that day at eleven o'clock, just as the day was coming to the warst.--but, tam linton, what was't ye war saying? ye're telling me what canna be true--do ye say that ye haena seen rob dodds sin' that day?' "'haena i tauld ye that i hae never seen his face sinsyne?' quo' linton. "'sae i hear ye saying,' quo' robin again. 'but ye're telling me a downright made lee. the thing's no possible; for ye hae the very staff i' your hand that he had in his, when he left me in the drift that day.' "'i ken naething about sticks or staves, robin laidlaw,' says tam, looking rather like ane catched in an ill turn. 'the staff wasna likely to come hame without the owner; and i can only say, i hae seen nae mair o' rob dodds sin' that morning; and i had thoughts that, as the day grew sae ill, he had hadden forrit a' the length wi' our wife, and was biding wi' her folks a' this time to bring her hame again when the storm had settled.' "'na, na, tam, ye needna get into ony o' thae lang-windit stories wi' me,' quo' robin. 'for i tell ye, that's the staff rob dodds had in his hand when i last saw him; so ye have either seen him dead or living--i'll gie my oath to that.' "'ye had better take care what ye say, robin laidlaw,' says tam, very fiercely, 'or i'll maybe make ye blithe to eat in your words again.' "'what i hae said, i'll stand to, tam linton,' says robin.--'and mair than that,' says he, 'if that young man has come to an untimely end, i'll see his blood required at your hand.' "then there was word sent away to the hopehouse to his parents, and ye may weel ken, master, what heavy news it was to them, for rob was their only son; they had gien him a good education, and muckle muckle they thought o' him; but naething wad serve him but he wad be a shepherd. his father came wi' the maist pairt o' ettrick parish at his back; and mony sharp and threatening words past atween him and linton; but what could they make o't? the lad was lost, and nae law, nor nae revenge, could restore him again; sae they had naething for't, but to spread athwart a' the hills looking for the corpse. the haill country rase for ten miles round, on ane or twa good days that happened; but the snaw was still lying, and a' their looking was in vain. tam linton wad look nane. he took the dorts, and never heeded the folk mair than they hadna been there. a' that height atween loch-skene and the birkhill was just moving wi' folk for the space o' three weeks; for the twa auld folk, the lad's parents, couldna get ony rest, and folk sympathized unco muckle wi' them. at length the snaw gaed maistly away, and the weather turned fine, and i gaed out ane o' the days wi' my father to look for the body. but, aih wow! i was a feared wight! whenever i saw a bit sod, or a knowe, or a grey stane, i stood still and trembled for fear it was the dead man, and no ae step durst i steer farther, till my father gaed up to a' thae things. i gaed nae mair back to look for the corpse; for i'm sure if we had found the body i wad hae gane out o' my judgment. "at length every body tired o' looking, but the auld man himsell. he travelled day after day, ill weather and good weather, without intermission. they said it was the waesomest thing ever was seen, to see that auld grey-headed man gaun sae lang by himsell, looking for the corpse o' his only son! the maist part o' his friends advised him at length to give up the search, as the finding o' the body seemed a thing a'thegither hopeless. but he declared he wad look for his son till the day o' his death; and if he could but find his bones, he would carry them away from the wild moors, and lay them in the grave where he was to lie himsell. tam linton was apprehended, and examined afore the sheriff; but nae proof could be led against him, and he wan off. he swore that, as far as he remembered, he got the staff standing at the mouth o' the peat stack; and that he conceived that either the lad or himsell had left it there some day when bringing away a burden of peats. the shepherds' peats had not been led home that year, and the stack stood on a hill-head, half a mile frae the house, and the herds were obliged to carry them home as they needed them. "but a mystery hung ower that lad's death that was never cleared up, nor ever will a'thegither. every man was convinced, in his own mind, that linton knew where the body was a' the time; and also, that the young man had not come by his death fairly. it was proved that the lad's dog had come hame several times, and that tam linton had been seen kicking it frae about his house; and as the dog could be nowhere all that time, but waiting on the body, if that had no been concealed in some more than ordinary way, the dog would at least have been seen. at length, it was suggested to the old man, that dead-lights always hovered over a corpse by night, if the body was left exposed to the air; and it was a fact that two drowned men had been found in a field of whins, where the water had left the bodies, by means of the dead-lights, a very short while before. on the first calm night, therefore, the old desolate man went to the merk-side-edge, to the top of a high hill that overlooked all the ground where there was ony likelihood that the body would be lying. he watched there the lee-lang night, keeping his eye constantly roaming ower the broken wastes before him; but he never noticed the least glimmer of the dead-lights. about midnight, however, he heard a dog barking; it likewise gae twa or three melancholy yowls, and then ceased. robin dodds was convinced it was his son's dog; but it was at such a distance, being about twa miles off, that he couldna be sure where it was, or which o' the hills on the opposite side of the glen it was on. the second night he kept watch on the path know, a hill which he supposed the howling o' the dog cam frae. but that hill being all surrounded to the west and north by tremendous ravines and cataracts, he heard nothing o' the dog. in the course of the night, however, he saw, or fancied he saw, a momentary glimmer o' light, in the depth of the great gulf immediately below where he sat; and that at three different times, always in the same place. he now became convinced that the remains o' his son were in the bottom of the linn, a place which he conceived inaccessible to man; it being so deep from the summit where he stood, that the roar o' the waterfall only reached his ears now and then wi' a loud _whush!_ as if it had been a sound wandering across the hills by itsell. but sae intent was robin on this willie-an-the-wisp light, that he took landmarks frae the ae summit to the other, to make sure o' the place; and as soon as daylight came, he set about finding a passage down to the bottom of the linn. he effected this by coming to the foot of the linn, and tracing its course backward, sometimes wading in water, and sometimes clambering over rocks, till at length, with a beating heart, he reached the very spot where he had seen the light; and in the grey o' the morning, he perceived something lying there that differed in colour from the iron-hued stones, and rocks, of which the linn was composed. he was in great astonishment what this could be; for, as he came closer on it, he saw it had no likeness to the dead body of a man, but rather appeared to be a heap o' bed-clothes. and what think you it turned out to be? for i see ye're glowring as your een were gaun to loup out--just neither more nor less than a strong mineral well; or what the doctors ca' a callybit spring, a' boustered about wi' heaps o' soapy, limy kind o' stuff, that it seems had thrown out fiery vapours i' the nighttime. "however, robin, being unable to do ony mair in the way o' searching, had now nae hope left but in finding his dead son by some kind o' supernatural means. sae he determined to watch a third night, and that at the very identical peat stack where it had been said his son's staff was found. he did sae; and about midnight, ere ever he wist, the dog set up a howl close beside him. he called on him by his name, and the dog came, and fawned on his old acquaintance, and whimpered, and whinged, and made sic a wark, as could hardly hae been trowed. robin keepit haud o' him a' the night, and fed him wi' pieces o' bread, and then as soon as the sun rose, he let him gang; and the poor affectionate creature went straight to his dead master, who, after all, was lying in a little green spritty hollow, not above a musket-shot from the peat stack. this rendered the whole affair more mysterious than ever; for robin dodds himself, and above twenty men beside, could all have made oath that they had looked into that place again and again, so minutely, that a dead bird could not have been there without their having seen it. however, there the body of the youth was gotten, after having been lost for the long space of ten weeks; and not in a state of great decay neither, for it rather appeared swollen, as if it had been lying among water. "conjecture was now driven to great extremities in accounting for all these circumstances. it was manifest to every one, that the body had not been all the time in that place. but then, where had it been? or what could have been the reasons for concealing it? these were the puzzling considerations. there were a hunder different things suspectit; and mony o' them, i dare say, a hunder miles frae the truth; but on the whole, linton was sair lookit down on, and almaist perfectly abhorred by the country; for it was weel kenn'd that he had been particularly churlish and severe on the young man at a' times, and seemed to have a peculiar dislike to him. an it hadna been the wife, wha was a kind considerate sort of a body, if tam had gotten his will, it was reckoned he wad hae hungered the lad to dead. after that, linton left the place, and gaed away, i watna where; and the country, i believe, came gayan near to the truth o' the story at last: "there was a girl in the birkhill house at the time, whether a daughter o' tam's, or no, i hae forgot, though i think otherwise. however, she durstna for her life tell a' she kenn'd as lang as the investigation was gaun on; but it at last spunkit out that rob dodds had got hame safe eneugh; and that tam got into a great rage at him, because he had not brought a burden o' peats, there being none in the house. the youth excused himself on the score of fatigue and hunger; but tam swore at him, and said, 'the deil be in your teeth, gin they shall break bread, till ye gang back out to the hill-head and bring a burden o' peats!' dodds refused; on which tam struck him, and forced him away; and he went crying and greeting out at the door, but never came back. she also told, that after poor rob was lost, tam tried several times to get at his dog to fell it with a stick; but the creature was terrified for him, and made its escape. it was therefore thought, and indeed there was little doubt, that rob, through fatigue and hunger, and reckless of death from the way he had been guidit, went out to the hill, and died at the peat stack, the mouth of which was a shelter from the drift-wind; and that his cruel master, conscious o' the way in which he had used him, and dreading skaith, had trailed away the body, and sunk it in some pool in these unfathomable linns, or otherwise concealed it, wi' the intention, that the world might never ken whether the lad was actually dead, or had absconded. if it had not been for the dog, from which it appears he had been unable to conceal it, and the old man's perseverance, to whose search there appeared to be no end, it is probable he would never have laid the body in a place where it could have been found. but if he had allowed it to remain in the first place of concealment, it might have been discovered by means of the dog, and the intentional concealment of the corpse would then have been obvious; so that linton all that time could not be quite at his ease, and it was no wonder he attempted to fell the dog. but where the body could have been deposited, that the faithful animal was never discovered by the searchers, during the day, for the space of ten weeks, baffled a' the conjectures that ever could be made. "the two old people, the lad's father and mother, never got over their loss. they never held up their heads again, nor joined in society ony mair, except in attending divine worship. it might be truly said o' them, that they spent the few years that they survived their son in constant prayer and humiliation; but they soon died, short while after ane anither. as for tam linton, he left this part of the country, as i told you; but it was said there was a curse hung ower him and his a' his life, and that he never mair did weel.--that was the year, master, on which our burn was dammed wi' the dead sheep; and in fixing the date, you see, i hae been led into a lang story, and am just nae farther wi' the main point than when i began." "i wish from my heart, andrew, that you would try to fix a great many old dates in the same manner; for i confess i am more interested in your lang stories, than in either your lang prayers, or your lang sermons about repentance and amendment. but pray, you were talking of the judgments that overtook tam linton--was that the same tam linton that was precipitated from the brand law by the break of a snaw-wreath, and he and all his sheep jammed into the hideous gulf, called the grey mare's tail?" "the very same, sir; and that might be accountit ane o' the first judgments that befell him; for there were many of his ain sheep in the flock. tam asserted all his life, that he went into the linn along with his hirsel, but no man ever believed him; for there was not one of the sheep came out alive, and how it was possible for the carl to have come safe out, naebody could see. it was, indeed, quite impossible; for it had been such a break of snaw as had scarcely ever been seen. the gulf was crammed sae fu', that ane could hae gane ower it like a pendit brig; and no a single sheep could be gotten out, either dead or living. when the thaw came, the burn wrought a passage for itself below the snaw, but the arch stood till summer. i have heard my father oft describe the appearance of that vault as he saw it on his way from moffat fair. ane hadna gane far into it, he said, till it turned darkish, like an ill-hued twilight; and sic a like arch o' carnage he never saw! there were limbs o' sheep hinging in a' directions, the snaw was wedged sae firm. some entire carcasses hung by the neck, some by a spauld; then there was a haill forest o' legs sticking out in ae place, and horns in another, terribly mangled and broken; and it was a'thegither sic a frightsome-looking place, that he was blithe to get out o't again." after looking at the sheep, tasting old janet's best kebbuck, and oatmeal cakes, and preeing the whisky bottle, the young farmer again set out through the deep snow, on his way home. but andrew made him promise, that if the weather did not amend, he would come back in a few days and see how the poor sheep were coming on; and, as an inducement, promised to tell him a great many old anecdotes of the shepherd's life. chapter ii. mr adamson of laverhope. one of those events that have made the deepest impression on the shepherds' minds for a century bygone, seems to have been the fate of mr adamson, who was tenant in laverhope for the space of twenty-seven years. it stands in their calendar as an era from which to date summer floods, water spouts, hail and thunder-storms, &c.; and appears from tradition to have been attended with some awful circumstances, expressive of divine vengeance. this adamson is represented, as having been a man of an ungovernable temper--of irritability so extreme, that no person could be for a moment certain to what excesses he might be hurried. he was otherwise accounted a good and upright man, and a sincere christian; but in these outbreakings of temper he often committed acts of cruelty and injustice, for which any good man ought to have been ashamed. among other qualities, he had an obliging disposition, there being few to whom a poor man would sooner have applied in a strait. accordingly, he had been in the habit of assisting a less wealthy neighbour of his with a little credit for many years. this man's name was irvine, and though he had a number of rich relations, he was never out of difficulties. adamson, from some whim or caprice, sued this poor farmer for a few hundred merks, taking legal steps against him, even to the very last measures short of poinding and imprisonment. irvine paid little attention to this, taking it for granted that his neighbour took these steps only for the purpose of inducing his debtor's friends to come forward and support him. it happened one day about this period, that a thoughtless boy, belonging to irvine's farm, hunted adamson's cattle in a way that gave great offence to their owner, on which the two farmers differed, and some hard words passed between them. the next day irvine was seized and thrown into jail; and shortly after, his effects were poinded, and sold by auction for ready money. they were consequently thrown away, as the neighbours, not having been forewarned, were wholly unprovided with ready money, and unable to purchase at any price. mrs irvine came to the enraged creditor with a child in her arms, and implored him to put off the sale for a month, that she might try what could be done amongst her friends to prevent a wreck so irretrievable. he was at one time on the very point of yielding; but some bitter recollections coming over his mind at the moment, stimulated his spleen against her husband, and he resolved that the sale should go on. william carruders of grindiston heard the following dialogue between them; and he said that his heart almost trembled within him; for mrs irvine was a violent woman, and her eloquence did more harm than good. "are ye really gaun to act the part of a devil, the day, mr adamson, and turn me and thae bairns out to the bare high-road, helpless as we are? oh, man, if your bowels binna seared in hell-fire already, take some compassion; for an ye dinna, they _will_ be seared afore baith men and angels yet, till that hard and cruel heart o' yours be nealed to an izle." "i'm gaun to act nae part of a devil, mrs irvine; i'm only gaun to take my ain in the only way i can get it. i'm no baith gaun to tine my siller, and hae my beasts abused into the bargain." "ye sall neither lose plack nor bawbee o' your siller, man, if ye will gie me but a month to make a shift for it--i swear to you, ye sall neither lose, nor rue the deed. but if ye winna grant me that wee wee while, when the bread of a haill family depends on it, ye're waur than ony deil that's yammering and cursing i' the bottomless pit." "keep your ravings to yoursell, mrs irvine, for i hae made up my mind what i'm to do; and i'll do it; sae it's needless for ye to pit yoursell into a bleeze; for the surest promisers are aye the slackest payers. it isna likely that your bad language will gar me alter my purpose." "if that _be_ your purpose, mr adamson, and if you put that purpose in execution, i wadna change conditions wi' you the day for ten thousand times a' the gear ye are worth. ye're gaun to do the thing that ye'll repent only aince--for a' the time that ye hae to exist baith in this world and the neist, and that's a lang lang look forrit and ayond. ye have assisted a poor honest family for the purpose of taking them at a disadvantage, and crushing them to beggars; and when ane thinks o' that, what a heart you must hae! ye hae first put my poor man in prison, a place where he little thought, and less deserved, ever to be; and now ye are reaving his sackless family out o' their last bit o' bread. look at this bit bonny innocent thing in my arms, how it is smiling on ye! look at a' the rest standing leaning against the wa's, ilka ane wi' his een fixed on you by way o' imploring your pity! if ye reject thae looks, ye'll see them again in some trying moments, that will bring this ane back to your mind; ye will see them i' your dreams; ye will see them on your death-bed, and ye will _think_ ye see them gleaming on ye through the reek o' hell,--but it winna be them." "haud your tongue, woman, for ye make me feared to hear ye." "ay, but better be feared in time, than torfelled for ever! better conquess your bad humour for aince, than be conquessed for it through sae mony lang ages. ye pretend to be a religious man, mr adamson, and a great deal mair sae than your neighbours--do you think that religion teaches you acts o' cruelty like this? will ye hae the face to kneel afore your maker the night, and pray for a blessing on you and yours, and that he will forgive you your debts as you forgive your debtors? i hae nae doubt but ye will. but aih! how sic an appeal will heap the coals o' divine vengeance on your head, and tighten the belts o' burning yettlin ower your hard heart! come forrit, bairns, and speak for yoursells, ilk ane o' ye." "o, maister adamson, ye maunna turn my father and mother out o' their house and their farm; or what think ye is to come o' us?" said thomas. no consideration, however, was strong enough to turn adamson from his purpose. the sale went on; and still, on the calling off of every favourite animal, mrs irvine renewed her anathemas. "gentlemen, this is the mistress's favourite cow, and gives thirteen pints of milk every day. she is valued in my roup-roll at fifteen pounds; but we shall begin her at ten. does any body say ten pounds for this excellent cow? ten pounds--ten pounds? nobody says ten pounds? gentlemen, this is extraordinary! money is surely a scarce article here to-day. well, then, does any gentleman say five pounds to begin this excellent cow that gives twelve pints of milk daily? five pounds--only five pounds!--nobody bids five pounds? well, the stock must positively be sold without reserve. ten shillings for the cow--ten shillings--ten shillings--will nobody bid ten shillings to set the sale a-going?" "i'll gie five-and-twenty shillings for her," cried adamson. "thank you, sir. one pound five--one pound five, and just a-going. once--twice--_thrice_. mr adamson, one pound five." mrs irvine came forward, drowned in tears, with the babe in her arms, and patting the cow, she said, "ah, poor lady bell, this is my last sight o' you, and the last time i'll clap your honest side! and hae we really been deprived o' your support for the miserable sum o' five-and-twenty shillings?--my curse light on the head o' him that has done it! in the name of my destitute bairns i curse him; and does he think that a mother's curse will sink fizzenless to the ground? na, na! i see an ee that's looking down here in pity and in anger; and i see a hand that's gathering the bolts o' heaven thegither, for some purpose that i could divine, but daurna utter. but that hand is unerring, and where it throws the bolt, there it will strike. fareweel, poor beast! ye hae supplied us wi' mony a meal, but ye will never supply us wi' another." this sale at kirkheugh was on the th of july. on the day following, mr adamson went up to the folds in the hope, to shear his sheep, with no fewer than twenty-five attendants, consisting of all his own servants and cottars, and about as many neighbouring shepherds whom he had collected; it being customary for the farmers to assist one another reciprocally on these occasions. adamson continued more than usually capricious and unreasonable all that forenoon. he was discontented with himself; and when a man is ill pleased with himself, he is seldom well pleased with others. he seemed altogether left to the influences of the wicked one, running about in a rage, finding fault with every thing, and every person, and at times cursing bitterly, a practice to which he was not addicted; so that the sheep-shearing, that used to be a scene of hilarity among so many young and old shepherds, lads, lasses, wives, and callants, was that day turned into one of gloom and dissatisfaction. after a number of other provoking outrages, adamson at length, with the buisting-iron which he held in his hand, struck a dog belonging to one of his own shepherd boys, till the poor animal fell senseless on the ground, and lay sprawling as in the last extremity. this brought matters to a point which threatened nothing but anarchy and confusion; for every shepherd's blood boiled with indignation, and each almost wished in his heart that the dog had been his own, that he might have retaliated on the tyrant. at the time the blow was struck, the boy was tending one of the fold-doors, and perceiving the plight of his faithful animal, he ran to its assistance, lifted it in his arms, and holding it up to recover its breath, he wept and lamented over it most piteously. "my poor little nimble!" he cried; "i am feared that mad body has killed ye, and then what am i to do wanting ye? i wad ten times rather he had strucken mysell!" he had scarce said the words ere his master caught him by the hair of the head with the one hand, and began to drag him about, while with the other he struck him most unmercifully. when the boy left the fold-door, the unshorn sheep broke out, and got away to the hill among the lambs and the clippies; and the farmer being in one of his "mad tantrums," as the servants called them, the mischance had almost put him beside himself; and that boy, or man either, is in a ticklish case who is in the hands of an enraged person far above him in strength. the sheep-shearers paused, and the girls screamed, when they saw their master lay hold of the boy. but robert johnston, a shepherd from an adjoining farm, flung the sheep from his knee, made the shears ring against the fold-dike, and in an instant had the farmer by both wrists, and these he held with such a grasp, that he took the power out of his arms; for johnston was as far above the farmer in might, as the latter was above the boy. "mr adamson, what are ye about?" he cried; "hae ye tint your reason a'thegither, that ye are gaun on rampauging like a madman that gate? ye hae done the thing, sir, in your ill-timed rage, that ye ought to be ashamed of baith afore god and man." "are ye for fighting, rob johnston?" said the farmer, struggling to free himself. "do ye want to hae a fight, lad? because if ye do, i'll maybe gie you enough o' that." "na, sir, i dinna want to fight; but i winna let you fight either, unless wi' ane that's your equal; sae gie ower spraughling, and stand still till i speak to ye; for au ye winna stand to hear reason, i'll gar ye lie till ye hear it. do ye consider what ye hae been doing even now? do ye consider that ye hae been striking a poor orphan callant, wha has neither father nor mother to protect him, or to right his wrangs? and a' for naething, but a bit start o' natural affection? how wad ye like sir, an ony body were to guide a bairn o' yours that gate? and ye as little ken what they are to come to afore their deaths, as that boy's parents did when they were rearing and fondling ower him. fie for shame, mr adamson! fie for shame! ye first strak his poor dumb brute, which was a greater sin than the tither, for it didna ken what ye were striking it for; and then, because the callant ran to assist the only creature he has on the earth, and i'm feared the only true and faithfu' friend beside, ye claught him by the hair o' the head, and fell to the dadding him as he war your slave! od, sir, my blood rises at sic an act o' cruelty and injustice; and gin i thought ye worth my while, i wad tan ye like a pellet for it." the farmer struggled and fought so viciously, that johnston was obliged to throw him down twice over, somewhat roughly, and hold him by main force. but on laying him down the second time, johnston said, "now, sir, i just tell ye, that ye deserve to hae your banes weel throoshen; but ye're nae match for me, and i'll scorn to lay a tip on ye. i'll leave ye to him who has declared himself the stay and shield of the orphan; and gin some visible testimony o' his displeasure dinna come ower ye for the abusing of his ward, i am right sair mista'en." adamson, finding himself fairly mastered, and that no one seemed disposed to take his part, was obliged to give in, and went sullenly away to tend the hirsel that stood beside the fold. in the meantime the sheep-shearing went on as before, with a little more of hilarity and glee. it is the business of the lasses to take the ewes, and carry them from the fold to the clippers; and now might be seen every young shepherd's sweetheart, or favourite, waiting beside him, helping him to clip, or holding the ewes by the hind legs to make them lie easy, a great matter for the furtherance of the operator. others again, who thought themselves slighted, or loved a joke, would continue to act in a different manner, and plague the youths by bringing them such sheep as it was next to impossible to clip. "aih, jock lad, i hae brought you a grand ane this time! ye will clank the shears ower her, and be the first done o' them a'!" "my truly, jessy, but ye hae gi'en me ane! i declare the beast is woo to the cloots and the een holes; and afore i get the fleece broken up, the rest will be done. ah, jessy, jessy! ye're working for a mischief the day; and ye'll maybe get it." "she's a braw sonsie sheep, jock. i ken ye like to hae your arms weel filled. she'll amaist fill them as weel as tibby tod." "there's for it now! there's for it! what care i for tibby tod, dame? ye are the most jealous elf, jessy, that ever drew coat ower head. but wha was't that sat half a night at the side of a grey stane wi' a crazy cooper? and wha was't that gae the poor precentor the whiskings, and reduced a' his sharps to downright flats? an ye cast up tibby tod ony mair to me, i'll tell something that will gar thae wild een reel i' your head, mistress jessy." "wow, jock, but i'm unco wae for ye now. poor fellow! it's really very hard usage! if ye canna clip the ewe, man, gie me her, and i'll tak her to anither; for i canna bide to see ye sae sair put about. i winna bring ye anither tibby tod the day, take my word on it. the neist shall be a real may henderson o' firthhope-cleuch--ane, ye ken, wi' lang legs, and a good lamb at her fit." "gudesake, lassie, haud your tongue, and dinna affront baith yoursell and me. ye are fit to gar ane's cheek burn to the bane. i'm fairly quashed, and daurna say anither word. let us therefore hae let-a-be for let-a-be, which is good bairns's greement, till after the close o' the day sky; and then i'll tell ye my mind." "ay, but whilk o' your minds will ye tell me, jock? for ye will be in five or six different anes afore that time. ane, to ken your mind, wad need to be tauld it every hour o' the day, and then cast up the account at the year's end. but how wad she settle it then, jock? i fancy she wad hae to multiply ilk year's minds by dozens, and divide by four, and then we a' ken what wad be the quotient." "aih wow, sirs! heard ever ony o' ye the like o' that? for three things the sheep-fauld is disquieted, and there are four which it cannot bear." "and what are they, jock?" "a witty wench, a woughing dog, a waukit-woo'd wedder, and a pair o' shambling shears." after this manner did the gleesome chat go on, now that the surly goodman had withdrawn from the scene. but this was but one couple; every pair being engaged according to their biasses, and after their kind--some settling the knotty points of divinity; others telling auld-warld stories about persecutions, forays, and fairy raids; and some whispering, in half sentences, the soft breathings of pastoral love. but the farmer's bad humour, in the meanwhile was only smothered, not extinguished; and, like a flame that is kept down by an overpowering weight of fuel, wanted but a breath to rekindle it; or like a barrel of gunpowder, that the smallest spark will set in a blaze. that spark unfortunately fell upon it too soon. it came in the form of an old beggar, ycleped patie maxwell, a well-known, and generally a welcome guest, over all that district. he came to the folds for his annual present of a fleece of wool, which had never before been denied him; and the farmer being the first person he came to, he approached him, as in respect bound, accosting him in his wonted obsequious way. "weel, gudeman, how's a' wi' ye the day?"--(no answer.)--"this will be a thrang day w'ye? how are ye getting on wi' the clipping?" "nae the better o' you, or the like o' you. gang away back the gate ye came. what are ye coming doiting up through amang the sheep that gate for, putting them a' tersyversy?" "tut, gudeman, what does the sheep mind an auld creeping body like me? i hae done nae ill to your pickle sheep; and as for ganging back the road i cam, i'll do that whan i like, and no till than." "but i'll make you blithe to turn back, auld vagabond! do ye imagine i'm gaun to hae a' my clippers and grippers, buisters and binders, laid half idle, gaffing and giggling wi' you?" "why, then, speak like a reasonable man, and a courteous christian, as ye used to do, and i'se crack wi' yoursell, and no gang near them." "i'll keep my christian cracks for others than auld papist dogs, i trow." "wha do ye ca' auld papist dogs, mr adamson?--wha is it that ye mean to denominate by that fine-sounding title?" "just you, and the like o' ye, pate. it is weel kenn'd that ye are as rank a papist as ever kissed a crosier, and that ye were out in the very fore-end o' the unnatural rebellion, in order to subvert our religion, and place a popish tyrant on the throne. it is a shame for a protestant parish like this to support ye, and gie you as liberal awmosses as ye were a christian saint. for me, i can tell you, ye'll get nae mae at my hand; nor nae rebel papist loun amang ye." "dear sir, ye're surely no yoursell the day? ye hae kenn'd i professed the catholic religion these thretty years--it was the faith i was brought up in, and that in which i shall dee; and ye kenn'd a' that time that i was out in the forty-five wi' prince charles, and yet ye never made mention o' the facts, nor refused me my awmos, till the day. but as i hae been obliged t'ye, i'll haud my tongue; only, i wad advise ye as a friend, whenever ye hae occasion to speak of ony community of brother christians, that ye will in future hardly make use o' siccan harsh terms. or, if ye will do't, tak care wha ye use them afore, and let it no be to the face o' an auld veteran." "what, ye auld profane wafer-eater, and worshipper of graven images, dare ye heave your pikit kent at me?" "i hae heaved baith sword and spear against mony a better man; and, in the cause o' my religion, i'll do it again." he was proceeding, but adamson's choler rising to an ungovernable height, he drew a race, and, running against the gaberlunzie with his whole force, made him fly heels-over-head down the hill. the old man's bonnet flew off, his meal-pocks were scattered about, and his mantle, with two or three small fleeces of wool in it, rolled down into the burn. the servants observed what had been done, and one elderly shepherd said, "in troth, sirs, our master is no himsell the day. he maun really be looked to. it appears to me, that sin' he roupit out yon poor family yesterday, the lord has ta'en his guiding arm frae about him. rob johnston, ye'll be obliged to rin to the assistance of the auld man." "i'll trust the auld jacobite for another shake wi' him yet," said rob, "afore i steer my fit; for it strikes me, if he hadna been ta'en unawares, he wad hardly hae been sae easily coupit." the gaberlunzie was considerably astounded and stupified when he first got up his head; but finding all his bones whole, and his old frame disencumbered of every superfluous load, he sprung to his feet, shook his grey burly locks, and cursed the aggressor in the name of the holy trinity, the mother of our lord, and all the blessed saints above. then approaching him with his cudgel heaved, he warned him to be on his guard, or make out of his reach, else he would send him to eternity in the twinkling of an eye. the farmer held up his staff across, to defend his head against the descent of old patie's piked kent, and, at the same time, made a break in, with intent to close with his assailant; but, in so doing, he held down his head for a moment, on which the gaberlunzie made a swing to one side, and lent adamson such a blow over the neck, or back part of the head, that he fell violently on his face, after running two or three steps precipitately forward. the beggar, whose eyes gleamed with wild fury, while his grey locks floated over them like a winter cloud over two meteors of the night, was about to follow up his blow with another more efficient one on his prostrate foe; but the farmer, perceiving these unequivocal symptoms of danger, wisely judged that there was no time to lose in providing for his own safety, and, rolling himself rapidly two or three times over, he got to his feet, and made his escape, though not before patie had hit him what he called "a stiff lounder across the rumple." the farmer fled along the brae, and the gaberlunzie pursued, while the people at the fold were convulsed with laughter. the scene was highly picturesque, for the beggar could run none, and still the faster that he essayed to run, he made the less speed. but ever and anon he stood still, and cursed adamson in the name of one or other of the saints or apostles, brandishing his cudgel, and stamping with his foot. the other, keeping still at a small distance, pretended to laugh at him, and at the same time uttered such bitter abuse against the papists in general, and old patie in particular, that, after the latter had cursed himself into a proper pitch of indignation, he always broke at him again, making vain efforts to reach him one more blow. at length, after chasing him by these starts about half a mile, the beggar returned, gathered up the scattered implements and fruits of his occupation, and came to the fold to the busy group. patie's general character was that of a patient, jocular, sarcastic old man, whom people liked, but dared not much to contradict; but that day his manner and mien had become so much altered, in consequence of the altercation and conflict which had just taken place, that the people were almost frightened to look at him; and as for social converse, there was none to be had with him. his countenance was grim, haughty, and had something satanic in its lines and deep wrinkles; and ever and anon, as he stood leaning against the fold, he uttered a kind of hollow growl, with a broken interrupted sound, like a war-horse neighing in his sleep, and then muttered curses on the farmer. the old shepherd before-mentioned, ventured, at length, to caution him against such profanity, saying, "dear patie, man, dinna sin away your soul, venting siccan curses as these. they will a' turn back on your ain head; for what harm can the curses of a poor sinfu' worm do to our master?" "my curse, sir, has blasted the hopes of better men than either you or him," said the gaberlunzie, in an earthquake voice, and shivering with vehemence as he spoke. "ye may think the like o' me can hae nae power wi' heaven; but an i hae power wi' hell, it is sufficient to cow ony that's here. i sanna brag what effect my curse will have, but i shall say this, that either your master, or ony o' his men, had as good have auld patie maxwell's blessing as his curse ony time, jacobite and roman catholic though he be." it now became necessary to bring into the fold the sheep that the farmer was tending; and they were the last hirsel that was to shear that day. the farmer's face was reddened with ill-nature; but yet he now appeared to be somewhat humbled, by reflecting on the ridiculous figure he had made. patie sat on the top of the fold-dike, and from the bold and hardy asseverations that he made, he seemed disposed to provoke a dispute with any one present who chose to take up the cudgels. while the shepherds, under fire of the gaberlunzie's bitter speeches, were sharping their shears, a thick black cloud began to rear itself over the height to the southward, the front of which seemed to be boiling--both its outsides rolling rapidly forward, and again wheeling in toward the centre. i have heard old robin johnston, the stout young man mentioned above, but who was a very old man when i knew him, describe the appearance of the cloud as greatly resembling a whirlpool made by the eddy of a rapid tide, or flooded river; and he declared, to his dying day, that he never saw aught in nature have a more ominous appearance. the gaberlunzie was the first to notice it, and drew the attention of the rest towards that point of the heavens by the following singular and profane remark:--"aha, lads! see what's coming yonder. yonder's patie maxwell's curse coming rowing and reeling on ye already; and what will ye say an the curse of god be coming backing it?" "gudesake, haud your tongue, ye profane body; ye mak me feared to hear ye," said one.--"it's a strange delusion to think that a papish can hae ony influence wi' the almighty, either to bring down his blessing or his curse." "ye speak ye ken nae what, man," answered pate; "ye hae learned some rhames frae your poor cauldrife protestant whigs about papists, and antichrist, and children of perdition; yet it is plain that ye haena ae spark o' the life or power o' religion in your whole frame, and dinna ken either what's truth or what's falsehood.--ah! yonder it is coming, grim and gurly! now i hae called for it, and it is coming, let me see if a' the protestants that are of ye can order it back, or pray it away again! down on your knees, ye dogs, and set your mou's up against it, like as many spiritual cannon, and let me see if you have influence to turn aside ane o' the hailstanes that the deils are playing at chucks wi' in yon dark chamber!" "i wadna wonder if our clipping were cuttit short," said one. "na, but i wadna wonder if something else were cuttit short," said patie; "what will ye say an some o' your weazons be cuttit short? hurraw! yonder it comes! now, there will be sic a hurly-burly in laverhope as never was sin' the creation o' man!" the folds of laverhope were situated on a gently sloping plain, in what is called "the forkings of a burn." laver-burn runs to the eastward, and widehope-burn runs north, meeting the other at a right angle, a little below the folds. it was around the head of this widehope that the cloud first made its appearance, and there its vortex seemed to be impending. it descended lower and lower, with uncommon celerity, for the elements were in a turmoil. the cloud laid first hold of one height, then of another, till at length it closed over and around the pastoral group, and the dark hope had the appearance of a huge chamber hung with sackcloth. the big clear drops of rain soon began to descend, on which the shepherds covered up the wool with blankets, then huddled together under their plaids at the side of the fold, to eschew the speat, which they saw was going to be a terrible one. patie still kept undauntedly to the top of the dike, and mr adamson stood cowering at the side of it, with his plaid over his head, at a little distance from the rest. the hail and rain mingled, now began to descend in a way that had been seldom witnessed; but it was apparent to them all that the tempest raged with much greater fury in widehope-head to the southward.--anon a whole volume of lightning burst from the bosom of the darkness, and quivered through the gloom, dazzling the eyes of every beholder;--even old maxwell clapped both his hands on his eyes for a space; a crash of thunder followed the flash, that made all the mountains chatter, and shook the firmament so, that the density of the cloud was broken up; for, on the instant that the thunder ceased, a rushing sound began in widehope, that soon increased to a loudness equal to the thunder itself; but it resembled the noise made by the sea in a storm. "holy virgin!" exclaimed patie maxwell, "what is this? what is this? i declare we're a' ower lang here, for the dams of heaven are broken up;" and with that he flung himself from the dike, and fled toward the top of a rising ground. he knew that the sound proceeded from the descent of a tremendous water-spout; but the rest, not conceiving what it was, remained where they were. the storm increased every minute, and in less than a quarter of an hour after the retreat of the gaberlunzie, they heard him calling out with the utmost earnestness; and when they eyed him, he was jumping like a madman on the top of the hillock, waving his bonnet, and screaming out, "run, ye deil's buckies! run for your bare lives!" one of the shepherds, jumping up on the dike, to see what was the matter, beheld the burn of widehope coming down in a manner that could be compared to nothing but an ocean, whose boundaries had given way, descending into the abyss. it came with a cataract front more than twenty feet deep, as was afterwards ascertained by measurement; for it left sufficient marks to enable men to do this with precision. the shepherd called for assistance, and leaped into the fold to drive out the sheep; and just as he got the foremost of them to take the door, the flood came upon the head of the fold, on which he threw himself over the side-wall, and escaped in safety, as did all the rest of the people. not so mr adamson's ewes; the greater part of the hirsel being involved in this mighty current. the large fold nearest the burn was levelled with the earth in one second. stones, ewes, and sheep-house, all were carried before it, and all seemed to bear the same weight. it must have been a dismal sight, to see so many fine animals tumbling and rolling in one irresistible mass. they were strong, however, and a few plunged out, and made their escape to the eastward; a greater number were carried headlong down, and thrown out on the other side of laver-burn, upon the side of a dry hill, to which they all escaped, some of them considerably maimed; but the greatest number of all were lost, being overwhelmed among the rubbish of the fold, and entangled so among the falling dikes, and the torrent wheeling and boiling amongst them, that escape was impossible. the wool was totally swept away, and all either lost, or so much spoiled, that, when afterwards recovered, it was unsaleable. when first the flood broke in among the sheep, and the women began to run screaming to the hills, and the despairing shepherds to fly about, unable to do any thing, patie began a-laughing with a loud and hellish guffaw, and in that he continued to indulge till quite exhausted. "ha, ha, ha, ha! what think ye o' the auld beggar's curse now? ha, ha, ha, ha! i think it has been backit wi' heaven's and the deil's baith. ha, ha, ha, ha!" and then he mimicked the thunder with the most outrageous and ludicrous jabberings, turning occasionally up to the cloud streaming with lightning and hail, and calling out,--"louder yet, deils! louder yet! kindle up your crackers, and yerk away! rap, rap, rap, rap--ro-ro, ro, ro--roo--whush." "i daresay that body's the vera deevil himsell in the shape o' the auld papish beggar!" said one, not thinking that patie could hear at such a distance. "na, na, lad, i'm no the deil," cried he in answer; "but an i war, i wad let ye see a stramash! it is a sublime thing to be a roman catholic amang sae mony weak apostates; but it is a sublimer thing still to be a deil--a master-spirit in a forge like yon. ha, ha, ha, ha! take care o' your heads, ye cock-chickens o' calvin--take care o' the auld coppersmith o' the black cludd!" from the moment that the first thunder-bolt shot from the cloud, the countenance of the farmer was changed. he was manifestly alarmed in no ordinary degree; and when the flood came rushing from the dry mountains, and took away his sheep and his folds before his eyes, he became as a dead man, making no effort to save his store, or to give directions how it might be done. he ran away in a cowering posture, as he had been standing, and took shelter in a little green hollow, out of his servants' view. the thunder came nearer and nearer the place where the astonished hinds were, till at length they perceived the bolts of flame striking the earth around them, in every direction; at one time tearing up its bosom, and at another splintering the rocks. robin johnston, in describing it, said, that "the thunnerbolts came shimmering out o' the cludd sae thick, that they appeared to be linkit thegither, and fleeing in a' directions. there war some o' them blue, some o' them red, and some o' them like the colour o' the lowe of a candle; some o' them diving into the earth, and some o' them springing up out o' the earth and darting into the heaven." i cannot vouch for the truth of this, but i am sure my informer thought it true, or he would not have told it; and he said farther, that when old maxwell saw it, he cried--"fie, tak care, cubs o' hell! fie, tak care! cower laigh, and sit sicker; for your auld dam is aboon ye, and aneath ye, and a' round about ye. o for a good wat nurse to spean ye, like john adamson's lambs! ha, ha, ha!"