And the Voices of the Dialogue would be Strong and Manly.
And the Ditty High and Tragicall; Not nice or Dainty.--_Bacon_.
Drinkers of tea in Kingsmore continued to talk scandal concerning
Conway and Nancy Reed; but when the evil practice extended beyond the
farm-houses and reached the untidy Vicarage, Mr. Price considered the
time had come for him to act. The breath of ill-report was poison to
the simple squire. Having drunk his customary four cups of tea, he
roundly lectured his sister and niece; and when he had finished his
sermon he went out to the stable-yard, saddled a cob with his own
hands, then jogged across the hills to Thorlund, to acquaint himself
personally with the facts relating to his peccant parishioner Lone
Nance.
The squire remained a very short time at the Strath; yet it was long
enough to satisfy him. He trotted back contented, although ignorant
that he had regarded his neighbour’s domestic affairs through the
spectacles which the spirit of the place had thought good to push
before his eyes. Reaching home, he fell in with Flora, and after
removing himself slowly from the saddle thus expressed his mind:
“The only way of punishing scandal-mongers is to disgrace them
publicly. Our ancestors had the sense to know that. When gossips made
a nuisance of themselves they had their heads harnessed in an iron
cage. I could name a few chattering people who would be none the worse
for a dose of old English penalties. Give me the stocks again, and let
me see the public nuisances with their ankles picketed, and a beadle
handy to encourage honest folk to jeer at them--”
“I suppose you have been to the Strath?” broke in Flora, who knew by
experience that when her uncle was mounted upon a hobby his speech was
liable to flow.
“Where I discovered the truth,” the vicar snapped. “Mr. Conway finds
that old woman totally inadequate, and I’m sure I don’t wonder. It
appears that Nancy Reed came and offered her services and he accepted
them. It is all quite respectable and right. But the extraordinary
part of it is the girl appears to be perfectly sane.”
“Did you go into the house?” Flora asked, with meaning.
“I stood in the hall for about five minutes, and enjoyed a very
interesting conversation with Mr. Drayton. A most well-informed man,
my dear, and as clear-headed as anyone could be. I have asked him to
come and visit us. Really I found the Strath quite fascinating. After
all I should be sorry to see it pulled down.”
“Did you interview this young woman?” Flora pursued.
“What?” said her uncle, somewhat blankly. “Well, I cannot remember
that I did,” he went on crossly. “I was perfectly satisfied. Anyhow
it’s not a subject for you to discuss, and I do not wish to hear any
more questions.”
The squire was walking beside the girl, who was tall enough to look
down upon him. As they came near the house he turned to her, and asked
sharply, for he was not in a good humour that evening, how many men it
had pleased her to refuse to marry.
“Four at present,” replied Flora carelessly.
“Ah!” exclaimed her uncle. “It is evident you are incapable of
selecting a husband for yourself. When is your reply going to be in
the affirmative?”
“Probably never. I don’t want to marry, and I don’t want to talk about
it,” returned Flora.
“Bless my soul! A good-looking girl not want to talk about matrimony!”
said the astounded squire. “I want to see you settled,” he went on
seriously. “I am an old man, and I should like to have the pleasure of
uniting you to some suitable partner before I take my departure.”
“You have someone in your mind,” she suggested. “Is it Mr. Conway?”
“You might do worse, I suppose,” said the vicar, stroking his chin,
and glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes.
“And live at the Strath?” she went on.
“You might improve it.”
“Not very long ago you told me Mr. Conway was not a gentleman,” Flora
reminded him. “You remarked that he was connected with the Reeds of
this village. You called the Strath a haunted house. Do you know what
has caused your mind to change so completely?”
The vicar stared her in amazement.
“It is the house,” she said. “You have just come from there, and I
believe its influence is still upon you. You were not expressing your
own opinions just now. They are not your opinions.”
