THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE.
WHILE that bitter war was raging, I enjoyed a peaceful and gentle
season. It happened that I had come up our village, on a matter of
strict business, at a time of day not at all unlikely to be the very
time of day mentioned over-night, as the one that would suit Mrs.
Marker and Miss Fairthorn for doing a little business in our village.
This might be explained, without any imputation on any one I have the
pleasure of knowing, for all of them will admit at once that it needs
no explanation. It is enough to say, that when I had the honour of
seeing two ladies safe home last night, after pulling them out of the
flood—as they both maintained, though never in it—no little gratitude
had been expressed, and much good-will had been felt all round. And it
would have been hard upon that state of things, if any “Good-bye” had
been said for ever.
For my part, although I had no great fear of being knocked on the head
by Sam Henderson, it might have seemed haughty and even unfeeling, if
I had insisted too strongly upon my ability to take care of myself.
Therefore I allowed them to consider me in peril; and to this I was
partly indebted perhaps for the opportunity of meeting them on Monday.
It is true that I had not learned half as much, about matters of the
deepest interest to me, as Mrs. Cutthumb, without any claim to such
knowledge, was now possessed of; but this might fairly be expected, for
women have always been convinced that men have no right to know half as
much as themselves. “Let him find it out, I am not going to tell him,”
is their too frequent attitude, while they feel it a duty to their own
sex to pour out almost everything.
However, I have no desire to complain, and perhaps it is better thus;
for if we knew all of their affairs, we might think less about them.
And I was in a very deep condition of interest and wonder, not only
from the hints I had received, but also from the manifold additions of
my fancy. In fact, it was far more than I could do, to confine my heart
to its proper work when I saw those two ladies come to do a little
shopping.
At that time, there were only about a dozen of the houses, in the
narrow street that runs along the river, which allowed the importance
of selling to compete with the necessity of dwelling. And the few, that
did appear inclined to do a little trade, if coaxed into it, were half
ashamed of their late concession to the spirit of the age. No man had
yet appeared who shatters the ancestral sense of congruity, who routs
up the natives, as a terrier bullies mastiffs, and scarcely even leaves
them their own bones. And it may be maintained, that people got things
better, and found them last longer than they ever do now. And this was
only natural, because it always took a much longer time to buy them.
This enabled me to take my time about my own business, without any risk
of being left behind by the lady housekeeper and her fair companion.
From time to time I assured myself by a glance between flower-pots,
or among drapery, that my quest was not gone astray, that as yet I
had not lost all that I cared to see, and that I could keep in my own
background, while thinking of things far beyond me.
It never had been my manner yet to be much afraid of anything; not
that I stood at all upon my valour, but simply because, to the best of
my knowledge, I had no enemy anywhere. Yet now, very much to my own
surprise, instead of proper courage, I was full of little doubts, and
more misgivings than I can at all describe, and even a tendency to run
away, and try to forget the very thing I was longing for. And I knew
for a certainty that if the matter came to the very best opportunity, I
was quite sure to do my very worst, and cut a despicable figure, to my
own undoing.
I tried to recover myself, by doing a few strokes of business on my
own account, going into the butcher’s, and complaining sadly that he
now weighed the foot in with the leg of mutton—a privilege only to
be claimed by lamb—but he said that it now was ordained by nature,
and asked how I expected a poor sheep to walk. I knew that his logic
would not go upon all-fours, but my wits were so loose that I let it
pass; and at that very moment I discovered, betwixt the hearts of two
bullocks, something very near my own. Miss Kitty Fairthorn had been set
free by Mrs. Jenny Marker, while the housekeeper was driving a bargain
in soft goods, unfit for young comprehension. After that, she was to go
on for a talk with Widow Cutthumb, and meanwhile the young lady might
look at the river, which was now rolling grandly in turbulent flood.
It was rather a shy and a delicate thing for me to go also in that
direction; and the butcher (who never confined his attention to his own
mutton) was as sure as could be to come out of his door, and look all
up the lane. For Sunbury people, as long as I have known them, take a
deep interest in one another’s doings; and all the more so, when they
happen to perceive that their sympathy is not requested. Wherefore I
hurried back to ask another question, as if there were nothing in my
mind but meat, and then turned up an alley, which would lead me round
the back of some houses to the Halliford Road further on.
