What a curious medley life is! How crowded with dramatic situations and sudden anti-climaxes! Even in Windyridge the programme of existence is as varied and full of interest as that of any picture palace. We have all the combinations of tragedy and pathos and humour, and he who has eyes to see and ears to hear and a heart to feel need not complain of the monotony of the village, nor pine for the manufactured excitements of the metropolis.
A letter with a foreign postmark and an Egyptian stamp was handed to me on Monday morning, and I have been excited and troubled ever since, though it brought me a great joy. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but when I turned to the signature I found it was from the squire, and I began to read it eagerly. I was astonished to find how small and particularly neat his handwriting is.
The letter ran thus, omitting certain descriptive and unimportant paragraphs:
"Assouan, Upper Nile,"March12th, 19—.
"DEAR MISS HOLDEN,
"I wonder if I might claim an old man's privilege and call you 'Grace'? I should like to do so, for do you know there is not one of your sex in the wide world whom I have a right to address by the Christian name, and, what is perhaps more noteworthy, there is no other whose permission I have the least desire to ask. But somehow or other I am longing for kinsfolk to-day, and the sensation is almost inexpressibly acute, so much so that I actually feel the pain of loneliness, and that 'Inner Self' in which, I remember, you trust so completely, cries out for sympathy and companionship. If I mistake not we have common ideals and aspirations—you and I—which make us kin, and I am disposed to 'stretch out lame hands of faith' in your direction if haply I may find you and draw your soul to mine. So if it be your will, let us be friends, and do you send across the seas and deserts those mysterious waves of kindly feeling which will vibrate upon the heart of the solitary old man, to whom earth's messages of love come but seldom—now.
"Have I ever told you that I have not a relative on earth, and that I have outlived all my own friends? I sometimes feel to be like these old monuments on the banks of Nile, which stand calm and impassive whilst the children of this age picnic around their ruins; yet I am no patriarch, for I have not much overstepped the natural span of man's existence. I hope you may never experience the sensation, but the fact that you are yourself amongst earth's lone ones is not the least of the links that connect you to me.
"I stayed some weeks in Biarritz ... but the weather turned cold and wet, and the doctors bade me journey to Egypt. It is an unknown land to my material senses, but not to my spiritual. Every stone preaches to me of the familiar past. I have always revelled in ancient history and have kept abreast of modern discovery and research. For a while I enjoyed the company of my imagination, and we trod together the courts and temple corridors of the mighty kings of ancient days, and reconstructed their history. Sometimes, for brief periods, I have interesting conversations with men who are learned in all this lore; but imagination and learning are but cold companions, and I am longing for a hand-grasp and the look of love—longing, like the modern woman of whom Derwent speaks—for the unattainable.
"I am half ashamed of myself for writing in this strain, and half afraid of bringing a shadow over the spirit of the gentle soul whose sympathy I seek; but you must not worry on my account, for I am neither morbid nor unhappy, though sadness usually walks by my side. Indeed, life is strangely and even unaccountably dear to me just now, though I am perfectly sure that the 'call' is not far away, and when it comes I shall pass behind the curtain and face the unknown without fear and without regret.
"Of late I have caught myself wondering whether I shall ever return home and see the brown and purple moors again, and the homely people whom I love; and when the thought that I may not do so grips me I have just one overwhelming desire—a curious desire for the 'archæological old fossil' I am generally taken to be. Perhaps I am becoming weak and sentimental, but when the time comes and I have to go, I want someone who cares for me to 'see me off.' I should like my eyes to close to the sound of a woman's voice, I should like to feel the touch of a woman's hand, and maybe the kiss of a woman's lips; and I should like a few verses of Scripture and a simple hymn.
"I am an old fool, but the thought brings sweetness and peace with it; and it is as a father to a daughter that I ask this boon of you: When I hear the summons, will you come to me? Whether I am at home or abroad will you do me this service for love's sake? I have no claim upon anyone, and certainly none upon you, but my heart calls for you, and I believe yours will answer the call.
"For the present, letters addressed to the British Post Office, Cairo, will be forwarded to me, for I have no fixed address, but I shall look eagerly for your reply. Let me say in one word that I shall make provision for the expense of your journey if I should send for you, and I shall not send unless the call is clear.
"And now tell me of Windyridge.... Write to me when you can: give me all the news; tell me how the great quest for peace progresses, and believe that I am ever,
"Your very sincere friend,"GEORGE EVANS."
Womanlike, I watered this missive with my tears, but they were April showers, after all, with great patches of blue sky in between, and plenty of warm sunshine; for it was sweet to know that I was cared for and that someone wanted me.
I hope none would mistake me. I am an emotional goose at times, I know, but thank goodness! I am no sentimentalist. I am not possessed with the idea that the squire wants to marry me and leave me his fortune, for I am perfectly sure that he does not. I heard his voice the night before he went away, and it told me the secret of his fidelity. Besides, I wouldn't marry him if he did want it, for though my heart tells me that I have loved him instinctively from the first day of our acquaintance, and I love him now more than ever, it also tells me that the affection is filial and nothing more. What more should it be? It is all the more likely to be unselfish and sincere on both sides that it has nothing of passion in it. You see, unlike Widow Robertshaw, I am not eager to change my state.
