When the sun takes to shining in winter, and the Southwest to blowing,
the corners of the earth cannot hide from him--the mornings are like
halls full of light. Robert had spent his hopes upon a wet day that
would have kept the congregation sparse and the guests at Fairly absent
from public devotions.
He perceived at once that he was doomed to be under everybody's eyes
when he walked down the aisle, for everybody would attend the service on
such a morning as this.
Already he had met his conscience, in so far as that he shunned asking
Percy again what was the reason for their going to church, and he
had not the courage to petition to go in the afternoon instead of the
morning.
The question, “Are you ashamed of yourself, then?” sang in his ears as a
retort ready made.
There was no help for it; so he set about assisting his ingenuity
to make the best appearance possible--brushing his hat and coat with
extraordinary care.
Percy got him to point out the spot designated for the meeting, and
telling him to wait in the Warbeach churchyard, or within sight of it,
strolled off in the direction of the river. His simple neatness and
quiet gentlemanly air abashed Robert, and lured him from his intense
conception of abstract right and wrong, which had hitherto encouraged
and incited him, so that he became more than ever crestfallen at
the prospect of meeting the eyes of the church people, and with the
trembling sensitiveness of a woman who weighs the merits of a lover when
passion is having one of its fatal pauses, he looked at himself, and
compared himself with the class of persons he had outraged, and tried
to think better of himself, and to justify himself, and sturdily reject
comparisons. They would not be beaten back. His enemies had never
suggested them, but they were forced on him by the aspect of his friend.
Any man who takes the law into his own hands, and chooses to stand
against what is conventionally deemed fitting:--against the world, as we
say, is open to these moods of degrading humility. Robert waited for the
sound of the bells with the emotions of a common culprit. Could he have
been driven to the church and deposited suddenly in his pew, his mind
would have been easier.
It was the walking there, the walking down the aisle, the sense of his
being the fellow who had matched himself against those well-attired
gentlemen, which entirely confused him. And not exactly for his own
sake--for Percy's partly. He sickened at the thought of being seen by
Major Waring's side. His best suit and his hat were good enough, as
far as they went, only he did not feel that he wore them--he could not
divine how it was--with a proper air, an air of signal comfort. In
fact, the graceful negligence of an English gentleman's manner had been
unexpectedly revealed to him; and it was strange, he reflected, that
Percy never appeared to observe how deficient he was, and could still
treat him as an equal, call him by his Christian name, and not object to
be seen with him in public.
Robert did not think at the same time that illness had impoverished his
blood. Your sensational beings must keep a strong and a good flow of
blood in their veins to be always on a level with the occasion which
they provoke. He remembered wonderingly that he had used to be easy
in gait and ready of wit when walking from Queen Anne's Farm to Wrexby
village church. Why was he a different creature now? He could not answer
the question.
Two or three of his Warbeach acquaintances passed him in the lanes. They
gave him good day, and spoke kindly, and with pleasant friendly looks.
Their impression when they left him was that he was growing proud.
The jolly butcher of Warbeach, who had a hearty affection for him,
insisted upon clapping his hand, and showing him to Mrs. Billing, and
showing their two young ones to Robert. With a kiss to the children, and
a nod, Robert let them pass.
Here and there, he was hailed by young fellows who wore their hats on
one side, and jaunty-fashioned coats--Sunday being their own bright day
of exhibition. He took no notice of the greetings.
He tried to feel an interest in the robins and twittering wrens, and
called to mind verses about little birds, and kept repeating them,
behind a face that chilled every friendly man who knew him.
Moody the boat-builder asked him, with a stare, if he was going to
church, and on Robert's replying that perhaps he was, said “I'm dashed!”
and it was especially discouraging to one in Robert's condition.
Further to inspirit him, he met Jonathan Eccles, who put the same
question to him, and getting the same answer, turned sharp round and
walked homeward.
Robert had a great feeling of relief when the bells were silent, and
sauntered with a superior composure round the holly and laurel bushes
concealing the church. Not once did he ponder on the meeting between
Major Waring and Mr. Edward Blancove, until he beheld the former
standing alone by the churchyard gate, and then he thought more of the
empty churchyard and the absence of carriages, proclaiming the dreadful
admonition that he must immediately consider as to the best way of
comporting himself before an observant and censorious congregation.