There were many things now that I might have done, more sensible haply
than what I did. I might have gone home, and had bread and cheese,
and a glass of mild ale with Uncle Corny; or if that had seemed a
little too ignoble, why not wander along the upper road, and thence
survey, as from a terrace—which used to be the origin of the word
“contemplate”—the many distant mazes of the flooded river, the trees
along the margin bowing over their foundations, the weak smile of
autumnal sunshine over the wrongs of its own neglect, and perhaps in
the foreground a slender figure, standing as if it were nothing in the
mass?
However, what I did was to go straight on towards the one in the world
who was all the world to me. By what process of reason, or unreason, or
pure stupid heart, I was come in such haste to this state of mind, is
more than I can explain to any, and I did not even try to explain it to
myself. There was my condition, right or wrong; and those who cannot
understand it may be proud of their cool wisdom; and I without harm may
be sorry for them.
She wore a grey cloak looking wonderfully simple, yet gathered in
small at her beautiful waist, and trimmed at the skirts, and over two
little pockets, with a soft blue fur called Vicunha. And she carried a
little muff of the same material, and the strings of her hat (which was
like a sea-shell) were also of a blue tint very sweetly matching. But
the blue that was sweetest and richest of all was that of her large,
soft, loving eyes, than which it is impossible for any poet to imagine
anything in heaven more lovely.
However, I shall not go on any more about her, though things may slip
out unawares; and without being rude, I may say plainly, that I have
a right to keep such matters to myself. For a short time, I was at a
loss for the commonest presence of mind, and stood wondering; hoping
that she would turn round, and yet fearing that she might think I had
no business there. Her whole attention was taken up, as I knew by her
attitude—for already I seemed to have a gift of understanding her—not
with any thought of people near her, but with the grandeur of the
rolling flood, and the breadth of quiet lake beyond it. She was saying
to herself—so far as I could tell—“What is the use of such a little dot
as I am, and what is the value of my little troubles, when the mighty
world goes on like this, and all I can do would not make a wrinkle and
scarcely a flutter on the vast expanse?”
Then suddenly, an if in dread of her own thoughts, she turned round and
saw me within a landyard of her. As if she had been taken in a rosy
fog—for we are all ashamed of large thoughts, when caught in them—she
coloured to the tint of one of Uncle Corny’s peaches, though without
any of the spots he was so proud of; and then she drew one hand from
her blue muff, and I found it so soft and warm and precious, that I
almost forgot to let it go again.
“Oh, how I am surprised to see you here!” she said, as if my general
place of residence was the moon; and probably I looked as if it should
be so.
“And I am even more amazed to see you here,” I answered without any of
my wits to help me, “but I came to do a little bit of business with the
butcher. He has been doing things he had no right to do.”
“I have often been told that they are inclined to take advantage,” she
replied, with a look which convinced me at once that she would make
a first-rate housekeeper, for what butcher could resist it? “My dear
father would have much trouble with them, if, if—I mean if he were at
all allowed to have it. But he is always so full of great things.”
“Oh, what a happy man he must be! I have heard that he is the most
clever, and learned, and one of the most celebrated men in London.”
I may not have heard all that, but still I was perfectly justified in
saying it, for it made her talk; and every time she spoke, her voice
sounded sweeter than it did the time before.
“You have been told the truth; it is acknowledged universally,” she
went on as if there were no fame to equal his, and with a sparkle in
her blue eyes, as if a star had flashed in heaven; “there seems to be
nothing that he does not know, and nothing that he does not improve by
his knowledge, and make useful for—I mean for the world at large. How
I can be his child, and yet so stupid and slow-witted, is a thing that
amazes me, and I am trying always not to think of it.”
“I am sure you are not stupid. I am sure you are very quick-witted. I
never saw any one half so clever, and accomplished, and ladylike, and
gentle, and”—“lovely” was the word I was about to use; but she stopped
me, with a smile that would have stopped a rushing bull.
“I am showing my quick wits now,” she said, presenting the charm of her
hand again, “by never even thanking you for all you did last evening.