As to my decision, I did not hesitate for one moment. When he needs me I will go to him and, God helping me, I will act a daughter's part. Act? Nay, rather, I will do a daughter's loving duty.
I wrote him yesterday, telling him all the news of the little world of Windyridge, but painting the shadows lightly. In truth, they are heavy and full of gloom just now.
I had just commenced work in my studio after reading the squire's letter when Sar'-Ann burst in upon me, and throwing herself into one of my ornamental chairs commenced to cry and sob hysterically, holding her apron to her eyes and rocking her body to and fro in a frenzy of abandonment. I saw there was trouble of some sort, but recognised at the same time the need of firmness.
"Sar'-Ann," I said, "you will break that chair if you carry on in that fashion. Restrain yourself, and tell me what is the matter."
Restraint and Sar'-Ann, however, were strangers to each other, and her only response was to redouble her groans, until I lost patience.
"If you don't stop this noise, Sar'-Ann," I threatened, "I will get you a strong dose of sal-volatile and make you drink it. Do you hear?"
She did hear. Sal-volatile, as a remedy, had been unknown in Windyridge before my advent, but the few who had experienced it had not remained silent witnesses to its power, so that the very dread of the strange drug had been known to perform miraculously sudden cures in certain cases; and "that sally-stuff o' Miss Holden's" had become a word to charm with.
Sar'-Ann's groans subsided, but her breast heaved heavily, and her apron still concealed her face.
"Cannot you speak, child?" I asked. "What is the matter? If you want me to help you, you must do more than sob and cry. Now come!"
"It's Ginty!" she stammered; "he's run away an' robbed his mother of every penny, an' brokken her heart an' mine. Oh, Ginty! Ginty! Whatever shall I do?" and the rocking and sobbing began again.
I got the sal-volatile this time and forced her to swallow it, taking no heed of her protests. Mother Hubbard came in, too, and added her entreaties to my commands; and after a while she became calmer, and then the whole story came out.
Ginty had been mixing in bad company for some months past. Somewhere in the hollow of the moors a couple of miles away he had stumbled one Sunday upon a gambling school, conducted, I imagine, by city rogues who come out here to avoid the police, and had been threatened with violence for his unwelcome intrusion. He had purchased immunity by joining the school, and, unknown to everybody except Sar'-Ann, he had visited it, Sunday by Sunday, with unfailing regularity, for the greed of gain soon got hold of him. Sometimes he had won small sums, but more often he had lost all his wages and even pledged his credit, until he had not known where to turn for money.
"I gave 'im all I had," said Sar'-Ann, "an' I begged him to drop it, but he said he couldn't, an' he'd only to go on long enough to be sure to get it all back an' more to it. An' now, oh dear! oh dear! he's robbed his poor mother an' made off; an' whatever I'm goin' to do I don't know. O God! I wish I was dead!"
I left Mother Hubbard to console the stricken girl, fearing in my heart that she had not revealed the extent of her trouble, and went straight to Ginty's cottage, where a half-dozen women were doing their best to comfort the poor mother, bereaved of her only support by what was worse than death. Children were there, too, their fingers in their mouths and their eyes wide with wonder, staring vacantly at the object of universal commiseration, and silent in the presence of a sorrow they could feel but not understand.
The little garden was gay from end to end with multi-coloured crocuses, and two or three men stood looking at them, not daring to venture within the house, but ready to offer help if required. One of them muttered: "Bad job, this, miss!" as I passed; and the rest moved their heads in affirmation.
Ginty's mother was seated at the little round table, her head in her hands, and her eyes fixed upon an old cash box in front of her. The lid was thrown back and the box was empty. The picture told its own story; and to complete it a framed photograph of Ginty, which I had given him only a few weeks previously, hung upon the wall opposite, so that the author and his work were closely associated.
The women turned as I entered, and began to explain and discuss the situation before the poor woman who was its victim, in that seemingly callous manner with which the poor cloak and yet express their sympathy.
"Them's best off as has no bairns," said the blacksmith's wife; "ye moil an' toil for 'em, an' bring 'em up through their teethin' an' all make o' ailments, an' lay down yer varry life for 'em, an' this is how they pay you back in t' end."
"Ay," said Sar'-Ann's mother, "shoo'll hev to be thankful 'at it's no worse. So far as I know he's ta'en nob'dy's money but 'er's, so I don't suppose t' police 'll be after 'im. Eh! but it's a sad job an' all, an' he were bahn to wed our Sar'-Ann in a toathree week. Well, it's a rare good job for 'er 'at it's happened afore they were wed, rayther than at after."