--the lambs, it must be observed, had been turned out of the fold at first, and none of them perished with their dams. but just when the storm was at the height, and apparently passing the bounds ever witnessed in these northern climes; when the embroiled elements were in the state of hottest convulsion, and when our little pastoral group were every moment expecting the next to be their last, all at once a lovely "blue bore," fringed with downy gold, opened in the cloud behind, and in five minutes more the sun again appeared, and all was beauty and serenity. what a contrast to the scene so lately witnessed! the most remarkable circumstance of the whole was perhaps the contrast between the two burns. the burn of laverhope never changed its colour, but continued pure, limpid, and so shallow, that a boy might have stepped over it dry-shod, all the while that the other burn was coming in upon it like an ocean broken loose, and carrying all before it. in mountainous districts, however, instances of the same kind are not infrequent in times of summer speats. some other circumstances connected with this storm, were also described to me: the storm coming from the south, over a low-lying, wooded, and populous district, the whole of the crows inhabiting it posted away up the glen of laverhope to avoid the fire and fury of the tempest. "there were thoosands and thoosands came up by us," said robin, "a' laying theirsells out as they had been mad. and then, whanever the bright bolt played flash through the darkness, ilk ane o' them made a dive and a wheel to avoid the shot: for i was persuaded that they thought a' the artillery and musketry o' the haill coontry were loosed on them, and that it was time for them to tak the gate. there were likewise several colly dogs came by us in great extremity, binging out their tongues, and looking aye ower their shouthers, rinning straight on they kenn'dna where; and amang other things, there was a black highland cow came roaring up the glen, wi' her stake hanging at her neck." when the gush of waters subsided, all the group, men and women, were soon employed in pulling out dead sheep from among rubbish of stones, banks of gravel, and pools of the burn; and many a row of carcasses was laid out, which at that season were of no use whatever, and of course utterly lost. but all the time they were so engaged, mr adamson came not near them; at which they wondered, and some of them remarked, that "they thought their master was fey the day, mae ways than ane." "ay, never mind him," said the old shepherd, "he'll come when he thinks it his ain time; he's a right sair humbled man the day, and i hope by this time he has been brought to see his errors in a right light. but the gaberlunzie is lost too. i think he be sandit in the yird, for i hae never seen him sin' the last great crash o' thunner." "he'll be gane into the howe to wring his duds," said robert johnston, "or maybe to make up matters wi' your master. gude sauf us, what a profane wretch the auld creature is! i didna think the muckle horned deil himsell could hae set up his mou' to the heaven, and braggit and blasphemed in sic a way. he gart my heart a' grue within me, and dirle as it had been bored wi' reid-het elsins." "oh, what can ye expect else of a papish?" said the old shepherd, with a deep sigh. "they're a' deil's bairns ilk ane, and a' employed in carrying on their father's wark. it is needless to expect gude branches frae sic a stock, or gude fruit frae siccan branches." "there's ae wee bit text that folks should never lose sight o'," said robin, "and it's this,--'judge not, that ye be not judged.' i think," remarked robin, when he told the story, "i think that steekit their gabs!" the evening at length drew on; the women had gone away home, and the neighbouring shepherds had scattered here and there to look after their own flocks. mr adamson's men alone remained, lingering about the brook and the folds, waiting for their master. they had seen him go into the little green hollow, and they knew he was gone to his prayers, and were unwilling to disturb him. but they at length began to think it extraordinary that he should continue at his prayers the whole afternoon. as for the beggar, though acknowledged to be a man of strong sense and sound judgment, he had never been known to say prayers all his life, except in the way of cursing and swearing a little sometimes; and none of them could conjecture what was become of him. some of the rest, as it grew late, applied to the old shepherd before oft mentioned, whose name i have forgot, but he had herded with adamson twenty years--some of the rest, i say, applied to him to go and bring their master away home, thinking that perhaps he was taken ill. "o, i'm unco laith to disturb him," said the old man; "he sees that the hand o' the lord has fa'en heavy on him the day, and he's humbling himsell afore him in great bitterness o' spirit, i daresay. i count it a sin to brik in on sic devotions as thae." "na, i carena if he should lie and pray yonder till the morn," said a young lad, "only i wadna like to gang hame and leave him lying on the hill, if he should hae chanced to turn no weel. sae, if nane o' ye will gang and bring him, or see what ails him, i'll e'en gang mysell;" and away he went, the rest standing still to await the issue. when the lad went first to the brink of the little slack where adamson lay, he stood a few moments, as if gazing or listening, and then turned his back and fled. the rest, who were standing watching his motions, wondered at this; and they said, one to another, that their master was angry at being disturbed, and had been threatening the lad so rudely, that it had caused him to take to his heels. but what they thought most strange was, that the lad did not fly towards them, but straight to the hill; nor did he ever so much as cast his eyes in their direction; so deeply did he seem to be impressed with what had passed between him and his master. indeed, it rather appeared that he did not know what he was doing; for, after running a space with great violence, he stood and looked back, and then broke to the hill again--always looking first over the one shoulder, and then over the other. then he stopped a second time, and returned cautiously towards the spot where his master reclined; and all the while he never so much as once turned his eyes in the direction of his neighbours, or seemed to remember that they were there. his motions were strikingly erratic; for all the way, as he returned to the spot where his master was, he continued to advance by a zigzag course, like a vessel beating up by short tacks; and several times he stood still, as on the very point of retreating. at length he vanished from their sight in the little hollow. it was not long till the lad again made his appearance, shouting and waving his cap for them to come likewise; on which they all went away to him as fast as they could, in great amazement what could be the matter. when they came to the green hollow, a shocking spectacle presented itself: there lay the body of their master, who had been struck dead by the lightning; and, his right side having been torn open, his bowels had gushed out, and were lying beside the body. the earth was rutted and ploughed close to his side, and at his feet there was a hole scooped out, a full yard in depth, and very much resembling a grave. he had been cut off in the act of prayer, and the body was still lying in the position of a man praying in the field. he had been on his knees, with his elbows leaning on the brae, and his brow laid on his folded hands; his plaid was drawn over his head, and his hat below his arm; and this affecting circumstance proved a great source of comfort to his widow afterwards, when the extremity of her suffering had somewhat abated. no such awful visitation of providence had ever been witnessed, or handed down to our hinds on the ample records of tradition, and the impression which it made, and the interest it excited, were also without a parallel. thousands visited the spot, to view the devastations made by the flood, and the furrows formed by the electrical matter; and the smallest circumstances were inquired into with the most minute curiosity: above all, the still and drowsy embers of superstition were rekindled by it into a flame, than which none had ever burnt brighter, not even in the darkest days of ignorance; and by the help of it a theory was made out and believed, that for horror is absolutely unequalled. but as it was credited in its fullest latitude by my informant, and always added by him at the conclusion of the tale, i am bound to mention the circumstances, though far from vouching them to be authentic. it was asserted, and pretended to have been proved, that old peter maxwell _was not in the glen of laverhope that day_, but at a great distance in a different county, and that it was the devil who attended the folds in his likeness. it was farther believed by all the people at the folds, that it was the last explosion of the whole that had slain mr adamson; for they had at that time observed the side of the brae, where the little green slack was situated, covered with a sheet of flame for a moment. and it so happened, that thereafter the profane gaberlunzie had been no more seen; and therefore they said--and here was the most horrible part of the story--there was no doubt of his being the devil, waiting for his prey, and that he fled away in that sheet of flame, carrying the soul of john adamson along with him. i never saw old pate maxwell,--for i believe he died before i was born; but robin johnston said, that to his dying day, he denied having been within forty miles of the folds of laverhope on the day of the thunder-storm, and was exceedingly angry when any one pretended to doubt the assertion. it was likewise reported, that at six o'clock afternoon a stranger had called on mrs irvine, and told her, that john adamson, and a great part of his stock, had been destroyed by the lightning and the hail. mrs irvine's house was five miles distant from the folds; and more than that, the farmer's death was not so much as known of by mortal man until two hours after mrs irvine received this information. the storm exceeded any thing remembered, either for its violence or consequences, and these mysterious circumstances having been bruited abroad, gave it a hold on the minds of the populace, never to be erased but by the erasure of existence. it fell out on the th of july, . the death of mr copland of minnigapp, in annandale, forms another era of the same sort. it happened, if i mistake not, on the th of july, . it was one of those days by which all succeeding thunder-storms have been estimated, and from which they are dated, both as having taken place so many years before, and so long after. adam copland, esquire, of minnigapp, was a gentleman esteemed by all who knew him. handsome in his person, and elegant in his manners, he was the ornament of rural society, and the delight of his family and friends; and his loss was felt as no common misfortune. as he occupied a pastoral farm of considerable extent, his own property, he chanced likewise to be out at his folds on the day above-mentioned, with his own servants, and some neighbours, weaning a part of his lambs, and shearing a few sheep. about mid-day the thunder, lightning, and hail, came on, and deranged their operations entirely; and, among other things, a part of the lambs broke away from the folds, and being in great fright, they continued to run on. mr copland and a shepherd of his, named thomas scott, pursued them, and, at the distance of about half a mile from the folds, they turned them, mastered them, after some running, and were bringing them back to the fold, when the dreadful catastrophe happened. thomas scott was the only person present, of course; and though he was within a few steps of his master at the time, he could give no account of any thing. i am well acquainted with scott, and have questioned him about the particulars fifty times; but he could not so much as tell me how he got back to the fold; whether he brought the lambs with him or not; how long the storm continued; nor, indeed, any thing after the time that his master and he turned the lambs. that circumstance he remembered perfectly, but thenceforward his mind seemed to have become a blank. i should likewise have mentioned, as an instance of the same kind of deprivation of consciousness, that when the young lad who went first to the body of adamson was questioned why he fled from the body at first, he denied that ever he fled; he was not conscious of having fled a foot, and never would have believed it, if he had not been seen by four eye-witnesses. the only things of which thomas scott had any impressions were these: that, when the lightning struck his master, he sprung a great height into the air, much higher, he thought, than it was possible for any man to leap by his own exertion. he also thinks, that the place where he fell dead was at a considerable distance from that on which he was struck and leaped from the ground; but when i inquired if he judged that it would be twenty yards or ten yards, he could give no answer--he could not tell. he only had an impression that he saw his master spring into the air, all on fire; and, on running up to him, he found him quite dead. if scott was correct in this, (and he being a man of plain good sense, truth, and integrity, there can scarce be a reason for doubting him,) the circumstance would argue that the electric matter by which mr copland was killed issued out of the earth. he was speaking to scott with his very last breath; but all that the survivor could do, he could never remember what he was saying. some melted drops of silver were standing on the case of his watch, as well as on some of the buttons of his coat, and the body never stiffened like other corpses, but remained as supple as if every bone had been softened to jelly. he was a married man, scarcely at the prime of life, and left a young widow and only son to lament his loss. on the spot where he fell there is now an obelisk erected to his memory, with a warning text on it, relating to the shortness and uncertainty of human life. chapter iii. the prodigal son. "bring me my pike-staff, daughter matilda,--the one with the head turned round like crummy's horn; i find it easiest for my hand. and do you hear, matty?--stop, i say; you are always in such a hurry.--bring me likewise my best cloak,--not the tartan one, but the grey marled one, lined with green flannel. i go over to shepherd gawin's to-day, to see that poor young man who is said to be dying." "i would not go, father, were i you. he is a great reprobate, and will laugh at every good precept; and, more than that, you will heat yourself with the walk, get cold, and be confined again with your old complaint." "what was it you said, daughter matilda? ah, you said that which was very wrong. god only knows who are reprobates, and who are not. we can judge from nought but external evidence, which is a false ground to build calculations upon; but he knows the heart, with all our motives of action, and judges very differently from us. you said very wrong, daughter. but women will always be speaking unadvisedly. always rash! always rash!--bring me my cloak, daughter, for as to my being injured by my walk, i am going on my master's business; my life and health are in his hands, and let him do with me as seemeth good in his sight; i will devote all to his service the little while i have to sojourn here." "but this young man, father, is not only wicked himself, but he delights in the wickedness of others. he has ruined all his associates, and often not without toiling for it with earnest application. never did your own heart yearn more over the gaining of an immortal soul to god and goodness, than this same young profligate's bosom has yearned over the destruction of one." "ah! it is a dismal picture, indeed! but not, perhaps, so bad as you say. women are always disposed to exaggerate, and often let their tongues outrun their judgments. bring me my cloak and my staff, daughter mat. though god withdraw his protecting arm from a fellow-creature for a time, are we to give all up for lost? do you not know that his grace aboundeth to the chief of sinners?" "i know more of this youth than you do, my dear father; would to heaven i knew less! and i advise you to stay at home, and leave him to the mercy of that god whom he has offended. old age and decrepitude are his derision, and he will mock at and laugh you to scorn, and add still more pangs to the hearts of his disconsolate parents. it was he, who, after much travail, overturned the principles of your beloved grandson, which has cost us all so much grief, and so many tears." "that is indeed a bitter consideration; nevertheless it shall be got over. i will not say, the lord reward him according to his works, although the words almost brooded on my tongue; but i will say, in the sincerity of a christian disposition, may the lord of mercy forgive him, and open his eyes to his undone state before it be too late, and the doors of forgiveness be eternally shut! thanks to my maker, i now feel as i ought! go bring me my cloak, daughter matilda; not that tartan one, with the gaudy spangles, but my comfortable grey marled one, with the green flannel lining." "stay till i tell you one thing more, father." "well, what is it? say on, daughter, i'll hear you. surely you are not desirous that this young man's soul should perish? women's prejudices are always too strong, either one way or another. but i will hear you, daughter--i will hear you. what is it?" "you knew formerly somewhat of the evil this profligate youth did to your grandson, but you do not know that he has most basely betrayed his sister, your darling euphemia." old isaac's head sunk down, while some tears involuntarily dropped on his knee; and to conceal his emotion, he remained silent, save that he uttered a few stifled groans. natural affection and duty were at strife within him, and for a time neither of them would yield. his daughter perceived the struggle, and contented herself with watching its effects. "where is my cloak, daughter matilda?" said he, at length, without raising his head. "it is hanging on one of the wooden knags in the garret, sir," said she. "ay. then you may let it hang on the knag where it is all day. it is a weary world this! and we are all guilty creatures! i fear i cannot converse and pray with the ruthless seducer of both my children." "your resolution is prudent, sir. all efforts to regain such a one are vain. he is not only a reprobate, and an outcast from his maker, but a determined and avowed enemy to his laws and government." "you do not know what you say, daughter," said old isaac, starting to his feet, and looking her sternly in the face. "if i again hear you presume to prejudge any accountable and immortal being in such a manner, i shall be more afraid of your own state than of his. while life remains, we are in a land where repentance is to be had and hoped for, and i will not hear the mercy of god arraigned. bring me my cloak and my staff instantly, without another word. when i think of the country beyond the grave, and of the eternal fate that awaits this hapless prodigal, all my injuries vanish, and my trust in the lord is strengthened anew. i shall at least pray with him, and for him; if he will not hear me, my father who is in heaven may hear me, and haply he will open the victim's eyes to the hope that is set before him; for the hearts of all the children of men are in his hands, and as the rivers of water he turneth them whithersoever he pleaseth." so old isaac got his staff in his hand that had the head turned round like the horn of a cow, and also his cloak round his shoulders, not the tartan one with its gaudy spangles, but the grey marled one lined with green flannel. well might old isaac be partial to that cloak, for it was made for him by a beloved daughter who had been removed from him and from her family at the age of twenty-three. she was the mother of his two darlings, isaac and euphemia, mentioned before; and the feelings with which he put on the mantle that day can only be conceived by those who have learned to count all things but loss save jesus christ, and him crucified; and how few are the number who attain this sublime and sacred height! "the blessing of him that is ready to perish shall light on the head of my father," said matilda, as she followed with her eye the bent figure of the old man hasting with tottering steps over the moor, on the road that led to shepherd gawin's; and when he vanished from her view on the height, she wiped her eyes, drew the window screen, and applied herself to her work. isaac lost sight of his own home, and came in view of shepherd gawin's at the same instant; but he only gave a slight glance back to his own, for the concern that lay before him dwelt on his heart. it was a concern of life and death, not only of a temporal, but of a spiritual and eternal nature; and where the mortal concerns are centred, on that place, or towards that place, will the natural eye be turned. isaac looked only at the dwelling before him: all wore a solemn stillness about the place that had so often resounded with rustic mirth; the cock crowed not at the door as was his wont, nor strutted on the top of his old dunghill, that had been accumulating there for ages, and had the appearance of a small green mountain; but he sat on the kail-yard dike, at the head of his mates, with his feathers ruffled, and every now and then his one eye turned up to the sky, as if watching some appearance there of which he stood in dread. the blithesome collies came not down the green to bark and frolic half in kindness and half in jealousy; they lay coiled up on the shelf of the hay-stack, and as the stranger approached, lifted up their heads and viewed him with a sullen and sleepy eye, then, uttering a low and stifled growl, muffled their heads again between their hind feet, and shrouded their social natures in the very depth of sullenness. "this is either the abode of death, or deep mourning, or perhaps both," said old isaac to himself, as he approached the house; "and all the domestic animals are affected by it, and join in the general dismay. if this young man has departed with the eyes of his understanding blinded, i have not been in the way of my duty. it is a hard case that a blemished lamb should be cast out of the flock, and no endeavour made by the shepherd to heal or recall it; that the poor stray thing should be left to perish, and lost to its master's fold. it behoveth not a faithful shepherd to suffer this; and yet--isaac, thou art the man! may the lord pardon his servant in this thing!" the scene continued precisely the same until isaac reached the solitary dwelling. there was no one passing in or out by the door, nor any human creature to be seen stirring, save a little girl, one of the family, who had been away meeting the carrier to procure some medicines, and who approached the house by a different path. isaac was first at the door, and on reaching it he heard a confused noise within, like the sounds of weeping and praying commingled. unwilling to break in upon them, ignorant as he was how matters stood with the family, he paused, and then with a soft step retreated to meet the little girl that approached, and make some inquiries of her. she tried to elude him by running past him at a little distance, but he asked her to stop and tell him how all was within. she did not hear what he said, but guessing the purport of his inquiry, answered, "he's nae better, sir."--"ah me! still in the same state of suffering?"--"aih no,--no ae grain,--i tell ye he's nae better ava." and with that she stepped into the house, isaac following close behind her, so that he entered without being either seen or announced. the first sounds that he could distinguish were the words of the dying youth; they had a hoarse whistling sound, but they were the words of wrath and indignation. as he crossed the hallan he perceived the sick man's brother, the next to him in age, sitting at the window with his elbow leaning on the table, and his head on his closed fist, while the tints of sorrow and anger seemed mingled on his blunt countenance. farther on stood his mother and elder sister leaning on each other, and their eyes shaded with their hands, and close by the sick youth's bedside; beyond these kneeled old gawin the shepherd, his fond and too indulgent father. he held the shrivelled hand of his son in his, and with the other that of a damsel who stood by his side: and isaac heard him conjuring his son in the name of the god of heaven. here old isaac's voice interrupted the affecting scene. "peace be to this house,--may the peace of the almighty be within its walls," said he, with an audible voice. the two women uttered a stifled shriek, and the dying man a "poh! poh!" of abhorrence. old gawin, though he did not rise from his knees, gazed round with amazement in his face; and looking first at his dying son, and then at old isaac, he drew a full breath, and said, with a quivering voice, "surely the hand of the almighty is in this!" there was still another object in the apartment well worthy of the attention of him who entered--it was the damsel who stood at the bedside; but then she stood with her back to isaac, so that he could not see her face, and at the sound of his voice, she drew her cloak over her head, and retired behind the bed, sobbing so, that her bosom seemed like to rend. the cloak was similar to the one worn that day by old isaac, for, be it remembered, he had not the gaudy tartan one about him, but the russet grey plaid made to him by his beloved daughter. isaac saw the young woman retiring behind the bed, and heard her weeping; but a stroke like that of electricity seemed to have affected the nerves of all the rest of the family on the entrance of the good old man, so that his attention was attracted by those immediately under his eye. the mother and daughter whispered to each other in great perplexity. old gawin rose from his knees; and not knowing well what to say or do, he diligently wiped the dust from the knee-caps of his corduroy breeches, even descending to the minutiæ of scraping away some specks more adhesive than the rest, with the nail of his mid finger. no one welcomed the old man, and the dying youth in the bed grumbled these bitter words, "i see now on what errand ellen was sent! confound your officiousness!" "no, graham, you are mistaken. the child was at t----r to meet the carrier for your drogs," said old gawin. "poh! poh! all of a piece with the rest of the stuff you have told me. come hither, ellen, and let me see what the doctor has sent."--the girl came near, and gave some vials with a sealed direction. "so you got these at t----r, did you?" "yes, i got them from jessy clapperton; the carrier was away." "lying imp! who told you to say that? answer me!"--the child was mute and looked frightened.--"oh! i see how it is! you have done very well, my dear, very cleverly, you give very fair promise. get me some clothes, pray--i will try if i can leave this house." "alas, my good friends, what is this?" said isaac; "the young man's reason, i fear, is wavering. good gawin, why do you not give me your hand? i am extremely sorry for your son's great bodily sufferings, and for what you and your family must suffer mentally on his account. how are you?" "right weel, sir--as weel as may be expected," said gawin, taking old isaac's hand, but not once lifting his eyes from the ground to look the good man in the face. "and how are you, good dame?" continued isaac, shaking hands with the old woman. "right weel, thanks t'ye, sir. it is a cauld day this. ye'll be cauld?" "oh no, i rather feel warm." "ay, ye have a comfortable plaid for a day like this; a good plaid it is." "i like to hear you say so, agnes, for that plaid was a christmas present to me, from one who has now been several years in the cold grave. it was made to me by my kind and beloved daughter euphy. but enough of this--i see you have some mantles in the house of the very same kind." "no; not the same. we have none of the same here." "well, the same or nearly so,--it is all one. my sight often deceives me now."--the family all looked at one another.--"but enough of this," continued old isaac, "i came not thus far to discuss such matters. the sick young man, from what i heard, i fear, is incapable of spiritual conversation?" "yes, i am," said he, from the bed, with a squeaking voice; "and i would this moment that i were dead! why don't you give me my clothes? sure never was a poor unfortunate being tormented as i am! won't you have pity on me, and let me have a little peace for a short time? it is not long i will trouble you. is it not mean and dastardly in you all to combine against an object that cannot defend himself?" "alack, alack!" said old isaac, "the calmness of reason is departed for the present. i came to converse a little with him on that which concerns his peace here, and his happiness hereafter: to hold the mirror up to his conscience, and point out an object to him, of which, if he take not hold, all his hope is a wreck." "i knew it! i knew it!" vociferated the sick man. "a strong and great combination: but i'll defeat it,--ha, ha, ha! i tell you, father confessor, i have no right or part in the object you talk of. i will have no farther concern with her. she shall have no more of me than you shall have. if the devil should have all, that is absolute--will that suffice?" "alas! he is not himself," said old isaac, "and has nearly been guilty of blasphemy. we must not irritate him farther. all that we can do is to join in prayer that the lord will lay no more upon him than he is able to bear, that he will heal his wounded spirit, and restore him to the use of reason; and that, in the midst of his wanderings, should he blaspheme, the sin may not be laid to his charge." gawin was about to speak, and explain something that apparently affected him; the dying youth had likewise raised himself on his elbow, and, with an angry countenance, was going to reply; but when the old man took off his broad-brimmed hat, and discovered the wrinkled forehead and the thin snowy hair waving around it, the sight was so impressive that silence was imposed on every tongue. he sung two stanzas of a psalm, read a chapter of the new testament, and then kneeling by the bedside, prayed for about half an hour, with such fervency of devotion, that all the family were deeply affected. it was no common-place prayer, nor one so general that it suited any case of distress; every sentence of it spoke home to the heart, and alluded particularly to the very state of him for whom the petitions were addressed to heaven. old gawin gave two or three short sighs, which his wife hearing, she wiped her eyes with her apron. their fair daughter made the same sort of noise that one does who takes snuff, and the innocent youth, their second son, who leaned forward on the table instead of kneeling, let two tears fall on the board, which he formed with his fore-finger into the initials of his name; the little girl looked from one to another, and wondered what ailed them all, then casting down her eyes, she tried to look devout, but they would not be restrained. the dying youth, who at the beginning testified the utmost impatience, by degrees became the most affected of all. his features first grew composed, then rueful, and finally he turned himself on his face in humble prostration. isaac pleaded fervently with the almighty that the sufferer's days might be lengthened, and that he might not be cut off in the bloom of youth, and exuberance of levity--at that season when man is more apt to speak than calculate, and to act than consider, even though speech should be crime, and action irretrievable ruin. "spare and recover him, o merciful father, yet for a little while," said be, "that he may have his eyes opened to see his ruined state both by nature and by wicked works; for who among us liveth and sinneth not, and what changes may be made in his dispositions in a few years or a few months by thy forbearance? thou takest no pleasure in the death of sinners, but rather that all should repent, and turn unto thee, and live; therefore, for his immortal soul's sake, and for the sake of what thy son hath suffered for ruined man, spare him till he have time and space to repent. should his youthful mind have been tainted with the prevailing vice of infidelity, so that he hath been tempted to lift up his voice against the most sacred truths; and should he, like all the profane, have been following his inclinations rather than his judgment, how is he now prepared to abide the final result? or to be ushered into the very midst of those glorious realities which he hath hitherto treated as a fiction? and how shall he stand before thee, when he discovers, too late, that there is indeed a god, whose being and attributes he hath doubted, a saviour whom he hath despised, a heaven into which he cannot enter, and a hell which he can never escape? perhaps he hath been instrumental in unhinging the principles of others, and of misleading some unwary being from the paths of truth and holiness; and in the flush of reckless depravity, may even have deprived some innocent, loving, and trusting being of virtue, and left her a prey to sorrow and despair; and with these and more grievous crimes on his head,--all unrepented and unatoned,--how shall he appear before thee?" at this part of the prayer, the sobs behind the bed became so audible, that it made the old man pause in the midst of his fervent supplications; and the dying youth was heard to weep in suppressed breathings. isaac went on, and prayed still for the sufferer as one insensible to all that passed; but he prayed so earnestly for his forgiveness, for the restoration of his right reason, and for health and space for repentance and amendment, that the sincerity of his heart was apparent in every word and every tone. when he rose from his knees there was a deep silence; no one knew what to say, or to whom to address himself; for the impression made on all their minds was peculiarly strong. the only motion made for a good while was by the soft young man at the table, who put on his bonnet as he was wont to do after prayers; but remembering that the minister was present, he slipped it off again by the ear, as if he had been stealing it from his own head. at that instant the dying youth stretched out his hand. isaac saw it, and looking to his mother, said he wanted something. "it is yours--your hand that i want," said the youth, in a kind and expressive tone. isaac started, he had judged him to be in a state of delirium, and his surprise may be conceived when he heard him speak with calmness and composure. he gave him his hand, but from what he had heard fall from his lips before, knew not how to address him. "you _are_ a good man," said the youth, "god in heaven reward you!" "what is this i hear?" cried isaac, breathless with astonishment. "have the disordered senses been rallied in one moment? have our unworthy prayers indeed been heard at the throne of omnipotence, and answered so suddenly? let us bow ourselves with gratitude and adoration. and for thee, my dear young friend, be of good cheer; for there are better things intended towards thee. thou shalt yet live to repent of thy sins, and to become a chosen vessel of mercy in the house of him that saved thee." "if i am spared in life for a little while," said the youth, "i shall make atonement for some of my transgressions, for the enormity of which i am smitten to the heart." "trust to no atonement you can make of yourself," cried isaac fervently. "it is a bruised reed, to which, if you lean, it will go into your hand and pierce it; a shelter that will not break the blast. you must trust to a higher atonement, else your repentance shall be as stubble, or as chaff that the wind carrieth away." "so disinterested!" exclaimed the youth. "is it my wellbeing alone over which your soul yearns? this is more than i expected to meet with in humanity! good father, i am unable to speak more to you to-day, but give me your hand, and promise to come back to see me on friday. if i am spared in life, you shall find me all that you wish, and shall never more have to charge me with ingratitude." in the zeal of his devotion, isaac had quite forgot all personal injuries; he did not even remember that there were such beings as his grandchildren in existence at that time; but when the young man said, that "he should find him all that he wished, and that he would no more be ungrateful," the sobs and weeping behind the bed grew so audible, that all farther exchange of sentiments was interrupted. the youth grasped old isaac's hand, and motioned for him to go away; and he was about to comply, out of respect for the feelings of the sufferer, but before he could withdraw his hand from the bed, or rise from the seat on which he had just sat down, the weeping fair one burst from behind the bed; and falling on his knees with her face, she seized his hand with both hers, kissed it an hundred times, and bathed it all over with her tears. isaac's heart was at all times soft, and at that particular time he was in a mood to be melted quite; he tried to soothe the damsel, though he himself was as much affected as she was--but as her mantle was still over her head, how could he know her? his old dim eyes were, moreover, so much suffused with tears, that he did not perceive that mantle to be the very same with his own, and that one hand must have been the maker of both. "be comforted," said old isaac; "he will mend--he will mend, and be yet a stay to you and to them all--be of good comfort, dear love." when he had said this, he wiped his eyes hastily and impatiently with the lap of his plaid, seized his old pike-staff; and as he tottered across the floor, drawing up his plaid around his waist, its purple rustic colours caught his eye, dim as it was; and he perceived that it was not his tartan one with the gaudy spangles, but the grey marled one that was made to him by his beloved daughter. who can trace the links of association in the human mind? the chain is more angled, more oblique, than the course marked out by the bolt of heaven--as momentarily formed, and as quickly lost. in all cases, they are indefinable, but on the mind of old age, they glance like dreams and visions of something that have been, and are for ever gone. the instant that isaac's eye fell on his mantle, he looked hastily and involuntarily around him, first on the one side and then on the other, his visage manifesting trepidation and uncertainty. "pray what have you lost, sir?" said the kind and officious dame. "i cannot tell what it was that i missed," said old isaac, "but methought i felt as if i had left something behind me that was mine." isaac went away, but left not a dry eye in the dwelling which he quitted. on leaving the cottage he was accompanied part of the way by gawin, in whose manner there still remained an unaccountable degree of embarrassment. his conversation laboured under a certain restraint, insomuch that isaac, who was an observer of human nature, could not help taking notice of it; but those who have never witnessed, in the same predicament, a home-bred, honest countryman, accustomed to speak his thoughts freely at all times, can form no conception of the appearance that gawin made. from the time that the worthy old man first entered his cot, till the time they parted again on the height, gawin's lips were curled, the one up, and the other down, leaving an inordinate extent of teeth and gums displayed between them; whenever his eyes met those of his companion, they were that instant withdrawn, and, with an involuntary motion, fixed on the summit of some of the adjacent hills; and when they stopped to converse, gawin was always laying on the ground with his staff, or beating some unfortunate thistle all to pieces. the one family had suffered an injury from the other, of a nature so flagrant in gawin's eyes, that his honest heart could not brook it; and yet so delicate was the subject, that when he essayed to mention it, his tongue refused the office. "there has a sair misfortune happened," said he once, "that ye aiblins dinna ken o'.--but it's nae matter ava!" and with that he fell on and beat a thistle, or some other opposing shrub, most unmercifully. there was, however, one subject on which he spoke with energy, and that was the only one in which old isaac was for the time interested. it was his son's religious state of mind. he told isaac, that he had formed a correct opinion of the youth, and that he was indeed a scoffer at religion, because it had become fashionable in certain college classes, where religion was never mentioned but with ridicule; but that his infidelity sprung from a perverse and tainted inclination, in opposition to his better judgment, and that if he could have been brought at all to think or reason on the subject, he would have thought and reasoned aright; this, however, he had avoided by every means, seeming horrified at the very mention of the subject, and glad to escape from the tormenting ideas that it brought in its train.--"even the sight of your face to-day," continued gawin, "drove him into a fit of temporary derangement. but from the unwonted docility he afterwards manifested, i have high hopes that this visit of yours will be accompanied by the blessing of heaven. he has been a dear lad to me; for the sake of getting him forret in his lair, i hae pinched baith mysell and a' my family, and sitten down wi' them to mony a poor and scrimpit meal. but i never grudged that, only i hae whiles been grieved that the rest o' my family hae gotten sae little justice in their schooling. and yet, puir things, there has never ane o' them grieved my heart,--which he has done aftener than i like to speak o'. it has pleased heaven to punish me for my partiality to him; but i hae naething for it but submission.--ha! do ye ken, sir, that that day i first saw him mount a poopit, and heard him begin a discourse to a croudit congregation, i thought a' my pains and a' my pinching poverty overpaid. for the first quarter of an hour i was sae upliftit, that i hardly kenn'd whether i was sitting, standing, or flying in the air, or whether the kirk was standing still, or rinning round about. but, alake! afore the end o' his twa discourses, my heart turned as cauld as lead, and it has never again hett in my breast sinsyne. they were twa o' thae cauldrife moral harangues, that tend to uplift poor wrecked, degenerate human nature, and rin down divine grace. there was nae dependence to be heard tell o' there, beyond the weak arm o' sinfu' flesh; and oh, i thought to mysell, that will afford sma' comfort, my man, to either you or me, at our dying day!" here the old shepherd became so much overpowered, that he could not proceed, and old isaac took up the discourse, and administered comfort to the sorrowing father: then shaking him kindly by the hand, he proceeded on his way, while gawin returned slowly homeward, still waging war with every intrusive and superfluous shrub in his path. he was dissatisfied with himself because he had not spoken his mind to a person who so well deserved his confidence, on a subject that most of all preyed on his heart. matilda, who sat watching the path by which her father was to return home, beheld him as soon as he came in view, and continued to watch him all the way with that tender solicitude which is only prompted by the most sincere and disinterested love.--"with what agility he walks!" exclaimed she to herself; "bless me, sirs, he is running! he is coming pacing down yon green sward as if he were not out of his teens yet. i hope he has been successful in his mission, and prevailed with that abandoned profligate to make some amends to my hapless niece." how different are the views of different persons! and how various the objects of their pursuit! isaac thought of no such thing. he rejoiced only in the goodness and mercy of his maker, and had high hopes that he would make him (unworthy as he was) instrumental in gaining over an immortal soul to heaven and happiness. he sung praises to heaven in his heart, and the words of gratitude and thankfulness hung upon his tongue. his daughter never took her eye from him, in his approach to his little mansion. her whole dependence was on her father--her whole affection was centred in him: she had been taught from her infancy to regard him as the first and best of men; and though she had now lived with him forty years, he had never in one instance done an action to lessen that esteem, or deface that pure image of uprightness and sincerity, which her affectionate heart had framed. when he came in, her watchful kindness assailed him in a multitude of ways--every thing was wrong; she would have it that his feet were damp, although he assured her of the contrary--his right-hand sleeve was wringing wet; and there was even a dampness between his shoulders, which was exceedingly dangerous, as it was so nearly opposite the heart. in short, old isaac's whole apparel had to be shifted piecemeal, though not without some strong remonstrances on his part, and the good-natured quotation, several times repeated, from the old song: "nought's to be won at woman's hand, unless ye gie her a' the plea." when she had got him all made comfortable to her mind, and his feet placed in slippers well-toasted before the fire, she then began her inquiries. "how did you find all at gawin's to-day, now when i have gotten time to speir?" "why, daughter matty, poorly enough, very poorly. but, thanks be to god, i think i left them somewhat better than i found them." "i am so glad to hear that! i hope you have taken graham over the coals about phemy?" "eh! about phemy?" "you know what i told you before you went away? you were not so unnatural as to forget your own flesh and blood, in communing with the man who has wronged her?" "i did not think more of the matter; and if i had, there would have been no propriety in mentioning it, as none of the family spoke of it to me. and how was i assured that there was no mis-statement? women are always so rash-spoken, and so fond of exaggeration, that i am afraid to trust them at the first word; and besides, my dear matty, you know they are apt to see things double sometimes." "well, my dear father, i must say that your wit, or raillery, is very ill timed, considering whom it relates to. your grand-daughter has been most basely deceived, under a pretence of marriage; and yet you will break your jokes on the subject!" "you know, matty, i never broke a joke on such a subject in my life. it was you whom i was joking; for your news cannot always be depended on. if i were to take up every amour in the parish, upon the faith of your first hints, and to take the delinquents over the coals, as you recommend, i should often commit myself sadly." matilda was silenced. she asked for no instances, in order to deny the insinuation; but she murmured some broken sentences, like one who has been fairly beat in an argument, but is loath to yield. it was rather a hard subject for the good lady; for ever since she had bidden adieu to her thirtieth year, she had become exceedingly jealous of the conduct of the younger portion of her sex. but isaac was too kind-hearted to exult in a severe joke; he instantly added, as a palliative, "but i should hold my tongue. you have many means of hearing, and coming to the truth of such matters, that i have not." "i wish this were false, however," said matilda, turning away her face from the fire, lest the flame should scorch her cheek; "but i shall say no more about it, and neither, i suppose, will you, till it be out of time. perhaps it may not be true, for i heard, since you went away, that she was to be there to-day, by appointment of his parents, to learn his final determination, which may be as much without foundation as the other part of the story. if she had been there, you must have seen her, you know." "eh?" said isaac, after biting his lip, and making a long pause; "what did you say, daughter matty? did you say my phemy was to have been there to-day?" "i heard such a report, which must have been untrue, because, had she been there, you would have met with her." "there was a lass yonder," said isaac. "how many daughters has gawin?" "only one who is come the length of woman, and whom you see in the kirk every day capering with her bobbs of crimson ribbons, and looking at will ferguson." "it is a pity women are always so censorious," said isaac--"always construing small matters the wrong way. it is to be hoped these little constitutional failings will not be laid to their charge.--so gawin has but one daughter?" "i said, one that is a grown-up woman. he has, besides, little ellen; a pert idle creature, who has an eye in her head that will tell tales some day." "then there was indeed another damsel," said old isaac, "whom i did not know, but took her for one of the family. alake, and wo is me! could i think it was my own dear child hanging over the couch of a dying man! the girl that i saw was in tears, and deeply affected. she even seized my hand, and bathed it with tears. what could she think of me, who neither named nor kissed her, but that i had cast her off and renounced her? but no, no, i can never do that; i will forgive her as heartily as i would beg for her forgiveness at the throne of mercy. we are all fallible and offending creatures; and a young maid, that grows up as a willow by the water-courses, and who is in the flush of youth and beauty, ere ever she has had a moment's time for serious reflection, or one trial of worldly experience--that such a one should fall a victim to practised guilt, is a consequence so natural, that, however deeply to be regretted, it is not matter of astonishment. poor misguided phemy! did you indeed kneel at my knee, and bathe my hand with your affectionate tears, without my once deigning to acknowledge you? and yet how powerful are the workings of nature! they are indeed the workings of the deity himself: for when i arose, all unconscious of the presence of my child, and left her weeping, i felt as if i had left a part of my body and blood behind me." "so she was indeed there, whining and whimpering over her honourable lover?" said matilda. "i wish i had been there, to have told her a piece of my mind! the silly, inconsiderate being, to allow herself to be deprived of fair fame and character by such a worthless profligate, bringing disgrace on all connected with her! and then to go whimpering over his sick-bed!--o dear love, you must marry me, or i am undone! i have _loved_ you with all my heart, you know, and you must make me your wife. i am content to beg my bread with you, now that i have _loved_ you so dearly! only you must marry me. oh dear! oh dear! what shall become of me else!" "dear daughter matilda, where is the presumptuous being of the fallen race of adam who can say, here will i stand in my own strength? what will the best of us do, if left to ourselves, better than the erring, inexperienced being, whose turning aside you so bitterly censure? it is better that we lament the sins and failings of our relatives, my dear matty, than rail against them, putting ourselves into sinful passion, and thereby adding one iniquity to another." the argument was kept up all that evening, and all next day, with the same effect; and if either of the disputants had been asked what it was about, neither could have told very precisely: the one attached a blame, which the other did not deny; only there were different ways of speaking about it. on the third day, which was friday, old isaac appeared at breakfast in his sunday clothes, giving thus an intimation of a second intended visit to the house of gawin the shepherd. the first cup of tea was scarcely poured out, till the old subject was renewed, and the debate seasoned with a little more salt than was customary between the two amiable disputants. matilda disapproved of the visit, and tried, by all the eloquence she was mistress of, to make it appear indecorous. isaac defended it on the score of disinterestedness and purity of intention; but finding himself hard pressed, he brought forward his promise, and the impropriety of breaking it. matty would not give up her point; she persisted in it, till she spoiled her father's breakfast, made his hand shake so, that he could scarcely put the cup to his head, and, after all, staggered his resolution so much, that at last he sat in silence, and matty got all to say herself. she now accounted the conquest certain, and valuing herself on the influence she possessed, she began to overburden her old father with all manner of kindness and teasing officiousness. would he not take this, and refrain from that, and wear one part of dress in preference to another that he had on? there was no end of controversy with isaac, however kind might be the intent. all that he said at that time was, "let me alone, dear matty; let me have some peace. women are always overwise--always contrary." when matters were at this pass, the maid-servant came into the room, and announced that a little girl of shepherd gawin's wanted to speak with the minister. "alas, i fear the young man will be at his rest!" said isaac. matilda grew pale, and looked exceedingly alarmed, and only said, "she hoped not." isaac inquired of the maid, but she said the girl refused to tell her any thing, and said she had orders not to tell a word of aught that had happened about the house. "then something _has_ happened," said isaac. "it must be as i feared! send the little girl ben." ellen came into the parlour with a beck as quick and as low as that made by the water ouzel, when standing on a stone in the middle of the water; and, without waiting for any inquiries, began her speech on the instant, with, "sir--hem--heh--my father sent me, sir--hem--to tell ye that ye warna to forget your promise to come ower the day, for that there's muckle need for yer helping hand yonder--sir; that's a', sir." "you may tell your father," said isaac, "that i will come as soon as i am able. i will be there by twelve o'clock, god willing." "are you wise enough, my dear father, to send such a message?" remonstrated matilda. "you are not able to go a journey to-day. i thought i had said enough about that before.