STRANGE SENSATIONS
"Yours very faithfully." Oh, if that were only written in earnest,
instead of cold convention! To have, faithfully mine, the most lovely,
and perfect, entrancing, enslaving, poetical, celestial--tush, what word
is there in our language? None of course; because there has never been
anything like it until now. Gentleness, sweetness, gracefulness, purity,
simplicity, warmth of heart, gratitude for even such a trifling
service--all these were very fine things in their way; but away with
them all, if they want to tell me why I love my darling! Because I
cannot help it, is the only reason. It must be so, because it is so.
Surely this is their own fair logic, and they must feel the force of it.
All this jumped with reason well, and was plainer than a pikestaff. But
the path of true love still was crossed by one little bar, without a
sign-post. In the name of the zodiac, where was Daghestan?
Man had not quite hatched board-schools yet; though already, under the
tread of Progress, incubating of them. Having been only at a public
school, and then for two years at Oxford, no opportunity had I found for
hearing of Modern Geography. That such a thing existed, I could well
believe, from the talk of undergraduates, whose lot it was to cram for
competition of a lower kind. I had been a prefect at Winchester, and
passed my little-go at Oxford, and might have gone in for honours there,
though very likely not to get them. But in all this thoroughly sound
education, I had never dreamed of Modern Geography. I could have told
you, though it is all gone now, the name of every village in
Peloponnese, and of every hill in Attica, and the shape of every bay and
island, and a pestilent lot of them there was, from the Hellespont to
Tænarus. But if you had asked me the names and number of the counties of
England, and other wild questions of that sort, I should have answered,
as a friend of mine did, who got an open scholarship at Oxford, and then
went in for something in London, "There are about half a hundred, more
or less; but Parliament is always changing them." And this man got the
highest marks in the geography of that year; because the examiner was a
Welshman, and therefore laid claim to Monmouth.
But wherever Daghestan might be, I felt sure of its being the noblest
country (outside the British dominions) of all the sun could shine upon.
Moreover, it sounded as if it had no little to do with the Garden of
Eden. Ispahan, and Teheran, and other rhymes for caravan, had a gorgeous
oriental sound, as of regions of romance, inhabited by Peris, and paved
with gold and diamonds. And the glow that flickered through the wheat
that day, as the mellow fountains danced before the blue half-moon of
sickle, was warmer than an English sun can throw, and quickened with a
brilliance of heavenly tints, such as Hope alone, the Iris of the heart,
may cast.
"Farmer Jarge, here's nuts for you. What do you suppose I have found out
now?"
This was that lazy fellow Tom, sprawling in the yellow stubble, with his
back against a stook, and a pipe in his mouth, and a dog's-eared novel
on his lap. We had knocked off work for half an hour in the middle of
the day, just to get a bit to eat; and I was not best pleased with
Erricker, because of the difference between the noble promise of the
breakfast table, and the trumpery performance in the field.
[Illustration: "_Sprawling in the yellow stubble._"]
"Get away," I said; "you can talk, and nothing else. All you have found
out is where the beer-can is; you are not even worthy of your bread and
cheese." However, I gave him some, and he began to munch.
"Won't you laugh, when I tell you about this? And it upsets all your
theories that you are so wonderfully wise with. I must have heard you
say a thousand times, that it is only a fool that ever falls in love."
"You never understand a thing that anybody says. There are limitations,
and conditions, and a whole variety of circumstances, that may make all
the difference; otherwise a man would be a fool to talk like that."
"Fool to do it? Or fool to talk about it? You seem to be getting a bit
mixed, friend George. It's the stooping that has done it. By Jove! I
couldn't stand that. Nature never meant me for a reaper, George. And you
may thank the Lord that I did not cut your legs off. But what do you
think 'Stocks and Stones' has done? And you can't call him a fool
altogether. Head over heels, 'Stocks and Stones' has fallen in love with
our Grace!"