"But whativver is shoo goin' to do now 'at Ginty's gone?" inquired the next door neighbour, Susannah; "Ginty kept 'er, an'shoocan't do nowt, not wi' them rheumatics in her legs, an' all that pile o' money gone. Nay, 'Lizabeth, lass, I nivver thowt ye'd scraped so mich together. It 'ud ha' served ye nicely for yer old age, but ye sud ha' put it in a bank. Whativver ye're bahn to do now, God only knows."
"We must see what can be done," I interposed. "We must all be her friends now that this trouble has come upon her, and do not let us add to her distress by our discussion. You will let us help you, won't you?" I asked.
She did not speak or move, but just stared stonily into the empty box; one would have said that she had not even heard.
I withdrew my hand as Susannah came forward. Susannah is a good woman, with a kind heart, and had known 'Lizabeth all her life. She knelt down on the stone floor and put an arm around her neighbour's waist.
"'Lizabeth, lass! Ye munnot tak' on like this. 'E'll be comin' back i' now. It's 'appen nowt but a bit of a marlackin', an' ye shall come an' live wi' us while 'e turns up. Now what say ye?"
The mother's mouth set hard and her brow contracted.
"I shall go into t' work'us, Susannah; where else should I go?"
There was a murmur of dissent, broken by Susannah's:
"No, no, lass, nowt o' t' sort. Ye'll come an' live wi' us; one mouth more 'll none mak' that difference, an' Mr. Evans 'll be back i' now an' put things straight for ye."
"Do ye think, Susannah, 'at your lasses 'll want to live wi' a thief's mother, an' do ye think 'at I'll let 'em? Ginty's a thief, an' all t' worse thief because he's robbed his own mother, an' left 'er to starve. But I won't be beholden to none of ye; I never 'ave been, an' I never will be. I've worked hard while I could work, an' I've saved what I could an' lived careful, so as I wouldn't need to be beholden to nob'dy; an' if Ginty has robbed me of my all 'e shall 'ave a pauper for his mother, an' 'e shall 'ear tell of 'er in a pauper's grave. I thank ye kindly, neighbours, but ye must all go an' leave me, for I amn't wantin' any comp'ny just now."
I saw that I could not be of service just then, so I came away with some of the other women, intending to go again on the morrow. But though I went immediately after breakfast I found that she had gone.
"She was off afore I'd well got t' fire lit," said Mrs. Smithies, who was my informant; "I looked across an' chanced to see 'er open t' door and pull it to behind 'er. She didn't lock it nor nowt, just like snecked it. She had a bundle in a red handkercher in 'er 'and, an' such a 'ard look on her face, an' she never once glanced be'ind nor at all them grand flowers, but just kept 'er eyes straight afore 'er.
"But I runs out an' I says: 'Nay 'Lizabeth, wherever are ye off, like?' An' she says, 'I'm off to t' workus, so good-bye, 'Becca; an' if there's ought in t' 'ouse after t' landlord's paid, you neighbours are all welcome to 't.' Not 'at I'd touch ought there is, miss, unless it were that chiney ornament on t' mantelpiece, which I could like if it were goin' a-beggin'.
"Well, I couldn't 'elp cryin' a bit, an' I axed 'er if she wouldn't change 'er mind, but she were same as if she were turned to stone. So I went up t' road wi' her a bit, just a piece beyond t' 'All gates, an' there she turned me back. 'Good-bye, 'Becca,' she says, 'an' thank God on yer knees 'at ye've no son to rob his mother! An' if my lad ever comes back, tell 'im he'll findhismother in a pauper's grave.'"
I walked down the fields into the sanctuary of the wood, where understanding is sometimes to be found and freedom from painful thoughts. It was bitterly cold, but the sky was blue, so that in the clear atmosphere every twig stood out with microscopic sharpness, and it was impossible to miss the note of hope in the song of new-born spring.
The trees were for the most part bare of colour—oak and elm and beech were alike in the grey garb of winter—but the sycamores had burst their buds and were clad in living green that delighted the eye and quickened the pulse, whilst great blotches of yellow celandine blazed in the sunshine of the open spaces like cloth of gold.
But the wood was voiceless at first to the question of my heart, and I told myself that the "Why?" of life is unanswerable. Then suddenly there came into my mind the familiar words of Tennyson:
"Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last—far off—at last, to all,And every winter change to spring,"
and at a bound my Inner Self found firm ground again.
"Grace," I said, "have you forgotten the closing verse of a preceding stanza?" and I repeated aloud:
"So fret not, like an idle girl,That life is dash'd with flecks of sin.Abide: thy wealth is gathered inWhen time hath sundered shell from pearl,"
and I determined to conquer my morbid tendencies and take a broader outlook on life. "An idle girl!" That stuck. "Ineffective depression is a kind of idleness," I said to myself, "and I will kill it with industry."
In obedience to this impulse I rose to my feet, and saw Farmer Goodenough crossing the brook just below. He smiled a greeting as he came up, and we walked homewards together.
"Now I durst bet a new bonnet to a new hat, Miss 'Olden," he began, "that I can guess at twice why you've come down 'ere, an' I'll throw one guess away. You're on what I should call in a manner o' speakin' a 'mopin' expedition;' now isn't that so?"