“Flora,” the old gentleman exclaimed angrily, “I may be over seventy,
but I am not a fool, and I am not to be told by a young girl that I do
not know what I am talking about. I want you to marry, and of course I
hope you will choose a worthy gentleman. In my young days girls were
not allowed to have opinions of their own, and it was very much better
for them. I did not ask your poor dear aunt if she would marry me. I
went to her father, who, I believe, was far more capable of judging a
man than she could ever have been and told him I wanted his daughter.
That is the way marriages ought to be arranged. If any man asks me for
you, and I think him desirable, I shall take it upon myself to answer
for you, and if you refuse to accept him I shall leave my money
elsewhere. I have an idea you have behaved disgracefully.”
With that the squire led his horse off to the stable; while Flora,
very white and angry, mounted her bicycle and rode across country to
seek consolation from Maude.
The little lady was not at home. A man of general uselessness, who was
rolling the lawn without energy, volunteered the information that his
mistress had driven off in her donkey-cart half an hour earlier. Flora
returned to the road, and tempted by a long declivity ran down into
Thorlund.
She saw no one in the hamlet; not a living thing appeared upon the
road; only a subdued hammering issued from the smithy on the side of
the hill. The Strath never appeared more alluring than when flooded in
evening sunlight. It seemed to be breathing softly, reaching a dreamy
influence over church, fields, and hills, hushing nature into silence.
Flora walked to the gate in the churchyard, responding to a summons
which would accept no denial; and for the second time found herself in
the garden with the eyes of the house upon her soul.
The mood had changed; on her former visit the house had transferred
her into a light-hearted mummer. Then it suggested solemn truths,
responsibilities which might not be avoided, and the necessary sorrows
of existence. It suggested that a thin veil separated knowledge from
belief; creatures of a day could not afford to dally; the mind which
faces the whirlwind must bend or be broken; women who will not obey
the call of destiny must die, even as Henry Reed had died; tragedy
arises from self-will; obedience is the road to happiness. Through
this atmosphere Flora wandered, with an indefinite longing for a
guide, beginning to comprehend that she could no more struggle against
destiny than the butterfly against the storm.
A rebellious desire came over her to defy those influences, and in
that moment it seemed to her that the light darkened. She experienced
the stunning sensation of walking out to execution before a howling
mob; there was the ancient tragic wail, “Alas, my sister!” and she saw
a stage with curtain descending slowly before a dying body. Here then
was the end of those who opposed themselves to destiny. So she
resigned herself, and immediately the light became clear, and her mind
was at rest. She was told contemptuously that she was human, therefore
ignorant, and fated to stumble. She was like a foolish moth coming out
of darkness, burning its beauty, and returning into darkness.
Life must be something more than a glimmering meteor. It is a flame
burning well, or flickering feebly, according to the supply of soul. A
life might light the world, and continue burning. Far back in the
morning mists of time a fair woman had struck the lyre. It still
vibrated. Four thousand men had held at bay three millions of foes,
falling at last, envied, their tomb an altar; and a general in command
of a few heroes had faced the fighting force of the world, and hurled
it back, with death in the front, destruction in the rear. The light
shed by such lives might never be extinguished.
Flora had sought originality. She had longed to render herself
conspicuous by a line of action contrary to the laws of the drama. It
was for the Strath to open her eyes, and point out, what should have
been obvious, namely that she was a very ordinary woman. Originality
does not consist in doing uncommon things, but in doing common things
in an uncommon way. Thousands of men had fought and fallen, before
Miltiades occupied the plain of Marathon, or Leonidas led his handful
to the pass of the Hot Springs. Hundreds of singers had lifted up
their voices, before Sappho’s throat melted with its music. They were
immortal, because they had played the fine old parts as well as it was
possible to play them. But let a man or woman create a fresh part
which was contrary to the laws of the drama--then would come failure,
dishonour, and the hisses of the audience.