--you may tell your father," continued she, turning to ellen, "that my father cannot come the length of his house to-day." "i'll tell my father what the minister bade me," replied the girl. "i'll say, sir, that ye'll be there by twall o'clock;--will i, sir?" "yes, by twelve o'clock," said isaac. ellen had no sooner made her abrupt curtsey, and left the room, than matilda, with the desperation of a general who sees himself on the point of being driven from a position which it had cost him much exertion to gain, again opened the fire of her eloquence upon her father. "were i you," said she, "i would scorn to enter their door, after the manner in which the profligate villain has behaved: first, to make an acquaintance with your grandson at the college--pervert all his ideas of rectitude and truth--then go home with him to his father's house, during the vacation, and there live at heck and manger, no lady being in the house save your simple and unsuspecting phemy, who now is reduced to the necessity of going to a shepherd's cottage, and begging to be admitted to the alliance of a family, the best of whom is far beneath her, to say nothing of the unhappy individual in question. wo is me, that i have seen the day!" "if the picture be correctly drawn, it is indeed very bad; but i hope the recent sufferings of the young man will have the effect of restoring him to the principles in which he was bred, and to a better sense of his heinous offences. i must go and see how the family fares, as in duty and promise bound. content yourself, dear daughter. it may be that the unfortunate youth has already appeared at that bar from which there is no appeal." this consideration, as it again astounded, so it put to silence the offended dame, who suffered her father to depart on his mission of humanity without farther opposition; and old isaac again set out, meditating as he went, and often conversing with himself, on the sinfulness of man, and the great goodness of god. so deeply was he wrapt in contemplation, that he scarcely cast an eye over the wild mountain scenery by which he was surrounded, but plodded on his way, with eyes fixed on the ground, till he approached the cottage. he was there aroused from his reverie, by the bustle that appeared about the door. the scene was changed indeed from that to which he introduced himself two days before. the collies came yelping and wagging their tails to meet him, while the inmates of the dwelling were peeping out at the door, and as quickly vanishing again into the interior. there were also a pair or two of neighbouring shepherds sauntering about the side of the kail-yard dike, all dressed in their sunday apparel, and every thing bespeaking some "occasion," as any uncommon occurrence is generally denominated. "what can it be that is astir here to-day?" said isaac to himself.--"am i brought here to a funeral or corpse-chesting, without being apprised of the event? it must be so. what else can cause such a bustle about a house where trouble has so long prevailed? ah! there is also old robinson, my session-clerk and precentor. he is the true emblem of mortality: then it is indeed all over with the poor young man!" now robinson had been at so many funerals all over the country, and was so punctual in his attendance on all within his reach, that to see him pass, with his staff, and black coat without the collar, was the very same thing as if a coffin had gone by. a burial was always a good excuse for giving the boys the play, for a refreshing walk into the country, and was, besides, a fit opportunity for moral contemplation, not to say any thing of hearing the country news. but there was also another motive, which some thought was the most powerful inducement of any with the old dominie. it arose from that longing desire after preeminence which reigns in every human breast, and which no man fails to improve, however small the circle may be in which it can be manifested. at every funeral, in the absence of the minister, robinson was called on to say grace; and when they were both present, whenever the parson took up his station in one apartment, the dominie took up his in another, and thus had an equal chance, for the time, with his superior. it was always shrewdly suspected, that the clerk tried to outdo the minister on such occasions, and certainly made up in length what he wanted in energy. the general remarks on this important point amounted to this, "that the dominie was langer than the minister, and though he was hardly just sae conceese, yet he meant as weel;" and that, "for the maist part, he was _stronger on the grave_." suffice it, that the appearance of old robinson, in the present case, confirmed isaac in the belief of the solemnity of the scene awaiting him; and as his mind was humbled to acquiesce in the divine will, his mild and reverend features were correspondent therewith. he thought of the disappointment and sufferings of the family, and had already begun in his heart to intercede for them at the throne of mercy. when he came near to the house, out came old gawin himself. he had likewise his black coat on, and his sunday bonnet, and a hand in each coat-pocket; but for all his misfortune and heavy trials, he strode to the end of the house with a firm and undismayed step.--ay, he is quite right, thought isaac to himself; that man has his trust where it should be, fixed on the rock of ages; and he has this assurance, that the power on whom he trusts can do nothing wrong. such a man can look death in the face, undismayed, in all his steps and inroads. gawin spoke to some of his homely guests, then turned round, and came to meet isaac, whom he saluted, by taking off his bonnet, and shaking him heartily by the hand.--the bond of restraint had now been removed from gawin's lips, and his eye met the minister's with the same frankness it was wont. the face of affairs was changed since they had last parted. "how's a' w'ye the day, sir?--how's a' w'ye?--i'm unco blythe to see ye," said gawin. "oh, quite well, thank you. how are you yourself? and how are all within?" "as weel as can be expectit, sir--as weel as can be expectit." "i am at a little loss, gawin--has any change taken place in family circumstances since i was here?" "oh, yes; there has indeed, sir; a material change--i hope for the better." gawin now led the way, without further words, into the house, desiring the minister to follow him, and "tak' care o' his head and the bauks, and no fa' ower the bit stirk, for it was sure to be lying i' the dark." when isaac went in, there was no one there but the goodwife, neatly dressed in her black stuff gown, and check apron, with a close 'kerchief on her head, well crimped in the border, and tied round the crown and below the chin with a broad black ribbon. she also saluted the minister with uncommon frankness--"come away, sir, come away. dear, dear, how are ye the day? it's but a slaitery kind o' day this, as i was saying to my man, there; dear, dear, gawin, says i, i wish the minister may be nae the waur o' coming ower the muir the day. that was joost what i said. and dear, dear, sir, how's miss matty, sir? oh, it is lang sin' i hae seen her. i like aye to see miss matty, ye ken, to get a rattle frae her about the folk, ye ken, and a' our neighbours, that fa' into sinfu' gates; for there's muckle sin gangs on i' the parish. ah, ay! i wat weel that's very true, miss matty, says i. but what can folk help it? ye ken, folk are no a' made o' the same metal, as the airn tangs,--like you----" --"bless me with patience!" said isaac in his heart; "this poor woman's misfortunes have crazed her! what a salutation for the house of mourning!" isaac looked to the bed, at the side of which he had so lately kneeled in devotion, and he looked with a reverent dread, but the corpse was not there! it was neatly spread with a clean coverlid.--it is best to conceal the pale and ghostly features of mortality from the gazer's eye, thought isaac. it is wisely done, for there is nothing to be seen in them but what is fitted for corruption. "gawin, can nae ye tak' the minister ben the house, or the rest o' the clanjamphery come in?" said the talkative dame.--"hout, ay, sir, step your ways ben the house. we hae a ben end and a but end the day, as weel as the best o' them. and ye're ane o' our ain folk, ye ken. ah, ay! i wat weel that's very true! as i said to my man, gawin, quo' i, whenever i see our minister's face, i think i see the face of a friend." "gudewife, i hae but just ae word to say, by way o' remark," said gawin; "folk wha count afore the change-keeper, hae often to count twice, and sae has the herd, wha counts his hogs afore beltan.--come this way, sir; follow me, and tak' care o' your head and the bauks." isaac followed into the rustic parlour, where he was introduced to one he little expected to see sitting there. this was no other than the shepherd's son, who had so long been attended on as a dying person, and with whom isaac had so lately prayed, in the most fervent devotion, as with one of whose life little hope was entertained. there he sat, with legs like two poles, hands like the hands of a skeleton; yet his emaciated features were lighted up with a smile of serenity and joy. isaac was petrified. he stood still on the spot, even though the young man rose up to receive him. he deemed he had come there to see his lifeless form laid in the coffin, and to speak words of comfort to the survivors. he was taken by surprise, and his heart thrilled with unexpected joy. "my dear young friend, do i indeed see you thus?" he said, taking him kindly and gently by the hand. "god has been merciful to you, above others of your race. i hope, in the mercy that has saved you from the gates of death, that you feel grateful for your deliverance; for, trust me, it behoves you to do so, in no ordinary degree." "i shall never be able to feel as i ought, either to my deliverer or to yourself," said he. "till once i heard the words of truth and seriousness from your mouth, i have not dared, for these many years, to think my own thoughts, speak my own words, or perform the actions to which my soul inclined. i have been a truant from the school of truth; but have now returned, with all humility, to my master, for i feel that i have been like a wayward boy, groping in the dark, to find my way, though a path splendidly lighted up lay open for me. but of these things i long exceedingly to converse with you, at full length and full leisure. in the meantime, let me introduce you to other friends who are longing for some little notice. this is my sister, sir; and--shake hands with the minister, jane--and do you know this young lady, sir, with the mantle about her, who seems to expect a word from you, acknowledging old acquaintance?" "my eyes are grown so dim now," said old isaac, "that it is with difficulty i can distinguish young people from one another, unless they speak to me. but she will not look up. is this my dear young friend, miss mary sibbet?" "nay, sir, it is not she. but i think, as you two approach one another, your plaids appear very nearly the same." "phemy! my own child phemy! is it yourself? why did you not speak?--but you have been an alien of late, and a stranger to me. ah, phemy! phemy! i have been hearing bad news of you. but i did not believe them--no, i _would not_ believe them." euphemia for a while uttered not a word, but keeping fast hold of her grandfather's hand, she drew it under her mantle, and crept imperceptibly a degree nearer to his breast. the old man waited for some reply, standing as in the act of listening; till at length, in a trembling whisper, scarcely audible, she repeated these sacred words--"father, forgive me, for i knew not what i did!" the expression had the effect desired on isaac's mind. it brought to his remembrance that gracious petition, the most fully fraught with mercy and forgiveness that ever was uttered on earth, and bowed his whole soul at once to follow the pattern of his great master. his eye beamed with exultation in his redeemer's goodness, and he answered, "yes, my child, yes. he whose words you have unworthily taken, will not refuse the petition of any of his repentant children, however great their enormities may have been; and why should such a creature as i am presume to pretend indignation and offence, at aught further than his high example warrants? may the almighty forgive you as i do!" "may heaven bless and reward you!" said the young man. "but she is blameless--blameless as the babe on the knee. i alone am the guilty person, who infringed the rights of hospitality, and had nearly broken the bonds of confidence and love. but i am here to-day to make, or offer at least, what amends is in my power--to offer her my hand in wedlock; that whether i live or die, she may live without dishonour. but, reverend sir, all depends on your fiat. without your approbation she will consent to nothing; saying, that she had offended deeply by taking her own will once, but nought should ever induce her to take it unadvisedly again. it was for this purpose that we sent for you so expressly to-day, namely, that i might entreat your consent to our union. i could not be removed from home, so that we could not all meet, to know one another's mind, in any other place. we therefore await your approbation with earnest anxiety, as that on which our future happiness depends." after some mild and impressive reprehensions, isaac's consent was given in the most unqualified manner, and the names were given in to the old dominie's hand, with proper vouchers, for the publication of the bans. the whole party dined together at old gawin's. i was there among the rest, and thought to enjoy the party exceedingly; but the party was too formal, and too much on the reserve before the minister. i noted down, when i went home, all the conversation, as far as i could remember it, but it is not worth copying. i see that gawin's remarks are all measured and pompous, and, moreover, delivered in a sort of bastard english, a language which i detest. he considered himself as now to be nearly connected with the _manse family_, and looking forward to an eldership in the church, deemed it incumbent on him to talk in a most sage and instructive manner. the young shepherd, and an associate of his, talked of dogs, cheviot tups, and some remarkably bonny lasses that sat in the west gallery of the church. john grierson of the hope recited what they called "lang skelps o' metre," a sort of homely rhymes, that some of them pronounced to be "far ayont burns's fit." and the goodwife ran bustling about; but whenever she could get a little leisure, she gave her tongue free vent, without regard either to minister or dominie. she was too well trained in the old homely scotch, to attempt any of the flights, which to gawin, who was more sparing in his speech, were more easy to be accomplished. "dear, dear, sirs, can nae ye eat away? ye hae nae the stamacks o' as mony cats. dear, dear, i'm sure an the flesh be nae good, it sude be good, for it never saw either braxy or breakwind, bleer-ee nor beltan pock, but was the cantiest crock o' the kaim-law. dear, dear, johnie grierson, tak' another rive o't, and set a good example; as i said to my man there, gawin, says i, it's weel kenn'd ye're nae flae-bitten about the gab; and i said very true too." many such rants did she indulge in, always reminding her guests that "it was a names-gieing-in, whilk was, o' a' ither things, the ane neist to a wedding," and often hinting at their new and honourable alliance, scarcely even able to keep down the way in which it was brought about; for she once went so far as to say, "as i said to my gudeman, gawin, says i, for a' the fy-gae-to ye hae made, it's weel kenn'd faint heart never wan fair lady. ay, weel i wat, that's very true, says i; a bird in the hand is worth twa on the bush.--won a' to and fill yoursells, sirs; there's routh o' mair where that came frae. it's no aye the fattest foddering that mak's the fu'est aumry--and that's nae lee." miss matilda, the minister's maiden daughter, was in towering indignation about the marriage, and the connexion with a shepherd's family; and it was rumoured over all the parish that she would never countenance her niece any more. how matters went at first it is perhaps as well for miss matilda's reputation, in point of good-nature, that i am not able to say; but the last time i was at the manse, the once profligate and freethinking student had become helper to old isaac, and was beloved and revered by all the parish, for the warmth of his devotion, and soundness of his principles. his amiable wife euphemia had two sons, and their aunt matty was nursing them with a fondness and love beyond that which she bore to life itself. in conclusion, i have only further to remark, that i have always considered the prayers of that good old man as having been peculiarly instrumental in saving a wretched victim, not only from immediate death, but from despair of endless duration. chapter iv. the school of misfortune. the various ways in which misfortunes affect different minds, are often so opposite, that in contemplating them, we may well be led to suppose the human soul animated and directed in some persons by corporeal functions, formed after a different manner from those of others--persons of the same family frequently differing most widely in this respect. it will appear, on a philosophic scrutiny of human feelings, that the extremes of laughing and crying are more nearly allied than is sometimes believed. with children, the one frequently dwindles, or breaks out into the other. i once happened to sit beside a negro, in the pit of the edinburgh theatre, while the tragedy of douglas was performing. as the dialogue between old norval and lady randolph proceeded, he grew more and more attentive; his eyes grew very large, and seemed set immovably in one direction; the tears started from them; his features went gradually awry; his under-lip curled and turned to one side; and just when i expected that he was going to cry outright, he burst into the most violent fit of laughter. i have a female friend, on whom unfortunate accidents have the singular effect of causing violent laughter, which, with her, is much better proportioned to the calamity, than crying is with many others of the sex. i have seen the losing of a rubber at whist, when there was every probability that her party would gain it, cause her to laugh till her eyes streamed with tears. the breaking of a tureen, or set of valuable china, would quite convulse her. danger always makes her sing, and misfortunes laugh. if we hear her in any apartment of the farm-house, or the offices, singing very loud, and very quick, we are sure something is on the point of going wrong with her; but if we hear her burst out a-laughing, we know that it is past redemption. her memory is extremely defective; indeed she scarcely seems to retain any perfect recollection of past events; but her manners are gentle, easy, and engaging; her temper good, and her humour inexhaustible; and, with all her singularities, she certainly enjoys a greater share of happiness than her chequered fortune could possibly have bestowed on a mind differently constituted. i have another near relation, who, besides being possessed of an extensive knowledge in literature, and a refined taste, is endowed with every qualification requisite to constitute the valuable friend, the tender parent, and the indulgent husband; yet his feelings, and his powers of conception, are so constructed, as to render him a constant prey to corroding care. no man can remain many days in his company without saying, in his heart, "that man was made to be unhappy." what others view as slight misfortunes, affect him deeply; and in the event of any such happening to himself, or those that are dear to him, he will groan from his inmost soul, perhaps for a whole evening after it first comes to his knowledge, and occasionally, for many days afterwards, as the idea recurs to him. indeed, he never wants something to make him miserable; for, on being made acquainted with any favourable turn of fortune, the only mark of joy that it produces is an involuntary motion of the one hand to scratch the other elbow; and his fancy almost instantaneously presents to him such a number of difficulties, dangers, and bad consequences attending it, that though i have often hoped to awake him to joy by my tidings, i always left him more miserable than i found him. i have another acquaintance whom we denominate "the knight," who falls upon a method totally different to overcome misfortunes. in the event of any cross accident, or vexatious circumstance, happening to him, he makes straight towards his easy chair--sits calmly down upon it--clenches his right hand, with the exception of his fore-finger, which is suffered to continue straight--strikes his fist violently against his left shoulder--keeps it in that position, with his eyes fixed on one particular point, till he has cursed the event and all connected with it most heartily,--then, with a countenance of perfect good-humour, he indulges in a pleasant laugh, and if it is possible to draw a comical or ridiculous inference from the whole, or any part of the affair, he is sure to do it, that the laugh may be kept up. if he fails in effecting this, he again resumes his former posture, and consigns all connected with the vexatious circumstance to the devil; then takes another good hearty laugh; and in a few minutes the affair is no more heard or thought of. john leggat is a lad about fifteen, a character of great singularity, whom nature seems to have formed in one of her whims. he is not an entire idiot, for he can perform many offices about his master's house--herd the cows, and run errands too, provided there be no dead horses on the road, nor any thing extremely ugly; for, if there be, the time of his return is very uncertain. among other anomalies in his character, the way that misfortunes affect him is not the least striking. he once became warmly attached to a young hound, which was likewise very fond of him, paying him all the grateful respect so often exhibited by that faithful animal. john loved him above all earthly things--some even thought that he loved him better than his own flesh and blood. the hound one day came to an untimely end. john never got such sport in his life; he was convulsed with laughter when he contemplated the features of his dead friend. when about his ordinary business, he was extremely melancholy; but whenever he came and looked at the carcass, he was transported with delight, and expressed it by the most extravagant raptures. he next attached himself to a turkey-cock, which he trained to come at his call, and pursue and attack such people as he pointed out for that purpose. john was very fond of this amusement; but it proved fatal to his favourite--an irritated passenger knocked it dead at a stroke. this proved another source of unbounded merriment to john; the stiff half-spread wing, the one leg stretched forward, and the other back, were infinitely amusing; but the abrupt crook in his neck--his turned-up eye and open bill were quite irresistible--john laughed at them till he was quite exhausted. few ever loved their friends better than john did while they were alive; no man was ever so much delighted with them after they were dead. the most judicious way of encountering misfortunes of every kind, is to take up a firm resolution never to shrink from them when they cannot be avoided, nor yet be tamely overcome by them, or add to our anguish by useless repining, but, by a steady and cheerful perseverance, endeavour to make the best of whatever untoward event occurs. to do so, still remains in our power; and it is a grievous loss indeed, with regard to fortune or favour, that perseverance will not, sooner or later, overcome. i do not recommend a stupid insensible apathy with regard to the affairs of life, nor yet that listless inactive resignation which persuades a man to put his hands in his bosom, and saying, it is the will of heaven, sink under embarrassments without a struggle. the contempt which is his due will infallibly overtake such a man, and poverty and wretchedness will press hard upon his declining years. i had an old and valued friend in the country, who, on any cross accident happening that vexed his associates, made always the following observations: "there are just two kinds of misfortunes, gentlemen, at which it is folly either to be grieved or angry; and these are, things that can be remedied, and things that cannot be remedied." he then proved, by plain demonstration, that the case under consideration belonged to one or other of these classes, and showed how vain and unprofitable it was to be grieved or angry at it. this maxim of my friend's may be rather too comprehensive; but it is nevertheless a good one; for a resolution to that effect cannot fail of leading a man to the proper mode of action. it indeed comprehends all things whatsoever, and is as much as to say, that a man should never suffer himself to grow angry at all; and, upon the whole, i think, if the matter be candidly weighed, it will appear, that the man who suffers himself to be transported with anger, or teased by regret, is commonly, if not always, the principal sufferer by it, either immediately, or in future. rage is unlicensed, and runs without a curb. it lessens a man's respectability among his contemporaries; grieves and hurts the feelings of those connected with him; harrows his own soul; and transforms a rational and accountable creature into the image of a fiend. impatience under misfortunes is certainly one of the failings of our nature, which contributes more than any other to imbitter the cup of life, and has been the immediate cause of more acts of desperate depravity than any passion of the human soul. the loss of fortune or favour is particularly apt to give birth to this tormenting sensation; for, as neither the one nor the other occurs frequently without some imprudence or neglect of our own having been the primary cause, so the reflection on that always furnishes the gloomy retrospect with its principal sting. so much is this the case that i hold it to be a position almost incontrovertible, that out of every twenty worldly misfortunes, nineteen occur in consequence of our own imprudence. many will tell you, it was owing to such and such a friend's imprudence that they sustained all their losses. no such thing. whose imprudence or want of foresight was it that trusted such a friend, and put it in his power to ruin them, and reduce the families that depended on them for support, from a state of affluence to one of penury and bitter regret? if the above position is admitted, then there is, as i have already remarked, but one right and proper way in which misfortunes ought to affect us; namely, by stirring us up to greater circumspection and perseverance. perseverance is a noble and inestimable virtue! there is scarcely any difficulty or danger that it will not surmount. whoever observes a man bearing up under worldly misfortunes, with undaunted resolution, will rarely fail to see that man ultimately successful. and it may be depended on, that circumspection in business is a quality so absolutely necessary, that without it the success of any one will only be temporary. the present laird of j--s--y, better known by the appellation of old sandy singlebeard, was once a common hired shepherd, but he became master of the virtues above recommended, for he had picked them up in the severe school of misfortune. i have heard him relate the circumstances myself, oftener than once. "my father had bought me a stock of sheep," said he, "and fitted me out as a shepherd; and from the profits of these, i had plenty of money to spend, and lay out on good clothes; so that i was accounted a thriving lad, and rather a dashing blade among the lasses. chancing to change my master at a term, i sold my sheep to the man who came in my place, and bought those of the shepherd that went from the flock to which i was engaged. but when the day of payment came, the man who bought my sheep could not pay them, and without that money, i had not wherewith to pay mine own. he put me off from week to week, until the matter grew quite distressing; for, as the price of shepherds' stock goes straight onward from one hand to another, probably twenty, or perhaps forty people, were all kept out of their right by this backwardness of my debtor. i craved him for the money every two or three days, grumbled, and threatened a prosecution, till at last my own stock was poinded. thinking i should be disgraced beyond recovery, i exerted what little credit i had, and borrowed as much as relieved my stock; and then, being a good deal exasperated, resorted immediately to legal measures, as they are called, in order to recover the debt due to me, the non-payment of which had alone occasioned my own difficulties. notwithstanding every exertion, however, i could never draw a farthing from my debtor, and only got deeper and deeper into expenses to no purpose. many a day it kept me bare and busy before i could clear my feet, and make myself as free and independent as i was before. this was the beginning of my misfortunes, but it was but the beginning; year after year i lost and lost, until my little all was as good as three times sold off at the ground; and at last i was so reduced, that i could not say the clothes i wore were my own. "this will never do, thought i; they shall crack well that persuade me to sell at random again.--accordingly, i thenceforth took good care of all my sales that came to any amount. my rule was, to sell my little things, such as wool, lambs, and fat sheep, worth the money; and not to part with them till i got the price in my hand. this plan i never rued; and people finding how the case stood, i had always plenty of merchants; so that i would recommend it to every man who depends for procuring the means of living on business such as mine. what does it signify to sell your stock at a great price, merely for a boast, if you never get the money for it? it will be long ere that make any one rich or independent! this did all very well, but still i found, on looking over my accounts at the end of the year, that there were a great many items in which i was regularly taken in. my shoemaker charged me half-a-crown more for every pair of shoes than i could have bought them for in a market for ready money; the smith, threepence more for shoeing them. my haberdasher's and tailor's accounts were scandalous. in shirts, stockings, knives, razors, and even in shirt-neck buttons, i found myself taken in to a certain amount. but i was never so astonished, as to find out, by the plain rules of addition and subtraction, assisted now and then by the best of all practical rules--(i mean the one that says, 'if such a thing will bring such a thing, what will such and such a number bring?')--to find, i say, that the losses and profits in small things actually come to more at the long-run, than any casual great slump loss, or profit, that usually chances to a man in the course of business. wo to the man who is not aware of this! he is labouring for that which will not profit him. by a course of strict economy, i at length not only succeeded in clearing off the debt i had incurred, but saved as much money as stocked the farm of windlestrae-knowe. that proved a fair bargain; so, when the lease was out, i took doddysdamms in with it; and now i am, as you see me, the laird of j--s--y, and farmer of both these besides. my success has been wholly owing to this:--misfortune made me cautious--caution taught me a lesson which is not obvious to every one, namely _the mighty importance of the two right-hand columns in addition_. the two left-hand ones, those of pounds and shillings, every one knows the value of. with a man of any common abilities, those will take care of themselves; but he that neglects the pence and farthings is a goose!"-- any one who reads this will set down old singlebeard as a miser; but i scarcely know a man less deserving the character. if one is present to hear him settling an account with another, he cannot help thinking him niggardly, owing to his extraordinary avidity in small matters; but there is no man whom customers like better to deal with, owing to his high honour and punctuality. he will not pocket a farthing that is the right of any man living, and he is always on the watch lest some designing fellow overreach him in these minute particulars. for all this, he has assisted many of his poor relations with money and credit, when he thought them deserving it, or judged that it could be of any benefit to them; but always with the strictest injunctions of secrecy, and an assurance, that, if ever they hinted the transaction to any one, they forfeited all chance of farther assistance from him. the consequence of this has always been, that while he was doing a great deal of good to others by his credit, he was railing against the system of giving credit all the while; so that those who knew him not, took him for a selfish, contracted, churlish old rascal. he was once applied to in behalf of a nephew, who had some fair prospects of setting up in business. he thought the stake too high, and declined it; for it was a rule with him, never to credit any one so far as to put it in his power to distress him, or drive him into any embarrassment. a few months afterwards, he consented to become bound for one half of the sum required, and the other half was made up by some less wealthy relations in conjunction. the bonds at last became due, and i chanced to be present on a visit to my old friend singlebeard, when the young man came to request his uncle's quota of the money required. i knew nothing of the matter, but i could not help noticing the change in old sandy's look, the moment that his nephew made his appearance. i suppose he thought him too foppish to be entirely dependent on the credit of others, and perhaps judged his success in business, on that account, rather doubtful. at all events, the old laird had a certain quizzical, dissatisfied look, that i never observed before; and all his remarks were in conformity with it. in addressing the young man, too, he used a degree of familiarity which might be warranted by his seniority and relationship, and the circumstances in which his nephew stood to him as an obliged party; but it was intended to be as provoking as possible, and obviously did not fail to excite a good deal of uneasy feeling. "that's surely a very fine horse of yours, jock?" said the laird.--"hech, man, but he is a sleek ane! how much corn does he eat in a year, this hunter of yours, jock?" "not much, sir, not much. he is a very fine horse that, uncle. look at his shoulder; and see what limbs he has; and what a pastern!--how much do you suppose such a horse would be worth, now, uncle?" "why, jock, i cannot help thinking he is something like geordy dean's daughter-in-law,--nought but a spindle-shankit devil! i would not wonder if he had cost you eighteen pounds, that greyhound of a creature?" "what a prime judge you are! why, uncle, that horse cost eighty-five guineas last autumn. he is a real blood horse that; and has won a great deal of valuable plate." "oh! that, indeed, alters the case! and have you got all that valuable plate?" "nay, nay; it was before he came to my hand." "that was rather a pity now, jock--i cannot help thinking that was a great pity; because if you had got the plate, you would have had something you could have called your own.--so, you don't know how much corn that fellow eats in a year?" "indeed i do not; he never gets above three feeds in a day, unless when he is on a journey, and then he takes five or six." "then take an average of four: four feeds are worth two shillings at least, as corn is selling. there is fourteen shillings a-week: fourteen times fifty-two--why, jock, there is £ , s. for horse's corn; and there will be about half as much, or more, for hay, besides: on the whole, i find he will cost you about £ a-year at livery.--i suppose there is an absolute necessity that a manufacturer should keep such a horse?" "o! god bless you, sir, to be sure. we must gather in money and orders, you know. and then, consider the ease and convenience of travelling on such a creature as that, compared with one of your vile low-bred hacks; one goes through the country as he were flying, on that animal." old sandy paddled away from the stable, towards the house, chuckling and laughing to himself; but again turned round, before he got half-way.--"right, jock! quite right. nothing like gathering in plenty of money and orders. but, jock, hark ye--i do not think there is any necessity for _flying_ when one is on such a commission. you should go leisurely and slowly through the towns and villages, keeping all your eyes about you, and using every honest art to obtain good customers. how can you do this, jock, if you go as you were flying through the country? people, instead of giving you a good order, will come to their shop-door, and say--there goes the flying manufacturer!--jock, they say a rolling stone never gathers any moss. how do you think a flying one should gather it?" the dialogue went on in the same half-humorous, half-jeering tone all the forenoon, as well as during dinner, while a great number of queries still continued to be put to the young man; as--how much his lodgings cost him a-year? the answer to this astounded old sandy. his comprehension could hardly take it in; he opened his eyes wide, and held up his hands, exclaiming, with a great burst of breath, "what enormous profits there must be in your business!" and then the laird proceeded with his provoking interrogatories--how much did his nephew's fine boots and spurs cost? what was his tailor's bill yearly? and every thing in the same manner; as if the young gentleman had come from a foreign country, of which sandy singlebeard wished to note down every particular. the nephew was a little in the fidgets, but knowing the ground on which he stood, he answered all his uncle's queries but too truly, impressing on his frugal mind a far greater idea of his own expenditure than was necessary, and which my old friend could not help viewing as utterly extravagant. immediately on the removal of the cloth, the young gentleman withdrew into another room, and sending for his uncle to speak with him, he there explained the nature of his errand, and how absolutely necessary it was for him to have the money, for the relief of his bond. old sandy was off in a twinkling. he had no money for him--not one copper!--not the value of a hair of his thin grey beard should he have from him! he had other uses for his money, and had won it too hardly to give it to any one to throw away for him on grand rooms and carpets, upon flying horses, and four-guinea boots! they returned to the parlour, and we drank some whisky toddy together. there was no more gibing and snappishness. the old man was civil and attentive, but the face of the young one exhibited marks of anger and despair. he took his leave, and went away abruptly enough; and i began to break some jests on the flying manufacturer, in order to try the humour of my entertainer. i soon found it out; old singlebeard's shaft was shot; and he now let me know he had a different opinion of his nephew from what had been intimated by the whole course of his conversation with the young man himself. he said he was a good lad; an ingenious and honest one; that he scarcely knew a better of his years; but he wanted to curb a little that _upsetting spirit_ in him, to which every young man new to business was too much addicted. the young gentleman went to his other friends in a sad pickle, and represented himself to them as ruined beyond all redress; reprobating all the while the inconsistency of his uncle, and his unaccountable and ill-timed penury. the most part of the young gentleman's relations were in deep dismay, in consequence of the laird's refusal to perform his engagement. but one of them, after listening seriously to the narration, instead of being vexed, only laughed immoderately at the whole affair, and said he had never heard any thing so comic and truly ludicrous. "go your ways home, and mind your business," said he; "you do not know any thing of old uncle sandy: leave the whole matter to me, and i shall answer for his share of the concern." "you will be answerable at your own cost, then," said the nephew. "if the money is not paid till he advance it, the sum will never be paid on this side of time.--you may as well try to extract it from the rock on the side of the mountain." "go your ways," said the other. "it is evident that you can do nothing in the business; but were the sum three times the amount of what it is, i shall be answerable for it." it turned out precisely as this gentleman predicted; but no man will conceive old sandy's motive for refusing that which he was in fact bound to perform: he could not bear to have it known that he had done so liberal and generous an action, and wished to manage matters so, that his nephew might believe the money to have been raised in some other way attended with the utmost difficulty. he could not put his nephew to the same school in which he himself had been taught, namely, the school of actual adversity; but he wanted to give him a touch of ideal misfortune; that he might learn the value of independence. chapter v. george dobson's expedition to hell. there is no phenomenon in nature less understood, and about which greater nonsense is written, than dreaming. it is a strange thing. for my part, i do not understand it, nor have i any desire to do so; and i firmly believe that no philosopher that ever wrote knows a particle more about it than i do, however elaborate and subtle the theories he may advance concerning it. he knows not even what sleep is, nor can he define its nature, so as to enable any common mind to comprehend him; and how, then, can he define that ethereal part of it, wherein the soul holds intercourse with the external world?--how, in that state of abstraction, some ideas force themselves upon us, in spite of all our efforts to get rid of them; while others, which we have resolved to bear about with us by night as well as by day, refuse us their fellowship, even at periods when we most require their aid? no, no; the philosopher knows nothing about either; and if he says he does, i entreat you not to believe him. he does not know what mind is; even his own mind, to which one would think he has the most direct access: far less can he estimate the operations and powers of that of any other intelligent being. he does not even know, with all his subtlety, whether it be a power distinct from his body, or essentially the same, and only incidentally and temporarily endowed with different qualities. he sets himself to discover at what period of his existence the union was established. he is baffled; for consciousness refuses the intelligence, declaring, that she cannot carry him far enough back to ascertain it. he tries to discover the precise moment when it is dissolved, but on this consciousness is altogether silent; and all is darkness and mystery; for the origin, the manner of continuance, and the time and mode of breaking up of the union between soul and body, are in reality undiscoverable by our natural faculties--are not patent, beyond the possibility of mistake: but whosoever can read his bible, and solve a dream, can do either, without being subjected to any material error. it is on this ground that i like to contemplate, not the theory of dreams, but the dreams themselves; because they prove to the unlettered man, in a very forcible manner, a distinct existence of the soul, and its lively and rapid intelligence with external nature, as well as with a world of spirits with which it has no acquaintance, when the body is lying dormant, and the same to the soul as if sleeping in death. i account nothing of any dream that relates to the actions of the day; the person is not sound asleep who dreams about these things; there is no division between matter and mind, but they are mingled together in a sort of chaos--what a farmer would call compost--fermenting and disturbing one another. i find that in all dreams of that kind, men of every profession have dreams peculiar to their own occupations; and, in the country, at least, their import is generally understood. every man's body is a barometer. a thing made up of the elements must be affected by their various changes and convulsions; and so the body assuredly is. when i was a shepherd, and all the comforts of my life depended so much on good or bad weather, the first thing i did every morning was strictly to overhaul the dreams of the night; and i found that i could calculate better from them than from the appearance and changes of the sky. i know a keen sportsman, who pretends that his dreams never deceive him. if he dream of angling, or pursuing salmon in deep waters, he is sure of rain; but if fishing on dry ground, or in waters so low that the fish cannot get from him, it forebodes drought; hunting or shooting hares, is snow, and moorfowl, wind, &c. but the most extraordinary professional dream on record is, without all doubt, that well-known one of george dobson, coach-driver in edinburgh, which i shall here relate; for though it did not happen in the shepherd's cot, it has often been recited there. george was part proprietor and driver of a hackney-coach in edinburgh, when such vehicles were scarce; and one day a gentleman, whom he knew, came to him and said:--"george, you must drive me and my son here out to----," a certain place that he named, somewhere in the vicinity of edinburgh. "sir," said george, "i never heard tell of such a place, and i cannot drive you to it unless you give me very particular directions." "it is false," returned the gentleman; "there is no man in scotland who knows the road to that place better than you do. you have never driven on any other road all your life; and i insist on your taking us." "very well, sir," said george, "i'll drive you to hell, if you have a mind; only you are to direct me on the road." "mount and drive on, then," said the other; "and no fear of the road." george did so, and never in his life did he see his horses go at such a noble rate; they snorted, they pranced, and they flew on; and as the whole road appeared to lie down-hill, he deemed that he should soon come to his journey's end. still he drove on at the same rate, far, far down-hill,--and so fine an open road he never travelled,--till by degrees it grew so dark that he could not see to drive any farther. he called to the gentleman, inquiring what he should do; who answered, that this was the place they were bound to, so he might draw up, dismiss them, and return. he did so, alighted from the dickie, wondered at his foaming horses, and forthwith opened the coach-door, held the rim of his hat with the one hand, and with the other demanded his fare. "you have driven us in fine style, george," said the elder gentleman, "and deserve to be remembered; but it is needless for us to settle just now, as you must meet us here again to-morrow precisely at twelve o'clock." "very well, sir," said george; "there is likewise an old account, you know, and some toll-money;" which indeed there was. "it shall be all settled to-morrow, george, and moreover, i fear there will be some toll-money to-day." "i perceived no tolls to-day, your honour," said george. "but i perceived one, and not very far back neither, which i suspect you will have difficulty in repassing without a regular ticket. what a pity i have no change on me!" "i never saw it otherwise with your honour," said george, jocularly; "what a pity it is you should always suffer yourself to run short of change!" "i will give you that which is as good, george," said the gentleman; and he gave him a ticket written with red ink, which the honest coachman could not read. he, however, put it into his sleeve, and inquired of his employer where that same toll was which he had not observed, and how it was that they did not ask toll from him as he came through? the gentleman replied, by informing george that there was no road out of that domain, and that whoever entered it must either remain in it, or return by the same path; so they never asked any toll till the person's return, when they were at times highly capricious; but that the ticket he had given him would answer his turn. and he then asked george if he did not perceive a gate, with a number of men in black standing about it. "oho! is yon the spot?" says george; "then, i assure your honour, yon is no toll-gate, but a private entrance into a great man's mansion; for do not i know two or three of the persons yonder to be gentlemen of the law, whom i have driven often and often? and as good fellows they are, too, as any i know--men who never let themselves run short of change! good day.--twelve o'clock to-morrow?" "yes, twelve o'clock noon, precisely;" and with that, george's employer vanished in the gloom, and left him to wind his way out of that dreary labyrinth the best way he could. he found it no easy matter, for his lamps were not lighted, and he could not see an ell before him--he could not even perceive his horses' ears; and what was worse, there was a rushing sound, like that of a town on fire, all around him, that stunned his senses, so that he could not tell whether his horses were moving or standing still. george was in the greatest distress imaginable, and was glad when he perceived the gate before him, with his two identical friends, men of the law, still standing. george drove boldly up, accosted them by their names, and asked what they were doing there; they made him no answer, but pointed to the gate and the keeper. george was terrified to look at this latter personage, who now came up and seized his horses by the reins, refusing to let him pass. in order to introduce himself, in some degree, to this austere toll-man, george asked him, in a jocular manner, how he came to employ his two eminent friends as assistant gate-keepers? "because they are among the last comers," replied the ruffian, churlishly. "you will be an assistant here, to-morrow." "the devil i will, sir?" "yes, the devil you will, sir." "i'll be d--d if i do then--that i will." "yes, you'll be d--d if you do--that you will." "let my horses go in the meantime, then, sir, that i may proceed on my journey." "nay." "nay?--dare you say nay to me, sir? my name is george dobson, of the pleasance, edinburgh, coach-driver, and coach-proprietor too; and no man shall say _nay_ to me, as long as i can pay my way. i have his majesty's license, and i'll go and come as i choose--and that i will. let go my horses there, and tell me what is your demand." "well, then, i'll let your horses go," said the keeper; "but i'll keep yourself for a pledge." and with that he let go the horses, and seized honest george by the throat, who struggled in vain to disengage himself, and swore, and threatened, according to his own confession, most bloodily. his horses flew off like the wind, so swift, that the coach seemed flying in the air, and scarcely bounding on the earth once in a quarter of a mile. george was in furious wrath, for he saw that his grand coach and harness would all be broken to pieces, and his gallant pair of horses maimed or destroyed; and how was his family's bread now to be won!