Polly Musgrave was gone with flying colours. She had been indefatigable
in procuring her aunt, uncle, and cousins, parting gifts that would suit
their tastes; she had actually toiled herself in paying courtesy-calls
round the neighbourhood; and she had written half-a-dozen letters, and
evinced a considerable amount of successful management in procuring an
invitation for two of her cousins to join her during the week or weeks
of York's gaieties. She would have had Joanna also, but Joanna would not
leave home at the season when her father was liable to his worst
rheumatic twinges. Polly had shown herself really good-natured under her
ease and luxury, and Joanna had been a little penitent and vexed that
she did not like Polly any more than in a cousinly way. Whether Polly
was right in saying that Joanna was romantic or not, Polly had not a
particle of romance in her constitution, though much was flourishing,
fresh, and fragrant, in pure, commonplace, selfish, good-natured
worldliness, for it is a mistake to suppose that quality (without
hypocrisy) has not its attractive guise. Without knowing herself
romantic, Joanna was apt to quarrel in her own mind with cleverer girls,
accomplished girls, pleasant girls, even good girls, sensible women,
business women, nay religious women, until she feared she must be
fault-finding, satirical, sour--as her sisters protested at intervals.
Joanna, sour? Joanna, so charitable and sympathizing? Take comfort,
Joanna; the spirit is willing, though the flesh is weak.
The Ewes was in its normal condition; the parish was in its normal
condition; the excitement of Harry Jardine's return to Whitethorn had
died out; he might shoot, as it was September, or fish still, or farm,
or ride, or read as he pleased. He retained his popularity. His father
had been a popular man, fully more popular than Mr. Crawfurd of the
Ewes. Harry was even more approved, for mingling with the world had
smoothed down in him the intolerance of temper which beset his father.
What did Joanna Crawfurd say to such compromising agreeability? Joanna
was disarmed in his case; she contradicted herself, as we all do. She
had the penetration to perceive that many externals went to raise Harry
Jardine's price in the eyes of the world; externals which had little to
do with the individual man,--youth, a good presence, a fair patrimony,
freedom from appropriating ties. Strip Harry of these, render him
middle-aged, time-worn or care-worn, reduce him to poverty, marry him,
furnish him with a clamorous circle of connections, land-lock him with
children! Would the difference not be startling? Would he need to be
condemned for the world's favour, then? Joanna trowed not.
The Crawfurds met Mr. Jardine occasionally, but there was no probability
of the acquaintance ripening, since Mr. Crawfurd could not call for
Harry at Whitethorn, and Harry did not see the necessity of offering his
company at the Ewes. Mrs. Jardine had not visited much since the shock
of her widowhood, and she only now began to recur to her long-disused
visiting-list on Harry's account. Though a reasonable woman, it is
scarcely requisite to say that she did not propose to renew her
friendship with the family at the Ewes. The blow which rendered her
without control did not break her spirit, but it pressed out its
buoyance. Mrs. Jardine was a grave, occupied, resigned woman, no longer
a blithe one, very fond and proud of Harry, but grateful, not glad in
her fondness and pride.
The frost had come early, strong, and stern on those Highlands of the
Lowlands, those moors of the south. The "lustre deep" at twilight and
dawn, the imperial Tyrian dye at noon, the glorious "orange and purple
and grey" at sunset and sunrise, which, once known and loved, man never
forgets, nor woman either--all would soon be swept away this year, and
Joanna regretted it. She liked the flower-garden, but, after all, the
garden was tame to the moor. The moor's seasons were, at best,
short--short the golden flush of its June; short the red gleam of its
September. Not that the lowland Moor has not its dead, frosted grace in
its winter winding-sheet, and its tender spring charm, when curlews
scream over it incessantly. But Joanna had never seen the autumn so
short as this year; and she had heard them tell, that in the Fall, when
poor Mr. Jardine was killed, the heather remained bright till November.
Thinking of that date caused Joanna, when she strolled out on the moor
one morning, to go near the scene with its melancholy celebrity.
It was quite early in the morning, a hail shower lying all around,
though the sky was a deep sapphire blue, with the wan ghost of the moon
lingering on the horizon, and the atmosphere bitter cold. The breakfast
was late at the Ewes, owing to Mr. Crawfurd's delicate health, and
because Mrs. Crawfurd had her fancies like Mrs. Primrose. Thus Joanna
was frequently abroad before breakfast, and, like most persons of
healthy organization, was rather tempted to court the stinging air as it
blew across the heather, bracing her whole frame, nipping her fingers
and toes, and sending blush-roses into her cheeks.
Joanna was walking along, feeling cheerful, although she was in that
neighbourhood, and vaunting to herself that their moor was infinitely
superior to a park, when a grey object caught her eye, lying beyond
some whin bushes--a thing raised above the ground, but stretched still
and motionless. Joanna stopped with a strange thrill. No! it was not
on that piece of earth; but so must he have lain on that disastrous
morning, far removed from the abundance, and garnered goods, and
heartiness of harvest.