Major Waring remarked, “You are late.”
“Have I kept you waiting?” said Robert.
“Not long. They are reading the lessons.”
“Is it full inside?”
“I dare say it is.”
“You have seen him, I suppose?”
“Oh yes; I have seen him.”
Percy was short in his speech, and pale as Robert had never seen him
before. He requested hastily to be told the situation of Lord Elling's
pew.
“Don't you think of going into the gallery?” said Robert, but received
no answer, and with an inward moan of “Good God! they'll think I've come
here in a sort of repentance,” he found himself walking down the aisle;
and presently, to his amazement, settled in front of the Fairly pew, and
with his eyes on Mrs. Lovell.
What was the matter with her? Was she ill? Robert forgot his own
tribulation in an instant. Her face was like marble, and as she stood
with the prayer-book in her hand, her head swayed over it: her lips made
a faint effort at smiling, and she sat quietly down, and was concealed.
Algernon and Sir John Capes were in the pew beside her, as well as Lady
Elling, who, with a backward-turned hand and disregarding countenance,
reached out her smelling-bottle.
“Is this because she fancies I know of her having made a bet of me?”
thought Robert, and it was not his vanity prompted the supposition,
though his vanity was awakened by it. “Or is she ashamed of her
falsehood?” he thought again, and forgave her at the sight of her sweet
pale face. The singing of the hymns made her evident suffering seem holy
as a martyr's. He scarce had the power to conduct himself reverently, so
intense was his longing to show her his sympathy.
“That is Mrs. Lovell--did you see her just now?” he whispered.
“Ah?” said Major Waring.
“I'm afraid she has fainted.”
“Possibly.”
But Mrs. Lovell had not fainted. She rose when the time for rising came
again, and fixing her eyes with a grave devotional collectedness upon
the vicar at his reading-desk, looked quite mistress of herself--but
mistress of herself only when she kept them so fixed. When they moved,
it was as if they had relinquished some pillar of support, and they
wavered; livid shades chased her face, like the rain-clouds on a grey
lake-water. Some one fronting her weighed on her eyelids. This was
evident. Robert thought her a miracle of beauty. She was in colour like
days he had noted thoughtfully: days with purple storm, and with golden
horizon edges. She had on a bonnet of black velvet, with a delicate
array of white lace, that was not suffered to disturb the contrast to
her warm yellow hair. Her little gloved hands were both holding the
book; at times she perused it, or, the oppression becoming unendurable,
turned her gaze toward the corner of the chancel, and thence once more
to her book. Robert rejected all idea of his being in any way the cause
of her strange perturbation. He cast a glance at his friend. He had
begun to nourish a slight suspicion; but it was too slight to bear up
against Percy's self-possession; for, as he understood the story, Percy
had been the sufferer, and the lady had escaped without a wound. How,
then, if such were the case, would she be showing emotion thus deep,
while he stood before her with perfect self-command?
Robert believed that if he might look upon that adorable face for many
days together, he could thrust Rhoda's from his memory. The sermon was
not long enough for him; and he was angry with Percy for rising before
there was any movement for departure in the Fairly pew. In the doorway
of the church Percy took his arm, and asked him to point out the family
tombstone. They stood by it, when Lady Elling and Mrs. Lovell came forth
and walked to the carriage, receiving respectful salutes from the people
of Warbeach.
“How lovely she is!” said Robert.
“Do you think her handsome?” said Major Waring.
“I can't understand such a creature dying.” Robert stepped over an open
grave.
The expression of Percy's eyes was bitter.
“I should imagine she thinks it just as impossible.”
The Warbeach villagers waited for Lady Elling's carriage to roll away,
and with a last glance at Robert, they too went off in gossiping groups.
Robert's penance was over, and he could not refrain from asking what
good his coming to church had done.
“I can't assist you,” said Percy. “By the way, Mr. Blancove denies
everything. He thinks you mad. He promises, now that you have adopted
reasonable measures, to speak to his cousin, and help, as far as he can,
to discover the address you are in search of.”