"But I don't wear bonnets, my dear sir," I rejoined; "and if you should win a new hat you wouldn't wear it, being of such conservative leanings. Nevertheless, I am going to plead guilty to your indictment, and I hope I shall be let off with nothing worse than a lecture."
"Nay, it's none for me to lecture anybody, for I know as little about the rights o' things as I know about bonnets, but I've lived long enough to know 'at' man's born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards,' as t' Owd Book puts it; an' if you're goin' to fret your heart out every time it comes your way you'll spend your life in a mournin' coach.
"'Cordin' to my way o' thinkin', Miss 'Olden, so long as human natur's what it is you'll never get rid o' sufferin' an' trouble, an' what good does it do to worrit yourself to death over what you can't mend? If you could mend it ever so little it 'ud be another matter. Now look at it i' this way. We can all choose our own road when it comes to a question o' right an' wrong, an' we should be in a poor way if we couldn't. My plough goes where t' horse pulls it, an' t' horse goes where I guide it. Now, neither t' plough nor t' horse has any responsibility, so to speak; but I'd rather be a man an' have t' power to choose where I go, even if I go wrong, nor be a beast or a machine.
"Now yon lad has gone wrong, an' I'm sorry for 'im, but accordin' to t' Owd Book it's no use cryin' over spilt milk, an' both 'im an' us 'll have to make t' best on 't. So will Sar'-Ann; so will Ginty's mother. Ginty knows he's done wrong, an' he's known t' difference between right an' wrong all along t' road. He's chosen, an' chosen badly, poor lad, an' he's sufferin' for it, wherever he is, an' 'e'll have to sup more sorrow still, there's no doubt about it, an' a bitter cup it'll be.
"But don't you see, this same bitter cup is med'cine for t' lad at same time. He's gone into t' far country now, but like t' other prodigal he'll come to himself, as t' Owd Book says, one o' these days, an' we shall have to leave him there till that time comes.
"But now, take t' lad's mother. She's chosen her own way an' all. Ginty's sin were greediness an' love o' money, an' his mother's sin is pride. We haven't all t' same nature, an' I'm not settin' up for a preacher, for Reuben Goodenough doesn't live up to his name by a long chalk, so I'm not judgin' t' woman, like a Pharisee.
"But I know this, if she'd just ha' let t' neighbours 'elp her a bit, her 'eart wouldn't have been so sore, and t' blow 'ud have been lightened for her. We're a roughish lot i' Windyridge, but there isn't many 'at wouldn't have made shift to help t' owd woman as well as they could, but she couldn't stomach bein' helped.
"An' there's a taste o' revenge in it too, unless I'm sadly mista'en. She thinks she'll pay t' lad out better wi' goin' to t' workus nor ought else she could do; an' she likes to believe 'at he'll be 'eart-brokken if she's put in a pauper's grave.
"That's how I size things up. All this trouble needn't have been, but it is there, an' you an' me has no 'casion to mope over it. Mopin' won't help neither of 'em, but I daresay we can both 'elp 'em a bit if we try. I'm goin' to see if I can hear ought o' t' lad, an' if I do I shall follow 'im up; an' I shall do my best to bring a bit o' sense to his mother. An' if you'll excuse me, miss—well, you're a woman. Try what a word o' prayer now an' again 'll do for 'em, i'stead o' frettin' over 'em; an' 'be strong an' of a good courage.' That's in t' Owd Book, an' it's good advice."
Easter is past and spring has burst upon us in all her glory. The landscape is painted in the freshest and daintiest tints: the beeches are a sight to make glad the heart of man; the chestnuts with their cones of cream and pink look in the distance like huge, newly-replenished candelabra; the slender birches, decked in silvery white and vivid green, stand gracefully erect, veritable "ladies of the woods," as Coleridge called them. Here and there a blackthorn bends beneath its burden of snowy blossom, and calls a challenge to the hedgerows which have wakened late, and are slow in their dressing.
Occasionally primroses may be seen, though they are not common in these parts; but on the banks of the lower lane modest violets peep out shyly from the shadows, and the dull purple flowers of a species of nettle offer their bashful welcome to spring. The gardens are gorgeous with daffodils, and the woods with celandine and wild hyacinth; whilst our humble friends, the buttercups, daisies, and dandelions, have sprung up in abundance, the merry children of field and wayside charming us all with their simple beauty.
I spend almost all my leisure time in watching the birds, an occupation which is in itself a never-failing delight, and I puzzle myself with questions which no man can answer, but which are imperatively asked all the same.
Who guides these flocks of tiny travellers, who have journeyed by trackless routes from distant lands hundreds of miles away, depending only on the strength of their own wings, and the mysterious vital power with which God has endowed them? How do they recognise the familiar haunts of a year ago? How do they know that the woods in these northern regions are ready for habitation?
I give it up; but I love to see them approach from the distance like a swiftly-moving cloud, and disappear into the haze again after circling over the trees which surround the Hall; and I love to walk through the meadows and see how my feathered brothers and sisters are making the most of the sunshine and the softened soil.
