FOREBODINGS AND HOPES.
THE Harwoods' old cottage was still standing empty as we left it. Mr.
Burford had not quite made up his mind as to the kind and size of the
dwelling which was to occupy the site of it, but in the meanwhile, he
would not let the place again.
I was rather sorry that the cottage was not promptly demolished, for
I found out that the old people got into a way of haunting the scene
of so many memories, and I was sure this would do them no good. They
were very proud of Rose Cottage, which was a very palace in comparison,
but they clung to the less attractive spot, in spite of being really
satisfied with the change they had made, for my sake in the first
instance.
Jabez would sometimes go out after working-hours with his gardening
tools, and on several occasions I caught him digging and delving in the
old ground.
I ventured to remonstrate with him for spending the strength of which
he had none to spare, on a place in which he had no beneficial interest.
He looked up wistfully, and replied—
"I can't help it, Mr. John. I have kept this garden in order for so
many years, and never could abear to see a weed in it, that it goes to
my heart to let it be neglected now."
"But when the men begin to pull the cottage down, and afterwards,
whilst the building is going on, your work will be undone. There will
be all the worthless materials from the old place, and the bricks and
mortar, timber and slates, for the new, upon the very beds that are
costing you so much labour. Even at the best you will reap no benefit.
Others will do that, wherever the garden is unoccupied by the things I
have named."
"Well, Mr. John, I can't help that. As to doing a bit for other people
to benefit, I shall never grieve over that. We didn't come into this
world to think only of ourselves. If so be that little hands pull the
ripe berries from the trees I planted, the children, bless 'em! are
welcome; and if older folk have a bit of green stuff ready to their
hands through my doing an hour's work now and then in the old spot, I
shall be no poorer for it."
"You show a truly neighbourly spirit, Jabez," I replied, admiring the
unselfishness of character which he displayed even to the unknown
neighbour who might call the garden "mine" at a future day, "but you
are getting into years. I am sure your daily work and the care of our
garden at Rose Cottage are quite enough for your strength."
"Maybe you are right. I'm not as young as I was, by a long way; but,
Master John, though you are young, you know what a labour of love
means. Well, this is my labour of love. I cannot help doing it, and Mr.
Burford does not mind my pottering about here when I have the time. You
may be sure I did not take the liberty with-asking leave first."
I was greatly touched by the old man's words and the sight of his
earnest face. I could well enter into the feelings which prompted his
work, and yet, for his own sake, I did wish that the demolition of the
cottage had rendered it impossible. I was half glad, half sorry, when
Mr. Burford gave Jabez a small weekly sum for keeping the little place
in order, "for the next people," as he expressed it.
Jabez was unwilling to receive anything, and seemed really distressed
at the idea of payment, but Mr. Burford insisted.
"I am not going to have you toiling there, and spending your strength
on what will do you no good," said he.
"It will do me good, sir, indeed," protested Jabez. "If you believe me,
the working in the old garden freshens me up instead of tiring me."
"Work and welcome, if you take my weekly half-crown."
"I can't, sir. It's a labour of love."
"Then I shall put a stout padlock on the garden-gate, and a board to
warn off trespassers on pain of being prosecuted. You can take your
choice, Jabez," said Mr. Burford.
"If I must take the money, I must," responded Jabez ruefully, but his
face brightened later on. "I'm not bound to spend the money on myself,
or you either, Betsy. There are more ways than one of getting rid of
money, and the work may be a labour of love yet."
It proved doubly such, for the cash was handed to Betsy week by week,
and she expended it for the benefit of a needy neighbour and her
children. Still, I would rather have given Jabez the money, if it had
been a question of payment, to keep quite away from the old cottage and
garden.
I could hardly understand why I felt so strongly, but I was always
haunted with a notion that some trouble would yet be connected with the
place, and that the sorrows of its late tenants were not ended. I never
could pass the deserted dwelling without casting curious glances into
every corner that was visible. I used to look at my old room window,
half expecting that the scarred face of George Harwood would meet my
gaze from within.
I knew these were idle fancies, and strove to banish them, but from the
time that Mr. Burford revealed the mystery which Jabez and Betsy had so
carefully concealed in respect to their son's career, no day had passed
without its crossing my mind. That the good-for-nothing would reappear
sooner or later I never doubted. That his coming would be the herald of
renewed sorrow to the parents, I was equally convinced, and in time my
forebodings were fully justified.