--he struggled, threatened, and prayed in vain;--the intolerable toll-man was deaf to all remonstrances. he once more appealed to his two genteel acquaintances of the law, reminding them how he had of late driven them to roslin on a sunday, along with two ladies, who, he supposed, were their sisters, from their familiarity, when not another coachman in town would engage with them. but the gentlemen, very ungenerously, only shook their heads, and pointed to the gate. george's circumstances now became desperate, and again he asked the hideous toll-man what right he had to detain him, and what were his charges. "what right have i to detain you, sir, say you? who are you that make such a demand here? do you know where you are, sir?" "no, faith, i do not," returned george; "i wish i did. but i _shall_ know, and make you repent your insolence too. my name, i told you, is george dobson, licensed coach-hirer in pleasance, edinburgh; and to get full redress of you for this unlawful interruption, i only desire to know where i am." "then, sir, if it can give you so much satisfaction to know where you are," said the keeper, with a malicious grin, "you _shall_ know, and you may take instruments by the hands of your two friends there, instituting a legal prosecution. your redress, you may be assured, will be most ample, when i inform you that you are in hell! and out at this gate you pass no more." this was rather a damper to george, and he began to perceive that nothing would be gained in such a place by the strong hand, so he addressed the inexorable toll-man, whom he now dreaded more than ever, in the following terms: "but i must go home at all events, you know, sir, to unyoke my two horses, and put them up, and to inform chirsty halliday, my wife, of my engagement. and, bless me! i never recollected till this moment, that i am engaged to be back here to-morrow at twelve o'clock, and see, here is a free ticket for my passage this way." the keeper took the ticket with one hand, but still held george with the other. "oho! were you in with our honourable friend, mr r---- of l----y?" said he. "he has been on our books for a long while;--however, this will do, only you must put your name to it likewise; and the engagement is this--you, by this instrument, engage your soul, that you will return here by to-morrow at noon." "catch me there, billy!" says george. "i'll engage no such thing, depend on it;--that i will not." "then remain where you are," said the keeper, "for there is no other alternative. we like best for people to come here in their own way,--in the way of their business;" and with that he flung george backward, heels-over-head down hill, and closed the gate. george, finding all remonstrance vain, and being desirous once more to see the open day, and breathe the fresh air, and likewise to see chirsty halliday, his wife, and set his house and stable in some order, came up again, and in utter desperation, signed the bond, and was suffered to depart. he then bounded away on the track of his horses, with more than ordinary swiftness, in hopes to overtake them; and always now and then uttered a loud wo! in hopes they might hear and obey, though he could not come in sight of them. but george's grief was but beginning; for at a well-known and dangerous spot, where there was a tan-yard on the one hand, and a quarry on the other, he came to his gallant steeds overturned, the coach smashed to pieces, dawtie with two of her legs broken, and duncan dead. this was more than the worthy coachman could bear, and many degrees worse than being in hell. there, his pride and manly spirit bore him up against the worst of treatment; but here, his heart entirely failed him, and he laid himself down, with his face on his two hands, and wept bitterly, bewailing, in the most deplorable terms, his two gallant horses, dawtie and duncan. while lying in this inconsolable state, some one took hold of his shoulder, and shook it; and a well-known voice said to him, "geordie! what is the matter wi' ye, geordie?" george was provoked beyond measure at the insolence of the question, for he knew the voice to be that of chirsty halliday, his wife. "i think you needna ask that, seeing what you see," said george. "o, my poor dawtie, where are a' your jinkings and prancings now, your moopings and your wincings? i'll ne'er be a proud man again--bereaved o' my bonny pair!" "get up, george; get up, and bestir yourself," said chirsty halliday, his wife. "you are wanted directly, to bring in the lord president to the parliament house. it is a great storm, and he must be there by nine o'clock.--get up--rouse yourself, and make ready--his servant is waiting for you." "woman, you are demented!" cried george. "how can i go and bring in the lord president, when my coach is broken in pieces, my poor dawtie lying with twa of her legs broken, and duncan dead? and, moreover, i have a previous engagement, for i am obliged to be in hell before twelve o'clock." chirsty halliday now laughed outright, and continued long in a fit of laughter; but george never moved his head from the pillow, but lay and groaned,--for, in fact, he was all this while lying snug in his bed; while the tempest without was roaring with great violence, and which circumstance may perhaps account for the rushing and deafening sound which astounded him so much in hell. but so deeply was he impressed with the idea of the reality of his dream, that he would do nothing but lie and moan, persisting and believing in the truth of all he had seen. his wife now went and informed her neighbours of her husband's plight, and of his singular engagement with mr r----of l----y at twelve o'clock. she persuaded one friend to harness the horses, and go for the lord president; but all the rest laughed immoderately at poor coachy's predicament. it was, however, no laughing to him; he never raised his head, and his wife becoming at last uneasy about the frenzied state of his mind, made him repeat every circumstance of his adventure to her, (for he would never believe or admit that it was a dream,) which he did in the terms above narrated; and she perceived, or dreaded, that he was becoming somewhat feverish. she went out, and told dr wood of her husband's malady, and of his solemn engagement to be in hell at twelve o'clock. "he maunna keep it, dearie. he maunna keep that engagement at no rate," said dr wood. "set back the clock an hour or twa, to drive him past the time, and i'll ca' in the course of my rounds. are ye sure he hasna been drinking hard?"--she assured him he had not.--"weel, weel, ye maun tell him that he maunna keep that engagement at no rate. set back the clock, and i'll come and see him. it is a frenzy that maunna be trifled with. ye maunna laugh at it, dearie,--maunna laugh at it. maybe a nervish fever, wha kens." the doctor and chirsty left the house together, and as their road lay the same way for a space, she fell a-telling him of the two young lawyers whom george saw standing at the gate of hell, and whom the porter had described as two of the last comers. when the doctor heard this, he stayed his hurried, stooping pace in one moment, turned full round on the woman, and fixing his eyes on her, that gleamed with a deep, unstable lustre, he said, "what's that ye were saying, dearie? what's that ye were saying? repeat it again to me, every word." she did so. on which the doctor held up his hands, as if palsied with astonishment, and uttered some fervent ejaculations. "i'll go with you straight," said he, "before i visit another patient. this is wonderfu'! it is terrible! the young gentlemen are both at rest--both lying corpses at this time! fine young men--i attended them both--died of the same exterminating disease--oh, this is wonderful; this is wonderful!" the doctor kept chirsty half running all the way down the high street and st mary's wynd, at such a pace did he walk, never lifting his eyes from the pavement, but always exclaiming now and then, "it is wonderfu'! most wonderfu'!" at length, prompted by woman's natural curiosity, chirsty inquired at the doctor if he knew any thing of their friend mr r---- of l----y. but he shook his head, and replied, "na, na, dearie,--ken naething about him. he and his son are baith in london,--ken naething about him; but the tither is awfu'--it is perfectly awfu'!" when dr wood reached his patient, he found him very low, but only a little feverish; so he made all haste to wash his head with vinegar and cold water, and then he covered the crown with a treacle plaster, and made the same application to the soles of his feet, awaiting the issue. george revived a little, when the doctor tried to cheer him up by joking him about his dream; but on mention of that he groaned, and shook his head. "so you are convinced, dearie, that it is nae dream?" said the doctor. "dear sir, how could it be a dream?" said the patient. "i was there in person, with mr r---- and his son; and see, here are the marks of the porter's fingers on my throat."--dr wood looked, and distinctly saw two or three red spots on one side of his throat, which confounded him not a little.--"i assure you, sir," continued george, "it was no dream, which i know to my sad experience. i have lost my coach and horses,--and what more have i?--signed the bond with my own hand, and in person entered into the most solemn and terrible engagement." "but ye're no to keep it, i tell ye," said dr wood; "ye're no to keep it at no rate. it is a sin to enter into a compact wi' the deil, but it is a far greater ane to keep it. sae let mr r---- and his son bide where they are yonder, for ye sanna stir a foot to bring them out the day." "oh, oh, doctor!" groaned the poor fellow, "this is not a thing to be made a jest o'! i feel that it is an engagement that i cannot break. go i must, and that very shortly. yes, yes, go i must, and go i will, although i should borrow david barclay's pair." with that he turned his face towards the wall, groaned deeply, and fell into a lethargy, while dr wood caused them to let him alone, thinking if he would sleep out the appointed time, which was at hand, he would be safe; but all the time he kept feeling his pulse, and by degrees showed symptoms of uneasiness. his wife ran for a clergyman of famed abilities, to pray and converse with her husband, in hopes by that means to bring him to his senses; but after his arrival, george never spoke more, save calling to his horses, as if encouraging them to run with great speed; and thus in imagination driving at full career to keep his appointment, he went off in a paroxysm, after a terrible struggle, precisely within a few minutes of twelve o'clock. a circumstance not known at the time of george's death made this singular professional dream the more remarkable and unique in all its parts. it was a terrible storm on the night of the dream, as has been already mentioned, and during the time of the hurricane, a london smack went down off wearmouth about three in the morning. among the sufferers were the hon. mr r---- of l----y, and his son! george could not know aught of this at break of day, for it was not known in scotland till the day of his interment; and as little knew he of the deaths of the two young lawyers, who both died of the small-pox the evening before. chapter vi. the souters of selkirk. i have heard an amusing story of a young man whose name happened to be the same as that of the hero of the preceding chapter--george dobson. he was a shoemaker, a very honest man, who lived at the foot of an old street, called the back row, in the town of selkirk. he was upwards of thirty, unmarried, had an industrious old stepmother, who kept house for him, and of course george was what is called "a bein bachelor," or "a chap that was gayan weel to leeve." he was a cheerful happy fellow, and quite sober, except when on the town-council, when he sometimes took a glass with the magistrates of his native old borough, of whose loyalty, valour, and antiquity, there was no man more proud. well, one day, as george was sitting in his _shop_, as he called it, (though no man now-a-days would call that a shop in which there was nothing to sell,) sewing away at boots and shoes for his customers, whom he could not half hold in whole leather, so great was the demand over all the country for george dobson's boots and shoes--he was sitting, i say, plying away, and singing with great glee,-- "up wi' the souters o' selkirk, and down wi' the earl o' hume, and up wi' a' the brave billies that sew the single-soled shoon! and up wi' the yellow, the yellow; the yellow and green hae doon weel; then up wi' the lads of the forest, but down wi' the merse to the deil!" the last words were hardly out of george's mouth, when he heard a great noise enter the back row, and among the voices one making loud proclamation, as follows:-- "ho yes!--ho yes! souters ane, souters a', souters o' the back raw, there's a gentleman a-coming wha will ca' ye _souters_ a'." "i wish he durst," said george. "that will be the earl o' hume wha's coming. he has had us at ill-will for several generations. bring my aik staff into the shop, callant, and set it down beside me here--and ye may bring ane to yoursell too.--i say, callant, stop. bring my grandfather's auld sword wi' ye. i wad like to see the earl o' hume, or ony o' his cronies, come and cast up our honest calling and occupation till us!" george laid his oak staff on the cutting-board before him, and leaned the old two-edged sword against the wall, at his right hand. the noise of the proclamation went out at the head of the back row, and died in the distance; and then george began again, and sung the souters of selkirk with more obstreperous glee than ever.--the last words were not out of his mouth, when a grand gentleman stepped into the shop, clothed in light armour, with a sword by his side and pistols in his breast. he had a liveryman behind him, and both the master and man were all shining in gold.--this is the earl o' hume in good earnest, thought george to himself; but, nevertheless, he shall not danton me. "good morrow to you, souter dobson," said the gentleman. "what song is that you were singing?" george would have resented the first address with a vengeance, but the latter question took him off it unawares, and he only answered, "it is a very good sang, sir, and ane of the auldest--what objections have you to it?" "nay, but what is it about?" returned the stranger; "i want to hear what you say it is about." "i'll sing you it over again, sir," said george, "and then you may judge for yoursell. our sangs up hereawa dinna speak in riddles and parables; they're gayan downright;" and with that george gave it him over again full birr, keeping at the same time a sharp look-out on all his guest's movements; for he had no doubt now that it was to come to an engagement between them, but he was determined not to yield an inch, for the honour of old selkirk. when the song was done, however, the gentleman commended it, saying, it was a spirited old thing, and, without doubt, related to some of the early border feuds. "but how think you the earl of hume would like to hear this?" added he. george, who had no doubt all this while that the earl of hume was speaking to him, said good-naturedly, "we dinna care muckle, sir, whether the earl o' hume take the sang ill or weel. i'se warrant he has heard it mony a time ere now, and, if he were here, he wad hear it every day when the school looses, and wattie henderson wad gie him it every night." "well, well, souter dobson, that is neither here nor there. that is not what i called about. let us to business. you must make me a pair of boots in your very best style," said the gentleman, standing up, and stretching forth his leg to be measured. "i'll make you no boots, sir," said george, nettled at being again called souter. "i have as many regular customers to supply as hold me busy from one year's end to the other. i cannot make your boots--you may get them made where you please." "you _shall_ make them, mr dobson," said the stranger; "i am determined to try a pair of boots of your making, cost what they will. make your own price, but let me have the boots by all means; and, moreover, i want them before to-morrow morning." this was so conciliatory and so friendly of the earl, that george, being a good-natured fellow, made no farther objection, but took his measure, and promised to have them ready. "i will pay them now," said the gentleman, taking out a purse of gold; but george refused to accept of the price till the boots were produced. "nay, but i will pay them now," said the gentleman; "for, in the first place, it will ensure me of the boots, and, in the next place, i may probably leave town to-night, and make my servant wait for them. what is the cost?" "if they are to be as good as i can make them, sir, they will be twelve shillings." "twelve shillings, mr dobson! i paid thirty-six for these i wear in london, and i expect yours will be a great deal better. here are two guineas, and be sure to make them good." "i cannot, for my life, make them worth the half of that money," said george. "we have no materials in selkirk that will amount to one-third of it in value." however, the gentleman flung down the gold, and went away, singing the souters of selkirk. "he is a most noble fellow that earl of hume," said george to his apprentice. "i thought he and i should have had a battle, but we have parted on the best possible terms." "i wonder how you could bide to be _souter'd_ yon gate!" said the boy. george scratched his head with the awl, bit his lip, and looked at his grandfather's sword. he had a great desire to follow the insolent gentleman; for he found that he had inadvertently suffered a great insult without resenting it. after george had shaped the boots with the utmost care, and of the best and finest kendal leather, he went up the back row to seek assistance, so that he might have them ready at the stated time; but never a stitch of assistance could george obtain, for the gentleman had trysted a pair of boots in every shop in the row, paid for them all, and called every one of the shoemakers souter twice over. never was there such a day in the back row of selkirk! what could it mean? had the gentleman a whole regiment coming up, all of the same size, and the same measure of leg? or was he not rather an army agent, come to take specimens of the best workmen in the country? this last being the prevailing belief, every selkirk souter threw off his coat, and fell a-slashing and cutting of kendal leather; and such a forenoon of cutting, and sewing, and puffing, and roseting, never was in selkirk since the battle of flodden field. george's shop was the nethermost of the street, so that the stranger guests came all to him first; so, scarcely had he taken a hurried dinner, and begun to sew again, and, of course, to sing, when in came a fat gentleman, exceedingly well mounted with sword and pistols; he had fair curled hair, red cheeks that hung over his stock, and a liveryman behind him. "merry be your heart, mr dobson! but what a plague of a song is that you are singing?" said he. george looked very suspicious-like at him, and thought to himself, now i could bet any man two gold guineas that this is the duke of northumberland, another enemy to our town; but i'll not be cowed by him neither, only i could have wished i had been singing another song when his grace came into the shop.--these were the thoughts that ran through george's mind in a moment, and at length he made answer--"we reckon it a good sang, my lord, and ane o' the auldest." "would it suit your convenience to sing that last verse over again?" said the fat gentleman; and at the same time he laid hold of his gold-handled pistols. "o certainly, sir," said george; "but at the same time i must take a lesson in manners from my superiors;" and with that he seized his grandfather's cut-and-thrust sword, and cocking that up by his ear, he sang out with fearless glee-- "the english are dolts, to a man, a man-- fat puddings to fry in a pan, a pan-- their percys and howards we reckon but cowards-- but turn the blue bonnets wha can, wha can!" george now set his joints in such a manner, that the moment the duke of northumberland presented his pistol, he might be ready to cleave him, or cut off his right hand, with his grandfathers cut-and-thrust sword; but the fat gentleman durst not venture the issue--he took his hand from his pistol, and laughed till his big sides shook. "you are a great original, dobson," said he; "but you are nevertheless a brave fellow--a noble fellow--a souter among a thousand, and i am glad i have met with you in this mood too. well, then, let us proceed to business. you must make me a pair of boots in your very best style, george, and that without any loss of time." "o lord, sir, i would do that with the greatest pleasure, but it is a thing entirely out of my power," said george, with a serious face. "pooh, pooh! i know the whole story," said the fat gentleman. "you are all hoaxed and made fools of this morning; but the thing concerns me very much, and i'll give you five guineas, mr dobson, if you will make me a pair of good boots before to-morrow at this time." "i wad do it cheerfully for the fifth part o' the price, my lord," said george; "but it is needless to speak about that, it being out o' my power. but what way are we hoaxed? i dinna account ony man made a fool of wha has the cash in his pocket as weel as the goods in his hand." "you are all made fools of together, and i am the most made a fool of, of any," said the fat gentleman. "i betted a hundred guineas with a young scottish nobleman last night, that he durst not go up the back row of selkirk, calling all the way, 'souters ane, souters a', souters o' the back raw;' and yet, to my astonishment, you have let him do so, and insult you all with impunity; and he has won." "confound the rascal!" exclaimed george. "if we had but taken him up! but we took him for our friend, come to warn us, and lay all in wait for the audacious fellow who was to come up behind." "and a good amends you took of him when he came!" said the fat gentleman. "well, after i had taken the above bet, up speaks another of our company, and he says--'why make such account of a few poor cobblers, or souters, or how do you call them? i'll bet a hundred guineas, that i'll go up the back row after that gentleman has set them all agog, and i'll call every one of them _souter_ twice to his face.' i took the bet in a moment: 'you dare not, for your blood, sir,' says i. 'you do not know the spirit and bravery of the men of selkirk. they will knock you down at once, if not tear you to pieces.' but i trusted too much to your spirit, and have lost my two hundred guineas, it would appear. tell me, in truth, mr dobson, did you suffer him to call you _souter_ twice to your face without resenting it?" george bit his lip, scratched his head with the awl, and gave the lingles such a yerk, that he made them both crack in two. "d----n it! we're a' affrontit thegither!" said he, in a half whisper, while the apprentice-boy was like to burst with laughter at his master's mortification. "well, i have lost my money," continued the gentleman; "but i assure you, george, the gentleman wants no boots. he has accomplished his purpose, and has the money in his pocket; but as it will avail me, i may not say how much, i entreat that you will make me a pair. here is the money,--here are five guineas, which i leave in pledge; only let me have the boots. or suppose you make these a little wider, and transfer them to me; that is very excellent leather, and will do exceedingly well; i think i never saw better;" and he stood leaning over george, handling the leather. "now, do you consent to let me have them?" "i can never do that, my lord," says george, "having the other gentleman's money in my pocket. if you should offer me ten guineas, it would be the same thing." "very well, i will find those who will," said he, and off he went, singing, "turn the blue bonnets wha can, wha can." "this is the queerest day about selkirk that i ever saw," said george; "but really this duke of northumberland, to be the old hereditary enemy of our town, is a real fine, frank fellow." "ay, but he _souter'd_ ye, too," said the boy. "it's a lee, ye little blackguard." "i heard him ca' you a souter amang a thousand, master; and that taunt will be heard tell o' yet." "i fancy, callant, we maun let that flee stick to the wa'," said george; and sewed away, and sewed away, and got the boots finished next day at twelve o'clock. now, thought he to himself, i have thirty shillings by this bargain, and so i'll treat our magistrates to a hearty glass this afternoon; i hae muckle need o' a slockening, and the selkirk bailies never fail a friend.--george put his hand into his pocket to clink his two gold guineas; but never a guinea was in george's pocket, nor plack either! his countenance changed, and fell so much, that the apprentice noticed it, and suspected the cause; but george would confess nothing, though, in his own mind, he strongly suspected the duke of northumberland of the theft, _alias_, the fat gentleman with the fair curled hair, and the red cheeks hanging over his stock. george went away up among his brethren of the awl in the back row, and called on them every one; but he soon perceived, from their blank looks, and their disinclination to drink that night, that they were all in the same predicament with himself. the fat gentleman with the curled hair had visited every one of them, and got measure for a pair of ten-guinea boots, but had not paid any of them; and, somehow or other, every man had lost the price of the boots which he had received in the morning. whom to blame for this, nobody knew; for the whole day over, and a good part of the night, from the time the proclamation was made, the back row of selkirk was like a cried fair; all the idle people in the town and the country about were there, wondering after the man who had raised such a demand for boots. after all, the souters of selkirk were left neither richer nor poorer than they were at the beginning, but every one of them had been four times called a _souter_ to his face,--a title of great obloquy in that town, although the one of all others that the townsmen ought to be proud of. and it is curious that they are proud of it when used collectively; but apply it to any of them as a term of reproach, and you had better call him the worst name under heaven. this was the truth of the story; and the feat was performed by the late duke of queensberry, when earl of march, and two english noblemen then on a tour through this country. every one of them gained his bet, through the simplicity of the honest souters; but certainly the last had a difficult part to play, having staked two hundred guineas that he would take all the money from the souters that they had received from the gentleman in the morning, and call every one of them _souter_ to his face. he got the price entire from every one, save thomas inglis, who had drunk the half of his before he got to him; but this being proved, the english gentleman won. george dobson took the thing most amiss. he had been the first taken in all along, and he thought a good deal about it. he was, moreover, a very honest man, and in order to make up the boots to the full value of the money he had received, he had shod them with silver, which took two spanish dollars, and he had likewise put four silver tassels to the tops, so that they were splendid boots, and likely to remain on his hand. in short, though he did not care about the loss, he took the hoax very sore to heart. shortly after this, he was sitting in his shop, working away, and not singing a word, when in comes a fat gentleman, with fair curled hair, and red cheeks, but they were _not_ hanging over his cravat; and he says, "good morning, dobson. you are very quiet and contemplative this morning." "ay, sir; folk canna be aye alike merry." "have you any stomach for taking measure of a pair of boots this morning?" "nah! i'll take measure o' nae mae boots to strangers; i'll stick by my auld customers."--he is very like my late customer, thought george, but his tongue is not the same. if i thought it were he, i would nick him! "i have heard the story of the boots, george," said the visitor, "and never heard a better one. i have laughed very heartily at it; and i called principally to inform you, that if you will call at widow wilson's, in hawick, you will get the price of your boots." "thank you, sir," said george; and the gentleman went away; dobson being now persuaded he was _not_ the duke of northumberland, though astonishingly like him. george had not sewed a single yerking, ere the gentleman came again into the shop, and said, "you had better measure me for these boots, dobson. i intend to be your customer in future." "thank you, sir, but i would rather not, just now." "very well; call then at widow wilson's, in hawick, and you shall get _double_ payment for the boots you have made."--george thanked him again, and away he went; but in a very short space he entered the shop again, and again requested george to measure him for a pair of boots. george became suspicious of the gentleman, and rather uneasy, as he continued to haunt him like a ghost; and so, merely to be quit of him, he took the measure of his leg and foot. "it is very near the measure of these fine silver-mounted ones, sir," said george; "you had better just take them." "well, so be it," said the stranger. "call at widow wilson's, in hawick, and you shall have _triple_ payment for your boots. good day." "o, this gentleman is undoubtedly wrong in his mind," said george to himself. "this beats all the customers i ever met with! ha--ha--ha! come to widow wilson's, and you shall have payment for your boots,--double payment for your boots,--_triple_ payment for your boots! oh! the man's as mad as a march hare! he--he--he--he!" "hilloa, george," cried a voice close at his ear, "what's the matter wi' ye? are ye gane daft? are ye no gaun to rise to your wark the day?" "aich! gudeness guide us, mother, am i no up yet?" cried george, springing out of his bed; for he had been all the while in a sound sleep, and dreaming. "what gart ye let me lie sae lang? i thought i had been i' the shop!" "shop!" exclaimed she; "i daresay, then, you thought you had found a fiddle in't. what were ye guffawing and laughing at?" "o! i was laughing at a fat man, and the payment of a pair o' boots at widow wilson's, in hawick." "widow wilson's, i' hawick!" exclaimed his mother, holding up both her hands; "gude forgie me for a great leear, if i hae dreamed about ony body else, frae the tae end o' the night to the tither!" "houts, mother, haud your tongue; it is needless to heed your dreams, for ye never gie ower dreaming about somebody." "and what for no, lad? hasna an auld body as good a right to dream as a young ane? mrs wilson's a throughgaun quean, and clears mair than a hunder a-year by the tannage. i'se warrant there sall something follow thir dreams; i get the maist o' my dreams redd." george was greatly tickled with his dream about the fat gentleman and the boots, and so well convinced was he that there was some sort of meaning in it, that he resolved to go to hawick the next market day, and call on mrs wilson, and settle with her; although it was a week or two before his usual term of payment, he thought the money would scarcely come wrong. so that day he plied and wrought as usual; but instead of his favourite ditties relating to the forest, he chanted, the whole day over, one as old as any of them; but i am sorry i recollect only the chorus and a few odd stanzas of it. round about hawick. we'll round about hawick, hawick, round about hawick thegither; we'll round about hawick, hawick, and in by the bride's gudemither. sing, round about hawick, &c. and as we gang by we will rap, and drink to the luck o' the bigging; for the bride has her tap in her lap, and the bridegroom his tail in his rigging. sing, round about hawick, &c. there's been little luck i' the deed; we're a' in the dumps thegither; let's gie the bridegroom a sheep's head, but gie the bride brose and butter. sing, round about hawick, &c. then a' the gudewives i' the land came flocking in droves thegither, a' bringing their bountith in hand, to please the young bride's gudemither. sing, round about hawick, &c. the black gudewife o' the braes gae baby-clouts no worth a button; but the auld gudewife o' penchrice cam in wi' a shouder o' mutton. sing, round about hawick, &c. wee jean o' the coate gae a pun', a penny, a plack, and a boddle; but the wife at the head o' the town gae nought but a lang pin-todle.[a] sing, round about hawick, &c. the mistress o' bortugh cam ben, aye blinking sae couthy and canny; but some said she had in her han' a kipple o' bottles o' branny. sing, round about hawick, &c. and some brought dumples o' woo, and some brought flitches o' bacon, and kebbucks and cruppocks enow; but jenny muirhead brought a capon. sing, round about hawick, &c. then up cam the wife o' the mill, wi' the cog, and the meal, and the water; for she likit the joke sae weel to gie the bride brose and butter. sing, round about hawick, &c. and first she pat in a bit bread, and then she pat in a bit butter, and then she pat in a sheep's head, horns and a'thegither! sing, round about hawick, hawick, round about hawick thegither; round about hawick, hawick, round about hawick for ever on the thursday following, george, instead of going to _the shop_, dressed himself in his best sunday clothes, and, with rather a curious face, went ben to his stepmother, and inquired "what feck o' siller she had about her?" "siller! gudeness forgie you, geordie, for an evendown waster and a profligate! what are ye gaun to do wi' siller the day?" "i have something ado ower at hawick, and i was thinking it wad be as weel to pay her account when i was there." "oho, lad! are ye there wi' your dreams and your visions o' the night, geordie? ye're aye keen o' sangs, man; i can pit a vera gude ane i' your head. there's an unco gude auld thing they ca', wap at the widow, my laddie. d'ye ken it, geordie? siller! quo he! hae ye ony feck o' siller, mother! whew! i hae as muckle as will pay the widow's account sax times ower! ye may tell her that frae me. siller! lack-a-day!--but, geordie, my man--auld wives' dreams are no to be regardit, ye ken. eh?" after putting half a dozen pairs of trysted shoes, and the identical silver-mounted boots, into the cadger's creels--then the only regular carriers--off set george dobson to hawick market, a distance of nearly eleven new-fashioned miles, but then accounted only eight and three quarters; and after parading the sandbed, slitterick bridge, and the tower knowe, for the space of an hour, and shaking hands with some four or five acquaintances, he ventured east-the-gate to pay mrs wilson her account. he was kindly welcomed, as every good and regular customer was, by mrs wilson. they settled amicably, and in the course of business george ventured several sly, jocular hints, to see how they would be taken, vexed that his grand and singular dream should go for nothing. no, nothing would pass there but sterling cent per cent. the lady was deaf and blind to every effort of gallantry, valuing her own abilities too highly ever to set a man a second time at the head of her flourishing business. nevertheless, she could not be blind to george's qualifications--he knew that was impossible,--for in the first place he was a goodly person, with handsome limbs and broad square shoulders; of a very dark complexion, true, but with fine, shrewd, manly features; was a burgess and councillor of the town of selkirk, and as independent in circumstances as she was. very well; mrs wilson knew all this--valued george dobson accordingly, and would not have denied him any of those good points more than gideon scott would to a favourite cheviot tup, in any society whatever; but she had such a sharp, cold, business manner, that george could discover no symptoms where the price of the boots was to come from. in order to conciliate matters as far as convenient, if not even to stretch a point, he gave her a farther order, larger than the one just settled; but all that he elicited was thanks for his custom, and one very small glass of brandy; so he drank her health, and a good husband to her. mrs wilson only courtseyed, and thanked him coldly, and away george set west-the-street, with a quick and stately step, saying to himself that the expedition of the silver-mounted boots was all up. as he was posting up the street, an acquaintance of his, a flesher, likewise of the name of wilson, eyed him, and called him aside. "hey, george, come this way a bit. how are ye? how d'ye do, sir? what news about selkirk? grand demand for boots there just now, i hear--eh? needing any thing in my way the day?--nae beef like that about your town. come away in, and taste the gudewife's bottle. i want to hae a crack wi' ye, and get measure of a pair o' boots. the grandest story yon, sir, i ever heard--eh?--needing a leg o' beef?--better? never mind, come away in." george was following mr wilson into the house, having as yet scarcely got a word said,--and he liked the man exceedingly,--when one pulled his coat, and a pretty servant girl smirked in his face and said, "maister dabsen, thou maun cum awa yest-the-gate and speak till mistress wulsin; there's sumtheyng forgot atween ye. thou maun cum directly." "haste ye, gae away, rin!" says wilson, pushing him out at the door, "that's a better bait than a poor flesher's dram. there's some comings and gangings yonder. a hien birth and a thrifty dame. grip to, grip to, lad! i'se take her at a hunder pund the quarter. let us see you as ye come back again." george went back, and there was mrs wilson standing in the door to receive him. "i quite forgot, mr dobson--i beg pardon. but i hope, as usual, you will take a family-dinner with me to-day?" "indeed, mrs wilson, i was just thinking to mysell that you were fey, and that we two would never bargain again, for i never paid you an account before that i did not get the offer of my dinner." "a very stupid neglect! but, indeed, i have so many things to mind, and so hard set with the world, mr dobson; you cannot conceive, when there's only a woman at the head of affairs----" "ay, but sic a woman," said george, and shook his head. "well, well, come at two. i dine early. no ceremony, you know. just a homely dinner, and no drinking." so saying, she turned and sailed into the house very gracefully; and then turning aside, she looked out at the window after him, apostrophizing him thus--"ay, ye may strut away west-the-street, as if i were looking after you. shame fa' the souter-like face o' ye; i wish you had been fifty miles off the day! if it hadna been fear for affronting a good steady customer, you shoudna hae been here. for there's my brother coming to dinner, and maybe some o' his cronies; and he'll be sae ta'en wi' this merry souter chield, that i ken weel they'll drink mair than twice the profits o' this bit order. my brother maun hae a' his ain will too! folk maun aye bow to the bush they get bield frae, else i should take a staup out o' their punch cogs the night." george attended at ten minutes past two, to be as fashionable as the risk of losing his kale would permit--gave a sharp wooer-like rap at the door, and was shown by the dimpling border maid into _the_ room,--which, in those days, meant the only sitting apartment of a house. mrs wilson being absent to superintend the preparations for dinner, and no one to introduce the parties to each other, think of george's utter amazement, when he saw the identical fat gentleman, who came to him thrice in his dream, and ordered him to come to widow wilson's and get payment of his boots! he was the very gentleman in every respect, every inch of him, and george could have known him among a thousand. it was not the duke of northumberland, but he that was so very like him, with fair curled hair, and red cheeks, which did not hang over his cravat. george felt as if he had been dropped into another state of existence, and hardly knew what to think or say. he had at first very nigh run up and taken the gentleman's hand, and addressed him as an old acquaintance, but luckily he recollected the equivocal circumstances in which they met, which was not actually in _the shop_, but in george's little bed-closet in the night, or early in the morning. in short, the two sat awkward enough, till, at last, mrs wilson entered, in most brilliant attire, and really a handsome fine woman; and with her a country lady, with something in her face extremely engaging. mrs wilson immediately introduced the parties to each other thus:--"brother, this is mr dobson, boot and shoemaker in selkirk;--as honest a young man, and as good a payer, as i know.--mr dobson, this is mr turnbull, my brother, the best friend i ever had; and this is his daughter margaret." the parties were acquainted in one minute, for mr turnbull was a frank kind-hearted gentleman; ay, they were more than acquainted, for the very second or third look that george got of margaret turnbull, he loved her. and during the whole afternoon, every word that she spoke, every smile that she smiled, and every happy look that she turned on another, added to his flame; so that long ere the sun leaned his elbow on skelfhill pen, he was deeper in love than, perhaps, any other souter in this world ever was. it is needless to describe miss turnbull; she was just what a woman should be, and not exceeding twenty-five years of age. what a mense she would be to the town of selkirk, and to a boot and shoemaker's parlour, as well as to the top of the councillors' seat every sunday! when the dinner was over, the brandy bottle went round, accompanied with the wee wee glass, in shape of the burr of a scots thistle. when it came to mr turnbull, he held it up between him and the light,--"keatie, whaten a niff-naff of a glass is this? let us see a feasible ane." "if it be over little, you can fill it the oftener, brother. i think a big dram is so vulgar!" "that's no the thing, keatie. the truth is, that ye're a perfect she nabal, and ilka thing that takes the value of a plack out o' your pocket, is vulgar, or improper, or something that way. but i'll tell you, keatie, my woman, what you shall do: set down a black bottle on this hand o' me, and twa clear anes on this, and the cheeny bowl atween them, and i'll let you see what i'll do. i ken o' nane within the ports o' hawick can afford a bowl better than you. nane o' your half bottles and quarter bottles at a time; now keatie, ye ken, ye hae a confoundit trick o' that; but i hae some hopes that i'll learn ye good manners by and by." "dear brother, i'm sure you are not going to drink your bottles here? think what the town would say, if i were to keep cabals o' drinkers in my sober house." "do as i bid you now, keatie, and lippen the rest to me.--ah, she is a niggard, mr dobson, and has muckle need of a little schooling to open her heart." the materials were produced, and mr turnbull, as had been predicted, did not spare them. other two wilsons joined them immediately after dinner, the one a shoemaker, and the other our friend the flesher, and a merrier afternoon has seldom been in hawick. mr turnbull was perfectly delighted with george;--he made him sing "the souters o' selkirk," "turn the blue bonnets," and all his best things; but when he came to "round about hawick," he made him sing it six times over, and was never weary of laughing at it, and identifying the characters with those then living. then the story of the boots was an inexhaustible joke, and the likeness between mr turnbull and the duke of northumberland an acceptable item. at length mr turnbull got so elevated, that he said, "ay, man! and they are shod wi' silver, and silver tassels round the top? i wad gie a bottle o' wine for a sight o' them." "it shall cost you nae mair," said george, and in three minutes he set them on the table. mr turnbull tried them on, and walked through and through the room with them, singing-- "with silver he was shod before-- with burning gold behind." they fitted exactly; and before sitting down, he offered george the original price, and got them. it became late rather too soon for our group, but the young lady grew impatient to get home, and mr turnbull was obliged to prepare for going; nothing, however, would please him, save that george should go with him all night; and george being, long before this time, over head and ears in love, accepted of the invitation, and the loan of the flesher's bay mare, and went with them. miss margaret had soon, by some kind of natural inspiration, discovered our jovial souter's partiality for her; and in order to open the way for a banter, (the best mode of beginning a courtship,) she fell on and rallied him most severely about the boots and the _soutering_, and particularly about letting himself be robbed of the two guineas. this gave george an opportunity of retaliating so happily, that he wondered at himself, for he acknowledged that he said things that he never believed he could have had the face to say to a lady before. the year after that, the two were married in the house of mrs wilson, and mr turnbull paid down a hundred pounds to george on the day he brought her from that house a bride. now, thought george to himself, i have been twice most liberally paid for my boots in that house. my wife, perhaps, will stand for the third payment, which i hope will be the best of all; but i still think there is to be another one beside.--he was not wrong, for after the death of his worthy father-in-law, he found himself entitled to the third of his whole effects; the transfer of which, nine years after his marriage, was made over to him in the house of his friend, mrs wilson. chapter vii. the laird of cassway. there is an old story which i have often heard related, about a great laird of cassway, in an outer corner of dumfries-shire, of the name of beattie, and his two sons. the incidents of the story are of a very extraordinary nature. this beattie had occasion to be almost constantly in england, because, as my informant said, he took a great hand in government affairs, from which i conclude that the tradition had its rise about the time of the civil wars; for about the close of that time, the scotts took the advantage of the times to put the beatties down, who, for some previous ages, had maintained the superiority of that district. be that as it may, the laird of cassway's second son, francis, fell desperately in love with a remarkably beautiful girl, the eldest daughter of henry scott of drumfielding, a gentleman, but still only a retainer, and far beneath beattie of cassway, both in point of wealth and influence. francis was a scholar newly returned from the university--was tall, handsome, of a pale complexion, and gentlemanly appearance, while thomas, the eldest son, was fair, ruddy, and stout-made, a perfect picture of health and good-humour,--a sportsman, a warrior, and a jovial blade; one who would not suffer a fox to get rest in the whole moor district. he rode the best horse, kept the best hounds, played the best fiddle, danced the best country bumpkin, and took the stoutest draught of mountain dew, of any man between erick brae and teviot stone, and was altogether that sort of a young man, that whenever he cast his eyes on a pretty girl, either at chapel or weapon-shaw, she would hide her face, and giggle as if tickled by some unseen hand. now, though thomas, or the young laird, as he was called, had only spoke once to ellen scott in his life, at which time he chucked her below the chin, and bid the devil take him if ever he saw as bonny a face in his whole born days; yet, for all that, ellen loved him. it could not be said that she was _in love_ with him, for a maiden's heart must be won before it is given absolutely away; but hers gave him the preference to any other young man. she loved to see him, to hear of him, and to laugh at him; and it was even observed by the domestics, that tam beattie o' the cassway's name came oftener into her conversation than there was any good reason for. such was the state of affairs when francis came home, and fell desperately in love with ellen scott; and his father being in england, and he under no restraint, he went frequently to visit her. she received him with a kindness and affability that pleased him to the heart; but he little wist that this was only a spontaneous and natural glow of kindness towards him because of his connexions, and rather because he was the young laird of cassway's only brother, than the poor but accomplished francis beattie, the scholar from oxford. he was, however, so much delighted with her, that he asked her father's permission to pay his addresses to her. her father, who was a prudent and sensible man, answered him in this wise--"that nothing would give him greater delight than to see his beloved ellen joined with so accomplished and amiable a young gentleman in the bonds of holy wedlock, provided his father's assent was previously obtained. but as he himself was subordinate to another house, not on the best terms with the house of cassway, he would not take it on him to sanction any such connexion without the old laird's full consent. that, moreover, as he, francis beattie, was just setting out in life, as a lawyer, there was but too much reason to doubt that a matrimonial connexion with ellen at that time would be highly imprudent; therefore it was not to be thought further of till the old laird was consulted. in the meantime, he should always be welcome to his house, and to his daughter's company, as he had the same dependence on his honour and integrity, as if he had been a son of his own." the young man thanked him affectionately, and could not help acquiescing in the truth of his remarks, promised not to mention matrimony farther, till he had consulted his father, and added--"but indeed you must excuse me, if i avail myself of your permission to visit here often, as i am sensible that it will be impossible for me to live for any space of time out of my dear ellen's sight." he was again assured of welcome, and the two parted mutually pleased. henry scott of drumfielding was a widower, with six daughters, over whom presided mrs jane jerdan, their maternal aunt, an old maid, with fashions and ideas even more antiquated than herself. no sooner had the young wooer taken his leave, than she bounced into the room, the only sitting apartment in the house, and said, in a loud important whisper, "what's that young swankey of a lawyer wanting, that he's aye hankering sae muckle about our town? i'll tell you what, brother harry, it strikes me that he wants to make a wheelwright o' your daughter nell. now, gin he axes your consent to ony siccan thing, dinna ye grant it. that's a'. take an auld fool's advice gin ye wad prosper. folk are a' wise ahint the hand, and sae will ye be." "dear, mrs jane, what objections can you have to mr francis beattie, the most accomplished young gentleman of the whole country?" "'complished gentleman! 'complished kirn-milk! i'll tell you what, brother harry,--afore i were a landless lady, i wad rather be a tailor's layboard. what has he to maintain a lady spouse with? the wind o' his lungs, forsooth!