The voice of warning was clear. Away from the Strath the girl might
assume her part of attracting men with no idea of union; but there at
least she was bound by the custom of ages. She stirred among strange
forces. The dramatic fingers of destiny indicated the well-worn paths
along which she must walk, through pain and difficulties by performing
a woman’s duty, to attain present happiness and rest at last. The
influence suggested, moreover, that she might not turn into that
beaten track without a punishment for having gone astray.
The lessons of the Strath were those of the didactic drama, which
teaches that mortals must submit to unchanging laws. The battle of
free-will against destiny was its theme when serious, but under the
teaching there lurked undoubtedly the sting of malevolence, of hatred
for the actors upon its stage, and a desire to destroy them if it
might. It had no phantasm to show, nor could it terrify by any sound;
it could only shape minds for good or evil, causing the puppets to act
and speak in comic or in tragic mood, showing them that life is not a
small thing, the world no passing scene, but rather a permanent stage,
upon which actors pass and repass, each playing many characters, with
the same passions in them, and the same destiny always behind.
Unmindful of time or place Flora walked on until she reached the
orchard. And there other voices came to her ears, and looking out she
saw Conway and Nance walking beneath the mossy branches.
She stood aloof, watching those dream-like figures crossing the bright
green orchard, her ears filled with the drowsy hum of their voices,
until the knowledge came that she was jealous of the brown village
girl who trailed across the grass the long discarded garments of
Winifred Hooper, and rested a hand, half hidden in lace ruffles, upon
the arm of her new-found friend.
Flora swayed to and fro beside the hedge, and endeavoured to reason
with her sane self, but the Strath held her fast. Could this wild
Medea-like passion be love, or was it hatred? There was hatred in her
heart, but it was for Nance, and her eyes had never seen the girl
before that day. A breath of wind shivered through the trees, and
strong-minded Flora bent beneath the tragic influence of the place.
She ran to the house and entered the hall, which was filled with
dust-flecked sunbeams. Then into the saloon, where Drayton was lying
asleep with a smile upon his white face. A mask of tragedy stared from
the wall with pitiful blank eyes. Flora smiled wildly at the emblem;
then, catching the reflection of her own face in one of the mirrors,
shrank because of its tragic similarity. She caught up the rusty
sword, which her uncle had handled upon their former visit, and passed
again through the garden with the day upon one side, and the night
upon the other.
The man and the girl were still walking within the orchard. Flora felt
no sense of nervousness, when they approached her hiding-place. She
could see the lone girl’s face, idealised in that atmosphere, its
large eyes roaming restfully across the sun-mists. She could hear the
long grass brushing against their garments. A few more steps and they
would have passed; but the opposing influence had already issued its
warning, and Nance stopped a few paces from the hedge, and lifting her
hand pointed towards the exact spot where Flora stood concealed.
“What is that?” she said to her companion.
“It is a holly bush,” Conway answered.
“A flash of light passed through it,” the girl said.
“It was the sun. See how it flashes through the apple-trees.”
“There is a dark shadow round the holly bush, and the light that I saw
was cold,” Nance went on. “This morning a robin was singing there. It
has flown away, and now the sun has gone too. Let us follow them. I
hear the robin singing beside the stream.”
They turned and went away, Nance casting back glances at the deep
green bush, until they came into a jungle of roses, leading towards a
little stream which murmured evermore among its weeds. Here the girl
paused and pushed Conway back into the sunlight. “Go to the holly
bush,” she said. “There is an enemy in the garden.”
He regarded her with calm astonishment.
“There is danger there, and it is to me,” she went on. “You are safe.
I will sit here, and watch the water until you come.”
Her wild eyes aroused him and he returned, smiling in perplexity,
wading through masses of scented herbs, and tangled brakes of briars,
scattering rose petals all over the slope; and so advanced, forgetful
of his mission, until he saw Flora walking to meet him with the bent
sword hanging from her hand.