"_Our Grace_, indeed! Have you a sister of that name? If you should
happen to refer to my sister, I will thank you to call her 'Miss
Cranleigh'! Is there anything this fellow does not meddle with?"
"Mr. George Cranleigh, Mr. Jackson Stoneman aspires to the hand of Miss
Grace Cranleigh, daughter of Sir Harold Cranleigh, Bart. Is that grand
enough, Mr. Cranleigh? And if so, what do you think of it?"
What I thought of it was that there scarcely could have been a more
unlucky complication than was likely now to be brought about by Tom's
confounded discovery. It was not in his nature to hold his tongue; and
if he should once let this knowledge escape him, in the presence of my
father and mother, or worst of all in that of my sister, it would be all
up with Stoneman's chance of marrying Grace Cranleigh. And as to binding
Tom to secrecy, as well might one blow the kitchen bellows at a
dandelion ball, and beg it not to part with a particle of its plumage.
On the spur of the moment, I said more than facts would bear me out in,
when they came up at leisure.
"Don't tell me, you stupid fellow. How many more mare's nests must come
out of your eyes, before you see anything? But if you must take in such
rubbish, just do this, Tom, will you? Keep your eyes wide open, my boy.
You know how sharp you are, Tom. But not a word to any one, or it would
spoil your game altogether. By the by, where is Daghestan, Tom? You are
such a swell at geography."
"Daghestan! I seem to have heard of it, and yet I can't be certain.
Persian, I think. No, that is Ispahan. Tut, tut, what a fool I am!--of
course I know all about it. Why it's in the United States, a prime place
for scalping and buffaloes."
"No, you old muff, that is Dakota. Quite another pair of shoes. I don't
want to disturb the Governor, or I could find out in a moment. Never
mind, it doesn't matter; and here we go to work again. Now what is the
sweetest smell, do you think, in all the world of farming? Not a great
over-powering scent, but a delicate freshness through the air."
"I should say the hay on an upland meadow, when it begins to make. Or
perhaps a field of new bean-blossom. I never knew that till this year;
but upon my word it was stunning."
"No, the most delicate of all scents is from the clover first laid bare
among the wheat where it was sown. No blossom of course; but the
fragrance of the leaf, among the glossy quills that sheltered it. But
come along; if you can't swing hook without peril of manslaughter, you
can bind, or you can set up stooks, or earn your keep some little. Why,
Grace is worth a score of you! Poor Tom, is your finger bleeding? You
must come harvesting in kid gloves."
"I will tell you what it is," said Tom, after keeping his place among
the binders for about five minutes. "I am a thoroughgoing countryman,
and I know a lot about farming; and you know how I can jump and run, and
a good light weight with the gloves I am; but this job beats me
altogether. 'Pay your footing, sir, pay your footing!' You'll have to
pay for my headstone, George, if you keep me on much longer. How you can
go on all day long--but I want you to do something for me, and by the
Powers, I have earned it."
He wanted me to promise, in return for all his labours, to give up my
plans for the evening, and present myself at dinner-time for the
ceremony at the cottage. This, though a very simple business, must be
done in the proper form; and then it would be my duty perhaps to offer
to take a hand at whist, and be ready for the wearisome wrangle, which
even well-bred people make of it. But I had nobler fish to fry.
"Tom, I can't do it. You like that sort of thing; and my mother is
delighted with your sprightly little tales. Go and put your brave
apparel on. Everybody admires you; and you love that."
He knew that he did. Why should he deny it? The happiness of mankind is
pleasure, though it passes without our knowledge, because we never can
stop to think of it,--as a man in a coach sees the hedges race by; and
if it comes to that, where may you find true bliss so near at home, as
in being pleased with your own good self? Our Tom had a happy time.
Nothing long tormented him. He carried a lofty standard with him, and
flopped its white folds joyously at little gnats and buzzing bees; and
he never failed to come up to it, because that standard was himself.
"What else could it be?" he says to me. "And that is why everybody likes
me."