I was thinking before you appeared, that but for you I should probably
be tossing in these wild waters now, or probably carried down as far as
London Bridge, without a chance even of being buried. And it made me so
sad, when I remembered that it would make no difference to any one.”
“How can you say such a dreadful thing?” I exclaimed with great
indignation, for her eyes that had been so full of light were darkened
with sadness, and turned away; “it is not true that I saved you in the
least, though I wish that I had; I should deserve to live for ever; but
you speak as if no one in the world had any love for the sweetest, and
best, and most lovely creature in it.”
This was going rather far, I must confess; not that any word of it
was at all exaggerated, or even approached the proper mark; but that
it might seem a little early, on the part of one who had never had
the pleasure of beholding the lady, till the previous afternoon. The
remembrance of this was very awkward to me, and I was wild with myself,
but could not stop the mischief now.
“Will you oblige me, Mr. Orchardson,” she asked, as gently as if I had
shown no folly, “by just looking down or up the village, to see if Mrs.
Marker is coming. She was to have been here ten minutes ago; and we
have to make a long round now, since the bridge on the lower road is
washed away. I ought not to trouble you; but I never know exactly where
I am in country places, although I love the country so.”
This was more than I deserved; for a good box on the ears was the
proper reward for my frowardness, and I should have been less abashed
by it. “I am a bigger cad than Sam Henderson himself,” I whispered with
a timid glance at her. But she seemed at a loss to know what my meaning
was; and so with a deep but very clumsy bow, I departed to do her
bidding.
Before I had taken many steps, there appeared the lady housekeeper in
the distance, walking with great dignity, perhaps to console herself
for the insolence of that Widow Cutthumb. Of this I knew nothing as
yet, though it was plain that something unrighteous had disturbed
her. And this made my humble demeanour more soothing and persuasive
to her upright mind. After shaking her hand very warmly and paying
a well-deserved compliment to her fine colour, I ventured to implore
a little favour, which the sight of our garden wall sparkling in the
sunshine, for it was newly topped with broken glass, suggested by some
good luck to me.
“Oh, if you would only come,” I said, “and see my Uncle’s trees
to-morrow! They are at their very best this week, before we begin to
gather largely. The pears are hanging down, so that we have had to prop
the branches, and the plums are as thick as eggs together, when the hen
is sitting; only instead of being pale, some are of the richest gold,
and some of a deep purple, like—like that magnificent amethyst you
wear; and the peaches on the wall—you might almost compare these to a
lady’s cheeks, when a gentleman tells her of her beauty—”
“Really, Mr. Orchardson, you are quite a poet!”
“And when you get tired of looking at them, and tasting the ripest,
all you have to do is to come into the vinery, and sit beneath the
leaves, and look all along it, wherever the clusters leave any room to
look, until you don’t know which you like the best, the appearance of
the black or the white ones, because so much depends upon the light.
And then Uncle Corny comes with a pair of scissors, and says—‘Ma’am,
that is not the way to look at it. The proof of the pudding is in the
eating,’ and he hands you in a vine-leaf, being careful where he cuts
it, a jet-black shoulder of Black Hamburgh, and an amber-coloured
triplet of White Muscat.”
“Mr. Orchardson, you are making my mouth water, if a vulgar expression
may be allowed to one who eats the bread of servitude.” I wondered
to hear her speak thus, though I saw that she had been aggrieved by
somebody. “And if you will be at home to-morrow afternoon, perhaps
I might obtain permission to leave my mistress for an hour or two.
I might walk down about four o’clock, when I have finished all the
blacking of the boots.”
Something with a spiteful tang to it was rankling in her mind, as I
perceived; but having no right to ask, I just lifted my hat and gazed
at her gold chain and broach. Then a tear or two, started by her own
words, came forth, and she looked at me softly.
“You would add to the favour of your invitation,” she said with a smile
which made me look at something else, “if you would include in it Miss
Kitty Fairthorn. Poor thing! She is put upon very sadly, and it would
be such a treat for her. They see so little of the beauties of nature
in London.”
“I am sure my Uncle will be most happy;” I answered as if I were not
sure about myself.