The blackbird is in full song now, and it darts past, me with its chirpy "tuck-tuck-tuck"; whilst the lark soars upwards into the azure with quivering song, full-throated, inimitable.
The sagacious rooks have been busy for days past with household cares, and have gone about thieving (with a clear conscience, I trust) for strictly domestic purposes; and the thrushes are just as industrious in their search for dainties hidden in Mother Earth.
East winds prevail, and rheumatism holds some of my neighbours in prison and in torment, but to me they bring exhilaration, a voracious appetite, and the joy of life. Mother Hubbard looks upon me with loving envy and sighs for the days that are beyond recall.
Poor Mother Hubbard! The hard winter has tried her severely, but she never complains and is always sweet and cheerful, and promises herself and me that she will be all right when summer comes. I hope so, for she has grown inexpressibly dear to her adopted daughter whom she does her level best to spoil, and if we were parted now we should miss each other sorely.
I have discovered that she is an excellent chaperon, and enjoys the rôle beyond my power of description. What a remarkable little woman she is! She knows that I keep a record of my experiences, and has got it into her head that I am writing a book, and she is therefore always on the look-out for the appearance of the hero. She has given me to understand that if she can only be in at thedénouement, when the hero leads the blushing bride to the altar amid the ill-restrained murmur of admiration from the crowd, she will be then ready to depart in peace. Needless to say, it isIwho am to be the blushing bride! It is no doubt a very pleasing fancy, but I am afraid the dear old lady will have to find contentment in an abstraction.
What amuses me most is her well-founded misgiving as to my ability to deal adequately with such a situation in my "book."
"You are not very romantic, love," she said to me one evening, when she had been making unusually large demands upon her imagination, to my considerable amusement, "and I don't think you will ever be equal to the greatest writers unless you cultivate that side of your nature. You know, love, you are rather practical and common-sense and all that sort of thing, and the men might not know how very nice you are." She came across and kissed me, hoping I did not mind her candour.
"You see, love, I was always rather romantic myself, and I think I could help you a bit; though, of course, I am not clever like you. But I could just tell you what I think ought to be put in, and you could find suitable language for it.... Now you're laughing at me!"
I believe she thought the hero had arrived when the Cynic turned up on Easter Monday.
It was a truly beautiful day, typically April, except that the showers were wanting, and the much-abused clerk who controls the Weather Department must have been unusually complaisant when he crowded so many pleasing features into his holiday programme. Until the long shadows began to creep across the fields it was warm enough to sit out in the sunshine, whilst there was just sufficient "bite" in the air to make exercise agreeable.
Every cottage garden had on its gala clothing and smiled a friendly welcome to the passer-by, and a sky that was almost really blue bent over a landscape of meadow, moor, and wood that was a perfect fantasy in every delicate shade of green. And the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air lifted up their voices in their several degrees of melody.
It had been a glorious Easter Day, and perhaps on that account I had risen early on the Monday and gone out bareheaded to catch the Spirit of the Morning. Farmer Goodenough passed as I stood at the gate, and threw one of his hearty greetings over his shoulder without pausing in his walk.
"Look out for customers to-day, Miss 'Olden! There'll be scores in t' village this afternoon from Broadbeck way."
"But suppose I don't want them, Mr. Goodenough," I replied; "it's holiday to-day."
"That 'ud be a sin," he shouted; "'make hay while t' sun shines,' as t' Owd Book says, holiday or no holiday."
There was sense in this. Customers had so far been scarce enough, for I had been favoured with the patronage of only three paying sitters, although I had been established in business for eight months. My total takings from the portraiture branch had not totalled thirty shillings; and if my neighbours had not grown accustomed to it, the sign at the bottom of the garden must have appeared very ridiculous indeed. I therefore anticipated the arrival of excursionists with no little eager interest.
Half a dozen houses in the village had got out brand new boards indicating that Teas were provided within, and I knew that from this date forward until the autumn a very brisk trade would be done on sunny Saturday afternoons and holidays.
Soon after half-past twelve I caught sight of the advance guard approaching. The footpaths between Windyridge and Marsland Moor became dotted with microscopic moving figures which materialised usually into male and female, walking two and two, even as they went into the ark, as Widow Robertshaw might have observed.
When they reached the village street the sight of my studio seemed to astonish them and tickle their fancy. "In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love"—and portraiture. Quite a group of young people gathered about my sign before two o'clock, and from that time until five I never sat down for one minute. As fast as I bowed out one couple another entered, amid a fusillade of good-humoured chaff and curtly-expressed injunctions to "be quick about it." I took so much money, comparatively speaking, in three short hours that I began to see visions and dream dreams—but the Cynic dispelled them.
He was standing in the garden, talking to Mother Hubbard, when I locked up the studio, and although he was in shorts I recognised him at once, for thus had I seen him in my dream. I involuntarily glanced at myself to make sure that I was correctly garbed and that it was really the key, and not Madam Rusty's teapot, that I held in my hand.