--thinks to sell that for goud in goupings. hech me! crazy wad they be wha wad buy it; and they wha trust to crazy people for their living will live but crazily. take an auld fool's advice gin ye wad prosper, else ye'll be wise ahint the hand. have nae mair to do with him--nell's bread for his betters; tell him that. or, by my certy, gin i meet wi' him face to face, _i'll_ tell him." "it would be unfriendly in me to keep aught a secret from you, sister, considering the interest you have taken in my family. i _have_ given him my consent to visit my daughter, but at the same time have restricted him from mentioning matrimony until he have consulted his father." "and what is the visiting to gang for, then? away wi' him! our nell's food for his betters. what wad you think an she could get the young laird, his brother, wi' a blink o' her ee?" "never speak to me of that, mrs jane. i wad rather see the poorest of his shepherd lads coming to court my child than see him;" and with these words henry left the room. mrs jane stood long, making faces, shaking her apron with both hands, nodding her head, and sometimes giving a stamp with her foot. "i have set my face against that connexion," said she; "our nell's no made for a lady to a london lawyer. it wad set her rather better to be lady of cassway. the young laird, for me! i'll hae the branks of love thrown over the heads o' the twasome, tie the tangs thegither, and then let them gallop like twa kippled grews. my brother harry's a simple man; he disna ken the credit that he has by his daughters--thanks to some other body than him! niece nell has a shape, an ee, and a lady-manner that wad kilhab the best lord o' the kingdom, were he to come under their influence and my manoovres. she's a jerdan a' through; and that i'll let them ken! folk are a' wise ahint the hand; credit only comes by catch and keep. goodnight to a' younger brothers, puffings o' love vows, and sahs o' wind! gie me the good green hills, the gruff wedders, and bob-tail'd yowes; and let the law and the gospel-men sell the wind o' their lungs as dear as they can." in a few days, henry of drumfielding was called out to attend his chief on some expedition; on which mrs jane, not caring to trust her message to any other person, went over to cassway, and invited the young laird to drumfielding to see her niece, quite convinced that her charms and endowments would at once enslave the elder brother as they had done the younger. tam beattie was delighted at finding such a good back friend as mrs jane, for he had not failed to observe, for a twelvemonth back, that ellen scott was very pretty, and, either through chance or design, he asked mrs jane if the young lady was privy to this invitation. "_she_ privy to it!" exclaimed mrs jane, shaking her apron. "ha, weel i wat, no! she wad soon hae flown in my face wi' her gibery and her jaukery, had i tauld her my errand; but the gowk kens what the tittling wants, although it is not aye crying, _give, give_, like the horse loch-leech." "does the horse-leech really cry that, mrs jane? i should think, from a view of its mouth, that it could scarcely cry any thing," said tom. "are ye sic a reprobate as to deny the words o' the scripture, sir? hech, wae's me! what some folk hae to answer for! we're a' wise ahint the hand. but hark ye,--come ye ower in time, else i am feared she may be settled for ever out o' your reach. now, i canna bide to think on that, for i have always thought you twa made for ane anither. let me take a look o' you frae tap to tae--o yes--made for ane anither. come ower in time, before billy harry come hame again; and let your visit be in timeous hours, else i'll gie you the back of the door to keep.--wild reprobate!" she exclaimed to herself, on taking her leave; "to deny that the horse loch-leech can speak! ha--he--the young laird is the man for me!" thomas beattie was true to his appointment, as may be supposed, and mrs jane having her niece dressed in style, he was perfectly charmed with her; and really it cannot be denied that ellen was as much delighted with him. she was young, gay, and frolicsome, and ellen never spent a more joyous and happy afternoon, or knew before what it was to be in a presence that delighted her so much. while they sat conversing, and apparently better satisfied with the company of each other than was likely to be regarded with indifference by any other individual aspiring to the favour of the young lady, the door was opened, and there entered no other than francis beattie! when ellen saw her devoted lover appear thus suddenly, she blushed deeply, and her glee was damped in a moment. she looked rather like a condemned criminal, or at least a guilty creature, than what she really was,--a being over whose mind the cloud of guilt had never cast its shadow. francis loved her above all things on earth or in heaven, and the moment he saw her so much abashed at being surprised in the company of his brother, his spirit was moved to jealousy--to maddening and uncontrolable jealousy. his ears rang, his hair stood on end, and the contour of his face became like a bent bow. he walked up to his brother with his hand on his hilt, and, in a state of excitement which rendered his words inarticulate, addressed him thus, while his teeth ground together like a horse-rattle: "pray, sir, may i ask you of your intentions, and of what you are seeking here?" "i know not, frank, what right you have to ask any such questions; but you will allow that i have a right to ask at you what _you_ are seeking here at present, seeing you come so very inopportunely?" "sir," said francis, whose passion could stay no farther parley, "dare you put it to the issue of the sword this moment?" "come now, dear francis, do not act the fool and the madman both at a time. rather than bring such a dispute to the issue of the sword between two brothers who never had a quarrel in their lives, i propose that we bring it to a much more temperate and decisive issue here where we stand, by giving the maiden her choice. stand you there at that corner of the room, i at this, and ellen scott in the middle; let us both ask her, and to whomsoever she comes, the prize be his. why should we try to decide, by the loss of one of our lives, what we cannot decide, and what may be decided in a friendly and rational way in one minute?" "it is easy for you, sir, to talk temperately and with indifference of such a trial, but not so with me. this young lady is dear to my heart." "well, but so is she to mine. let us, therefore, appeal to the lady at once, whose claim is the best; and as your pretensions are the highest, do you ask her first." "my dearest ellen," said francis, humbly and affectionately, "you know that my whole soul is devoted to your love, and that i aspire to it only in the most honourable way; put an end to this dispute therefore by honouring me with the preference which the unequivocal offer of my hand merits." ellen stood dumb and motionless, looking steadfastly down at the hem of her green jerkin, which she was nibbling with both her hands. she dared not lift an eye to either of the brothers, though apparently conscious that she ought to have recognised the claims of francis. "ellen, i need not tell you that i love you," said thomas, in a light and careless manner, as if certain that his appeal would be successful; "nor need i attempt to tell how dearly and how long i will love you, for in faith i cannot. will you make the discovery for yourself by deciding in my favour?" ellen looked up. there was a smile on her lovely face; an arch, mischievous, and happy smile, but it turned not on thomas. her face turned to the contrary side, but yet the beam of that smile fell not on francis, who stood in a state of as terrible suspense between hope and fear, as a roman catholic sinner at the gate of heaven, who has implored of st peter to open the gate, and awaits a final answer. the die of his fate was soon cast, for ellen, looking one way, yet moving another, straightway threw herself into thomas beattie's arms, exclaiming, "ah, tom! i fear i am doing that which i shall rue, but i must trust to your generosity; for, bad as you are, i like you the best!" thomas took her in his arms, and kissed her; but before he could say a word in return, the despair and rage of his brother, breaking forth over every barrier of reason, interrupted him. "this is the trick of a coward, to screen himself from the chastisement he deserves. but you escape me not thus! follow me if you dare!" and as he said this, francis rushed from the house, shaking his naked sword at his brother. ellen trembled with agitation at the young man's rage; and while thomas still continued to assure her of his unalterable affection, mrs jane jerdan entered, plucking her apron so as to make it twang like a bowstring. "what's a' this, squire tummas? are we to be habbled out o' house and hadding by this rapturous[b] young lawyer o' yours? by the souls o' the jerdans, i'll kick up sic a stoure about his lugs as shall blind the juridical een o' him! it's queer that men should study the law only to learn to break it. sure am i, nae gentleman, that hasna been bred a lawyer, wad come into a neighbour's house bullyragging that gate wi' sword in hand, malice prepense in his eye, and venom on his tongue. just as a lassie hadna her ain freedom o' choice, because a fool has been pleased to ask her! haud the grip you hae, niece nell; ye hae made a wise choice for aince. tam's the man for my money! folk are a' wise ahint the hand, but real wisdom lies in taking time by the forelock. but, squire tam, the thing that i want to ken is this--are you going to put up wi' a' that bullying and threatening, or do ye propose to chastise the fool according to his folly?" "in truth, mrs jane, i am very sorry for my brother's behaviour, and could not with honour yield any more than i did to pacify him. but he must be humbled. it will not do to suffer him to carry matters with so high a hand." "now, wad ye be but advised and leave him to me, i would play him sic a plisky as he shouldna forget till his dying day. by the souls o' the jerdans, i would! now promise to me that ye winna fight him." "o promise, promise!" cried ellen vehemently, "for the sake of heaven's love, promise my aunt that." thomas smiled and shook his head, as much as if he had said, "you do not know what you are asking." mrs jane went on. "do it then--do it with a vengeance, and remember this, that wherever ye set the place o' combat, be it in hill or dale, deep linn or moss hagg, i shall have a thirdsman there to encourage you on. i shall give you a meeting you little wot of." thomas beattie took all this for words of course, as mrs jane was well known for a raving, ranting old maid, whose vehemence few regarded, though a great many respected her for the care she had taken of her sister's family, and a greater number still regarded her with terror, as a being possessed of superhuman powers; so after many expressions of the fondest love for ellen, he took his leave, his mind being made up how it behoved him to deal with his brother. i forgot to mention before, that old beattie lived at nether cassway with his family; and his eldest son thomas at over cassway, having, on his father's entering into a second marriage, been put in possession of that castle, and these lands. francis, of course, lived in his father's house when in scotland; and it was thus that his brother knew nothing of his frequent visits to ellen scott. that night, as soon as thomas went home, he dispatched a note to his brother to the following purport: that he was sorry for the rudeness and unreasonableness of his behaviour. but if, on coming to himself, he was willing to make an apology before his mistress, then he (thomas) would gladly extend to him the right hand of love and brotherhood; but if he refused this, he would please to meet him on the crook of glen-dearg next morning by the sun-rising. francis returned for answer that he would meet him at the time and place appointed. there was then no farther door of reconciliation left open, but thomas still had hopes of managing him even on the combat field. francis slept little that night, being wholly set on revenge for the loss of his beloved mistress; and a little after day-break he arose, and putting himself in light armour, proceeded to the place of rendezvous. he had farther to go than his elder brother, and on coming in sight of the crook of glen-dearg, he perceived the latter there before him. he was wrapt in his cavalier's cloak, and walking up and down the crook with impassioned strides, on which francis soliloquized as follows, as he hasted on:--"ah ha! so tom is here before me! this is what i did not expect, for i did not think the flagitious dog had so much spirit or courage in him as to meet me. i am glad he has! for how i long to chastise him, and draw some of the pampered blood from that vain and insolent heart, which has bereaved me of all i held dear on earth!" in this way did he cherish his wrath till close at his brother's side, and then, addressing him in the same insolent terms, he desired him to cease his cowardly cogitations and draw. his opponent instantly wheeled about, threw off his horseman's cloak, and presented his sword; and behold the young man's father stood before him, armed and ready for action! the sword fell from francis's hand, and he stood appalled as if he had been a statue, unable either to utter a word or move a muscle. "take up thy sword, caitiff, and let it work thy ruthless work of vengeance here. is it not better that thou shouldst pierce this old heart, worn out with care and sorrow, and chilled by the ingratitude of my race, than that of thy gallant and generous brother, the representative of our house, and the chief of our name? take up thy sword, i say, and if i do not chastise thee as thou deservest, may heaven reft the sword of justice from the hand of the avenger!" "the god of heaven forbid that i should ever lift my sword against my honoured father!" said francis. "thou darest not, thou traitor and coward!" returned the father.--"i throw back the disgraceful terms in thy teeth which thou used'st to thy brother. thou camest here boiling with rancour, to shed his blood; and when i appear in person for him, thou darest not accept the challenge." "you never did me wrong, my dear father; but my brother has wronged me in the tenderest part." "thy brother never wronged thee intentionally, thou deceitful and sanguinary fratricide. it was thou alone who forced this quarrel upon him; and i have great reason to suspect thee of a design to cut him off, that the inheritance and the maid might both be thine own. but here i swear by the arm that made me, and the redeemer that saved me, if thou wilt not go straight and kneel to thy brother for forgiveness, confessing thy injurious treatment, and swearing submission to thy natural chief, i will banish thee from my house and presence for ever, and load thee with a parent's curse, which shall never be removed from thy soul till thou art crushed to the lowest hell." the young scholar, being utterly astounded at his father's words, and at the awful and stern manner in which he addressed him, whom he had never before reprimanded, was wholly overcome. he kneeled to his parent, and implored his forgiveness, promising, with tears, to fulfil every injunction which it would please him to enjoin; and on this understanding, the two parted on amicable and gracious terms. francis went straight to the tower of over cassway, and inquired for his brother, resolved to fulfil his father's stern injunctions to the very letter. he was informed his brother was in his chamber in bed, and indisposed. he asked the porter farther, if he had not been forth that day, and was answered, that he had gone forth early in the morning in armour, but had quickly returned, apparently in great agitation, and betaken himself to his bed. francis then requested to be taken to his brother, to which the servant instantly assented, and led him up to the chamber, never suspecting that there could be any animosity between the two only brothers; but on john burgess opening the door, and announcing the tutor, thomas, being in a nervous state, was a little alarmed. "remain in the room there, burgess," said he.--"what, brother frank, are you seeking here at this hour, armed capapee? i hope you are not come to assassinate me in my bed?" "god forbid, brother," said the other; "here john, take my sword down with you, i want some private conversation with thomas." john did so, and the following conversation ensued; for as soon as the door closed, francis dropt on his knees, and said, "o, my dear brother, i have erred grievously, and am come to confess my crime, and implore your pardon." "we have both erred, francis, in suffering any earthly concern to incite us against each other's lives. we have both erred, but you have my forgiveness cheerfully; here is my hand on it, and grant me thine in return. oh, francis, i have got an admonition this morning, that never will be erased from my memory, and which has caused me to see my life in a new light. what or whom think you i met an hour ago on my way to the crook of glen-dearg to encounter you?" "our father, perhaps." "you have seen him, then?" "indeed i have, and he has given me such a reprimand for severity, as son never before received from a parent." "brother frank, i must tell you, and when i do, you will not believe me--it _was not_ our father whom we both saw this morning." "it was no other whom i saw. what do you mean? do you suppose that i do not know my own father?" "i tell you it was not, and could not be. i had an express from him yesterday. he is two hundred miles from this, and cannot be in scotland sooner than three weeks hence." "you astonish me, thomas. this is beyond human comprehension!" "it is true--that i avouch, and the certainty of it has sickened me at heart. you must be aware that he came not home last night, and that his horse and retinue have not arrived." "he was not at home, it is true, nor have his horse and retinue arrived in scotland. still there is no denying that our father is here, and that it was he who spoke to and admonished me." "i tell you it is impossible. a spirit hath spoke to us in our father's likeness, for he is not, and cannot be, in scotland at this time. my faculties are altogether confounded by the event, not being able to calculate on the qualities or condition of our monitor. an evil spirit it certainly could not be, for all its admonitions pointed to good. i sorely dread, francis, that our father is no more--that there has been another engagement, that he has lost his life, and that his soul has been lingering around his family before taking its final leave of this sphere. i believe that our father is dead; and for my part i am so sick at heart, that my nerves are all unstrung. pray, do you take horse and post off for salop, from whence his commission to me yesterday was dated, and see what hath happened to our revered father." "i cannot, for my life, give credit to this, brother, or that it was any other being but my father himself who rebuked me. pray allow me to tarry another day at least, before i set out. perhaps our father may appear in the neighbourhood, and may be concealing himself for some secret purpose.--did you tell him of our quarrel?" "no. he never asked me concerning it, but charged me sharply with my intent on the first word, and adjured me, by my regard for his blessing, and my hope in heaven, to desist from my purpose." "then he knew it all intuitively; for when i first went in view of the spot appointed for our meeting, i perceived him walking sharply to and fro, wrapped in his military cloak. he never so much as deigned to look at me, till i came close to his side, and thinking it was yourself, i fell to upbraiding him, and desired him to draw. he then threw off his cloak, drew his sword, and, telling me he came in your place, dared me to the encounter. but he knew all the grounds of our quarrel minutely, and laid the blame on me. i own i am a little puzzled to reconcile circumstances, but am convinced my father is near at hand. i heard his words, and saw his eyes flashing anger and indignation. unfortunately i did not touch him, which would have put an end to all doubts; for he did not present the hand of reconciliation to me, as i expected he would have done, on my yielding implicitly to all his injunctions." the two brothers then parted, with protestations of mutual forbearance in all time coming, and with an understanding, as that was the morning of saturday, that if their father, or some word of him, did not reach home before the next evening, the tutor of cassway was to take horse for the county of salop, early on monday morning. thomas, being thus once more left to himself, could do nothing but toss and tumble in his bed, and reflect on the extraordinary occurrence of that morning; and, after many troubled cogitations, it at length occurred to his recollection what mrs jane jerdan had said to him:--"do it then. do it with a vengeance!--but remember this, that wherever ye set the place of combat, be it in hill or dale, deep linn, or moss hagg, i shall have a thirdsman there to encourage you on. i shall give you a meeting you little wot of." if he was confounded before, he was ten times more so at the remembrance of these words, of most ominous import. at the time he totally disregarded them, taking them for mere rodomontade; but now the idea was to him terrible, that his father's spirit, like the prophet's of old, should have been conjured up by witchcraft; and then again he bethought himself that no witch would have employed her power to prevent evil. in the end, he knew not what to think, and so, taking the hammer from its rest, he gave three raps on the pipe drum, for there were no bells in the towers of those days, and up came old john burgess, thomas beattie's henchman, huntsman, and groom of the chambers, one who had been attached to the family for fifty years, and he says, in his slow west-border tongue, "how's tou now, callan'?--is tou ony betterlins? there has been tway stags seen in the bloodhope-linns tis mworning already." "ay, and there has been something else seen, john, that lies nearer to my heart, to-day." john looked at his master with an inquisitive eye and quivering lip, but said nothing. the latter went on, "i am very unwell to-day, john, and cannot tell what is the matter with me. i think i am bewitched." "it's very like tou is, callan. i pits nae doubt on't at a'." "is there any body in this moor district whom you ever heard blamed for the horrible crime of witchcraft?" "ay, that there is; mair than ane or tway. there's our neighbour, lucky jerdan, for instance, and her niece nell,--the warst o' the pair, i doubt." john said this with a sly stupid leer, for he had admitted the old lady to an audience with his master the day before, and had eyed him afterwards bending his course towards drumfielding. "john, i am not disposed to jest at this time; for i am disturbed in mind, and very ill. tell me, in reality, did you ever hear mrs jane jerdan accused of being a witch?" "why, look thee, master, i dares nae say she's a wotch; for lucky has mony good points in her character. but it's weel kenned she has mair power nor her ain, for she can stwop a' the plews in eskdale wi' a wave o' her hand, and can raise the dead out o' their graves, just as a matter o' cwoorse." "that, john, is an extraordinary power indeed. but did you never hear of her sending any living men _to_ their graves? for as that is rather the danger that hangs over me, i wish you would take a ride over and desire mrs jane to come and see me. tell her i am ill, and request of her to come and see me." "i shall do that, callan'. but are tou sure it is the auld wotch i'm to bring? for it strikes me the young ane maybe has done the deed; and if sae, she is the fittest to effect the cure. but i sall bring the auld ane--dinna flee intil a rage, for i sall bring the auld ane; though, gude forgie me, it is unco like bringing the houdy." away went john burgess to drumfielding; but mrs jane would not move for all his entreaties. she sent back word to his master, to "rise out o' his bed, for he wad be waur if ony thing ailed him; and if he had aught to say to auld jane jerdan, she would be ready to hear it at hame, though he behoved to remember that it wasna ilka subject under the sun that she could thole to be questioned anent." with this answer john was forced to return, and there being no accounts of old beattie having been seen in scotland, the young men remained all the sabbath-day in the utmost consternation at the apparition of their father they had seen, and the appalling rebuke they had received from it. the most incredulous mind could scarce doubt that they had had communion with a supernatural being; and not being able to draw any other conclusion themselves, they became persuaded that their father was dead; and accordingly, both prepared for setting out early on monday morning towards the county of salop, from whence they had last heard of him. but just as they were ready to set out, when their spurs were buckled on and their horses bridled, andrew johnston, their father's confidential servant, arrived from the place to which they were bound. he had rode night and day, never once stinting the light gallop, as he said, and had changed his horse seven times. he appeared as if his ideas were in a state of derangement and confusion; and when he saw his young masters standing together, and ready-mounted for a journey, he stared at them as if he scarcely believed his own senses. they of course asked immediately about the cause of his express; but his answers were equivocal, and he appeared not to be able to assign any motive. they asked him concerning their father, and if any thing extraordinary had happened to him. he would not say either that there had, or that there had not; but inquired, in his turn, if nothing extraordinary had happened with them at home. they looked to one another, and returned him no answer; but at length the youngest said, "why, andrew, you profess to have ridden express for the distance of two hundred miles; now, you surely must have some guess for what purpose you have done this? say, then, at once, what your message is: is our father alive?" "ye--es; i think he is." "you _think_ he is? are you uncertain, then?" "i am certain he is not _dead_,--at least was not when i left him. but--hum--certainly there has a change taken place. hark ye, masters--can a man be said to be in life when he is out of himself?" "why, man, keep us not in this thrilling suspense.--is our father well?" "no--not _quite_ well. i am sorry to say, honest gentleman, that he is not. but the truth is, my masters, now that i see you well and hearty, and about to take a journey in company, i begin to suspect that i have been posted all this way on a fool's errand; and not another syllable will i speak on the subject, till i have had some refreshment, and if you still insist on hearing a ridiculous story, you shall hear it then." when the matter of the refreshment had been got over to andrew's full satisfaction, he began as follows: "why, faith, you see, my masters, it is not easy to say my errand to you, for in fact i have none. therefore, all that i can do is to tell you a story,--a most ridiculous one it is, as ever sent a poor fellow out on the gallop for the matter of two hundred miles or so. on the morning before last, right early, little isaac, the page, comes to me, and he says,--'johnston, thou must go and visit measter. he's bad.' "'bad!' says i. 'whaten way is he bad?' "'why,' says he, 'he's so far ill as he's not well, and desires to see you without one moment's delay. he's in fine taking, and that you'll find; but whatfor do i stand here? lword, i never got such a fright. why, johnston, does thou know that measter hath lwost himself?' "'how lost himself? rabbit,' says i, 'speak plain out, else i'll have thee lug-hauled, thou dwarf!' for my blood rose at the imp, for fooling at any mishap of my master's. but my choler only made him worse, for there is not a greater deil's-buckie in all the five dales. "'why, man, it is true that i said,' quoth he, laughing; 'the old gurly squoir hath lwost himself; and it will be grand sport to see thee going calling him at all the steane-crosses in the kingdom, in this here way--ho yes! and a two times ho yes! and a _three_ times ho yes! did any body no see the better half of my measter, laird of the twa cassways, bloodhope, and pantland, which was amissing overnight, and is supposed to have gone a-wool-gathering? if any body hath seen that better part of my measter, whilk contains as mooch wit as a man could drive on a hurlbarrow, let them restore it to me, andrew johnston, piper, trumpeter, whacker, and wheedler, to the same great and noble squoir; and high shall be his reward--ho yes!' "'the devil restore thee to thy right mind!' said i, knocking him down, and leaving him sprawling in the kennel, and then hasted to my master, whom i found feverish, restless, and raving, and yet with an earnestness in his demeanour that stunned and terrified me. he seized my hand in both his, which were burning like fire, and gave me such a look of despair as i shall never forget. 'johnston, i am ill,' said he, 'grievously ill, and know not what is to become of me. every nerve in my body is in a burning heat, and my soul is as it were torn to fritters with amazement. johnston, as sure as you are in the body, something most deplorable hath happened to em.' "'yes, as sure as i am in the body, there has, master,' says i. 'but i'll have you bled and doctored in style; and you shall soon be as sound as a roach,' says i; 'for a gentleman must not lose heart altogether for a little fire-raising in his outworks, if it does not reach the citadel,' says i to him. but he cut me short by shaking his head and flinging my hand from him. "'a truce with your talking,' says he. 'that which hath befallen me is as much above your comprehension as the sun is above the earth, and never will be comprehended by mortal man; but i must inform you of it, as i have no other means of gaining the intelligence i yearn for, and which i am incapable of gaining personally. johnston, there never was a mortal man suffered what i have suffered since midnight. i believe i have had doings with hell; for i have been disembodied, and embodied again, and the intensity of my tortures has been unparalleled.--i was at home this morning at day-break.' "'at home at cassway!' says i. 'i am sorry to hear you say so, master, because you know, or should know, that the thing is impossible, you being in the ancient town of shrewsbury on the king's business.' "'i was at home in very deed, andrew,' returned he; 'but whether in the body, or out of the body, i cannot tell--the lord only knoweth. but there i was in this guise, and with this heart and all its feelings within me, where i saw scenes, heard words, and spoke others, which i will here relate to you. i had finished my dispatches last night by midnight, and was sitting musing on the hard fate and improvidence of my sovereign master, when, ere ever i was aware, a neighbour of ours, mrs jane jerdan, of drumfielding, a mysterious character, with whom i have had some strange doings in my time, came suddenly into the chamber, and stood before me. i accosted her with doubt and terror, asking what had brought her so far from home.' "'you are not so far from home as you imagine,' said she; 'and it is fortunate for some that it is so. your two sons have quarrelled about the possession of niece ellen, and though the eldest is blameless of the quarrel, yet has he been forced into it, and they are engaged to fight at day-break at the crook of glen-dearg. there they will assuredly fall by each other's hands, if you interpose not; for there is no other authority now on earth that can prevent this woful calamity.' "'alas! how can i interfere,' said i, 'at this distance? it is already within a few hours of the meeting, and before i get from among the windings of the severn, their swords will be bathed in each other's blood! i must trust to the interference of heaven.' "'is your name and influence, then, to perish for ever?' said she. is it so soon to follow your master's, the great maxwell of the dales, into utter oblivion? why not rather rouse into requisition the energies of the spirits that watch over human destinies? at least step aside with me, that i may disclose the scene to your eyes. you know i can do it; and you may then act according to your natural impulse.' "'such were the import of the words she spoke to me, if not the very words themselves. i understood them not at the time; nor do i yet. but when she had done speaking, she took me by the hand, and hurried me towards the door of the apartment, which she opened, and the first step we took over the threshold, we stepped into a void space, and fell downward. i was going to call out, but felt my descent so rapid, that my voice was stifled, and i could not so much as draw my breath. i expected every moment to fall against something, and be dashed to pieces; and i shut my eyes, clenched my teeth, and held by the dame's hand with a frenzied grasp, in expectation of the catastrophe. but down we went--down and down, with a celerity which tongue cannot describe, without light, breath, or any sort of impediment. i now felt assured that we had both at once stepped from off the earth, and were hurled into the immeasurable void. the airs of darkness sung in my ears with a booming din as i rolled down the steeps of everlasting night, an outcast from nature and all its harmonies, and a journeyer into the depths of hell. "'i still held my companion's hand, and felt the pressure of hers; and so long did this our alarming descent continue, that i at length caught myself breathing once more, but as quick as if i had been in the height of a fever. i then tried every effort to speak, but they were all unavailing; for i could not emit one sound, although my lips and tongue fashioned the words. think, then, of my astonishment, when my companion sung out the following stanza with the greatest glee:-- 'here we roll, body and soul, down to the deeps of the paynim's goal-- with speed and with spell, with yo and with yell, this is the way to the palace of hell-- sing yo! ho! level and low, down to the valley of vision we go!' "'ha, ha, ha! tam beattie,' added she, 'where is a' your courage now? cannot ye lift up your voice and sing a stave wi' your auld crony? and cannot ye lift up your een, and see what region you are in now?' "'i did force open my eyelids, and beheld light, and apparently worlds, or huge lurid substances, gliding by me with speed beyond that of the lightning of heaven. i certainly perceived light, though of a dim uncertain nature; but so precipitate was my descent, i could not distinguish from whence it proceeded, or of what it consisted, whether of the vapours of chaotic wastes, or the streamers of hell. so i again shut my eyes closer than ever, and waited the event in terror unutterable. "'we at length came upon something which interrupted our farther progress. i had no feeling as we fell against it, but merely as if we came in contact with some soft substance that impeded our descent; and immediately afterwards i perceived that our motion had ceased. "'what a terrible tumble we hae gotten, laird!' said my companion. 'but ye are now in the place where you should be; and deil speed the coward!' "'so saying, she quitted my hand, and i felt as if she were wrested from me by a third object; but still i durst not open my eyes, being convinced that i was lying in the depths of hell, or some hideous place not to be dreamt of; so i lay still in despair, not even daring to address a prayer to my maker. at length i lifted my eyes slowly and fearfully; but they had no power of distinguishing objects. all that i perceived was a vision of something in nature, with which i had in life been too well acquainted. it was a glimpse of green glens, long withdrawing ridges, and one high hill, with a cairn on its summit. i rubbed my eyes to divest them of the enchantment, but when i opened them again, the illusion was still brighter and more magnificent. then springing to my feet, i perceived that i was lying in a little fairy ring, not one hundred yards from the door of my own hall! "'i was, as you may well conceive, dazzled with admiration; still i felt that something was not right with me, and that i was struggling with an enchantment; but recollecting the hideous story told me by the beldame, of the deadly discord between my two sons, i hasted to watch their motions, for the morning was yet but dawning. in a few seconds after recovering my senses, i perceived my eldest son thomas leave his tower armed, and pass on towards the place of appointment. i waylaid him, and remarked to him that he was very early astir, and i feared on no good intent. he made no answer, but stood like one in a stupor, and gazed at me. 'i know your purpose, son thomas,' said i; 'so it is in vain for you to equivocate. you have challenged your brother, and are going to meet him in deadly combat; but as you value your father's blessing, and would deprecate his curse--as you value your hope in heaven, and would escape the punishment of hell--abandon the hideous and cursed intent, and be reconciled to your only brother.' "'on this, my dutiful son thomas kneeled to me, and presented his sword, disclaiming, at the same time, all intentions of taking away his brother's life, and all animosity for the vengeance sought against himself, and thanked me in a flood of tears for my interference. i then commanded him back to his couch, and taking his cloak and sword, hasted away to the crook of glen-dearg, to wait the arrival of his brother.'" here andrew johnston's narrative detailed the self-same circumstances recorded in a former part of this tale, as having passed between the father and his younger son, so that it is needless to recapitulate them; but beginning where that broke off, he added, in the words of the old laird, "'as soon as my son francis had left me, in order to be reconciled to his brother, i returned to the fairy knowe and ring where i first found myself seated at day-break. i know not why i went there, for though i considered with myself, i could discover no motive that i had for doing so, but was led thither by a sort of impulse which i could not resist, and from the same feeling spread my son's mantle on the spot, laid his sword down beside it, and stretched me down to sleep. i remember nothing farther with any degree of accuracy, for i instantly fell into a chaos of suffering, confusion, and racking dismay, from which i was only of late released by awaking from a trance, on the very seat, and in the same guise in which i was the evening before. i am certain i was at home in body or in spirit--saw my sons--spake these words to them, and heard theirs in return. how i returned i know even less, if that is possible, than how i went; for it seemed to me that the mysterious force that presses us to this sphere, and supports us on it, was in my case withdrawn or subverted, and that i merely fell from one part of the earth's surface and alighted on another. now i am so ill that i cannot move from this couch; therefore, andrew, do you mount and ride straight home. spare no horse-flesh, by night or by day, to bring me word of my family, for i dread that some evil hath befallen them. if you find them in life, give them many charges from me of brotherly love and affection; if not--what can i say, but, in the words of the patriarch, if i am bereaved of my children, i am bereaved.'" the two brothers, in utter amazement, went together to the green ring on the top of the knoll above the castle of cassway, and there found the mantle lying spread, and the sword beside it. they then, without letting johnston into the awful secret, mounted straight, and rode off with him to their father. they found him still in bed, and very ill; and though rejoiced at seeing them, they soon lost hope of his recovery, his spirits being broken and deranged in a wonderful manner. their conversations together were of the most solemn nature, the visitation deigned to them having been above their capacity. on the third or fourth day, their father was removed by death from this terrestrial scene, and the minds of the young men were so much impressed by the whole of the circumstances, that it made a great alteration in their after life. thomas, as solemnly charged by his father, married ellen scott, and francis was well known afterward as the celebrated dr beattie of amherst. ellen was mother to twelve sons, and on the night that her seventh son was born, her aunt jerdan was lost, and never more heard of, either living or dead. this will be viewed as a most romantic and unnatural story, as without doubt it is; but i have the strongest reasons for believing that it is founded on a literal fact, of which all the three were sensibly and positively convinced. it was published in england in dr beattie's lifetime, and by his acquiescence, and owing to the respectable source from whence it came, it was never disputed in that day that it had its origin in truth. it was again republished, with some miserable alterations, in a london collection of , by j. smith, at no. , paternoster-row; and though i have seen none of these accounts, but relate the story wholly from tradition, yet the assurance attained from a friend of their existence, is a curious corroborative circumstance, and proves that, if the story was not true, the parties at least believed it to be so. chapter viii. tibby hyslop's dream. in the year , when on a jaunt through the valleys of nith and annan, i learned the following story on the spot where the incidents occurred, and even went and visited all those connected with it, so that there is no doubt with regard to its authenticity. in a cottage called knowe-back, on the large farm of drumlochie, lived tibby hyslop, a respectable spinster, about the age of forty i thought when i saw her, but, of course, not so old when the first incidents occurred which this singular tale relates. tibby was represented to me as being a good christian, not in name and profession only, but in word and in deed; and i believe i may add, in heart and in soul. nevertheless, there was something in her manner and deportment different from other people--a sort of innocent simplicity, bordering on silliness, together with an instability of thought, that, in the eyes of many, approached to abstraction. but then tibby could repeat the book of the evangelist luke by heart, and many favourite chapters both of the old and new testaments; while there was scarcely one in the whole country so thoroughly acquainted with those books from beginning to end; for, though she had read a portion every day for forty years, she had never perused any other books but the scriptures. they were her week-day books, and her sunday books, her books of amusement, and books of devotion. would to god that all our brethren and sisters of the human race--the poor and comfortless, as well as the great and wise--knew as well how to estimate these books as tibby hyslop did! tibby's history is shortly this: her mother married a sergeant of a recruiting party. the year following he was obliged to go to ireland, and from thence nobody knew whither; but neither he nor his wife appeared again in scotland. on their departure, they left tibby, then a helpless babe, with her grandmother, who lived in a hamlet somewhere about tinwald; and with that grandmother was she brought up, and taught to read her bible, to card, spin, and work at all kinds of country labour to which women are accustomed. jane hervey was her grandmother's name, a woman then scarcely past her prime, certainly within forty years of age; with whom lived her elder sister, named douglas: and with these two were the early years of tibby hyslop spent, in poverty, contentment, and devotion. at the age of eighteen, tibby was hired at the candlemas fair, for a great wage, to be a byre-woman to mr gilbert forret, then farmer at drumlochie. tibby had then acquired a great deal of her mother's dangerous bloom--dangerous, when attached to poverty and so much simplicity of heart; and when she came home and told what she had done, her mother and aunt, as she always denominated the two, marvelled much at the extravagant conditions, and began to express some fears regarding her new master's designs, till tibby put them all to rest by the following piece of simple information: "dear, ye ken, ye needna be feared that mr forret has ony design o' courting me, for dear, ye ken, he has a wife already, and five bonny bairns; and he'll never be sae daft as fa' on and court anither ane. i'se warrant he finds ane enow for him, honest man!" "oh, then, you are safe enough, since he is a married man, my bairn," said jane. the truth was, that mr forret was notorious for debauching young and pretty girls, and was known in dumfries market by the name of gibby gledger, from the circumstance of his being always looking slyly after them. perceiving tibby so comely, and at the same time so simple, he hired her at nearly double wages, and moreover gave her a crown as arle-money. tibby went home to her service, and being a pliable, diligent creature, she was beloved by all. her master commended her for her neatness, and whenever a quiet opportunity offered, would pat her rosy cheek, and say kind things. tibby took all these in good part, judging them tokens of approbation of her good services, and was proud of them; and if he once or twice whispered a place and an hour of assignation, she took it for a joke, and paid no farther attention to it. a whole year passed over without the worthy farmer having accomplished his cherished purpose regarding poor tibby. he hired her to remain with him, still on the former high conditions, and moreover he said to her: "i wish your grandmother and grand-aunt would take my pleasant cottage of knowe-back. they should have it for a mere trifle--a week's shearing or so--so long as you remain in my service; and as it is likely to be a long while before you and i part, it would be better to have them near you, that you might see them often, and attend to their wants. i could give them plenty of work through the whole year, on the best conditions. what think you of this proposal, rosy?"--a familiar name he often called her by. "o, i'm sure, sir, i think ye are the kindest man that ever existed. what a blessing is it when riches open up the heart to acts of charity and benevolence! my poor auld mother and aunty will be blythe to grip at the kind offer; for they sit under a hard master yonder. the almighty will bestow a blessing on you for this, sir!" tibby went immediately with the joyful news to her poor mother and aunt. now, they had of late found themselves quite easy in their circumstances, owing to the large wages tibby received, every farthing of which was added to the common stock; and though tibby displayed a little more finery at the meeting-house, it was her grandmother who purchased it for her, without any consent on her part. "i am sure," said her grandmother, when tibby told the story of her master's kindness and attention, "i am sure it was the kindest intervention o' providence that ever happened to poor things afore, when ye fell in wi' that kind worthy man, i' the mids o' a great hiring market, where ye might just as easily hae met wi' a knave, or a niggard, as wi' this man o' siccan charity an' mercy." "ay; the wulcat maun hae his collop, and the raven maun hae his part, and the tod will creep through the heather, for the bonny moor-hen's heart," said old douglas hervey, poking the fire all the while with the tongs, and speaking only as if speaking to herself--"hech-wow, and lack-a-day! but the times are altered sair since i first saw the sun! poor, poor religion, wae's me for her! she was first driven out o' the lord's castle into the baron's ha'; out o' the baron's ha' into the farmer's bien dwelling; and at last out o' that into the poor cauldrife shiel, where there's nae ither comfort but what she brings wi' her." "what has set ye onna thae reflections the day, aunty?" cried tibby aloud at her ear; for she was half deaf, and had so many flannel mutches on, besides a blue napkin, which she always wore over them all, that her deafness was nearly completed altogether. "oogh! what's the lassie saying?" said she, after listening a good while, till the sounds penetrated to the interior of her ear, "what's the young light-head saying about the defections o' the day? what kens she about them?--oogh! let me see your face, dame, and find your hand, for i hae neither seen the ane, nor felt the tither, this lang and mony a day." then taking her grand-niece by the hand, and looking close into her face through the spectacles, she added,--"ay, it is a weel-faured sonsy face, very like the mother's that bore ye; and hers was as like _her_ mother's; and there was never as muckle common sense amang a' the three as to keep a brock out o' the kail-yard. ye hae an unco good master, i hear--oogh! i'm glad to heart--hoh-oh-oh-oh!--verra glad. i hope it will lang continue, this kindness. poor tibby!--as lang as the heart disna gang wrang, we maun excuse the head, for it'll never aince gang right. i hope they were baith made for a better warld, for nane o' them were made for this." when she got this length, she sat hastily down, and began her daily and hourly task of carding wool for her sister's spinning, abstracting herself from all external considerations. "i think aunty's unco parabolical the day," said tibby to her grandmother; "what makes her that gate?" "o dear, hinny, she's aye that gate now. she speaks to naebody but hersell," said jane. "but--lownly be it spoken--i think whiles there's ane speaks till her again that my een canna see." "the angels often conversed wi' good folks lang-syne. i ken o' naething that can hinder them to do sae still, if they're sae disposed," said tibby; and so the dialogue closed for the present. mr forret sent his carts at the term, and removed the old people to the cottage of knowe-back, free of all charge, like a gentleman as he was; and things went on exceedingly well. tibby had a sincere regard for her master; and as he continued to speak to her, when alone, in a kind and playful manner, she had several times ventured to broach religion to him, trying to discover the state of his soul. then he would shake his head, and look demure in mockery, and repeat some grave, becoming words. poor tibby thought he _was_ a righteous man. but in a short time his purposes were divulged in such a manner as to be no more equivocal. that morning immediately preceding the development of this long-cherished atrocity, jane hervey was awaked at an early hour by the following unintelligible dialogue in her elder sister's bed. "have ye seen the news o' the day, kerlin?" "oogh?" "have ye seen the news o' the day?" "ay, that i hae, on a braid open book, without clasp or seal. whether will you or the deil win?" "that depends on the citadel. if it stand out, a' the powers o' hell winna shake the fortress, nor sap a stane o' its foundation." "ah, the fortress is a good ane, and a sound ane; but the poor head captain!--ye ken what a sweet-lipped, turnip-headit brosey he is. o, lack-a-day, my poor tibby hyslop!--my innocent, kind, thowless tibby hyslop!" jane was frightened at hearing such a colloquy, but particularly at that part of it where her darling child was mentioned. she sprung from her own bed to that of her sister, and cried in her ear with a loud voice,--"sister, sister douglas, what is that you are saying about our dear bairn?" "oogh? i was saying naething about your bairn. she lies in great jeopardy yonder; but nane as yet. gang away to your bed--wow, but i was sound asleep." "there's naebody can make aught out o' her but nonsense," said jane. after the two had risen from their scanty breakfast, which douglas had blessed with more fervency than ordinary, she could not settle at her carding, but always stopped short, and began mumbling and speaking to herself. at length, after a long pause, she looked over her shoulder, and said,--"jeanie, warna ye speaking o' ganging ower to see our bairn the day? haste thee and gang away, then; and stay nouther to put on clean bussing, kirtle, nor barrie, else ye may be an antrin meenut or twa ower lang." jane made no reply, but, drawing the skirt of her gown over her shoulders, she set out for drumlochie, a distance of nearly a mile; and as she went by the corner of the byre, she imagined she heard her grandchild's voice, in great passion or distress, and ran straight into the byre, crying, "what's the matter wi' you, tibby? what ails you, my bairn?" but, receiving no answer, she thought the voice must have been somewhere without, and slid quietly away, looking everywhere, and at length went down to the kitchen. mr forret, _alias_ gledging gibby, had borne the brunt of incensed kirk-sessions before that time, and also the unlicensed tongues of mothers, roused into vehemence by the degradation of beloved daughters; but never in his life did he bear such a rebuke as he did that day from the tongue of one he had always viewed as a mere simpleton. it was a lesson--a warning of the most sublime and terrible description, couched in the pure and emphatic language of scripture. gibby cared not a doit for these things, but found himself foiled, and exposed to his family, and the whole world, if this fool chose to do it. he was, therefore, glad to act a part of deep hypocrisy, pretending the sincerest contrition, regretting, with tears, his momentary derangement. poor tibby readily believed and forgave him; and thinking it hard to ruin a repentant sinner in his worldly and family concerns, she promised never to divulge what had passed; and he, knowing well the value of her word, was glad at having so escaped. jane found her grand-daughter apparently much disturbed; but having asked if she was well enough, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, she was satisfied, and only added, "your crazed aunty wad gar me believe ye war in some jeopardy, and hurried me away to see you, without giving me leave to change a steek." one may easily conceive tibby's astonishment at hearing this, considering the moment at which her grandmother arrived. as soon as the latter was gone, she kneeled before her maker, and poured out her soul in grateful thanksgiving for her deliverance; and, in particular, for such a manifest interference of some superior intelligence in her behalf. "how did ye find our poor bairn the day, titty jean? did she no tell ye ony thing?" asked douglas, on jane's return. "she tauld me naething, but said she was weel." "she's ae fool, and ye're another! if i had been her, i wad hae blazed it baith to kirk and council;--to his wife's ear, and to his minister's! she's very weel, is she?