At Oakhill Station we generally heard any news that might be stirring.
In country towns people take a vast interest in each other's affairs,
and whilst they are generally more sympathetic than dwellers in busier
centres, they are also more curious and more eager both to hear and
spread every bit of gossip.
If Mrs. Burford's arrival had been unexpected on the evening after I
entertained her husband and daughter, I was pretty sure that I should
soon know the reason of her sudden home-coming. Nelly's words had led
me to believe that she would be absent for another week, and when we
were together, neither she nor Mr. Burford looked for the immediate
return of the mother and Rose. I knew afterwards that, at the very time
we were spending that bright hour in my little room, a telegram was
awaiting Mr. Burford with news of the serious illness of his only son.
I have said little so far about Magnus Burford. He was the youngest of
the family, two boys having been born between Nelly and him, but both
had died in early infancy. Magnus was a quiet, studious lad, and of
a gentle, retiring disposition. When the girls and I were ready for
any amount of fun in our playfellow days, he would steal away into
any quiet corner and pore over a book. Our laughter seemed to pass
unheeded, our sports were no temptation to him; and when obliged to
leave his favourite volume, he would be like one awakened from a dream
which was happier than the realities around him.
Mr. Burford used to say that Magnus was a mistake, and ought to have
been a girl; that either Rose or Nelly would have made a better boy,
albeit there was nothing unfeminine in the ways of either. They were
just a pair of bonny girls, with the bright spirits that accompany
healthy minds in healthy bodies.
Though Rose partook of her mother's prejudices, and was too fond of
estimating people rather for what they possessed than for what they
were in themselves, she was both admired and liked by her friends and
associates. She was always worldly wise in her choice of these, and
before entering on anything like familiar social intercourse with those
she met, she was careful to ascertain that they possessed the requisite
qualifications of property and position.
Let them have such and sufficiently refined manners, and Rose would
be content, and make herself as charming and attractive as could be
desired.
Nelly, on the contrary, troubled herself very little as to whether a
friend's balance at the bank were large or small, or, indeed, whether
he had coin enough to be worth banking. Her whole conduct towards
myself, proved that she was not to be influenced by adverse fortunes to
forsake a friend.
When I heard of Magnus's illness, I felt very sorry for his parents and
sisters, to whom it would be a great trial. Mrs. Burford's anxiety for
her children's welfare could not be doubted. She was not very tender
or demonstrative, but I am sure she tried to promote their well-being
to the best of her power and knowledge. Even in banishing Nelly from
Oakhill for so long a time, I knew that she was actuated by a wish to
benefit the girl, and thought the separating her from all her childish
associations was the best way of doing this.
When Mrs. Burford received the news of Magnus's illness, she
telegraphed to her husband and started for home, as it would be equally
convenient to take Oakhill on her way, and to proceed thence to her
boy's bedside, only fifteen miles farther.
Nelly's home-coming was naturally greatly saddened by her brother's
condition. Mr. Burford was too anxious about his boy to remain behind,
so he and his wife drove the rest of the distance, after an hour's
interval from the time of her arrival at home. There was no train
available, and even had it not been too late to go from Oakhill by
rail, they must have driven five miles of the distance, as the school
was so far from a station.
Rose and Nelly were left alone together, and probably this increased
their pleasure in meeting, in spite of the anxiety in which they were
involved.
When I heard the sorrowful news, I should have liked to inquire after
the invalid, but my going to the house was out of the question. So
until Mr. Burford's return, I had to content myself with indirect
information.
On the following day, the Cartwrights came—Jane first, to enjoy a cup
of tea and a gossip with Betsy, her husband a little later, to see and
mark the roses for future operations. They brought the news that Mr.
Burford had come back, but that his wife had remained with Magnus at
the school.
The boy was in no immediate danger, but had broken down from
over-study, and would need a long rest before he could resume his work.
"Always the way," said Jane; "when schoolmaster gets hold of a young
gentleman that will learn, he isn't content with him doing as much as
he ought to do, but wants to cram his head with everything at once. No
wonder he can't carry it. I often feel sorry for the boys and girls
now, with their lessons in school and out o' school, and no time to be
children or have a good game, as is natural to them while they're of an
age for it. And if it's so with poor folk's youngsters, what must it be
with great people's children?"