He came forward smilingly and held out his hand. "How do you do, Miss Holden? I had intended asking you to take my photograph, but competition for your favour was so keen that the modesty which has always been my curse forced me to the background."
"If it had forced you to the background you would have entered my studio, Mr. Derwent," I replied; "all those who have competed successfully for my favour were not deterred by dread of the background. I fear, however, it is now too late to endeavour to encourage you to overcome your bashfulness."
"Indeed, yes:
"'The shadows of departing dayCreep on once more,'
as the poet hath it, and when one has walked eight or nine miles across the moors the man within cries out for food and drink even more than for art. And therefore I have ventured to introduce myself to Mrs. Hubbard and to inquire if she would make me a cup of tea, and she has very kindly consented to do so."
I looked at Mother Hubbard, who had sufficient sense of the appropriate to blush very becomingly.
"You old sinner!" I said, "how dare you impose upon my good nature! Are there so few neighbours of ours who cater professionally for the requirements of these 'men within' that we must needs enter into competition with them?"
Mother Hubbard's nods and winks became so alarmingly expressive, however, during the course of my speech, that I was in real danger of becoming confused, so I turned to our guest and extricated myself.
"Be pleased to enter our humble abode, to which we make you heartily welcome. And in return for such poor hospitality as we can offer you, you shall regulate the clock, which has lately developed certain eccentricities, and nail up the creeper on the gable end. Then if time permits you shall rest your limbs on the wicker chair in the garden and enlighten us as to what is going on in the world of men."
"With all my heart," he agreed, "and I promise to make so good a tea that the debt will not be easily repaid."
He did pretty well, I must admit, and when it was over Mother Hubbard, with a self-conscious cough, and a look that was eloquence itself, expressed her fixed determination to clear away without my help.
"It's just a little fancy I have, love," she protested, as I tied on my apron; "I really would like to do it all myself. I am tired of sitting, and knitting seems to try my eyes to-day."
"Mother Hubbard," I replied, "you are a hypocritical old humbug, and you are wanting to persuade Mr. Derwent that I am not domesticated, which is too bad of you. And you know that I take my share of the work."
"Really, love," said Mother Hubbard, who was almost in tears at the denseness of my intelligence, "I'm sure Mr. Derwent will understand my meaning."
I am only too much afraid that he did, for he looked at me out of the corners of his eyes and said, with a merry twinkle which was provoking:
"I shall certainly need some information about the clock, and a little assistance with the creeper. Miss Holden, you had better yield to Mrs. Hubbard's wishes."
"If you cannot regulate a clock without a woman standing over you, or hold a bit of jasmine in one hand and a hammer in the other without a woman's assistance, you deserve to remain in your ridiculous background. You will find the tools in the top drawer of the dresser. If you will be good enough to get them and go on with your work, Mother Hubbard and I will soon finish ours."
He grinned, and Mother Hubbard groaned; but before long we were sitting together in the garden, with the knitting needles making music as usual.
The Cynic leaned back in his chair and watched the blue smoke curl lazily from his cigarette. The laughter of the visitors had ceased in the streets, but the voice of song was wafted occasionally to our ears from the fields below. How is it that homeward-bound excursionists always sing?
"I take it, Miss Holden, that you are a Prototype, which I spell in capitals. But I venture to predict that you will not have a large following. The modern craze is for kudos, and in this particular the success of an enterprise like yours is not likely to be remarkable."
"What, exactly, is my enterprise?" I inquired. "Please interpret me to myself."
"The surface reading is easy," he replied, "but the significance is hieroglyphic. Who can read the riddle of woman's motives? They are past finding out, and man can only grope for the meaning with half-blind observation, having eyes indeed, but seeing not; hearing, but not understanding."
"As, for instance?" I again inquired.
"I will come to your case shortly," he continued, "and meantime I will speak in parables. I went into a fashionable draper's shop the other day, as I had business with one of the principals. He was engaged, and I elected to wait and was accommodated with a seat near the glove counter. My experiences were distinctly interesting, but I cannot yet read the riddle they offered me. Before I was summoned to the office three customers had approached the counter at separate times, and the procedure was in all three cases on approximately similar lines.
"The lady sailed up to the counter, deposited her parcels upon it, seated herself upon the waiting chair, adjusted her skirt, and then, turning to the deferential young gentleman whose head was inclined artistically to one side in the way that is characteristic of the most genteel establishments, murmured languidly: 'Gloves, please.'
"The deferential young gentleman brought his head to the perpendicular and replied: 'Gloves! Yes, madam,' and proceeded to reach down a half-dozen boxes from the shelves at his back.
"'This, madam,' he said, bringing forth a pair of grey suedes, 'is a beautiful glove. One of Flint's very best make, and they are produced specially for our firm. Every pair is guaranteed. We can very strongly recommend them.'
"The lady took the gloves in her hand, stretched them, and examined them slowly and critically, whilst the D.Y.G.'s head dropped to the artistic angle again.