--oogh! ay. hoh--oh--oh--oh!--silly woman--silly woman--hoh--oh--oh!" in a few weeks, mr forret's behaviour to his simple dairymaid altered very materially. he called her no more by the endearing name of rosy; poor idiot was oftener the term; and finding he was now safe from accusation, his malevolence towards her had scarcely any bounds. she made out her term with difficulty, but he refused to pay the stipulated wage, on pretence of her incapacity; and as she had by that time profited well at his hand, she took what he offered, thanked him, and said no more about it. she was no more hired as a servant, but having at the first taken a long lease of the cottage, she continued, from year to year, working on the farm by the day, at a very scanty allowance. old douglas in a few years grew incapable of any work, through frailty of person, being constantly confined to bed, though in mind as energetic and mysterious as ever. jane wrought long, till at length a severe illness in rendered her unfit to do any thing further than occasionally knit a stocking; and tibby's handywork was all that herself and the two old women had to depend upon. they had brought her up with care and kindness amid the most pinching poverty, and now, indeed, her filial affection was severely put to the proof; but it was genuine, and knew no bounds. night and day she toiled for her aged and feeble relatives, and a murmur or complaint never was heard from her lips. many a blessing was bestowed on her as they raised their palsied heads to partake of her hard-earned pittance; and many a fervent prayer was poured out, when no mortal heard it. times grew harder and harder. thousands yet living remember what a period that was for the poor, while meal, for seasons, was from four to five shillings a-stone, and even sometimes as high as seven. tibby grew fairly incapable of supporting herself and her aged friends. she stinted herself for their sakes, and that made her still more incapable; yet often with tears in her eyes did she feed these frail beings, her heart like to melt because she had no more to give them. there are no poor-rates in that country. knowe-back is quite retired--nobody went near it, and tibby complained to none, but wrought on, night and day, in sorrow and anxiety, but still with a humble and thankful heart. in this great strait, mrs forret was the first who began, unsolicited, to take compassion on the destitute group. she could not conceive how they existed on the poor creature's earnings. so she went privately to see them, and when she saw their wretched state, and heard their blessings on their dear child, her heart was moved to pity, and she determined to assist them in secret; for her husband was such a churl, that she durst not venture to do it publicly. accordingly, whenever she had an opportunity, she made tibby come into the kitchen, and get a meal for herself; and often the considerate lady slid a small loaf, or a little tea and sugar, into her lap, for the two aged invalids;--for gentle woman is always the first to pity, and the first to relieve. poor tibby! how her heart expanded with gratitude on receiving these little presents! for her love for the two old dependent creatures was of so pure and sacred a sort, as scarcely to retain in it any thing of the common feelings of humanity. there was no selfish principle there--they were to her as a part of her own nature. tibby never went into the kitchen unless her mistress desired her, or sent her word by some of the other day-labourers to come in as she went home. one evening, having got word in this last way, she went in, and the lady of the house, with her own hand, presented her with a little bowl of beat potatoes, and some milk. this was all; and one would have thought it was an aliment so humble and plain, that scarcely any person would have grudged it to a hungry dog. it so happened, however, that as tibby was sitting behind backs enjoying the meal, mr forret chanced to come into the kitchen to give some orders; and perceiving tibby so comfortably engaged, he, without speaking a word, seized her by the neck with one hand, and by the shoulder with the other, and hurrying her out at the backdoor into the yard, flung her, with all his might, on a dunghill. "wha the devil bade you come into my house, and eat up the meat that was made for others?" cried he, in a demoniac voice, choking with rage; and then he swore a terrible oath, which i do not choose to set down, that, "if he found her again at such employment, he would cut her throat, and fling her to the dogs." poor tibby was astounded beyond the power of utterance, or even of rising from the place where he had thrown her down, until lifted by two of the maid-servants, who tried to comfort her as they supported her part of the way home; and bitterly did they blame their master, saying it would have been a shame to any one, who had the feelings of a man, to do such an act; but as for their master, he scarcely had the feelings of a beast. tibby never opened her mouth, neither to blame, nor complain, but went on her way crying till her heart was like to break. she had no supper for the old famishing pair that night. they had tasted nothing from the time that she left them in the morning; and as she had accounted herself sure of receiving something from mrs forret that night, she had not asked her day's wages from the grieve, glad to let a day run up now and then, when able to procure a meal in any other honest way. she had nothing to give them that night, so what could she do? she was obliged, with a sore heart, to kiss them and tell them so; and then, as was her custom, she said a prayer over their couch, and laid herself down to sleep, drowned in tears. she had never so much as mentioned mr forret's name either to her grandmother or grand-aunt that night, or by the least insinuation given them to understand that he had used her ill; but no sooner were they composed to rest, and all the cottage quiet, than old douglas began abusing him with great vehemence. tibby, to her astonishment, heard some of his deeds spoken of with great familiarity, which she was sure never had been whispered to the ear of flesh. but what shocked her most of all, was the following terrible prognostication, which she heard repeated three several times:--"na, na, i'll no see it, for i'll never see aught earthly again beyond the wa's o' this cottage; but tibby will live to see it;--ay, ay, she'll see it." then a different voice asked--"what will _she_ see, kerlin?"--"she'll see the craws picking his banes at the back o' the dyke." tibby's heart grew cold within her when she heard this terrible announcement, because, for many years bygone, she had been convinced, from sensible demonstration, that old douglas hervey had commerce with some superior intelligence; and after she had heard the above sentence repeated again and again, she shut her ears, that she might hear no more; committed herself once more to the hands of a watchful creator, and fell into a troubled sleep. the elemental spirits that weave the shadowy tapestry of dreams, were busy at their aerial looms that night in the cottage of knowe-back, bodying forth the destinies of men and women in brilliant and quick succession. one only of these delineations i shall here set down, precisely as it was related to me, by my friend the worthy clergyman of that parish, to whom tibby told it the very next day. there is no doubt that her grand-aunt's disjointed prophecy formed the groundwork of the picture; but be that as it may, this was her dream; and it was for the sake of telling it, and tracing it to its fulfilment, that i began this story: tibby hyslop dreamed, that on a certain spot which she had never seen before, between a stone-dyke and the verge of a woody precipice, a little, sequestered, inaccessible corner, of a triangular shape,--or, as she called it to the minister, "a three-neukit crook o' the linn," she saw mr forret lying without his hat, with his throat slightly wounded, and blood running from it; but he neither appeared to be dead, nor yet dying, but in excellent spirits. he was clothed in a fine new black suit, had full boots on, which appeared likewise to be new, and gilt spurs. a great number of rooks and hooded crows were making free with his person;--some picking out his eyes, some his tongue, and some tearing out his bowels. in place of being distressed by their voracity, he appeared much delighted, encouraging them all that he could, and there was a perfectly good understanding between the parties. in the midst of this horrible feast, a large raven dashed down from a dark cloud, and, driving away all the meaner birds, fell a-feasting himself;--opened the breast of his victim, who was still alive, and encouraging him on; and after preying on his vitals for some time, at last picked out his heart, and devoured it; and then the mangled wretch, after writhing for a short time in convulsive agonies, groaned his last. this was precisely tibby's dream as it was told to me, first by my friend mr cunningham of dalswinton, and afterwards by the clergyman to whom she herself had related it next day. but there was something in it not so distinctly defined; for though the birds which she saw devouring her master, were rooks, blood-crows, and a raven, still each individual of the number had a likeness, by itself, distinguishing it from all the rest; a certain character, as it were, to support; and these particular likenesses were so engraven on the dreamers mind, that she never forgot them, and she could not help looking for them both among "birds and bodies," as she expressed it, but never could distinguish any of them again; and the dream, like many other distempered visions, was forgotten, or only remembered now and then with a certain tremor of antecedent knowledge. days and seasons passed over, and with them the changes incident to humanity. the virtuous and indefatigable tibby hyslop was assisted by the benevolent, who had heard of her exertions and patient sufferings; and the venerable douglas hervey had gone in peace to the house appointed for all living, when one evening in june, john jardine, the cooper, chanced to come to knowe-back, in the course of his girding and hooping peregrinations. john was a living and walking chronicle of the events of the day, all the way from the head of glen-breck to the bridge of stony-lee. he knew every man, and every man's affairs--every woman, and every woman's failings; and his intelligence was not like that of many others, for it was generally to be depended on. how he got his information so correctly, was a mystery to many, but whatever john the cooper told as a fact, was never disputed, and any woman, at least, might have ventured to tell it over again. "these are hard times for poor folks, tibby. how are you and auld granny coming on?" "just fighting on as we hae done for mony a year. she is aye contentit, poor body, and thankfu', whether i hae little to gie her, or muckle. this life's naething but a fight, johnnie, frae beginning to end." "it's a' true ye say, tibby," said the cooper, interrupting her, for he was afraid she was about to enter upon religious topics, a species of conversation that did not accord with john's talents or dispositions; "it's a' true ye say, tibby; but your master will soon be sic a rich man now, that we'll a' be made up, and you amang the lave will be made a lady." "if he get his riches honestly, and the blessing o' the almighty wi' them, john, i shall rejoice in his prosperity; but neither me nor ony ither poor body will ever be muckle the better o' them. what way is he gaun to get siccan great riches? if a' be true that i hear, he is gaun to the wrang part to seek them." "aha, lass, that's a' that ye ken about it. did ye no hear that he had won the law-plea on his laird, whilk has been afore the lords for mair than seven years? and did ye no hear that he had won ten pleas afore the courts o' dumfries, a' rising out o' ane anither, like ash girderings out o' ae root, and that he's to get, on the haill, about twenty thousand punds worth o' damages?" "that's an unco sight o' siller, john. how muckle is that?" "aha, lass, ye hae fixed me now; but they say it will come to as muckle gowd as six men can carry on their backs. and we're a' to get twenties, and thirties, and forties o' punds for bribes, to gar us gie faithfu' and true evidence at the great concluding trial afore the lords; and you are to be bribit amang the rest, to gar ye tell the haill truth, and nothing but the truth." "there needs nae waste o' siller to gar me do that. but, johnnie, i wad like to ken whether that mode o' taking oaths,--solemn and saucred oaths,--about the miserable trash o' this warld, be according to the tenor o' gospel revelation, and the third o' the commands?" "aha, lass, ye _hae_ fixed me now! that's rather a kittle point; but i believe it's a' true that ye say. however, ye'll get the offer of a great bribe in a few days; and take ye my advice, tibby--get haud o' the bribe afore hand; for if ye lippen to your master's promises, you will never finger a bodle after the job's done." "i'm but a poor simple body, johnnie, and canna manage ony siccan things. but i shall need nae fee to gar me tell the truth, and i winna tell an untruth for a' my master's estate, and his sax backfu's o' gowd into the bargain. if the sin o' the soul, johnnie----" "ay, ay, that's very true, tibby, very true, indeed, about the sin o' the soul! but as ye were saying about being a simple body--what wad ye think if i were to cast up that day gledging gibby came here to gie you your lesson--i could maybe help you on a wee bit--what wad you gie me if i did?" "alack, i hae naething to gie you but my blessing; but i shall pray for the blessing o' god on ye." "ay, ay, as ye say. i daresay there might be waur things. but could you think o' naething else to gie a body wha likes as weel to be paid aff-hand as to gie credit? that's the very thing i'm cautioning you against." "i dinna expect ony siller frae that fountain-head, johnnie: it is a dry ane to the puir and the needy, and an unco sma' matter wad gar me make over my rights to a pose that i hae neither faith nor hope in. but ye're kenn'd for an auld-farrant man; if ye can bring a little honestly my way, i sall gie you the half o't; for weel i ken it will never come by ony art or shift o' mine." "ay, ay, that's spoken like a sensible and reasonable woman, tibby hyslop, as ye are and hae always been. but think you that nae way could be contrived"--and here the cooper gave two winks with his left eye--"by the whilk ye could gie me it a', and yet no rob yoursell of a farthing?" "na, na, johnnie jardine, that's clean aboon my comprehension: but ye're a cunning draughty man, and i leave the haill matter to your guidance." "very weel, tibby, very weel. i'll try to ca' a gayan substantial gird round your success, if i can hit the width o' the chance, and the girth o' the gear. gude day to you the day; and think about the plan o' equal-aqual that i spake o'." old maids are in general very easily courted, and very apt to take a hint. i have, indeed, known a great many instances in which they took hints very seriously, before ever they were given. not so with tibby hyslop. so heavy a charge had lain upon her the greater part of her life, that she had never turned her thoughts to any earthly thing beside, and she knew no more what the cooper aimed at, than if the words had not been spoken. when he went away, her grandmother called her to the bedside, and asked if the cooper had gone away. tibby answered in the affirmative; on which granny said, "what has he been havering about sae lang the day? i thought i heard him courting ye." "courting me! dear granny, he was courting nane o' me; he was telling me how mr forret had won as muckle siller at the law as sax men can carry on their backs, and how we are a' to get a part of it." "dinna believe him, hinny; the man that can win siller at the law, will lose it naewhere. but, tibby, i heard the cooper courting you, and i thought i heard you gie him your consent to manage the matter as he likit. now you hae been a great blessing to me. i thought you sent to me in wrath, as a punishment of my sins, but i have found that you were indeed sent to me in love and in kindness. you have been the sole support of my old age, and of hers wha is now in the grave, and it is natural that i should like to see you put up afore i leave you. but, tibby hyslop, john jardine is not the man to lead a christian life with. he has nae mair religion than the beasts that perish--he shuns it as a body would do a loathsome or poisonous draught: and besides, it is weel kenn'd how sair he neglected his first wife. hae naething to do wi' him, my dear bairn, but rather live as you are. there is neither sin nor shame in being unwedded; but there may be baith in joining yourself to an unbeliever." tibby was somewhat astonished at this piece of information. she had not conceived that the cooper meant any thing in the way of courtship; but found that she rather thought the better of him for what it appeared he had done. accordingly she made no promises to her grandmother, but only remarked, that "it was a pity no to gie the cooper a chance o' conversion, honest man." the cooper kept watch about drumlochie and the hinds' houses, and easily found out all the farmer's movements, and even the exact remuneration he could be prevailed on to give to such as were pleased to remember according to his wishes. indeed it was believed that the most part of the hinds and labouring people recollected nothing of the matter in dispute farther than he was pleased to inform them, and that in fact they gave evidence to the best of their knowledge or remembrance, although that evidence might be decidedly wrong. one day gibby took his gun, and went out towards knowe-back. the cooper also, guessing what his purpose was, went thither by a circuitous route, in order to come in as it were by chance. ere he arrived, mr forret had begun his queries and instructions to tibby.--the two could not agree by any means; tibby either could not recollect the yearly crops on each field on the farm of drumlochie, or recollected wrong. at length, when the calculations were at the keenest, the cooper came in, and at every turn he took mr forret's side, with the most strenuous asseverations, abusing tibby for her stupidity and want of recollection. "hear me speak, johnnie jardine, afore ye condemn me aff-loof: mr forret says that the crooked holm was pease in the , and corn in the ; i say it was corn baith the years. how do ye say about that?" "mr forret's right--perfectly right. it grew pease in the , and aits, good angus aits, in the . poor gowk! dinna ye think that he has a' thae things merkit down in black and white? and what good could it do to him to mislead you? depend on't, he is right there." "could ye tak your oath on that, johnnie jardine?" "ay, this meenint,--sax times repeated, if it were necessary." "then i yield--i am but a poor silly woman, liable to mony errors and shortcomings--i maun be wrang, and i yield that it is sae. but i am sure, john, you cannot but remember this sae short while syne,--for ye shure wi' us that har'st,--was the lang field niest robie johnston's farm growing corn in the dear year, or no? i say it was." "it was the next year, tibby," said mr forret; "you are confounding one year with another again; and i see what is the reason. it was oats in , grass in , and oats again in ; now you never remember any of the intermediate years, but only those that you shore on these fields. i cannot be mistaken in a rule i never break." the cooper had now got his cue. he perceived that the plea ultimately depended on proof relating to the proper cropping of the land throughout the lease; and he supported the farmer so strenuously, that tibby, in her simplicity, fairly yielded, although not convinced; but the cooper assured the farmer that he would put all to rights, provided she received a handsome acknowledgment; for there was not the least doubt that mr forret was right in every particular. this speech of the cooper's gratified the farmer exceedingly, as his whole fortune now depended upon the evidence to be elicited in the court at dumfries, on a day that was fast approaching, and he was willing to give any thing to secure the evidence on his side; so he made a long set speech to tibby, telling her how necessary it was that she should adhere strictly to the truth--that, as it would be an awful thing to make oath to that which was false, he had merely paid her that visit to instruct her remembrance a little in that which was the truth, it being impossible, on account of his jottings, that he could be mistaken; and finally it was settled, that for thus telling the truth, and nothing but the truth, tibby hyslop, a most deserving woman, was to receive a present of £ , as wages for time bygone. this was all managed in a very sly manner by the cooper, who assured forret that all should go right, as far as related to tibby hyslop and himself. the day of the trial arrived, and counsel attended from edinburgh for both parties, to take full evidence before the two circuit lords and sheriff. the evidence was said to have been unsatisfactory to the judges, but upon the whole in mr forret's favour. the cooper's was decidedly so, and the farmer's counsel were crowing and bustling immoderately, when at length tibby hyslop was called to the witnesses' box. at the first sight of her master's counsel, and the dumfries writers and notaries that were hanging about him, tibby was struck dumb with amazement, and almost bereaved of sense. she at once recognised them, all and severally, as the birds that she saw, in her dream, devouring her master, and picking the flesh from his bones; while the great lawyer from edinburgh was, in feature, eye, and beak, the identical raven which at last devoured his vitals and heart. this singular coincidence brought reminiscences of such a nature over her spirit, that, on the first questions being put, she could not answer a word. she knew from thenceforward that her master was a ruined man, and her heart failed, on thinking of her kind mistress and his family. the counsel then went, and whispering mr forret, inquired what sort of a woman she was, and if her evidence was likely to be of any avail. as the cooper had behaved in a very satisfactory way, and had answered for tibby, the farmer was intent on not losing her evidence, and answered his counsel that she was a worthy honest woman, who would not swear to a lie for the king's dominions, and that her evidence was of much consequence. this intelligence the lawyer announced to the bench with great pomposity, and the witness was allowed a little time to recover her spirits. isabella hyslop, spinster, was again called, answered to her name, and took the oath distinctly, and without hesitation, until the official querist came to the usual question, "now, has any one instructed you what to say, or what you are to answer?" when tibby replied, with a steady countenance, "nobody, except my master." the counsel and client stared at one another, while the court could hardly maintain their gravity of deportment. the querist went on-- "what? do you say your master instructed you what to say?" "yes." "and did he give, or promise to give you, any reward for what you were to say?" "yes." "how much did he give, or promise you, for answering as he directed you?" "he gave me fifteen pound-notes." here mr forret and his counsel, losing all patience at seeing the case take this unexpected turn, interrupted the proceedings, the latter addressing the judges, with vehemence, to the following purport:-- "my lords, in my client's name, and in the names of justice and reason, i protest against proceeding with this woman's evidence, it being manifest that she is talking through a total derangement of intellect. at first she is dumb, and cannot answer nor speak a word, and now she is answering in total disregard of all truth and propriety. i appeal to your lordships if such a farrago as this can be at all inferential or relevant?" "sir, it was but the other minute," said the junior judge, "that you announced to us with great importance, that this woman was a person noted for honesty and worth, and one who would not tell a lie for the king's dominions. why not then hear her evidence to the end? for my own part, i perceive no tokens of discrepancy in it, but rather a scrupulous conscientiousness. of that, however, we shall be better able to judge when we have heard her out. i conceive that, for the sake of both parties, this woman ought to be strictly examined." "proceed with the evidence, mr wood," said the senior lord, bowing to his assistant. tibby was reminded that she was on her great oath, and examined over again; but she adhered strictly to her former answers. "can you repeat any thing to the court that he desired you to say?" "yes; he desired me, over and over again, to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." "and, in order that you should do this, he paid you down fifteen pounds sterling?" "yes." "this is a very singular transaction: i cannot perceive the meaning of it. you certainly must be sensible that you made an advantageous bargain?" "yes." "but you depone that he charged you to tell only the truth?" "yes, he did, and before witnesses, too." here mr forret's counsel began to crow amain, as if the victory had been his own; but the junior judge again took him short by saying, "have patience, sir.--my good woman, i esteem your principles and plain simplicity very highly. we want only to ascertain the truth, and you say your master charged you to tell that only. tell me this, then--did he not inform you what the truth was?" "yes. it was for that purpose he came over to see me, to help my memory to what was the truth, for fear i should hae sworn wrang; which wad hae been a great sin, ye ken." "yes, it would so. i thought that would be the way.--you may now proceed with your questions regularly, mr wood." "are you quite conscious, now, that those things he brought to your remembrance were actually the truth?" "no." "are you conscious they were _not_ the truth?" "yes; at least some of them, i am sure, were not." "please to condescend on one instance." "he says he has it markit in his buik, that the crookit houm, that lies at the back o' the wood, ye ken, grew pease in the ninety-sax, and corn in the ninety-se'en; now, it is unco queer that he should hae settin't down wrang, for the houm was really and truly aits baith the years." "it is a long time since; perhaps your memory may be at fault." "if my master had not chanced to mention it, i could not have been sure, but he set me a-calculating and comparing; and my mother and me have been consulting about it, and have fairly settled it." "and are you absolutely positive it was oats both years?" "yes." "can you mention any circumstance on which you rest your conclusions?" "yes; there came a great wind ae sabbath day, in the ninety-sax, and that raised the shearers' wages, at dumfries, to three shillings the day. we began to the crookit houm on a monanday's morning, at three shillings a-day, and that very day twalmonth, we began till't again at tenpence. we had a gude deal o' speaking about it, and i said to john edie, 'what need we grumble? i made sae muckle at shearing, the last year, that it's no a' done yet.' and he said, 'ah, tibby, tibby, but wha can hain like you?'" "were there any others that you think your master had marked down wrong?" "there was ane, at ony rate--the lang field niest robie johnston's march: he says it was clover in the drouthy dear year, and aits the neist; but that's a year i canna forget; it was aits baith years. i lost a week's shearing on it the first year, waiting on my aunty, and the niest year she was dead; and i shore the lang field niest robie johnston's wi' her sickle-heuk, and black ribbons on my mutch." the whole of tibby's evidence went against mr forret's interest most conclusively, and the judges at last dismissed her, with high compliments on her truth and integrity. the cause was again remitted to the court of session for revisal after this evidence taken; and the word spread over all the country that mr forret had won. tibby never contradicted this, nor disputed it; but she was thoroughly convinced, that in place of winning, he would be a ruined man. about a month after the examination at dumfries, he received a letter from his agents in edinburgh, buoying him up with hopes of great and instant success, and urging the utility of his presence in town at the final decision of the cause on which all the minor ones rested. accordingly he equipped himself, and rode into dumfries in the evening, to be ready to proceed by the mail the following morning, saying to his wife, as he went away, that he would send home his mare with the carrier, and that as he could not possibly name the day on which he would be home, she was to give herself no uneasiness. the mare was returned the following night, and put up in her own stall, nobody knew by whom; but servants are such sleepy, careless fellows, that few regarded the circumstance. this was on a tuesday night. a whole week passed over, and still mrs forret received no news of her husband, which kept her very uneasy, as their whole fortune, being, and subsistence, now depended on the issue of this great law-suit, and she suspected that the case still continued dubious, or was found to be going against him. a more unhappy result followed than that she anticipated. on the arrival of the edinburgh papers next week, the whole case, so important to farmers, was detailed; and it was there stated, that the great farmer and improver, mr forret of drumlochie, had not only forfeited his whole fortune by improper husbandry, and manifest breaches of the conditions on which he held his lease, but that criminal letters had been issued against him for attempts to pervert justice, and rewards offered for his detention or seizure. this was terrible news for the family at drumlochie; but there were still sanguine hopes entertained that the circumstances were misstated, or, if the worst should prove true, that perhaps the husband and father might make his escape; and as there was no word from him day after day, this latter sentiment began to be cherished by the whole family as their only remaining and forlorn hope. but one day, as poor tibby hyslop was going over to the cat linn, to gather a burden of sticks for firewood, she was surprised, on looking over the dike, to see a great body of crows collected, all of which were so intent on their prey, that they seemed scarcely to regard her presence as a sufficient cause for their desisting; she waved her burden-rope at them over the dike, but they refused to move. her heart nearly failed her, for she remembered of having before seen the same scene, with some fearful concomitants. but pure and unfeigned religion, the first principle of which teaches a firm reliance on divine protection, can give courage to the weakest of human beings. tibby climbed over the dike, drove the vermin away, and there lay the corpse of her late unfortunate master, wofully mangled by these voracious birds of prey. he had bled himself to death in the jugular vein, was lying without the hat, and clothed in a fine new black suit of clothes, top-boots, which appeared likewise to be new, and gilt spurs; and the place where he lay was a little three-cornered sequestered spot, between the dike and the precipice, and inaccessible by any other way than through the field. it was a spot that tibby had never seen before. a letter was found in mr forret's pocket, which had blasted all his hopes, and driven him to utter distraction; he had received it at dumfries, returned home, and put up his mare carefully in the stable, but not having courage to face his ruined family, he had hurried to that sequestered spot, and perpetrated the deed of self-destruction. the only thing more i have to add is, that the lord president, having made the remark that he paid more regard to that poor woman, isabella hyslop's evidence, than to all the rest elicited at dumfries, the gainers of the great plea became sensible that it was principally in consequence of her candour and invincible veracity that they were successful, and sent her a present of twenty pounds. she was living comfortably at knowe-back when i saw her, a contented and happy old maiden. chapter ix. mary burnet. the following incidents are related as having occurred at a shepherd's house, not a hundred miles from st mary's loch; but, as the descendants of one of the families still reside in the vicinity, i deem it requisite to use names which cannot be recognised, save by those who have heard the story. john allanson, the farmer's son of inverlawn, was a handsome, roving, and incautious young man, enthusiastic, amorous, and fond of adventure, and one who could hardly be said to fear the face of either man, woman, or spirit. among other love adventures, he fell a-courting mary burnet, of kirkstyle, a most beautiful and innocent maiden, and one who had been bred up in rural simplicity. she loved him, but yet she was afraid of him; and though she had no objection to meeting with him among others, yet she carefully avoided meeting him alone, though often and earnestly urged to it. one day, the young man, finding an opportunity, at our lady's chapel, after mass, urged his suit for a private meeting so ardently, and with so many vows of love and sacred esteem, that mary was so far won, as to promise, that _perhaps_ she would come and meet him. the trysting place was a little green sequestered spot, on the very verge of the lake, well known to many an angler, and to none better than the writer of this old tale; and the hour appointed, the time when the king's elwand (now foolishly termed the belt of orion) set his first golden knob above the hill. allanson came too early; and he watched the sky with such eagerness and devotion, that he thought every little star that arose in the south-east the top knob of the king's elwand. at last the elwand did arise in good earnest, and then the youth, with a heart palpitating with agitation, had nothing for it but to watch the heathery brow by which bonny mary burnet was to descend. no mary burnet made her appearance, even although the king's elwand had now measured its own equivocal length five or six times up the lift. young allanson now felt all the most poignant miseries of disappointment; and, as the story goes, uttered in his heart an unhallowed wish--he wished that some witch or fairy would influence his mary to come to him in spite of her maidenly scruples. this wish was thrice repeated with all the energy of disappointed love. it was thrice repeated, and no more, when, behold, mary appeared on the brae, with wild and eccentric motions, speeding to the appointed place. allanson's excitement seems to have been more than he was able to bear, as he instantly became delirious with joy, and always professed that he could remember nothing of their first meeting, save that mary remained silent, and spoke not a word, neither good nor bad. in a short time she fell a-sobbing and weeping, refusing to be comforted, and then, uttering a piercing shriek, sprung up, and ran from him with amazing speed. at this part of the loch, which, as i said, is well known to many, the shore is overhung by a precipitous cliff, of no great height, but still inaccessible, either from above or below. save in a great drought, the water comes to within a yard of the bottom of this cliff, and the intermediate space is filled with rough unshapely pieces of rock fallen from above. along this narrow and rude space, hardly passable by the angler at noon, did mary bound with the swiftness of a kid, although surrounded with darkness. her lover, pursuing with all his energy, called out, "mary! mary! my dear mary, stop and speak with me. i'll conduct you home, or anywhere you please, but do not run from me. stop, my dearest mary--stop!" mary would not stop; but ran on, till, coming to a little cliff that jutted into the lake, round which there was no passage, and, perceiving that her lover would there overtake her, she uttered another shriek, and plunged into the lake. the loud sound of her fall into the still water rung in the young man's ears like the knell of death; and if before he was crazed with love, he was now as much so with despair. he saw her floating lightly away from the shore towards the deepest part of the loch; but, in a short time, she began to sink, and gradually disappeared, without uttering a throb or a cry. a good while previous to this, allanson had flung off his bonnet, shoes, and coat, and plunged in. he swam to the place where mary disappeared; but there was neither boil nor gurgle on the water, nor even a bell of departing breath, to mark the place where his beloved had sunk. being strangely impressed, at that trying moment, with a determination to live or die with her, he tried to dive, in hopes either to bring her up or to die in her arms; and he thought of their being so found on the shore of the lake, with a melancholy satisfaction; but by no effort of his could he reach the bottom, nor knew he what distance he was still from it. with an exhausted frame, and a despairing heart, he was obliged again to seek the shore, and, dripping wet as he was, and half naked, he ran to her father's house with the woful tidings. every thing there was quiet. the old shepherd's family, of whom mary was the youngest, and sole daughter, were all sunk in silent repose; and oh how the distracted lover wept at the thoughts of wakening them to hear the doleful tidings! but waken them he must; so, going to the little window close by the goodman's bed, he called, in a melancholy tone, "andrew! andrew burnet, are you waking?" "troth, man, i think i be: or, at least, i'm half-and-half. what hast thou to say to auld andrew burnet at this time o' night?" "are you waking, i say?" "gudewife, am i waking? because if i be, tell that stravaiger sae. he'll maybe tak your word for it, for mine he winna tak." "o andrew, none of your humour to-night;--i bring you tidings the most woful, the most dismal, the most heart-rending, that ever were brought to an honest man's door." "to his window, you mean," cried andrew, bolting out of bed, and proceeding to the door. "gude sauff us, man, come in, whaever you be, and tell us your tidings face to face; and then we'll can better judge of the truth of them. if they be in concord wi' your voice, they are melancholy indeed. have the reavers come, and are our kye driven?" "oh, alas! waur than that--a thousand times waur than that! your daughter--your dear beloved and only daughter, mary--" "what of mary?" cried the goodman. "what of mary?" cried her mother, shuddering and groaning with terror; and at the same time she kindled a light. the sight of their neighbour, half-naked, and dripping with wet, and madness and despair in his looks, sent a chillness to their hearts, that held them in silence, and they were unable to utter a word, till he went on thus--"mary is gone; your darling and mine is lost, and sleeps this night in a watery grave,--and i have been her destroyer!" "thou art mad, john allanson," said the old man, vehemently, "raving mad; at least i hope so. wicked as thou art, thou hadst not the heart to kill my dear child, o yes, you are mad--god be thanked, you are mad. i see it in your looks and demeanour. heaven be praised, you are mad! you _are_ mad; but you'll get better again. but what do i say?" continued he, as recollecting himself,--"we can soon convince our own senses. wife, lead the way to our daughter's bed." with a heart throbbing with terror and dismay, old jean linton led the way to mary's chamber, followed by the two men, who were eagerly gazing, one over each of her shoulders. mary's little apartment was in the farther end of the long narrow cottage; and as soon as they entered it, they perceived a form lying on the bed, with the bed-clothes drawn over its head; and on the lid of mary's little chest, that stood at the bedside, her clothes were lying neatly folded, as they wont to be. hope seemed to dawn on the faces of the two old people when they beheld this, but the lover's heart sunk still deeper in despair. the father called her name, but the form on the bed returned no answer; however, they all heard distinctly sobs, as of one weeping. the old man then ventured to pull down the clothes from her face; and, strange to say, there indeed lay mary burnet, drowned in tears, yet apparently nowise surprised at the ghastly appearance of the three naked figures. allanson gasped for breath, for he remained still incredulous. he touched her clothes--he lifted her robes one by one,--and all of them were dry, neat, and clean, and had no appearance of having sunk in the lake. there can be no doubt that allanson was confounded by the strange event that had befallen him, and felt like one struggling with a frightful vision, or some energy beyond the power of man to comprehend. nevertheless, the assurance that mary was there in life, weeping although she was, put him once more beside himself with joy; and he kneeled at her bedside, beseeching permission but to kiss her hand. she, however, repulsed him with disdain, saying, with great emphasis--"you are a bad man, john allanson, and i entreat you to go out of my sight. the sufferings that i have undergone this night, have been beyond the power of flesh and blood to endure; and by some cursed agency of yours have these sufferings been brought about. i therefore pray you, in his name, whose law you have transgressed, to depart out of my sight." wholly overcome by conflicting passions, by circumstances so contrary to one another, and so discordant with every thing either in the works of nature or providence, the young man could do nothing but stand like a rigid statue, with his hands lifted up, and his visage like that of a corpse, until led away by the two old people from their daughter's apartment. they then lighted up a fire to dry him, and began to question him with the most intense curiosity; but they could elicit nothing from him, but the most disjointed exclamations--such as, "lord in heaven, what can be the meaning of this!" and at other times--"it is all the enchantment of the devil; the evil spirits have got dominion over me!" finding they could make nothing of him, they began to form conjectures of their own. jean affirmed that it had been the mermaid of the loch that had come to him in mary's shape, to allure him to his destruction; but andrew burnet, setting his bonnet to one side, and raising his left hand to a level with it, so that he might have full scope to motion and flourish, suiting his action to his words, thus began, with a face of sapience never to be excelled:-- "gudewife, it doth strike me that thou art very wide of the mark. it must have been a spirit of a great deal higher quality than a meer-maiden, who played this extraordinary prank. the meer-maiden is not a spirit, but a beastly sensitive creature, with a malicious spirit within it. now, what influence could a cauld clatch of a creature like that, wi' a tail like a great saumont-fish, hae ower our bairn, either to make her happy or unhappy? or where could it borrow her claes, jean? tell me that. na, na, jean linton, depend on it, the spirit that courtit wi' poor sinfu' jock there, has been a fairy; but whether a good ane or an ill ane, it is hard to determine." andrew's disquisition was interrupted by the young man falling into a fit of trembling that was fearful to look at, and threatened soon to terminate his existence. jean ran for the family cordial, observing, by the way, that "though he was a wicked person, he was still a fellow-creature, and might live to repent;" and influenced by this spark of genuine humanity, she made him swallow two horn-spoonfuls of strong aquavitæ. andrew then put a piece of scarlet thread round each wrist, and taking a strong rowan-tree staff in his hand, he conveyed his trembling and astonished guest home, giving him at parting this sage advice:-- "i'll tell you what it is, jock allanson,--ye hae run a near risk o' perdition, and, escaping that for the present, o' losing your right reason. but tak an auld man's advice--never gang again out by night to beguile ony honest man's daughter, lest a worse thing befall thee." next morning mary dressed herself more neatly than usual, but there was manifestly a deep melancholy settled on her lovely face, and at times the unbidden tear would start into her eye. she spoke no word, either good or bad, that ever her mother could recollect, that whole morning; but she once or twice observed her daughter gazing at her, as with an intense and melancholy interest. about nine o'clock in the morning, she took a hay-raik over her shoulder, and went down to a meadow at the east end of the loch, to coil a part of her father's hay, her father and brother engaging to join her about noon, when they came from the sheep-fold. as soon as old andrew came home, his wife and he, as was natural, instantly began to converse on the events of the preceding night; and in the course of their conversation, andrew said, "gudeness be about us, jean, was not yon an awfu' speech o' our bairn's to young jock allanson last night?" "ay, it was a downsetter, gudeman, and spoken like a good christian lass." "i'm no sae sure o' that, jean linton. my good woman, jean linton, i'm no sae sure o' that. yon speech has gi'en me a great deal o' trouble o' heart; for 'ye ken, an take my life,--ay, an take your life, jean,--nane o' us can tell whether it was in the almighty's name, or the devil's, that she discharged her lover." "o fy, andrew, how can ye say sae? how can ye doubt that it was in the almighty's name?" "couldna she have said sae then, and that wad hae put it beyond a' doubt? and that wad hae been the natural way too; but instead of that, she says, 'i pray you, in the name of him whose law you have transgressed, to depart out o' my sight.' i confess i'm terrified when i think about yon speech, jean linton. didna she say, too, that 'her sufferings had been beyond what flesh and blood could have endured?' what was she but flesh and blood? didna that remark infer that she was something mair than a mortal creature? jean linton, jean linton! what will you say, if it should turn out that our daughter _is_ drowned, and that yon was the fairy we had in the house a' the night and this morning?" "o haud your tongue, andrew burnet, and dinna make my heart cauld within me. we hae aye trusted in the lord yet, and he has never forsaken us, nor will he yet gie the wicked one power ower us or ours." "ye say very weel, jean, and we maun e'en hope for the best," quoth old andrew; and away he went, accompanied by his son alexander, to assist their beloved mary on the meadow. no sooner had andrew set his head over the bents, and come in view of the meadow, than he said to his son, "i wish jock allanson maunna hae been east-the-loch fishing for geds the day, for i think my mary has made very little progress in the meadow." "she's ower muckle ta'en up about other things this while, to mind her wark," said alexander: "i wadna wonder, father, if that lassie gangs a black gate yet." andrew uttered a long and a deep sigh, that seemed to ruffle the very fountains of life, and, without speaking another word, walked on to the hay field. it was three hours since mary had left home, and she ought at least to have put up a dozen coils of hay each hour. but, in place of that, she had put up only seven altogether, and the last was unfinished. her own hay-raik, that had an m and a b neatly cut on the head of it, was leaning on the unfinished coil, and mary was wanting. her brother, thinking she had hid herself from them in sport, ran from one coil to another, calling her many bad names, playfully; but, after he had turned them all up, and several deep swathes besides, she was not to be found. this young man, who slept in the byre, knew nothing of the events of the foregoing night, the old people and allanson having mutually engaged to keep them a profound secret, and he had therefore less reason than his father to be seriously alarmed. when they began to work at the hay, andrew could work none; he looked this way and that way, but in no way could he see mary approaching: so he put on his coat, and went away home, to pour his sorrows into the bosom of his wife; and in the meantime, he desired his son to run to all the neighbouring farming-houses and cots, every one, and make inquiries if any body had seen mary. when andrew went home and informed his wife that their darling was missing, the grief and astonishment of the aged couple knew no bounds. they sat down, and wept together, and declared, over and over, that this act of providence was too strange for them, and too high to be understood. jean besought her husband to kneel instantly, and pray urgently to god to restore their child to them; but he declined it, on account of the wrong frame of his mind, for he declared, that his rage against john allanson was so extreme, as to unfit him for approaching the throne of his maker. "but if the profligate refuses to listen to the entreaties of an injured parent," added he, "he shall feel the weight of an injured father's arm." andrew went straight away to inverlawn, though without the least hope of finding young allanson at home; but, on reaching the place, to his amazement, he found the young man lying ill of a burning fever, raving incessantly of witches, spirits, and mary burnet. to such a height had his frenzy arrived, that when andrew went there, it required three men to hold him in the bed. both his parents testified their opinions openly, that their son was bewitched, or possessed of a demon, and the whole family was thrown into the greatest consternation. the good old shepherd, finding enough of grief there already, was obliged to confine his to his own bosom, and return disconsolate to his little family circle, in which there was a woful blank that night. his son returned also from a fruitless search. no one had seen any traces of his sister, but an old crazy woman, at a place called oxcleuch, said that she had seen her go by in a grand chariot with young jock allanson, toward the birkhill path, and by that time they were at the cross of dumgree. the young man said, he asked her what sort of a chariot it was, as there was never such a thing in that country as a chariot, nor yet a road for one. but she replied that he was widely mistaken, for that a great number of chariots sometimes passed that way, though never any of them returned. these words appearing to be merely the ravings of superannuation, they were not regarded; but when no other traces of mary could be found, old andrew went up to consult this crazy dame once more, but he was not able to bring any such thing to her recollection. she spoke only in parables, which to him were incomprehensible. bonny mary burnet was lost. she left her father's house at nine o'clock on a wednesday morning, the th of september, neatly dressed in a white jerkin and green bonnet, with her hay-raik over her shoulder; and that was the last sight she was doomed ever to see of her native cottage. she seemed to have had some presentiment of this, as appeared from her demeanour that morning before she left it. mary burnet of kirkstyle was lost, and great was the sensation produced over the whole country by the mysterious event. there was a long ballad extant at one period on the melancholy catastrophe, which was supposed to have been composed by the chaplain of st mary's; but i have only heard tell of it, without ever hearing it sung or recited. many of the verses concluded thus:-- "but bonny mary burnet we will never see again." the story soon got abroad, with all its horrid circumstances, (and there is little doubt that it was grievously exaggerated,) and there was no obloquy that was not thrown on the survivor, who certainly in some degree deserved it, for, instead of growing better, he grew ten times more wicked than he was before. in one thing the whole country agreed, that it had been the real mary burnet who was drowned in the loch, and that the being which was found in her bed, lying weeping and complaining of suffering, and which vanished the next day, had been a fairy, an evil spirit, or a changeling of some sort, for that it never spoke save once, and that in a mysterious manner; nor did it partake of any food with the rest of the family. her father and mother knew not what to say or what to think, but they wandered through this weary world like people wandering in a dream. every thing that belonged to mary burnet was kept by her parents as the most sacred relics, and many a tear did her aged mother shed over them. every article of her dress brought the once comely wearer to mind. andrew often said, "that to have lost the darling child of their old age in any way would have been a great trial, but to lose her in the way that they had done, was really mair than human frailty could endure." many a weary day did he walk by the shores of the loch, looking eagerly for some vestige of her garments, and though he trembled at every appearance, yet did he continue to search on. he had a number of small bones collected, that had belonged to lambs and other minor animals, and, haply, some of them to fishes, from a fond supposition that they might once have formed joints of her toes or fingers. these he kept concealed in a little bag, in order, as he said, "to let the doctors see them." but no relic, besides these, could he ever discover of mary's body. young allanson recovered from his raging fever scarcely in the manner of other men, for he recovered all at once, after a few days raving and madness. mary burnet, it appeared, was by him no more remembered. he grew ten times more wicked than before, and hesitated at no means of accomplishing his unhallowed purposes. the devout shepherds and cottagers around detested him; and, both in their families and in the wild, when there was no ear to hear but that of heaven, they prayed protection from his devices, as if he had been the wicked one; and they all prophesied that he would make a bad end. one fine day about the middle of october, when the days begin to get very short, and the nights long and dark, on a friday morning, the next year but one after mary burnet was lost, a memorable day in the fairy annals, john allanson, younger of inverlawn, went to a great hiring fair at a village called moffat in annandale, in order to hire a house-maid. his character was so notorious, that not one young woman in the district would serve in his father's house; so away he went to the fair at moffat, to hire the prettiest and loveliest girl he could there find, with the intention of ruining her as soon as she came home. this is no supposititious accusation, for he acknowledged his plan to mr david welch of cariferan, who rode down to the market with him, and seemed to boast of it, and dwell on it with delight. but the maidens of annandale had a guardian angel in the fair that day, of which neither he nor they were aware. allanson looked through the hiring market, and through the hiring market, and at length fixed on one young woman, which indeed was not difficult to do, for there was no such form there for elegance and beauty. mr welch stood still and eyed him. he took the beauty aside. she was clothed in green, and as lovely as a new-blown rose. "are you to hire, pretty maiden?" "yes, sir." "will you hire with me?" "i care not though i do. but if i hire with you, it must be for the long term." "certainly. the longer the better. what are your wages to be?" "you know, if i hire, i must be paid in kind. i must have the first living creature that i see about inverlawn to myself." "i wish it may be me, then. but what do you know about inverlawn?" "i think i _should_ know about it." "bless me! i know the face as well as i know my own, and better. but the name has somehow escaped me. pray, may i ask your name?" "hush! hush!" said she solemnly, and holding up her hand at the same time; "hush, hush, you had better say nothing about that here." "i am in utter amazement!" he exclaimed. "what is the meaning of this? i conjure you to tell me your name?" "it is mary burnet," said she, in a soft whisper; and at the same time she let down a green veil over her face. if allanson's death-warrant had been announced to him at that moment, it could not have deprived him so completely of sense and motion. his visage changed into that of a corpse, his jaws fell down, and his eyes became glazed, so as apparently to throw no reflection inwardly. mr welch, who had kept his eye steadily on them all the while, perceived his comrade's dilemma, and went up to him. "allanson?