He remembered her dimly as one who had scorned him once, but the
thought that she was out of place in that garden did not occur, until
another breath of wind came from the house and set the leaves in
motion; and then there came a suggestion of treachery and the memory
of bodily death.
“So you would have killed her,” he said quietly, as they stopped face
to face.
Flora was deathly pale. After that wave of passion a spirit of cunning
had entered into her. She was following her enemy, hoping to find her
alone; but now that she was confronted by the man of her desires
resolution began to ebb and the deeper self came uppermost.
“I would only have frightened her,” she said glibly. “She has no right
to be here--in my place.”
“This is not your place,” he answered. “Nor is it mine. I was brought
here to learn, but I am on probation. One who was here before me
rebelled against the master of the house, and he was punished.”
“Have you always acted according to the dictates of your master’s
mind?” she asked.
“I dare not do otherwise.”
“Neither do I,” she cried. “My enemy is here, and I was told to hide
in the holly-bush and kill her as she passed.”
“She has done you no wrong.”
“She is winning your love. She is drawing you away from me. She walks
by your side, with her hand upon yours, and looks into your eyes, and
you return her words of affection, and give her smile for smile. I was
watching while you walked together in the orchard. I heard your
flatteries--”
“You are lying,” the male actor interposed. “She is as clear as the
light. I gave her no word of flattery. She has a place in this garden.
You have none. I do not know you, and I do not desire to see you
again. Put down that sword, and go.”
The wind was blowing steadily from the house.
“Do not speak so cruelly,” she prayed. “Do not look at me with those
hard eyes. It is my love which has driven me to this. I will go if you
bid me, or come if you call, or kill myself if you would be rid of me.
Have pity upon me. Let me walk with you. Come into the orchard, and
talk to me as you talked to her, and let me rest my hand upon your
arm.”
Conway stepped from her to an open spot, and faced the wind.
“I believe there is no sincerity in you,” he said. “I have had dreams
of a woman like you, one who would lead men on by smiles, and later
spurn them. You are tall and you are beautiful, but I do not trust
you. I am told you are incapable of love, and this one thing I
feel--it is dangerous for you to be here. Give me that sword.”
She put out her arm and gave it him.
“Come with me.”
“Give me something to carry away with me,” she prayed.
He plucked a white rose and handed it to her. She touched it, and
screamed. That environment, which had caused her to forget the world
and to act a strange part, had not removed her natural antipathies.
The bloom was dashed to pieces between them. She allowed herself to be
hurried on, through the deepening shadows and that cold scrutinising
wind, in silence and hopelessness, towards the ivy-covered wall and
the gate which stood ajar as she had left it. Conway fell back from
her, as she fled through and escaped.
At the sight of the grass road, and blue hills beyond, the girl’s
normal conditions were established. But as she passed out there was a
feeling in her body, as though some vital essence, which had abandoned
her temporarily, was then restored, and with it came a dull pain
throbbing above her eyes.
Conway stumbled stupidly back to the side of the stream, where he
found Nance singing to the water and making boats of buttercups. He
gave her the old sword without a word of explanation, and she as
silently received and flung it into the water, where the long tresses
of weeds closed over and hid it from their sight.
Then she sang him an old sad song.
Mr. Price had just returned from the farm, and was standing on his
lawn drawing long white hairs meditatively off the arm of his
overcoat. Seeing his niece he hurried to her, smiling in his genial
fashion, because he had been afraid she might have taken his late
lecture too much to heart, and it was not in his nature to play the
part of stern guardian for long.
“Been taking the air?” he cried. “Your mother was wondering where you
had gone to. Why, child, your face is as white as chalk.”
“I have a horrible headache,” said Flora sulkily. “I am going to lie
down. I actually went into the Strath and met Mr. Conway, and I
believe I had a row with him about something or other, but I really
cannot remember, because my head is so bad. It was an extraordinary
thing my going there at all.”