"After having eyed them in silence for a minute or more, and half conveyed the impression that they were the very gloves she was seeking, the lady placed them without a word on the counter, and the D.Y.G. with perfect understanding replaced them in the box.
"He opened another box containing suede gloves in tan.
"'This also is an excellent glove, madam,' he repeated, with all the precision of a gramophone; 'it is one of our best selling lines, and its wearing qualities are unsurpassed. You may buy more expensive gloves, but none of better value.'
"This pair is subjected to the same slow and critical examination, after which the lady inquires:
"'What is the price?'
"'The price of these gloves, madam, is seven-and-six.' Professing to confirm his statement by minutely examining the ticket, though, of course, he is perfectly well aware that there is no mistake, he repeats: 'Yes, madam, seven-and-six.'
"Again the gloves are laid upon the counter, and again the D.Y.G. replaces the lid and attacks another box! Meanwhile the lady's gaze is wandering abstractedly around the shop; picking out an acquaintance here and there she smiles a recognition; and she seems a little vexed when a third pair of gloves is placed before her. The same performance follows, with the same serenity on both sides, but the price has dropped to five shillings.
"Then the kids are produced, in all shades and at all prices, and are in turn deposited upon the counter without comment.
"At last the D.Y.G. has exhausted his stock and his familiar recitations, but fortunately not his urbanity, and he looks at his customer with deprecation in his eyes.
"'You had some white kid gloves in the window a week or two ago,' she murmurs, smiling sweetly; 'ten buttons; they were a special price, I think.'
"'Two-and-eleven, madam?' he asks, hopefully.
"'I believe they were. Yes, two-and-eleven,' she responds, as though consideration had confirmed her recollection; and in two minutes more her wants are satisfied, and she departs to another counter to the performance of Scene 2 in the same act."
"And this is typical of woman's methods?" I ask.
"It serves to show," he replies, "how unfathomable her methods are to mere man. Whenweunimaginative mortals enter a shop for a similar purpose we say:
"'I want a pair of tan kids, seven and three-quarters, about three-and-six,' and before the current of cold air which came in with us has circulated round the shop, we are going out with the little parcel in our pocket. Now why does not woman do the same?Youdon't know—nobody knows; nobody really wants to know, or to see her act otherwise."
"It is a very silly exaggeration," I said, "and if it is characteristic ofyourmethods they are certainly not past finding out."
The Cynic is really a very irritating person. He has a way of ignoring your rejoinders which is most annoying, and makes you want to rise up and shake him. Besides, it isn't courteous.
"Now to return to your own case, Miss Holden. It is not typical and therefore I call it prototypical.Whyyou have forsaken London society (which in this case I spell with a small 's,' to guard against possible repudiation) is possibly known to yourself, though personally I doubt it. Why, having found the hermitage and the simple life, you have adopted photography as a profession in a village where you will be fortunate if you make an annual profit of ten pounds is another enigma. But kudos is not everything, and I see in you the archetype of a race of women philosophers of whom the world stands sorely in need."
"You talk like a book," I said, "and use mighty big words which in my case need the interpretation of a dictionary, but I'm afraid they cover a good deal of rubbish, which is typical, if I may say so, of the ordinary conversation of the modern smart man."
"Nay," said he, "but I am in downright earnest. For every effect there must be an adequate cause. You may not understand yourself. The why and wherefore of your action may be hard to discover, but I was wrong when I said that it was unfathomable. Given skill and perseverance, the most subtle compound must yield its analysis, but it is not given to every man to submit a woman's actions to the test, and I beg you to believe that I was not impertinent enough to make any such suggestion."
"Nevertheless," I said, "I may some day allow you to put my actions into the crucible, and see if you can find my real motives. I confess I do not understand myself, and I have nothing to conceal. I think I should rather like to be analysed."
"Then I may come again?" he asked.
"You may come to be photographed, of course," I replied.
I wonder how old he is, and what he does!
New sensations have elbowed and jostled each other to secure my special attention this Whitsuntide, until I have been positively alarmed for my mental equilibrium. The good people here seem so sedate on ordinary occasions that one fails to realise that after all there is a good deal of the peacock and the kitten in the make-up of many of them; but Whitsuntide reveals this.
The peacock in them manifests itself as they strut up and down in new clothing of brilliant dye, affecting an unconsciousness and unconcern which deceives nobody. The shocks I received during that memorable Sunday, when the village turned out in its new finery, I still experience, like the after-tremors of an earthquake.
Pray do not imagine that Windyridge knows nothing of the rule of fashion. Every mother's daughter, though not every daughter's mother, owns her sway and is her devoted subject. If the imperious Dame bids her votaries hobble, the Windyridge belle limps awkwardly to and fro—on Sundays and feast days—in proud and painful obedience, heedless of the unconcealed sneers and contempt of her elders. If headgear after the form of the beehive or the castle of the termite ant is decreed, she counts it a joy, like any fashionable lady of fortune, to suffer the eclipse of her good looks under the vilest monstrosity the milliner's ingenuity can devise. Ah, me! How fine a line, after all, divides Windyridge from Mayfair!