Joanna stood a moment, then reproaching herself with cowardice, egotism,
inhumanity, she advanced, her heart fluttering wildly. Yes, it was a man
in tweed-coat, trousers, and cap; and stay! was that a gun by his side?
Joanna could not go a step further; she closed her eyes to hide the
blood which she felt must be oozing and stealing along the ground, or
else congealed among the heather and it was only after she had told
herself how far she was from home, and how long it would be ere she
could run back for assistance, that she opened them and approached the
figure. There was no blood that she could see; the man might not be
dead, but stupefied or insensible. Oh, dear! it was Harry Jardine of
Whitethorn; the hail-drops among his black curls, the sprigs of the
heather dinted into his brown cheek.
It darted into Joanna's mind like inspiration how the chance had
occurred. She remembered Susan had said, yesterday, that she had met Mr.
Jardine going in shooting garb across the moor in the afternoon, and he
had stopped her and asked if she had seen a dog. He had taken out a new
dog and lost it, and was vexed at wasting half the morning in the
pursuit. She recalled, with a peculiar vividness of perception, that
somebody had observed, one day lately, that Mr. Jardine was not so
strong as he looked; that he had fever while abroad, just before he came
home, and that his mother was annoyed because he would not take care of
himself, and complained that he was constantly over-taxing his
unrecovered powers, and subjecting himself to fresh attacks of illness.
Joanna remembered, with a pang, that she had laughed at the remark,
mentally conjuring up Harry Jardine's athletic, sunburnt comeliness.
Joanna freed herself more quickly from this phantom than from the last,
and, while she did so, called out his name, and stepped to his side,
stooping down and even touching him. He was breathing, though he was
very cold and stiff, and she did not rouse him. Oh, Joanna was very
thankful! But what should she do next? Life must be very faint, and
frozen in the muscular, active young man. He had loitered at his sport
till the dusk; he had been bewildered on the moor--strange to him as to
a foreigner; he had wandered here and there impatient and weary; but
still more angry with himself than alarmed. He had sat down in the
intense chill and dim darkness to recover himself; no way forewarned,
"simply because he was on Corncockle Moor, so near home," on a September
night. He had sunk down further and further, until the stealthy foe
sprang upon him and held him fast--the sleep from which there is so
tardy an awakening.
Joanna dared not leave the faint, vital spark to smoulder down or leap
out. The moor was very unfrequented at this hour; at certain periods of
the day, portions of it, intersected by meandering tracks, were crossed
by men labouring in the adjacent fields or quarry; but till then it was
only the circumstance of alarm being excited on Harry's account, or her
protracted absence giving rise to surmise and search, that could bring
them companions.
As a forlorn hope Joanna raised her voice and cried for assistance; fear
and distress choked the sound, and the freezing air caused it to fall on
the silence with a ringing quaver. She persevered, however, every now
and then varying the appeal, "Papa, Lilias, Sandy, do some of you come
to me; I want you here, for God's sake! here."
She took his big hands and chafed them between her own little ones; she
lifted his head on her lap, her fingers getting entangled in his curly
hair, she prayed for him that he might be restored to them.
He continued to breathe dully and heavily; his eyes never unclosed; she
felt tempted to raise the lashes, as she would lift up and peep under
the lids of a child. Ah! but she feared to see the balls sightless and
glazing over fast. The marked, lively face was placid as if it were set
in death, and the slight contraction between the brows, which she had
remarked the first night she saw him, was almost effaced. How dreadful
it would be if he died on her knees there, in the solitude of the moor!
The son at the daughter's feet, as his father at her father's. How would
his mother bear it? Her father would never survive this mournful
re-writing of the old letters traced in blood. It should be she rather
who should die; and Joanna in her piety, her goodness, her great love
for her father, her exquisite kindness for Harry Jardine, did ask God if
He sought a life, in His justice and mercy, to allow hers to pay for
Harry's, to substitute her in some way for Harry; and Joanna well
remembered that prayer afterwards.
Joanna was beginning to cower and fail in her trial. Suddenly she shook
herself up, when she was lapsing into a heap nearly as passive as that
beside her; a suggestion darted across her brain; she detected in the
little pocket of her dress a bottle of a strong essence and perfume,
which Polly Musgrave had forced upon her the day she left.
Joanna was quick and clear in following out a notion. With trembling
fingers she poured the hot, stimulating, subtle liquid into her hollow
hands, and bathed his forehead. She unloosed his cravat, and sent the
warm stream over his throat and chest, rubbing them with her free hand,
while she supported his head on the other arm; and inspired with fresh
courage and trust she called anew this time a shrill, echoing call, and
Harry Jardine shivered, sobbed, and stretched himself, and slowly opened
his sealed eyes, looking her first vaguely and then wonderingly in the
face, and her father's and Lilias's voices rose from opposite sides of
the heath, near and far in reply. "What is it, Joanna? What has kept
you? What has happened? We missed you; we were getting anxious; we are
coming, coming!"