--mr allanson? what is the matter with you, man?" said he. "why, the girl has bewitched you, and turned you into a statue!" allanson made some sound in his throat, as if attempting to speak, but his tongue refused its office, and he only jabbered. mr welch, conceiving that he was seized with some fit, or about to faint, supported him into the johnston arms; but he either could not, or would not, grant him any explanation. welch being, however, resolved to see the maiden in green once more, persuaded allanson, after causing him to drink a good deal, to go out into the hiring-market again, in search of her. they ranged the market through and through, but the maiden in green was gone, and not to be found. she had vanished in the crowd the moment she divulged her name, and even though welch had his eye fixed on her, he could not discover which way she went. allanson appeared to be in a kind of stupor as well as terror, but when he found that she had left the market, he began to recover himself, and to look out again for the top of the market. he soon found one more beautiful than the last. she was like a sylph, clothed in robes of pure snowy white, with green ribbons. again he pointed this new flower out to mr david welch, who declared that such a perfect model of beauty he had never in his life seen. allanson, being resolved to have this one at any wages, took her aside, and put the usual question: "do you wish to hire, pretty maiden?" "yes, sir." "will you hire with me?" "i care not though i do." "what, then, are your wages to be? come--say? and be reasonable; i am determined not to part with you for a trifle." "my wages must be in kind; i work on no other conditions.--pray, how are all the good people about inverlawn?" allanson's breath began to cut, and a chillness to creep through his whole frame, and he answered, with a faltering tongue,--"i thank you,--much in their ordinary way." "and your aged neighbours," rejoined she, "are they still alive and well?" "i--i--i think they are," said he, panting for breath. "but i am at a loss to know whom i am indebted to for these kind recollections." "what," said she, "have you so soon forgot mary burnet of kirkstyle?" allanson started as if a bullet had gone through his heart. the lovely sylph-like form glided into the crowd, and left the astounded libertine once more standing like a rigid statue, until aroused by his friend, mr welch. he tried a third fair one, and got the same answers, and the same name given. indeed, the first time ever i heard the tale, it bore that he tried _seven_, who all turned out to be mary burnets of kirkstyle; but i think it unlikely that he would try so many, as he must long ere that time have been sensible that he laboured under some power of enchantment. however, when nothing else would do, he helped himself to a good proportion of strong drink. while he was thus engaged, a phenomenon of beauty and grandeur came into the fair, that caught the sole attention of all present. this was a lovely dame, riding in a gilded chariot, with two livery-men before, and two behind, clothed in green and gold; and never sure was there so splendid a meteor seen in a moffat fair. the word instantly circulated in the market, that this was the lady elizabeth douglas, eldest daughter to the earl of morton, who then sojourned at auchincastle, in the vicinity of moffat, and which lady at that time was celebrated as a great beauty all over scotland. she was afterwards lady keith; and the mention of this name in the tale, as it were by mere accident, fixes the era of it in the reign of james the fourth, at the very time that fairies, brownies, and witches, were at the rifest in scotland. every one in the market believed the lady to be the daughter of the earl of morton; and when she came to the johnston arms, a gentleman in green came out bareheaded, and received her out of the carriage. all the crowd gazed at such unparalleled beauty and grandeur, but none was half so much overcome as allanson. he had never conceived aught half so lovely either in earth, or heaven, or fairyland; and while he stood in a burning fever of admiration, think of his astonishment, and the astonishment of the countless crowd that looked on, when this brilliant and matchless beauty beckoned him towards her! he could not believe his senses, but looked this way and that to see how others regarded the affair; but she beckoned him a second time, with such a winning courtesy and smile, that immediately he pulled off his beaver cap and hasted up to her; and without more ado she gave him her arm, and the two walked into the hostel. allanson conceived that he was thus distinguished by lady elizabeth douglas, the flower of the land, and so did all the people of the market; and greatly they wondered who the young farmer could be that was thus particularly favoured; for it ought to have been mentioned that he had not one personal acquaintance in the fair save mr david welch of cariferan. the first thing the lady did was to inquire kindly after his health. allanson thanked her ladyship with all the courtesy he was master of; and being by this time persuaded that she was in love with him, he became as light as if treading on the air. she next inquired after his father and mother.--oho! thought he to himself, poor creature, she is terribly in for it! but her love shall not be thrown away upon a backward or ungrateful object.--he answered her with great politeness, and at length began to talk of her noble father and young lord william, but she cut him short by asking if he did not recognise her. "oh, yes! he knew who her ladyship was, and remembered that he had seen her comely face often before, although he could not, at that particular moment, recall to his memory the precise time or places of their meeting." she next asked for his old neighbours of kirkstyle, and if they were still in life and health! allanson felt as if his heart were a piece of ice. a chillness spread over his whole frame; he sank back on a seat, and remained motionless; but the beautiful and adorable creature soothed him with kind words, till he again gathered courage to speak. "what!" said he; "and has it been your own lovely self who has been playing tricks on me this whole day?" "a first love is not easily extinguished, mr allanson," said she. "you may guess from my appearance, that i have been fortunate in life; but, for all that, my first love for you has continued the same, unaltered and unchanged, and you must forgive the little freedoms i used to-day to try your affections, and the effects my appearance would have on you." "it argues something for my good taste, however, that i never pitched on any face for beauty to-day but your own," said he. "but now that we have met once more, we shall not so easily part again. i will devote the rest of my life to you, only let me know the place of your abode." "it is hard by," said she, "only a very little space from this; and happy, happy, would i be to see you there to-night, were it proper or convenient. but my lord is at present from home, and in a distant country." "i should not conceive that any particular hinderance to my visit," said he. with great apparent reluctance she at length consented to admit of his visit, and offered to leave one of her gentlemen, whom she could trust, to be his conductor; but this he positively refused. it was his desire, he said, that no eye of man should see him enter or leave her happy dwelling. she said he was a self-willed man, but should have his own way; and after giving him such directions as would infallibly lead him to her mansion, she mounted her chariot and was driven away. allanson was uplifted above every sublunary concern. seeking out his friend, david welch, he imparted to him his extraordinary good fortune, but he did not tell him that she was not the lady elizabeth douglas. welch insisted on accompanying him on the way, and refused to turn back till he came to the very point of the road next to the lady's splendid mansion; and in spite of all that allanson could say, welch remained there till he saw his comrade enter the court gate, which glowed with lights as innumerable as the stars of the firmament. allanson had promised to his father and mother to be home on the morning after the fair to breakfast. he came not either that day or the next; and the third day the old man mounted his white pony, and rode away towards moffat in search of his son. he called at cariferan on his way, and made inquiries at mr welch. the latter manifested some astonishment that the young man had not returned; nevertheless he assured his father of his safety, and desired him to return home; and then with reluctance confessed that the young man was engaged in an amour with the earl of morton's beautiful daughter; that he had gone to the castle by appointment, and that he, david welch, had accompanied him to the gate, and seen him enter, and it was apparent that his reception had been a kind one, since he had tarried so long. mr welch, seeing the old man greatly distressed, was persuaded to accompany him on his journey, as the last who had seen his son, and seen him enter the castle. on reaching moffat they found his steed standing at the hostel, whither it had returned on the night of the fair, before the company broke up; but the owner had not been heard of since seen in company with lady elizabeth douglas. the old man set out for auchincastle, taking mr david welch along with him; but long ere they reached the place, mr welch assured him he would not find his son there, as it was nearly in a different direction that they rode on the evening of the fair. however, to the castle they went, and were admitted to the earl, who, after hearing the old man's tale, seemed to consider him in a state of derangement. he sent for his daughter elizabeth, and questioned her concerning her meeting with the son of the old respectable countryman--of her appointment with him on the night of the preceding friday, and concluded by saying he hoped she had him still in some safe concealment about the castle. the lady, hearing her father talk in this manner, and seeing the serious and dejected looks of the old man, knew not what to say, and asked an explanation. but mr welch put a stop to it by declaring to old allanson that the lady elizabeth was not the lady with whom his son made the appointment, for he had seen her, and would engage to know her again among ten thousand; nor was that the castle towards which he had accompanied his son, nor any thing like it. "but go with me," continued he, "and, though i am a stranger in this district, i think i can take you to the very place." they set out again; and mr welch traced the road from moffat, by which young allanson and he had gone, until, after travelling several miles, they came to a place where a road struck off to the right at an angle. "now i know we are right," said welch; "for here we stopped, and your son intreated me to return, which i refused, and accompanied him to yon large tree, and a little way beyond it, from whence i saw him received in at the splendid gate. we shall be in sight of the mansion in three minutes." they passed on to the tree, and a space beyond it; but then mr welch lost the use of his speech, as he perceived that there was neither palace nor gate there, but a tremendous gulf, fifty fathoms deep, and a dark stream foaming and boiling below. "how is this?" said old allanson. "there is neither mansion nor habitation of man here!" welch's tongue for a long time refused its office, and he stood like a statue, gazing on the altered and awful scene. "he only, who made the spirits of men," said he, at last, "and all the spirits that sojourn in the earth and air, can tell how this is. we are wandering in a world of enchantment, and have been influenced by some agencies above human nature, or without its pale; for here of a certainty did i take leave of your son--and there, in that direction, and apparently either on the verge of that gulf, or the space above it, did i see him received in at the court gate of a mansion, splendid beyond all conception. how can human comprehension make any thing of this?" they went forward to the verge, mr welch leading the way to the very spot on which he saw the gate opened, and there they found marks where a horse had been plunging. its feet had been over the brink, but it seemed to have recovered itself, and deep, deep down, and far within, lay the mangled corpse of john allanson; and in this manner, mysterious beyond all example, terminated the career of that wicked and flagitious young man.--what a beautiful moral may be extracted from this fairy tale! but among all these turnings and windings, there is no account given, you will say, of the fate of mary burnet; for this last appearance of hers at moffat seems to have been altogether a phantom or illusion. gentle and kind reader, i can give you no account of the fate of that maiden; for though the ancient fairy tale proceeds, it seems to me to involve her fate in ten times more mystery than what we have hitherto seen of it. the yearly return of the day on which mary was lost, was observed as a day of mourning by her aged and disconsolate parents,--a day of sorrow, of fasting, and humiliation. seven years came and passed away, and the seventh returning day of fasting and prayer was at hand. on the evening previous to it, old andrew was moving along the sands of the loch, still looking for some relic of his beloved mary, when he was aware of a little shrivelled old man, who came posting towards him. the creature was not above five spans in height, and had a face scarcely like that of a human creature; but he was, nevertheless, civil in his deportment, and sensible in speech. he bade andrew a good evening, and asked him what he was looking for. andrew answered, that he was looking for that which he should never find. "pray, what is your name, ancient shepherd?" said the stranger; "for methinks i should know something of you, and perhaps have a commission to you." "alas! why should you ask after my name?" said andrew. "my name is now nothing to any one." "had not you once a beautiful daughter, named mary?" said the stranger. "it is a heart-rending question, man," said andrew; "but certes, i had once a beloved daughter named mary." "what became of her?" asked the stranger. andrew shook his head, turned round, and began to move away; it was a theme that his heart could not brook. he sauntered along the loch sands, his dim eye scanning every white pebble as he passed along. there was a hopelessness in his stooping form, his gait, his eye, his features,--in every step that he took there was a hopeless apathy. the dwarf followed him, and began to expostulate with him. "old man, i see you are pining under some real or fancied affliction," said he. "but in continuing to do so, you are neither acting according to the dictates of reason nor true religion. what is man that he should fret, or the son of man that he should repine, under the chastening hand of his maker?" "i am far frae justifying mysell," returned andrew, surveying his shrivelled monitor with some degree of astonishment. "but there are some feelings that neither reason nor religion can o'ermaster; and there are some that a parent may cherish without sin." "i deny the position," said the stranger, "taken either absolutely or relatively. all repining under the supreme decree is leavened with unrighteousness. but, subtleties aside, i ask you, as i did before, what became of your daughter?" "ask the father of her spirit, and the framer of her body," said andrew, solemnly; "ask him into whose hands i committed her from childhood. he alone knows what became of her, but i do not." "how long is it since you lost her?" "it is seven years to-morrow." "ay! you remember the time well. and have you mourned for her all that while?" "yes; and i will go down to the grave mourning for my only daughter, the child of my age, and of all my affection. o, thou unearthly-looking monitor, knowest thou aught of my darling child? for if thou dost, thou wilt know that she was not like other women. there was a simplicity and a purity about my mary, that was hardly consistent with our frail nature." "wouldst thou like to see her again?" said the dwarf. andrew turned round, his whole frame shaking as with a palsy, and gazed on the audacious imp. "see her again, creature!" cried he vehemently--"would i like to see her again, say'st thou?" "i said so," said the dwarf, "and i say farther, dost thou know this token? look, and see if thou dost?" andrew took the token, and looked at it, then at the shrivelled stranger, and then at the token again; and at length he burst into tears, and wept aloud; but they were tears of joy, and his weeping seemed to have some breathings of laughter intermingled in it. and still as he kissed the token, he called out in broken and convulsive sentences,--"yes, auld body, i _do_ know it!--i _do_ know it!--i _do_ know it! it is indeed the same golden edward, with three holes in it, with which i presented my mary on her birth-day, in her eighteenth year, to buy a new suit for the holidays. but when she took it she said--ay, i mind weel what my bonny woman said,--'it is sae bonny and sae kenspeckle,' said she, 'that i think i'll keep it for the sake of the giver.' o dear, dear!--blessed little creature, tell me how she is, and where she is? is she living, or is she dead?" "she is living, and in good health," said the dwarf; "and better, and braver, and happier, and lovelier than ever; and if you make haste, you will see her and her family at moffat to-morrow afternoon. they are to pass there on a journey, but it is an express one, and i am sent to you with that token, to inform you of the circumstance, that you may have it in your power to see and embrace your beloved daughter once before you die." "and am i to meet my mary at moffat? come away, little, dear, welcome body, thou blessed of heaven, come away, and taste of an auld shepherd's best cheer, and i'll gang foot for foot with you to moffat, and my auld wife shall gang foot for foot with us too. i tell you, little, blessed, and welcome crile, come along with me." "i may not tarry to enter your house, or taste of your cheer, good shepherd," said the being. "may plenty still be within your walls, and a thankful heart to enjoy it! but my directions are neither to taste meat nor drink in this country, but to haste back to her that sent me. go--haste, and make ready, for you have no time to lose." "at what time will she be there?" cried andrew, flinging the plaid from him to run home with the tidings. "precisely when the shadow of the holy cross falls due east," cried the dwarf; and turning round, he hasted on his way. when old jean linton saw her husband coming hobbling and running home without his plaid, and having his doublet flying wide open, she had no doubt that he had lost his wits; and, full of anxiety, she met him at the side of the kail-yard. "gudeness preserve us a' in our right senses, andrew burnet, what's the matter wi' you, andrew burnet?" "stand out o' my gate, wife, for, d'ye see, i'm rather in a haste, jean linton." "i see that indeed, gudeman; but stand still, and tell me what has putten you _in_ sic a haste. ir ye dementit?" "na, na; gudewife, jean linton, i'm no dementit--i'm only gaun away till moffat." "o, gudeness pity the poor auld body! how can ye gang to moffat, man? or what have ye to do at moffat? dinna ye mind that the morn is the day o' our solemnity?" "haud out o' my gate, auld wife, and dinna speak o' solemnities to me. i'll keep it at moffat the morn. ay, gudewife, and ye shall keep it at moffat, too. what d'ye think o' that, woman? too-whoo! ye dinna ken the metal that's in an auld body till it be tried." "andrew--andrew burnet!" "get away wi' your frightened looks, woman; and haste ye, gang and fling me out my sabbath-day claes. and, jean linton, my woman, d'ye hear, gang and pit on your bridal gown, and your silk hood, for ye maun be at moffat the morn too; and it is mair nor time we were away. dinna look sae surprised, woman, till i tell ye, that our ain mary is to meet us at moffat the morn." "o, andrew! dinna sport wi' the feelings of an auld forsaken heart!" "gude forbid, my auld wife, that i should ever sport wi' feeling o' yours," cried andrew, bursting into tears; "they are a' as saacred to me as breathings frae the throne o' grace. but it is true that i tell ye; our dear bairn is to meet us at moffat the morn, wi' a son in every hand; and we maun e'en gang and see her aince again, and kiss her and bless her afore we dee." the tears now rushed from the old woman's eyes like fountains, and dropped from her sorrow-worn cheeks to the earth, and then, as with a spontaneous movement, she threw her skirt over her head, kneeled down at her husband's feet, and poured out her soul in thanksgiving to her maker. she then rose up, quite deprived of her senses through joy, and ran crouching away on the road towards moffat, as if hasting beyond her power to be at it. but andrew brought her back; and they prepared themselves for their journey. kirkstyle being twenty miles from moffat, they set out on the afternoon of tuesday, the th of september; slept that night at a place called turnberry sheil, and were in moffat next day by noon. wearisome was the remainder of the day to that aged couple; they wandered about conjecturing by what road their daughter would come, and how she would come attended. "i have made up my mind on baith these matters," said andrew; "at first i thought it was likely that she would come out of the east, because a' our blessings come frae that airt; but finding now that would be o'er near to the very road we hae come oursells, i now take it for granted she'll come frae the south; and i just think i see her leading a bonny boy in every hand, and a servant lass carrying a bit bundle ahint her." the two now walked out on all the southern roads, in hopes to meet their mary, but always returned to watch the shadow of the holy cross; and, by the time it fell due east, they could do nothing but stand in the middle of the street, and look round them in all directions. at length, about half a mile out on the dumfries road, they perceived a poor beggar woman approaching with two children following close to her, and another beggar a good way behind. their eyes were instantly riveted on these objects; for andrew thought he perceived his friend the dwarf in the one that was behind; and now all other earthly objects were to them nothing, save these approaching beggars. at that moment a gilded chariot entered the village from the south, and drove by them at full speed, having two livery-men before, and two behind, clothed in green and gold. "ach-wow! the vanity of worldly grandeur!" ejaculated andrew, as the splendid vehicle went thundering by; but neither he nor his wife deigned to look at it farther, their whole attention being fixed on the group of beggars. "ay, it is just my woman," said andrew, "it is just hersell; i ken her gang yet, sair pressed down wi' poortith although she be. but i dinna care how poor she be, for baith her and hers sall be welcome to my fireside as lang as i hae ane." while their eyes were thus strained, and their hearts melting with tenderness and pity, andrew felt something embracing his knees, and, on looking down, there was his mary, blooming in splendour and beauty, kneeling at his feet. andrew uttered a loud hysterical scream of joy, and clasped her to his bosom; and old jean linton stood trembling, with her arms spread, but durst not close them on so splendid a creature, till her daughter first enfolded her in a fond embrace, and then she hung upon her and wept. it was a wonderful event--a restoration without a parallel. they indeed beheld their mary, their long-lost darling; they held her in their embraces, believed in her identity, and were satisfied. satisfied, did i say? they were happy beyond the lot of mortals. she had just alighted from her chariot; and, perceiving her aged parents standing together, she ran and kneeled at their feet. they now retired into the hostel, where mary presented her two sons to her father and mother. they spent the evening in every social endearment; and mary loaded the good old couple with rich presents, watched over them till midnight, when they both fell into a deep and happy sleep, and then she remounted her chariot, and was driven away. if she was any more seen in scotland, i never heard of it; but her parents rejoiced in the thoughts of her happiness till the day of their death. chapter x. the brownie of the black haggs. when the sprots were lairds of wheelhope, which is now a long time ago, there was one of the ladies who was very badly spoken of in the country. people did not just openly assert that lady wheelhope (for every landward laird's wife was then styled lady) was a witch, but every one had an aversion even at hearing her named; and when by chance she happened to be mentioned, old men would shake their heads and say, "ah! let us alane o' her! the less ye meddle wi' her the better." old wives would give over spinning, and, as a pretence for hearing what might be said about her, poke in the fire with the tongs, cocking up their ears all the while; and then, after some meaning coughs, hems, and haws, would haply say, "hech-wow, sirs! an a' be true that's said!" or something equally wise and decisive. in short, lady wheelhope was accounted a very bad woman. she was an inexorable tyrant in her family, quarrelled with her servants, often cursing them, striking them, and turning them away; especially if they were religious, for she could not endure people of that character, but charged them with every thing bad. whenever she found out that any of the servant men of the laird's establishment were religious, she gave them up to the military, and got them shot; and several girls that were regular in their devotions, she was supposed to have got rid of by poison. she was certainly a wicked woman, else many good people were mistaken in her character; and the poor persecuted covenanters were obliged to unite in their prayers against her. as for the laird, he was a big, dun-faced, pluffy body, that cared neither for good nor evil, and did not well know the one from the other. he laughed at his lady's tantrums and barley-hoods; and the greater the rage that she got into, the laird thought it the better sport. one day, when two maid-servants came running to him, in great agitation, and told him that his lady had felled one of their companions, the laird laughed heartily, and said he did not doubt it. "why, sir, how can you laugh?" said they. "the poor girl is killed." "very likely, very likely," said the laird. "well, it will teach her to take care who she angers again." "and, sir, your lady will be hanged." "very likely; well, it will teach her how to strike so rashly again--ha, ha, ha! will it not, jessy?" but when this same jessy died suddenly one morning, the laird was greatly confounded, and seemed dimly to comprehend that there had been unfair play going. there was little doubt that she was taken off by poison; but whether the lady did it through jealousy or not, was never divulged; but it greatly bamboozled and astonished the poor laird, for his nerves failed him, and his whole frame became paralytic. he seems to have been exactly in the same state of mind with a colley that i once had. he was extremely fond of the gun as long as i did not kill any thing with it, (there being no game laws in ettrick forest in those days,) and he got a grand chase after the hares when i missed them. but there was one day that i chanced for a marvel to shoot one dead, a few paces before his nose. i'll never forget the astonishment that the poor beast manifested. he stared one while at the gun, and another while at the dead hare, and seemed to be drawing the conclusion, that if the case stood thus, there was no creature sure of its life. finally, he took his tail between his legs, and ran away home, and never would face a gun all his life again. so was it precisely with laird sprot of wheelhope. as long as his lady's wrath produced only noise and uproar among the servants, he thought it fine sport; but when he saw what he believed the dreadful effects of it, he became like a barrel organ out of tune, and could only discourse one note, which he did to every one he met. "i wish she mayna hae gotten something she had been the waur of." this note he repeated early and late, night and day, sleeping and waking, alone and in company, from the moment that jessy died till she was buried; and on going to the churchyard as chief mourner, he whispered it to her relatives by the way. when they came to the grave, he took his stand at the head, nor would he give place to the girl's father; but there he stood, like a huge post, as though he neither saw nor heard; and when he had lowered her head into the grave, and dropped the cord, he slowly lifted his hat with one hand, wiped his dim eyes with the back of the other, and said, in a deep tremulous tone, "poor lassie! i wish she didna get something she had been the waur of." this death made a great noise among the common people; but there was little protection for the life of the subject in those days; and provided a man or woman was a real anti-covenanter, they might kill a good many without being quarrelled for it. so there was no one to take cognizance of the circumstances relating to the death of poor jessy. after this, the lady walked softly for the space of two or three years. she saw that she had rendered herself odious, and had entirely lost her husband's countenance, which she liked worst of all. but the evil propensity could not be overcome; and a poor boy, whom the laird, out of sheer compassion, had taken into his service, being found dead one morning, the country people could no longer be restrained; so they went in a body to the sheriff, and insisted on an investigation. it was proved that she detested the boy, had often threatened him, and had given him brose and butter the afternoon before he died; but notwithstanding of all this, the cause was ultimately dismissed, and the pursuers fined. no one can tell to what height of wickedness she might now have proceeded, had not a check of a very singular kind been laid upon her. among the servants that came home at the next term, was one who called himself merodach; and a strange person he was. he had the form of a boy, but the features of one a hundred years old, save that his eyes had a brilliancy and restlessness, which were very extraordinary, bearing a strong resemblance to the eyes of a well-known species of monkey. he was froward and perverse, and disregarded the pleasure or displeasure of any person; but he performed his work well, and with apparent ease. from the moment he entered the house, the lady conceived a mortal antipathy against him, and besought the laird to turn him away. but the laird would not consent; he never turned away any servant, and moreover he had hired this fellow for a trivial wage, and he neither wanted activity nor perseverance. the natural consequence of this refusal was, that the lady instantly set herself to embitter merodach's life as much as possible, in order to get early quit of a domestic every way so disagreeable. her hatred of him was not like a common antipathy entertained by one human being against another,--she hated him as one might hate a toad or an adder; and his occupation of jotteryman (as the laird termed his servant of all work) keeping him always about her hand, it must have proved highly annoying. she scolded him, she raged at him; but he only mocked her wrath, and giggled and laughed at her, with the most provoking derision. she tried to fell him again and again, but never, with all her address, could she hit him; and never did she make a blow at him, that she did not repent it. she was heavy and unwieldy, and he as quick in his motions as a monkey; besides, he generally contrived that she should be in such an ungovernable rage, that when she flew at him, she hardly knew what she was doing. at one time she guided her blow towards him, and he at the same instant avoided it with such dexterity, that she knocked down the chief hind, or foresman; and then merodach giggled so heartily, that, lifting the kitchen poker, she threw it at him with a full design of knocking out his brains; but the missile only broke every article of crockery on the kitchen dresser. she then hasted to the laird, crying bitterly, and telling him she would not suffer that wretch merodach, as she called him, to stay another night in the family. "why, then, put him away, and trouble me no more about him," said the laird. "put him away!" exclaimed she; "i have already ordered him away a hundred times, and charged him never to let me see his horrible face again; but he only grins, and answers with some intolerable piece of impertinence." the pertinacity of the fellow amused the laird; his dim eyes turned upwards into his head with delight; he then looked two ways at once, turned round his back, and laughed till the tears ran down his dun cheeks; but he could only articulate, "you're fitted now." the lady's agony of rage still increasing from this derision, she upbraided the laird bitterly, and said he was not worthy the name of man, if he did not turn away that pestilence, after the way he had abused her. "why, shusy, my dear, what has he done to you?" "what done to me! has he not caused me to knock down john thomson? and i do not know if ever he will come to life again!" "have you felled your favourite john thomson?" said the laird, laughing more heartily than before; "you might have done a worse deed than that." "and has he not broke every plate and dish on the whole dresser?" continued the lady; "and for all this devastation, he only mocks at my displeasure,--absolutely mocks me,--and if you do not have him turned away, and hanged or shot for his deeds, you are not worthy the name of man." "o alack! what a devastation among the cheena metal!" said the laird; and calling on merodach, he said, "tell me, thou evil merodach of babylon, how thou dared'st knock down thy lady's favourite servant, john thomson?" "not i, your honour. it was my lady herself, who got into such a furious rage at me, that she mistook her man, and felled mr thomson; and the good man's skull is fractured." "that was very odd," said the laird, chuckling; "i do not comprehend it. but then, what set you on smashing all my lady's delft and cheena ware?--that was a most infamous and provoking action." "it was she herself, your honour. sorry would i be to break one dish belonging to the house. i take all the house servants to witness, that my lady smashed all the dishes with a poker; and now lays the blame on me!" the laird turned his dim eyes on his lady, who was crying with vexation and rage, and seemed meditating another personal attack on the culprit, which he did not at all appear to shun, but rather to court. she, however, vented her wrath in threatenings of the most deep and desperate revenge, the creature all the while assuring her that she would be foiled, and that in all her encounters and contests with him, she would uniformly come to the worst; he was resolved to do his duty, and there before his master he defied her. the laird thought more than he considered it prudent to reveal; he had little doubt that his wife would find some means of wreaking her vengeance on the object of her displeasure; and he shuddered when he recollected one who had taken "something that she had been the waur of." in a word, the lady of wheelhope's inveterate malignity against this one object, was like the rod of moses, that swallowed up the rest of the serpents. all her wicked and evil propensities seemed to be superseded, if not utterly absorbed by it. the rest of the family now lived in comparative peace and quietness; for early and late her malevolence was venting itself against the jotteryman, and against him alone. it was a delirium of hatred and vengeance, on which the whole bent and bias of her inclination was set. she could not stay from the creature's presence, or, in the intervals when absent from him, she spent her breath in curses and execrations; and then, not able to rest, she ran again to seek him, her eyes gleaming with the anticipated delights of vengeance, while, ever and anon, all the ridicule and the harm redounded on herself. was it not strange that she could not get quit of this sole annoyance of her life? one would have thought she easily might. but by this time there was nothing farther from her wishes; she wanted vengeance, full, adequate, and delicious vengeance, on her audacious opponent. but he was a strange and terrible creature, and the means of retaliation constantly came, as it were, to his hand. bread and sweet milk was the only fare that merodach cared for, and having bargained for that, he would not want it, though he often got it with a curse and with ill will. the lady having, upon one occasion, intentionally kept back his wonted allowance for some days, on the sabbath morning following, she set him down a bowl of rich sweet milk, well drugged with a deadly poison; and then she lingered in a little anteroom to watch the success of her grand plot, and prevent any other creature from tasting of the potion. merodach came in, and the house-maid said to him, "there is your breakfast, creature." "oho! my lady has been liberal this morning," said he; "but i am beforehand with her.--here, little missie, you seem very hungry to-day--take you my breakfast." and with that he set the beverage down to the lady's little favourite spaniel. it so happened that the lady's only son came at that instant into the anteroom seeking her, and teasing his mamma about something, which withdrew her attention from the hall-table for a space. when she looked again, and saw missie lapping up the sweet milk, she burst from her hiding-place like a fury, screaming as if her head had been on fire, kicked the remainder of its contents against the wall, and lifting missie in her bosom, retreated hastily, crying all the way. "ha, ha, ha--i have you now!" cried merodach, as she vanished from the hall. poor missie died immediately, and very privately; indeed, she would have died and been buried, and never one have seen her, save her mistress, had not merodach, by a luck that never failed him, looked over the wall of the flower garden, just as his lady was laying her favourite in a grave of her own digging. she, not perceiving her tormentor, plied on at her task, apostrophizing the insensate little carcass,--"ah! poor dear little creature, thou hast had a hard fortune, and hast drank of the bitter potion that was not intended for thee; but he shall drink it three times double for thy sake!" "is that little missie?" said the eldrich voice of the jotteryman, close at the lady's ear. she uttered a loud scream, and sunk down on the bank. "alack for poor missie!" continued the creature in a tone of mockery, "my heart is sorry for missie. what has befallen her--whose breakfast cup did she drink?" "hence with thee, fiend!" cried the lady; "what right hast thou to intrude on thy mistress's privacy? thy turn is coming yet; or may the nature of woman change within me!" "it is changed already," said the creature, grinning with delight; "i have thee now, i have thee now! and were it not to show my superiority over thee, which i do every hour, i should soon see thee strapped like a mad cat, or a worrying bratch. what wilt thou try next?" "i will cut thy throat, and if i die for it, will rejoice in the deed; a deed of charity to all that dwell on the face of the earth." "i have warned thee before, dame, and i now warn thee again, that all thy mischief meditated against me will fall double on thine own head." "i want none of your warning, fiendish cur. hence with your elvish face, and take care of yourself." it would be too disgusting and horrible to relate or read all the incidents that fell out between this unaccountable couple. their enmity against each other had no end, and no mitigation; and scarcely a single day passed over on which the lady's acts of malevolent ingenuity did not terminate fatally for some favourite thing of her own. scarcely was there a thing, animate or inanimate, on which she set a value, left to her, that was not destroyed; and yet scarcely one hour or minute could she remain absent from her tormentor, and all the while, it seems, solely for the purpose of tormenting him. while all the rest of the establishment enjoyed peace and quietness from the fury of their termagant dame, matters still grew worse and worse between the fascinated pair. the lady haunted the menial, in the same manner as the raven haunts the eagle,--for a perpetual quarrel, though the former knows that in every encounter she is to come off the loser. noises were heard on the stairs by night, and it was whispered among the servants, that the lady had been seeking merodach's chamber, on some horrible intent. several of them would have sworn that they had seen her passing and repassing on the stair after midnight, when all was quiet; but then it was likewise well known, that merodach slept with well-fastened doors, and a companion in another bed in the same room, whose bed, too, was nearest the door. nobody cared much what became of the jotteryman, for he was an unsocial and disagreeable person; but some one told him what they had seen, and hinted a suspicion of the lady's intent. but the creature only bit his upper lip, winked with his eyes, and said, "she had better let that alone; she will be the first to rue that." not long after this, to the horror of the family and the whole country side, the laird's only son was found murdered in his bed one morning, under circumstances that manifested the most fiendish cruelty and inveteracy on the part of his destroyer. as soon as the atrocious act was divulged, the lady fell into convulsions, and lost her reason; and happy had it been for her had she never recovered the use of it, for there was blood upon her hand, which she took no care to conceal, and there was little doubt that it was the blood of her own innocent and beloved boy, the sole heir and hope of the family. this blow deprived the laird of all power of action; but the lady had a brother, a man of the law, who came and instantly proceeded to an investigation of this unaccountable murder. before the sheriff arrived, the housekeeper took the lady's brother aside, and told him he had better not go on with the scrutiny, for she was sure the crime would be brought home to her unfortunate mistress; and after examining into several corroborative circumstances, and viewing the state of the raving maniac, with the blood on her hand and arm, he made the investigation a very short one, declaring the domestics all exculpated. the laird attended his boy's funeral, and laid his head in the grave, but appeared exactly like a man walking in a trance, an automaton, without feelings or sensations, oftentimes gazing at the funeral procession, as on something he could not comprehend. and when the death-bell of the parish church fell a-tolling, as the corpse approached the kirk-stile, he cast a dim eye up towards the belfry, and said hastily, "what, what's that? och ay, we're just in time, just in time." and often was he hammering over the name of "evil merodach, king of babylon," to himself. he seemed to have some far-fetched conception that his unaccountable jotteryman was in some way connected with the death of his only son, and other lesser calamities, although the evidence in favour of merodach's innocence was as usual quite decisive. this grievous mistake of lady wheelhope can only be accounted for, by supposing her in a state of derangement, or rather under some evil influence, over which she had no control; and to a person in such a state, the mistake was not so very unnatural. the mansion-house of wheelhope was old and irregular. the stair had four acute turns, and four landing-places, all the same. in the uppermost chamber slept the two domestics,--merodach in the bed farthest in, and in the chamber immediately below that, which was exactly similar, slept the young laird and his tutor, the former in the bed farthest in; and thus, in the turmoil of her wild and raging passions, her own hand made herself childless. merodach was expelled the family forthwith, but refused to accept of his wages, which the man of law pressed upon him, for fear of farther mischief; but he went away in apparent sullenness and discontent, no one knowing whither. when his dismissal was announced to the lady, who was watched day and night in her chamber, the news had such an effect on her, that her whole frame seemed electrified; the horrors of remorse vanished, and another passion, which i neither can comprehend nor define, took the sole possession of her distempered spirit. "he _must_ not go!--he _shall_ not go!" she exclaimed. "no, no, no--he shall not--he shall not--he shall not!" and then she instantly set herself about making ready to follow him, uttering all the while the most diabolical expressions, indicative of anticipated vengeance.