"I ain't larned, though I can read and write and reckon up my money and
how I spend it," said Jabez by way of comment.
"That last has never given your head very hard work," said Betsy
promptly.
"Except in getting ends to meet, and lap over a bit now and then,"
replied Jabez. "I was going to say that I got on very well without so
much schooling; and I was glad I happened to be a boy before people got
hold of so many new-fangled notions about it. I had a rare good time
for a working-lad," and Jabez laughed at the memory of his boyish days,
with their scant allowance of schooling and large one of comparative
freedom.
Cartwright's views were more advanced.
"After all, there's a deal to be said for new-fangled things, though
you would never have missed or wanted most of 'em, Jabez," said
Cartwright. "Look at the telegraph bringing word about Master Burford's
illness, and taking a message back to say that his father and mother
would be there the same night! He might have been dead under the old
ways of doing things, before they could have heard that aught was amiss
with him."
"There's another side to look at," persisted Jabez, who was inclined
to dispute whatever might be said in favour of modern inventions. "If
there hadn't been a tallygraft, Mr. and Mrs. Burford might have stayed
at home in peace, instead of driving off post-haste last night, and
not getting to their journey's end till after twelve o'clock. Master
Magnus had fainted over his books, and no wonder, seeing the weather
is so warm and the holidays just at hand. He came to again, by all
accounts, but before there was time to see what was amiss with the boy,
schoolmaster must send that message. If he hadn't tallygrafted, Mr. and
Mrs. Burford wouldn't have been frightened out of their wits almost,
and the young ladies left by themselves with a weight of trouble on
their backs, wondering what word would come next. I say, 'Bad news
always travels too fast, and good news always comes at right time,
without tallygrafting.'"
Jabez looked round triumphantly, and as no one thought fit to
contradict him, felt that he had quite the best of the argument this
time.
"To think that Mr. Burford was in here only yesterday afternoon, taking
a cup of tea with our Mr. John, and looking better and younger than
I've seen him for years," said Betsy proudly.
"Did he tell you Miss Nelly was back home?" asked Jane.
"No need to tell, and for why? Miss Nelly came with her father. She's
prettier than ever, and she's not a bit proud or stuck-up because she's
been so long in foreign parts and can speak in foreign tongues."
"Well, you do astonish me!" exclaimed Jane after a brief pause, for
this piece of news had for the moment deprived her of the power to
reply. "'When the cat's away—'"
Jane did not complete the old proverb, but nodded significantly at
Betsy.
"Ay," said the latter, "you are about right, Jane. Mr. Burford is a
kind gentleman, and has stood up well for Mr. John, but he would never
have dared to come here and bring Miss Nelly if his lady had been at
home or expected there so soon."
"I'm inclined to think that they were out for a walk, and they just
dropped in here quite pro-misc'us, and did not think of coming here
when they started," remarked Jabez.
"I make no doubt Miss Nelly knew, whatever Mr. Burford did," said
Betsy, with a knowing look, and as if surprised at her partner's
obtuseness.
She was mistaken. Our meeting was a glad surprise alike to Nelly and
myself, though, in the kindness of his heart, Mr. Burford must have
planned it.
Betsy's pride on my behalf, however, induced her to put another
construction on the affair, and she took the first opportunity of
imparting it to the Cartwrights.
Had I been present during the conversation, I should have promptly
contradicted such an assumption, but I came in later.
I had carefully abstained from naming my visitors even to the
Pritchards, who were most in my confidence, as I was not anxious for
Mrs. Burford to hear that Nelly and I had met again on the old friendly
terms. My mind was sufficiently exercised as to the possibility
of future interviews, and I asked myself how I should act if my
girl-friend and I were to meet when she was with her mother.
After the manifestation of friendliness on Mr. Burford's part, I
neither could nor would avoid Nelly. Surely the father had an equal
right with the mother. And though I would not have acted clandestinely
for the world, neither should I have any qualms of conscience about
meeting Nelly in future, when circumstances might permit me that
happiness.
As to times and seasons, these mattered little in comparison. Nelly
was within reach, and whenever we might meet, I could be sure that the
pleasure would not be one-sided.