The kitten in them gambols and makes fun whole-heartedly for several hours at a stretch on the afternoon of Whit Monday, and with such kindliness and good humour that one cannot help feeling that the world is very young and one's self not so very old either.
I thought the rain was going to spoil everything. Day by day for a week it had come down with a steady determination that seemed to mean the ruin of holiday prospects. The foliage certainly looked all the fresher for it, and the ash took heart to burst its black buds and help to swell the harmony of the woods. But these are æsthetic considerations which do not appeal to people who are looking forward to a good time—a time of fun and frolic for some, and harvesting of shekels for others.
When I woke on the Sunday, however, old Father Sol had shaken off his lethargy, bundled the surly clouds into the store-room, locked the door and put the key into his pocket, and strolled forth to enjoy the sight of his welcome. Meadow, pasture and moor, green hedgerow and brown road were silvered over with sunshine, and the flowers looked up and laughed the tears away from their faces, and told themselves that everything had been for the best; and the cocks crowed lustily from the walls where they had flown to greet the sun, and all the birds came out from eave and tree and lowly nest, and sang their doxology in happy and tuneful notes which told how brimful they were of joy.
Long before church-time it was so hot that the fields were steaming like drying clothes before the fire, and as I walked back from Fawkshill after the morning service I felt sure that there need be no misgiving about the dryness of the grass for the children's treat on the morrow. Everybody was concerned for the children! Young women of eighteen and young men of the same age had no real concern or interest in the weather except in so far as it involved disappointment to the children! Well, well! How easily we deceive ourselves, and how unwilling we are to acknowledge the child within the man!
In the afternoon I went to chapel with Mother Hubbard, and saw and heard that which made me want to laugh and cry at the same time, and I really do not know why I should have done either. My emotions seem to take holiday sometimes and enjoy themselves in their own peculiar way without restraint. Let me set down my experiences.
Do you know what a "sitting-up" is? If you live in Yorkshire or Lancashire no doubt you do, but if you are a southerner or a more northern northerner the probability is that you do not. When Mother Hubbard told me that the children were to "sit up" at the chapel on Whit Sunday I stared at her without understanding. "Do they usually stand up or lie down?" I inquired.
Then it occurred to me that this was, perhaps, a metaphorical way of speaking, and that there was, so to speak, a "rod in pickle" for the bairns on this special occasion, but why I could not imagine. Yet I knew that when an irate Windyridge father undertook to make his lad "sit up," it usually betokened some little difficulty in sitting at all until the soreness wore off.
This, however, foreboded nothing of so unpleasant a nature. When I entered the light and airy little sanctuary I found thirty or forty children ranged in rows one above the other, in front of the little pulpit. Not many boys were there, and there was nothing specially attractive about those who were, beyond the attractiveness that lurks within the face of every cleanly-washed child. But the girls were a picture; they were all in white, but most of them had coloured sashes round their waists, and coloured ribbons in their hair, and one or two were distinguished by black adornments, betokening the recent visit of that guest who is so seldom regarded as a friend.
Some of the frocks were new, but most of them were old; and it is safe to assume that the younger children were wearing what had served the turn of a past generation of "sitters-up." In some cases they were so inadequate to the requirements of the long-limbed, growing maidens who wore them, that it cannot be denied that the dresses "sat up" even more than their owners, so that the white cotton stockings were taxed to the utmost to maintain conventional decency.
To listen to the children's performances, rather than to the address of the preacher, the chapel was uncomfortably crowded by what the handbills called "parents, relatives and friends."
The door was wide open, and my eyes often strayed to it before the service began, for it framed a picture of yellow meadows and waving trees, of brown moorland and ultramarine sky, with drowsy cattle in the pastures a hundred feet below, which seemed strangely unfamiliar, and rather reminiscent of something I had once seen or dreamed of, than of what I looked upon every day of my life. The explanation is simple enough, of course. I saw just apanelof the landscape, and with limited vision the eye observed more clearly and found the beauty of the scene intensified.
But when the prayer was ended—a rather long and wearisome one, to my thinking, on such a fine day, when all nature was offering praise so cheerily—the children's part began.
They sang children's hymns, the simple hymns I had sung myself as a child, which I hope all English-speaking Christian children sing: the hymns which belong to the English language and to no one church, but are broad enough to embrace all creeds, and tender enough to move all hearts, and which must find an echo in the Higher Temple, where thousands of children stand around the throne of God.
A wee lassie of five stood up to sing alone. As the thin, childish voice rose and fell my heart began to beat fast, and I looked at the fair little head through a veil of tears. They made an aureole which transformed Roger Treffit's firstborn into a heavenly cherub, and I was carried into that exalted state when imperfect speech and neglected aspirates are forgotten:
"Jesus, tender Shep'erd 'ear me:Bless Thy little lamb to-night;Through the darkness be Thou near me;Keep me safe till mornin' light."