“That's all?” cried Robert.
“That is all.”
“Then where am I a bit farther than when I began?”
“You are only at the head of another road, and a better one.”
“Oh, why do I ever give up trusting to my right hand--” Robert muttered.
But the evening brought a note to him from Algernon Blancove. It
contained a dignified condemnation of Robert's previous insane
behaviour, and closed by giving Dahlia's address in London.
“How on earth was this brought about?” Robert now questioned.
“It's singular, is it not?” said Major blaring; “but if you want a dog
to follow you, you don't pull it by the collar; and if you want a potato
from the earth, you plant the potato before you begin digging. You are
a soldier by instinct, my good Robert: your first appeal is to force.
I, you see, am a civilian: I invariably try the milder methods. Do
you start for London tonight? I remain. I wish to look at the
neighbourhood.”
Robert postponed his journey to the morrow, partly in dread of his
approaching interview with Dahlia, but chiefly to continue a little
longer by the side of him whose gracious friendship gladdened his life.
They paid a second visit to Sutton Farm. Robert doggedly refused to
let a word be said to his father about his having taken to farming,
and Jonathan listened to all Major Waring said of his son like a man
deferential to the accomplishment of speaking, but too far off to hear
more than a chance word. He talked, in reply, quite cheerfully of
the weather and the state of the ground; observed that the soil was
a perpetual study, but he knew something of horses and dogs, and
Yorkshiremen were like Jews in the trouble they took to over-reach in
a bargain. “Walloping men is poor work, if you come to compare it
with walloping Nature,” he said, and explained that, according to
his opinion, “to best a man at buying and selling was as wholesome an
occupation as frowzlin' along the gutters for parings and strays.” He
himself preferred to go to the heart of things: “Nature makes you rich,
if your object is to do the same for her. Yorkshire fellows never think
except of making theirselves rich by fattening on your blood, like
sheep-ticks.” In fine, Jonathan spoke sensibly, and abused Yorkshire,
without hesitating to confess that a certain Yorkshireman, against whom
he had matched his wits in a purchase of horseflesh, had given him a
lively recollection of the encounter.
Percy asked him what he thought of his country. “I'll tell you,” said
Jonathan; “Englishmen's business is to go to war with the elements, and
so long as we fight them, we're in the right academy for learnin' how
the game goes. Our vulnerability commences when we think we'll sit
down and eat the fruits, and if I don't see signs o' that, set me
mole-tunnelling. Self-indulgence is the ruin of our time.”
This was the closest remark he made to his relations with Robert, who
informed him that he was going to London on the following day. Jonathan
shook his hand heartily, without troubling himself about any inquiries.
“There's so much of that old man in me,” said Robert, when Percy praised
him, on their return, “that I daren't call him a Prince of an old
boy: and never a spot of rancour in his soul. Have a claim on him--and
there's your seat at his table: take and offend him--there's your seat
still. Eat and drink, but you don't get near his heart. I'll surprise
him some day. He fancies he's past surprises.”
“Well,” said Percy, “you're younger than I am, and may think the future
belongs to you.”
Early next morning they parted. Robert was in town by noon. He lost no
time in hurrying to the Western suburb. As he neared the house where
he was to believe Dahlia to be residing, he saw a man pass through the
leafless black shrubs by the iron gate; and when he came to the gate
himself the man was at the door. The door opened and closed on this man.
It was Nicodemus Sedgett, or Robert's eyes did him traitorous service.
He knocked at the door violently, and had to knock a second and a third
time. Dahlia was denied to him. He was told that Mrs. Ayrton had lived
there, but had left, and her present address was unknown. He asked to
be allowed to speak a word to the man who had just entered the house.
No one had entered for the last two hours, was the reply. Robert had
an impulse to rush by the stolid little female liar, but Percy's recent
lesson to him acted as a restraint; though, had it been a brawny woman
or a lacquey in his path, he would certainly have followed his natural
counsel. He turned away, lingering outside till it was dusk and the
bruise on his head gave great throbs, and then he footed desolately
farther and farther from the house. To combat with evil in his own
country village had seemed a simple thing enough, but it appeared a
superhuman task in giant London.