--"oh, could i but snap his nerves one by one, and birl among his vitals! could i but slice his heart off piecemeal in small messes, and see his blood lopper, and bubble, and spin away in purple slays; and then to see him grin, and grin, and grin, and grin! oh--oh--oh--how beautiful and grand a sight it would be to see him grin, and grin, and grin!" and in such a style would she run on for hours together. she thought of nothing, she spake of nothing, but the discarded jotteryman, whom most people now began to regard as a creature that was "not canny." they had seen him eat, and drink, and work, like other people; still he had that about him that was not like other men. he was a boy in form, and an antediluvian in feature. some thought he was a mongrel, between a jew and an ape; some a wizard, some a kelpie, or a fairy, but most of all, that he was really and truly a brownie. what he was i do not know, and therefore will not pretend to say; but be that as it may, in spite of locks and keys, watching and waking, the lady of wheelhope soon made her escape, and eloped after him. the attendants, indeed, would have made oath that she was carried away by some invisible hand, for it was impossible, they said, that she could have escaped on foot like other people; and this edition of the story took in the country; but sensible people viewed the matter in another light. as for instance, when wattie blythe, the laird's old shepherd, came in from the hill one morning, his wife bessie thus accosted him.--"his presence be about us, wattie blythe! have ye heard what has happened at the ha'? things are aye turning waur and waur there, and it looks like as if providence had gi'en up our laird's house to destruction. this grand estate maun now gang frae the sprots; for it has finished them." "na, na, bessie, it isna the estate that has finished the sprots, but the sprots that hae finished the estate, and themsells into the boot. they hae been a wicked and degenerate race, and aye the langer the waur, till they hae reached the utmost bounds o' earthly wickedness; and it's time the deil were looking after his ain." "ah, wattie blythe, ye never said a truer say. and that's just the very point where your story ends, and mine begins; for hasna the deil, or the fairies, or the brownies, ta'en away our leddy bodily! and the haill country is running and riding in search o' her; and there is twenty hunder merks offered to the first that can find her, and bring her safe back. they hae ta'en her away, skin and bane, body and soul, and a', wattie!" "hech-wow! but that is awsome! and where is it thought they have ta'en her to, bessie?" "o, they hae some guess at that frae her ain hints afore. it is thought they hae carried her after that satan of a creature, wha wrought sae muckle wae about the house. it is for him they are a' looking, for they ken weel, that where they get the tane they will get the tither." "whew! is that the gate o't, bessie? why, then, the awfu' story is nouther mair nor less than this, that the leddy has made a 'lopement, as they ca't, and run away after a blackguard jotteryman. hech-wow! wae's me for human frailty! but that's just the gate! when aince the deil gets in the point o' his finger, he will soon have in his haill hand. ay, he wants but a hair to make a tether of, ony day! i hae seen her a braw sonsy lass; but even then i feared she was devoted to destruction, for she aye mockit at religion, bessie, and that's no a good mark of a young body. and she made a' its servants her enemies; and think you these good men's prayers were a' to blaw away i' the wind, and be nae mair regarded? na, na, bessie, my woman, take ye this mark baith o' our ain bairns and ither folk's--if ever ye see a young body that disregards the sabbath, and makes a mock at the ordinances o' religion, ye will never see that body come to muckle good.--a braw hand our leddy has made o' her gibes and jeers at religion, and her mockeries o' the poor persecuted hill-folk!--sunk down by degrees into the very dregs o' sin and misery! run away after a scullion!" "fy, fy, wattie, how can ye say sae? it was weel kenn'd that she hatit him wi' a perfect and mortal hatred, and tried to make away wi' him mae ways nor ane." "aha, bessie; but nipping and scarting is scots folk's wooing; and though it is but right that we suspend our judgments, there will naebody persuade me if she be found alang wi' the creature, but that she has run away after him in the natural way, on her twa shanks, without help either frae fairy or brownie." "i'll never believe sic a thing of ony woman born, let be a leddy weel up in years." "od help ye, bessie! ye dinna ken the stretch o' corrupt nature. the best o' us, when left to oursells, are nae better than strayed sheep, that will never find the way back to their ain pastures; and of a' things made o' mortal flesh, a wicked woman is the warst." "alack-a-day! we get the blame o' muckle that we little deserve. but, wattie, keep ye a geyan sharp look-out about the cleuchs and the caves o' our hope; for the leddy kens them a' geyan weel; and gin the twenty hunder merks wad come our way, it might gang a waur gate. it wad tocher a' our bonny lasses." "ay, weel i wat, bessie, that's nae lee. and now, when ye bring me amind o't, i'm sair mista'en if i didna hear a creature up in the brockholes this morning, skirling as if something war cutting its throat. it gars a' the hairs stand on my head when i think it may hae been our leddy, and the droich of a creature murdering her. i took it for a battle of wulcats, and wished they might pu' out ane anither's thrapples; but when i think on it again, they war unco like some o' our leddy's unearthly screams." "his presence be about us, wattie! haste ye--pit on your bonnet--tak' your staff in your hand, and gang and see what it is." "shame fa' me, if i daur gang, bessie." "hout, wattie, trust in the lord." "aweel, sae i do. but ane's no to throw himsell ower a linn, and trust that the lord will kep him in a blanket. and it's nae muckle safer for an auld stiff man like me to gang away out to a wild remote place, where there is ae body murdering another.--what is that i hear, bessie? haud the lang tongue o' you, and rin to the door, and see what noise that is." bessie ran to the door, but soon returned, with her mouth wide open, and her eyes set in her head. "it is them, wattie! it is them! his presence be about us! what will we do?" "them? whaten them?" "why, that blackguard creature, coming here, leading our leddy by the hair o' the head, and yerking her wi' a stick. i am terrified out o' my wits. what will we do?" "we'll _see_ what they _say_," said wattie, manifestly in as great terror as his wife; and by a natural impulse, or as a last resource, he opened the bible, not knowing what he did, and then hurried on his spectacles; but before he got two leaves turned over, the two entered,--a frightful-looking couple indeed. merodach, with his old withered face, and ferret eyes, leading the lady of wheelhope by the long hair, which was mixed with grey, and whose face was all bloated with wounds and bruises, and having stripes of blood on her garments. "how's this!--how's this, sirs?" said wattie blythe. "close that book, and i will tell you, goodman," said merodach. "i can hear what you hae to say wi' the beuk open, sir," said wattie, turning over the leaves, pretending to look for some particular passage, but apparently not knowing what he was doing. "it is a shamefu' business this; but some will hae to answer for't. my leddy, i am unco grieved to see you in sic a plight. ye hae surely been dooms sair left to yoursell." the lady shook her head, uttered a feeble hollow laugh, and fixed her eyes on merodach. but such a look! it almost frightened the simple aged couple out of their senses. it was not a look of love nor of hatred exclusively; neither was it of desire or disgust, but it was a combination of them all. it was such a look as one fiend would cast on another, in whose everlasting destruction he rejoiced. wattie was glad to take his eyes from such countenances, and look into the bible, that firm foundation of all his hopes and all his joy. "i request that you will shut that book, sir," said the horrible creature; "or if you do not, i will shut it for you with a vengeance;" and with that he seized it, and flung it against the wall. bessie uttered a scream, and wattie was quite paralysed; and although he seemed disposed to run after his best friend, as he called it, the hellish looks of the brownie interposed, and glued him to his seat. "hear what i have to say first," said the creature, "and then pore your fill on that precious book of yours. one concern at a time is enough. i came to do you a service. here, take this cursed, wretched woman, whom you style your lady, and deliver her up to the lawful authorities, to be restored to her husband and her place in society. she has followed one that hates her, and never said one kind word to her in his life; and though i have beat her like a dog, still she clings to me, and will not depart, so enchanted is she with the laudable purpose of cutting my throat. tell your master and her brother, that i am not to be burdened with their maniac. i have scourged--i have spurned and kicked her, afflicting her night and day, and yet from my side she will not depart. take her. claim the reward in full, and your fortune is made; and so farewell!" the creature went away, and the moment his back was turned, the lady fell a-screaming and struggling, like one in an agony, and, in spite of all the old couple's exertions, she forced herself out of their hands, and ran after the retreating merodach. when he saw better would not be, he turned upon her, and, by one blow with his stick, struck her down; and, not content with that, continued to maltreat her in such a manner, as to all appearance would have killed twenty ordinary persons. the poor devoted dame could do nothing, but now and then utter a squeak like a half-worried cat, and writhe and grovel on the sward, till wattie and his wife came up, and withheld her tormentor from further violence. he then bound her hands behind her back with a strong cord, and delivered her once more to the charge of the old couple, who contrived to hold her by that means, and take her home. wattie was ashamed to take her into the hall, but led her into one of the out-houses, whither he brought her brother to receive her. the man of the law was manifestly vexed at her reappearance, and scrupled not to testify his dissatisfaction; for when wattie told him how the wretch had abused his sister, and that, had it not been for bessie's interference and his own, the lady would have been killed outright, he said, "why, walter, it is a great pity that he did _not_ kill her outright. what good can her life now do to her, or of what value is her life to any creature living? after one has lived to disgrace all connected with them, the sooner they are taken off the better." the man, however, paid old walter down his two thousand merks, a great fortune for one like him in those days; and not to dwell longer on this unnatural story, i shall only add, very shortly, that the lady of wheelhope soon made her escape once more, and flew, as if drawn by an irresistible charm, to her tormentor. her friends looked no more after her; and the last time she was seen alive, it was following the uncouth creature up the water of daur, weary, wounded, and lame, while he was all the way beating her, as a piece of excellent amusement. a few days after that, her body was found among some wild haggs, in a place called crook-burn, by a party of the persecuted covenanters that were in hiding there, some of the very men whom she had exerted herself to destroy, and who had been driven, like david of old, to pray for a curse and earthly punishment upon her. they buried her like a dog at the yetts of keppel, and rolled three huge stones upon her grave, which are lying there to this day. when they found her corpse, it was mangled and wounded in a most shocking manner, the fiendish creature having manifestly tormented her to death. he was never more seen or heard of in this kingdom, though all that country-side was kept in terror for him many years afterwards; and to this day, they will tell you of the brownie of the black haggs, which title he seems to have acquired after his disappearance. this story was told to me by an old man named adam halliday, whose great-grandfather, thomas halliday, was one of those that found the body and buried it. it is many years since i heard it; but, however ridiculous it may appear, i remember it made a dreadful impression on my young mind. i never heard any story like it, save one of an old fox-hound that pursued a fox through the grampians for a fortnight, and when at last discovered by the duke of athole's people, neither of them could run, but the hound was still continuing to walk after the fox, and when the latter lay down, the other lay down beside him, and looked at him steadily all the while, though unable to do him the least harm. the passion of inveterate malice seems to have influenced these two exactly alike. but, upon the whole, i scarcely believe the tale can be true. chapter xi. the laird of wineholm. "have you heard any thing of the apparition which has been seen about wineholm place?" said the dominie. "na, i never heard o' sic a thing as yet," quoth the smith; "but i wadna wonder muckle that the news should turn out to be true." the dominie shook his head, and uttered a long "h'm-h'm-h'm," as if he knew more than he was at liberty to tell. "weel, that beats the world," said the smith, as he gave over blowing the bellows, and looked anxiously in the dominie's face. the dominie shook his head again. the smith was now in the most ticklish quandary; eager to learn particulars, that he might spread the astounding news through the whole village, and the rest of the parish to boot, but yet afraid to press the inquiry, for fear the cautious dominie should take the alarm of being reported as a tattler, and keep all to himself. so the smith, after waiting till the wind-pipe of the great bellows ceased its rushing noise, covered the gloss neatly up with a mixture of small coals, culm, and cinders; and then, perceiving that nothing more was forthcoming from the dominie, he began blowing again with more energy than before--changed his hand--put the other sooty one in his breeches-pocket--leaned to the horn--looked in a careless manner to the window, or rather gazed on vacancy, and always now and then stole a sly look at the dominie's face. it was quite immovable. his cheek was leaned on his open hand, and his eyes fixed on the glowing fire. it was very teasing this for poor clinkum the smith. but what could he do? he took out his glowing iron, and made a shower of fire sweep through the whole smithy, whereof a good part, as intended, sputtered upon the dominie; but that imperturbable person only shielded his face with his elbow, turned his shoulder half round, and held his peace. thump, thump! clink, clink! went the hammer for a space; and then when the iron was returned to the fire, "weel, that beats the world!" quoth the smith. "what is this that beats the world, mr clinkum?" asked the dominie, with the most cool and provoking indifference. "this story about the apparition," quoth the smith. "what story?" said the dominie. now really this perversity was hardly to be endured, even in a learned dominie, who, with all his cold indifference of feeling, was sitting toasting himself at a good smithy fire. the smith felt this, (for he was a man of acute feeling,) and therefore he spit upon his hand and fell a-clinking and pelting at the stithy with both spirit and resignation, saying within himself, "these dominie bodies just beat the world!" "what story?" reiterated the dominie. "for my part, i related no story, nor have ever given assent to a belief in such a story that any man has heard. nevertheless, from the results of ratiocination, conclusions may be formed, though not algebraically, yet corporately, by constituting a quantity, which shall be equivalent to the difference, subtracting the less from the greater, and striking a balance in order to get rid of any ambiguity or paradox." at the long adverb, _nevertheless_, the smith gave over blowing, and pricked up his ears; but the definition went beyond his comprehension. "ye ken, that just beats the whole world for deepness," said the smith; and again began blowing the bellows. "you know, mr clinkum," continued the dominie, "that a proposition is an assertion of some distinct truth, which only becomes manifest by demonstration. a corollary is an obvious, or easily inferred consequence _of_ a proposition; while an hypothesis is a _sup_-position or concession made, during the process of demonstration. now, do you take me along with you? because, if you do not, it is needless to proceed." "yes, yes, i understand you middling weel; but i wad like better to hear what other folks say about it than you." "and why so? wherefore would you rather hear another man's demonstration than mine?" said the dominie, sternly. "because, ye ken, ye just beat the whole world for words," quoth the smith. "ay, ay! that is to say, words without wisdom," said the dominie, rising and stepping away. "well, well, every man to his sphere, and the smith to the bellows." "ye're quite mistaen, master," cried the smith after him; "it isna the want o' wisdom in you that plagues me, it is the owerplush o't." this soothed the dominie, who returned, and said, mildly--"by the by, clinkum, i want a leister of your making; for i see there is no other tradesman makes them so well. a five-grained one make it; at your own price." "very weel, sir. when will you be needing it?" "not till the end of close-time." "ay, ye may gar the three auld anes do till then." "what do you wish to insinuate, sir? would you infer, because i have three leisters, that therefore i am a breaker of the laws? that i, who am placed here as a pattern and monitor of the young and rising generation, should be the first to set them an example of insubordination?" "na, but, ye ken, that just beats the world for words! but we ken what we ken, for a' that, master." "you had better take a little care what you say, mr clinkum; just a little care. i do not request you to take particular care, for of that your tongue is incapable, but a very little is necessary. and mark you--don't go to say that i said this or that about a ghost, or mentioned such a ridiculous story." "the crabbitness o' that body beats the world!" said the smith to himself, as the dominie went halting homeward. the very next man that entered the smithy door was no other than john broadcast, the new laird's hind, who had also been hind to the late laird for many years, and who had no sooner said his errand than the smith addressed him thus:--"have _you_ ever seen this ghost that there is such a noise about?" "ghost! na, goodness be thankit, i never saw a ghost in my life, save aince a wraith. what ghost do you mean?" "so you never saw nor heard tell of any apparition about wineholm place, lately?" "no, i hae reason to be thankfu' i have not." "weel, that beats the world! whow, man, but ye are sair in the dark! do you no think there are siccan things in nature, as folk no coming fairly to their ends, john?" "goodness be wi' us! ye gar a' the hairs o' my head creep, man. what's that you're saying?" "had ye never ony suspicions o' that kind, john?" "no; i canna say that i had." "none in the least? weel, that beats the world!" "o, haud your tongue, haud your tongue! we hae great reason to be thankfu' that we are as we are!" "how as we are?" "that we arena stocks or stones, or brute beasts, as the minister o' traquair says. but i hope in god there is nae siccan a thing about my master's place as an unearthly visitor." the smith shook his head, and uttered a long hem, hem, hem! he had felt the powerful effect of that himself, and wished to make the same appeal to the feelings and longings after information of john broadcast. the bait took; for the latent spark of superstition, not to say any thing about curiosity, was kindled in the heart of honest john, and there being no wit in the head to counteract it, the portentous hint had its full sway. john's eyes stelled in his head, and his visage grew long, assuming something of the hue of dried clay in winter. "hech, man, but that's an awsome story!" exclaimed he. "folks hae great reason to be thankfu' that they are as they are. it is truly an awsome story." "ye ken, it just beats the world for that," quoth the smith. "and is it really thought that this laird made away wi' our auld master?" said john. the smith shook his head again, and gave a strait wink with his eyes. "weel, i hae great reason to be thankfu' that i never heard siccan a story as that!" said john. "wha was it tauld you a' about it?" "it was nae less a man than our mathewmatical dominie," said the smith; "he that kens a' things, and can prove a proposition to the nineteenth part of a hair. but he is terrified the tale should spread; and therefore ye maunna say a word about it." "na, na; i hae great reason to be thankfu' i can keep a secret as weel as the maist feck o' men, and better than the maist feck o' women. what did he say? tell us a' that he said." "it is not so easy to repeat what he says, for he has sae mony lang-nebbit words, which just beat the world. but he said, though it was only a supposition, yet it was easily made manifest by positive demonstration." "did you ever hear the like o' that! now, havena we reason to be thankfu' that we are as we are? did he say that it was by poison that he was taken off, or that he was strangled?" "na; i thought he said it was by a collar, or a collary, or something to that purpose." "then, it wad appear there is no doubt of it? i think, the doctor has reason to be thankfu' that he's no taken up. is not that strange?" "o, ye ken, it just beats the world!" "he deserves to be torn at young horses' tails," said the ploughman. "ay, or nippit to death with red-hot pinchers," quoth the smith. "or harrowed to death, like the children of ammon," continued the ploughman. "na, i'll tell you what should be done wi' him--he should just be docked and fired like a farcied horse," quoth the smith. "od help ye, man, i could beat the world for laying on a proper poonishment." john broadcast went home full of terror and dismay. he told his wife the story in a secret--she told the dairymaid with a tenfold degree of secrecy; and so ere long it reached the ears of dr davington himself, the new laird, as he was called. he was unusually affected, at hearing such a terrible accusation against himself; and the dominie being mentioned as the propagator of the report, a message was forthwith dispatched to desire him to come up to the place, and speak with the laird. the dominie suspected there was bad blood a-brewing against him; and as he had too much self-importance to think of succumbing to any man alive, he sent an impertinent answer to the laird's message, bearing, that if dr davington had any business with him, he would be so good as attend at his class-room when he dismissed his scholars. when this message was delivered, the doctor, being almost beside himself with rage, instantly dispatched two village constables with a warrant to seize the dominie, and bring him before him; for the doctor was a justice of the peace. accordingly, the poor dominie was seized at the head of his pupils, and dragged away, crutch and all, up before the new laird, to answer for such an abominable slander. the dominie denied every thing concerning it, as indeed he might, save having asked the smith the simple question, "if he had heard ought of a ghost at the place?" but he refused to tell why he asked that question. he had his own reasons for it, he said, and reasons that to him were quite sufficient; but as he was not obliged to disclose them, neither would he. the smith was then sent for, who declared that the dominie had told him of the ghost being seen, and a murder committed, which he called a _rash assassination_, and said it was obvious, and easily inferred that it was done by a collar. how the dominie did storm! he even twice threatened to knock down the smith with his crutch; not for the slander,--he cared not for that nor the doctor a pin,--but for the total subversion of his grand illustration from geometry; and he therefore denominated the smith's head _the logarithm to number one_, a reproach of which i do not understand the gist, but the appropriation of it pleased the dominie exceedingly, made him chuckle, and put him in better humour for a good while. it was in vain that he tried to prove that his words applied only to the definition of a problem in geometry,--he could not make himself understood; and the smith maintaining his point firmly, and apparently with conscientious truth, appearances were greatly against the dominie, and the doctor pronounced him a malevolent and dangerous person. "o, ye ken, he just beats the world for that," quoth the smith. "i a malevolent and dangerous person, sir!" said the dominie, fiercely, and altering his crutch from one place to another of the floor, as if he could not get a place to set it on. "dost thou call me a malevolent and dangerous person, sir? what then art thou? if thou knowest not i will tell thee. add a cipher to a ninth figure, and what does that make? ninety you will say. ay, but then put a cipher _above_ a nine, and what does that make? ha--ha--ha--i have you there. your case exactly in higher geometry! for say the chord of sixty degrees is radius, then the sine of ninety degrees is equal to the radius, so the secant of , that is nickle-nothing, as the boys call it, is radius, and so is the co-sine of . the versed sine of degrees is radius, (that is nine with a cipher added, you know,) and the versed sine of degrees is the diameter; then of course the sine increases from (that is cipher or nothing) till it becomes radius, and then it decreases till it becomes nothing. after this you note it lies on the _contrary_ side of the diameter, and consequently, if positive before, is negative now, so that it must end in , or a cipher above a nine at most." "this unintelligible jargon is out of place here, mr dominie; and if you can show no better reasons for raising such an abominable falsehood, in representing me as an incendiary and murderer, i shall procure you a lodging in the house of correction." "why, sir, the long and short of the matter is this--i only asked at that fellow there, that logarithm of stupidity! if he had heard aught of a ghost having been seen about wineholm place. i added nothing farther, either positive or negative. now, do you insist on my reasons for asking such a question?" "i insist on having them." "then what will you say, sir, when i inform you, and declare my readiness to depone to the truth of it, that i saw the ghost myself?--yes, sir--that i saw the ghost of your late worthy father-in-law myself, sir; and though i said no such thing to that decimal fraction, yet it told me, sir--yes, the spirit of your father-in-law told me, sir, that you are a murderer." "lord, now, what think ye o' that?" quoth the smith. "ye had better hae letten him alane; for od, ye ken, he's the deevil of a body that ever was made! he just beats the world!" the doctor grew as pale as death, but whether from fear or rage, it was hard to say. "why, sir, you are mad! stark, raving mad," said the doctor; "therefore for your own credit, and for the peace and comfort of my wife and myself, and our credit among our retainers, you must unsay every word that you have now said." "i'll just as soon say that the parabola and the ellipsis are the same," said the dominie; "or that the diameter is not the longest line that can be drawn in the circle. and now, sir, since you have forced me to divulge what i was much in doubt about, i have a great mind to have the old laird's grave opened to-night, and have the body inspected before witnesses." "if you dare disturb the sanctuary of the grave," said the doctor vehemently, "or with your unhallowed hands touch the remains of my venerable and revered predecessor, it had been better for you, and all who make the attempt, that you never had been born. if not then for my sake, for the sake of my wife, the sole daughter of the man to whom you have all been obliged, let this abominable and malicious calumny go no farther, but put it down; i pray of you to put it down, as you would value your own advantage." "i have seen him, and spoke with him--that i aver," said the dominie. "and shall i tell you what he said to me?" "no, no! i'll hear no more of such absolute and disgusting nonsense," said the laird. "then, since it hath come to this, i will declare it in the face of the whole world, and pursue it to the last," said the dominie, "ridiculous as it is, and i confess that it is even so. i have seen your father-in-law within the last twenty hours; at least a being in his form and habiliments, and having his aspect and voice. and he told me, that he believed you were a very great scoundrel, and that you had helped him off the stage of time in a great haste, for fear of the operation of a will, which he had just executed, very much to your prejudice. i was somewhat aghast, but ventured to remark, that he must surely have been sensible whether you murdered him or not, and in what way. he replied, that he was not absolutely certain, for at the time you put him down, he was much in his customary way of nights,--very drunk; but that he greatly suspected you had hanged him, for, ever since he had died, he had been troubled with a severe crick in his neck. having seen my late worthy patron's body deposited in the coffin, and afterwards consigned to the grave, these things overcame me, and a kind of mist came over my senses; but i heard him saying as he withdrew, what a pity it was that my nerves could not stand this disclosure. now, for my own satisfaction, i am resolved that to-morrow, i shall raise the village, with the two ministers at the head of the multitude, and have the body, and particularly the neck of the deceased, minutely inspected." "if you do so, i shall make one of the number," said the doctor. "but i am resolved that in the first place every mean shall be tried to prevent a scene of madness and absurdity so disgraceful to a well-regulated village, and a sober community." "there is but one direct line that can be followed, and any other would either form an acute or obtuse angle," said the dominie; "therefore i am resolved to proceed right forward, on mathematical principles;" and away he went, skipping on his crutch, to arouse the villagers to the scrutiny. the smith remained behind, concerting with the doctor, how to controvert the dominie's profound scheme of unshrouding the dead; and certainly the smith's plan, viewed professionally, was not amiss. "o, ye ken, sir, we maun just gie him another heat, and try to saften him to reason, for he's just as stubborn as muirkirk ir'n. he beats the world for that." while the two were in confabulation, johnston, the old house-servant, came in and said to the doctor--"sir, your servants are going to leave the house, every one, this night, if you cannot fall on some means to divert them from it. the old laird is, it seems, risen again, and come back among them, and they are all in the utmost consternation. indeed, they are quite out of their reason. he appeared in the stable to broadcast, who has been these two hours dead with terror, but is now recovered, and telling such a tale down stairs, as never was heard from the mouth of man." "send him up here," said the doctor. "i will silence him. what does the ignorant clown mean by joining in this unnatural clamour?" john came up, with his broad bonnet in his hand, shut the door with hesitation, and then felt twice with his hand if it really was shut. "well, john," said the doctor, "what absurd lie is this that you are vending among your fellow servants, of having seen a ghost?" john picked some odds and ends of threads out of his bonnet, and said nothing. "you are an old superstitious dreaming dotard," continued the doctor; "but if you propose in future to manufacture such stories, you must, from this instant, do it somewhere else than in my service, and among my domestics. what have you to say for yourself?" "indeed, sir, i hae naething to say but this, that we hae a' muckle reason to be thankfu' that we are as we are." "and whereon does that wise saw bear? what relation has that to the seeing of a ghost? confess then this instant, that you have forged and vended a deliberate lie." "indeed, sir, i hae muckle reason to be thankfu'"-- "for what?" "that i never tauld a deliberate lee in my life. my late master came and spake to me in the stable; but whether it was his ghaist or himsell--a good angel or a bad ane, i hae reason to be thankfu' i never said; for i _do--not--ken_." "now, pray let us hear from that sage tongue of yours, so full of sublime adages, what this doubtful being said to you?" "i wad rather be excused, an it were your honour's will, and wad hae reason to be thankfu'." "and why should you decline telling this?" "because i ken ye wadna believe a word o't, it is siccan a strange story. o sirs, but folks hae muckle reason to be thankfu' that they are as they are!" "well, out with this strange story of yours. i do not promise to credit it, but shall give it a patient hearing, provided you swear that there is no forgery in it." "weel, as i was suppering the horses the night, i was dressing my late kind master's favourite mare, and i was just thinking to mysell. an he had been leeving, i wadna hae been my lane the night, for he wad hae been standing over me cracking his jokes, and swearing at me in his good-natured hamely way. aye, but he's gane to his lang account, thinks i, and we poor frail dying creatures that are left ahind hae muckle reason to be thankfu' that we are as we are; when i looks up, and behold there's my auld master standing leaning against the trivage, as he used to do, and looking at me. i canna but say my heart was a little astoundit, and maybe lap up through my midriff into my breath-bellows--i couldna say; but in the strength o' the lord i was enabled to retain my senses for a good while. 'john broadcast,' said he, with a deep and angry tone,--'john broadcast, what the d--l are you thinking about? you are not currying that mare half. what a d--d lubberly way of dressing a horse is that?' "'l--d make us thankfu', master!' says i, 'are you there?' "'where else would you have me to be at this hour of the night, old blockhead?' says he. "'in another hame than this, master,' says i; 'but i fear me it is nae good ane, that ye are sae soon tired o't.' "'a d--d bad one, i assure you,' says he. "'ay, but, master,' says i, 'ye hae muckle reason to be thankfu' that ye are as ye are.' "'in what respects, dotard?' says he. "'that ye hae liberty to come out o't a start now and then to get the air,' says i; and oh, my heart was sair for him when i thought o' his state! and though i was thankfu' that i was as i was, my heart and flesh began to fail me, at thinking of my being speaking face to face wi' a being frae the unhappy place. but out he briks again wi' a grit round o' swearing about the mare being ill keepit; and he ordered me to cast my coat and curry her weel, for that he had a lang journey to take on her the morn. "'you take a journey on her!' says i, 'i fear my new master will dispute that privilege with you, for he rides her himsell the morn.' "'he ride her!' cried the angry spirit; and then it burst out into a lang string of imprecations, fearsome to hear, against you, sir; and then added, 'soon soon shall he be levelled with the dust! the dog! the parricide! first to betray my child, and then to put down myself!--but he shall not escape! he shall not escape!' cried he with such a hellish growl, that i fainted, and heard no more." "weel, that beats the world!" quoth the smith; "i wad hae thought the mare wad hae luppen ower yird and stane, or fa'en down dead wi' fright." "na, na," said john, "in place o' that, whenever she heard him fa' a-swearing, she was sae glad that she fell a-nickering." "na, but that beats the haill world a'thegither!" quoth the smith. "then it has been nae ghaist ava, ye may depend on that." "i little wat what it was," said john, "but it was a being in nae good or happy state o' mind, and is a warning to us a' how muckle reason we hae to be thankfu' that we are as we are." the doctor pretended to laugh at the absurdity of john's narrative, but it was with a ghastly and doubtful expression of countenance, as though he thought the story far too ridiculous for any clodpole to have contrived out of his own head; and forthwith he dismissed the two dealers in the marvellous, with very little ceremony, the one protesting that the thing beat the world, and the other that they had both reason to be thankfu' that they were as they were. the next morning the villagers, small and great, were assembled at an early hour to witness the lifting of the body of their late laird, and headed by the established and dissenting clergymen, and two surgeons, they proceeded to the tomb, and soon extracted the splendid coffin, which they opened with all due caution and ceremony. but instead of the murdered body of their late benefactor, which they expected in good earnest to find, there was nothing in the coffin but a layer of gravel, of about the weight of a corpulent man! the clamour against the new laird then rose all at once into a tumult that it was impossible to check, every one declaring aloud that he had not only murdered their benefactor, but, for fear of the discovery, had raised the body, and given, or rather sold it, for dissection. the thing was not to be tolerated! so the mob proceeded in a body up to wineholm place, to take out their poor deluded lady, and burn the doctor and his basely acquired habitation to ashes. it was not till the multitude had surrounded the house, that the ministers and two or three other gentlemen could stay them, which they only did by assuring the mob that they would bring out the doctor before their eyes, and deliver him up to justice. this pacified the throng; but on inquiry at the hall, it was found that the doctor had gone off early that morning, so that nothing further could be done for the present. but the coffin, filled with gravel, was laid up in the aisle, and kept open for inspection. nothing could now exceed the consternation of the simple villagers of wineholm at these dark and mysterious events. business, labour, and employment of every sort, were at a stand, and the people hurried about to one another's houses, and mingled their conjectures together in one heterogeneous mass. the smith put his hand to the bellows, but forgot to blow till the fire went out; the weaver leaned on his beam, and listened to the legends of the ghastly tailor. the team stood in mid furrow, and the thrasher agaping over his flail; and even the dominie was heard to declare that the geometrical series of events was increasing by no _common_ measure, and therefore ought to be calculated rather arithmetically than by logarithms; and john broadcast saw more and more reason for being thankful that he was as he was, and neither a stock nor a stone, nor a brute beast. every new thing that happened was more extraordinary than the last; and the most puzzling of all was the circumstance of the late laird's mare, saddle, bridle, and all, being off before day the next morning; so that dr davington was obliged to have recourse to his own, on which he was seen posting away on the road towards edinburgh. it was thus but too obvious that the ghost of the late laird had ridden off on his favourite mare, the lord only knew whither! for as to that point none of the sages of wineholm could divine. but their souls grew chill as an iceberg, and their very frames rigid, at the thoughts of a spirit riding away on a brute beast to the place appointed for wicked men. and had not john broadcast reason to be thankful that he was as he was? however, the outcry of the community became so outrageous, of murder, and foul play in so many ways, that the officers of justice were compelled to take note of it; and accordingly the sheriff-substitute, the sheriff-clerk, the fiscal, and two assistants, came in two chaises to wineholm to take a precognition; and there a court was held which lasted the whole day, at which, mrs davington, the late laird's only daughter, all the servants, and a great number of the villagers, were examined on oath. it appeared from the evidence that dr davington had come to the village and set up as a surgeon--that he had used every endeavour to be employed in the laird's family in vain, as the latter detested him. that he, however, found means of inducing his only daughter to elope with him, which put the laird quite beside himself, and from thenceforward he became drowned in dissipation. that such, however, was his affection for his daughter, that he caused her to live with him, but would never suffer the doctor to enter his door--that it was nevertheless quite customary for the doctor to be sent for to his lady's chamber, particularly when her father was in his cups; and that on a certain night, when the laird had had company, and was so overcome that he could not rise from his chair, he had died suddenly of apoplexy; and that no other skill was sent for, or near him, but this his detested son-in-law, whom he had by will disinherited, though the legal term for rendering that will competent had not expired. the body was coffined the second day after death, and locked up in a low room in one of the wings of the building; and nothing farther could be elicited. the doctor was missing, and it was whispered that he had absconded; indeed it was evident, and the sheriff acknowledged, that according to the evidence taken, the matter had a very suspicious aspect, although there was no direct proof against the doctor. it was proved that he had attempted to bleed the patient, but had not succeeded, and that at that time the old laird was black in the face. when it began to wear nigh night, and nothing farther could be learned, the sheriff-clerk, a quiet considerate gentleman, asked why they had not examined the wright who made the coffin, and also placed the body in it? the thing had not been thought of; but he was found in court, and instantly put into the witness's box, and examined on oath. his name was james sanderson, a stout-made, little, shrewd-looking man, with a very peculiar squint. he was examined thus by the procurator-fiscal. "were you long acquainted with the late laird of wineholm, james?" "yes, ever since i left my apprenticeship; for i suppose about nineteen years." "was he very much given to drinking of late?" "i could not say. he took his glass geyan heartily." "did you ever drink with him?" "o yes, mony a time." "you must have seen him very drunk then? did you ever see him so drunk that he could not rise, for instance?" "o never! for, lang afore that, i could not have kenn'd whether he was sitting or standing." "were you present at the corpse-chesting?" "yes, i was." "and were you certain the body was then deposited in the coffin?" "yes; quite certain." "did you screw down the coffin-lid firmly then, as you do others of the same make?" "no, i did not." "what were your reasons for that?" "they were no reasons of mine--i did what i was ordered. there were private reasons, which i then wist not of. but, gentlemen, there are some things connected with this affair, which i am bound in honour not to reveal--i hope you will not compel me to divulge them at present." "you are bound by a solemn oath, james, which is the highest of all obligations; and for the sake of justice, you must tell every thing you know; and it would be better if you would just tell your tale straight forward, without the interruption of question and answer." "well, then, since it must be so: that day, at the chesting, the doctor took me aside, and says to me, 'james sanderson, it will be necessary that something be put into the coffin to prevent any unpleasant flavour before the funeral; for, owing to the corpulence, and inflamed state of the body by apoplexy, there will be great danger of this.' "'very well, sir,' says i--'what shall i bring?' "'you had better only screw down the lid lightly at present, then,' said he, 'and if you could bring a bucketful of quicklime, a little while hence, and pour it over the body, especially over the face, it is a very good thing, an excellent thing for preventing any deleterious effluvia from escaping.' "'very well, sir,' says i; and so i followed his directions. i procured the lime; and as i was to come privately in the evening to deposit it in the coffin, in company with the doctor alone, i was putting off the time in my workshop, polishing some trifle, and thinking to myself that i could not find in my heart to choke up my old friend with quicklime, even after he was dead, when, to my unspeakable horror, who should enter my workshop but the identical laird himself, dressed in his dead-clothes in the very same manner in which i had seen him laid in the coffin, but apparently all streaming in blood to the feet. i fell back over against a cart-wheel, and was going to call out, but could not; and as he stood straight in the door, there was no means of escape. at length the apparition spoke to me in a hoarse trembling voice, enough to have frightened a whole conclave of bishops out of their senses; and it says to me, 'jamie sanderson! o, jamie sanderson! i have been forced to appear to you in a d--d frightful guise!' these were the very first words it spoke,--and they were far frae being a lie; but i hafflins thought to mysell, that a being in such circumstances might have spoke with a little more caution and decency. i could make no answer, for my tongue refused all attempts at articulation, and my lips would not come together; and all that i could do, was to lie back against my new cart-wheel, and hold up my hands as a kind of defence. the ghastly and blood-stained apparition, advancing a step or two, held up both its hands, flying with dead ruffles, and cried to me in a still more frightful voice, 'o, my faithful old friend! i have been murdered! i am a murdered man, jamie sanderson! and if you do not assist me in bringing upon the wretch due retribution, you will be d--d to hell, sir.'" "this is sheer raving, james," said the sheriff, interrupting him. "these words can be nothing but the ravings of a disturbed and heated imagination. i entreat you to recollect, that you have appealed to the great judge of heaven and earth for the truth of what you assert here, and to answer accordingly." "i know what i am saying, my lord sheriff," said sanderson; "and am telling naething but the plain truth, as nearly as my state of mind at the time permits me to recollect. the appalling figure approached still nearer and nearer to me, breathing threatenings if i would not rise and fly to its assistance, and swearing like a sergeant of dragoons at both the doctor and myself. at length it came so close on me, that i had no other shift but to hold up both feet and hands to shield me, as i had seen herons do when knocked down by a goshawk, and i cried out; but even my voice failed, so that i only cried like one through his sleep. "'what the devil are you lying gaping and braying at there?' said he, seizing me by the wrists, and dragging me after him. 'do you not see the plight i am in, and why won't you fly to succour me?' "i now felt to my great relief, that this terrific apparition was a being of flesh, blood, and bones, like myself; that, in short, it was indeed my kind old friend the laird popped out of his open coffin, and come over to pay me an evening visit, but certainly in such a guise as earthly visit was never paid. i soon gathered up my scattered senses, took my old friend into my room, bathed him all over, and washed him well in lukewarm water; then put him into a warm bed, gave him a glass or two of warm punch, and he came round amazingly. he caused me to survey his neck a hundred times i am sure; and i had no doubt he had been strangled, for there was a purple ring round it, which in some places was black, and a little swollen; his voice creaked like a door hinge, and his features were still distorted. he swore terribly at both the doctor and myself; but nothing put him half so mad as the idea of the quicklime being poured over him, and particularly over his face. i am mistaken if that experiment does not serve him for a theme of execration as long as he lives." "so he is then alive, you say?" asked the fiscal. "o yes, sir! alive and tolerably well, considering. we two have had several bottles together in my quiet room; for i have still kept him concealed, to see what the doctor would do next. he is in terror for him somehow, until sixty days be over from some date that he talks of, and seems assured that that dog will have his life by hook or crook, unless he can bring him to the gallows betimes, and he is absent on that business to-day. one night lately, when fully half-seas over, he set off to the schoolhouse, and frightened the dominie; and last night he went up to the stable, and gave old broadcast a hearing for not keeping his mare well enough. "it appeared that some shaking motion in the coffining of him had brought him to himself, after bleeding abundantly both at mouth and nose; that he was on his feet ere ever he knew how he had been disposed of, and was quite shocked at seeing the open coffin on the bed, and himself dressed in his grave-clothes, and all in one bath of blood. he flew to the door, but it was locked outside; he rapped furiously for something to drink; but the room was far removed from any inhabited part of the house, and none regarded. so he had nothing for it but to open the window, and come through the garden and the back loaning to my workshop. and as i had got orders to bring a bucketful of quicklime, i went over in the forenight with a bucketful of heavy gravel, as much as i could carry, and a little white lime sprinkled on the top of it; and being let in by the doctor, i deposited that in the coffin, screwed down the lid, and left it, and the funeral followed in due course, the whole of which the laird viewed from my window, and gave the doctor a hearty day's cursing for daring to support his head and lay it in the grave.--and this, gentlemen, is the substance of what i know concerning this enormous deed, which is, i think, quite sufficient. the laird bound me to secrecy until such time as he could bring matters to a proper bearing for securing of the doctor; but as you have forced it from me, you must stand my surety, and answer the charges against me." the laird arrived that night with proper authority, and a number of officers, to have the doctor, his son-in-law, taken into custody; but the bird had flown; and from that day forth he was never seen, so as to be recognised, in scotland. the laird lived many years after that; and though the thoughts of the quicklime made him drink a great deal, yet from that time he never suffered himself to get _quite_ drunk, lest some one might have taken it into his head to hang him, and he not know any thing about it. the dominie acknowledged that it was as impracticable to calculate what might happen in human affairs as to square the circle, which could only be effected by knowing the ratio of the circumference to the radius. for shoeing horses, vending news, and awarding proper punishments, the smith to this day just beats the world. and old john broadcast is as thankful to heaven as ever that things are as they are. footnotes:- [a] a pin-cushion. [b] rapturous, _i.e._ outrageous. end of the first volume. edinburgh printed by ballantyne and company, paul's work, canongate. +------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | transcriber's note:- | | | | some punctuation errors were corrected. | | | | the following apparent printer's errors were addressed. | | | | page . the letter 'a' was inserted into a gap in the original | | text to make it read:- | | (during the time of the hurricane, a london smack went down) | | | | page . ha changed to had. | | (tibby had then acquired) | | | | page . graandeur changed to grandeur. | | (the vanity of worldly grandeur) | | | | the word saacred was spelled thus in both volumes and was left | | unchanged. | | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+