"She's a fine woman the mistress, a rare fine woman; but she's going
the wrong way. It's the cart before the horse, and I tell you it's not
conformable; and the master, God help him, poor fellow, will never be
brought to go at the tail of the cart--never." So ruminated Gervase
Norgate's old servant, Miles, pushing back the tufts of ragged red
hair on his long head ruefully, as he sat "promiscuous" in what he was
pleased to call his pantry at Ashpound, while he contemplated with the
eye of the body his chamois skin for what he proudly denominated his
silver, and with the eye of the mind the new régime and its ruling
spirit.
"She's a fine woman," remarked also of her new niece, Miss Tabitha
Norgate, of Redwells. "She's a fine woman, a great deal too good for
him; but she oughtn't to have gone and married Jarvie, or to have
married anybody, there's the long and the short of it. She ought to have
remained single, like me. She was made to stand alone, while he wanted a
woman and as many children as she could muster to hang round his
neck--the liker a millstone the better,--he won't drown: he could not
take the straight road without a weight to ballast him and keep him
steady. If he had consulted me, I would have advised him to marry that
dawdling, whimpering Susie Lefroy, the widowed daughter of the Vicar,
with her unprovided-for orphans. Jarvie might have stepped into a young
family at once, and he would have been a kind stepfather--he might have
righted himself then. To go and marry a clever, active, handsome,
well-born woman like Die Baring. Oh! dear, dear, what folly!"
In spite of her critics, Mrs. Gervase Norgate spared no pains to acquit
herself of her obligation, and to discharge her debt at Ashpound.
Ashpound was a much more exhilarating residence than Newton-le-Moor. At
Newton-le-Moor the desolation of prodigality and immorality was
objective and deductive. At Ashpound the desolation was subjective and
inductive, a plague-spot within; and although the flush of decay was
visible, Gervase would struggle against it to the last. He would make an
effort to preserve the pleasant, rambling, mellow brick house, most of
it one-storied and draped with jessamine and clematis as old as the
building; the belt of ash-trees round the ferny dells of the little
park; and the whitewashed offices, in excellent repair; the well cared
for cattle and poultry-yard; the amply-stocked, flourishing gardens; the
pretty gardener's house and lodge--the prettiest things about the place,
as his father had left them to him. To the last Gervase would aim at
keeping up the place, to his mother's drawing-room, his father's study,
Miles's pantry and cellar, even the modern housekeeper's room, and the
maids' gallery, in comfort and pleasantness. Only his own
rooms--dining-room, smoking-room, bedroom--had been suffered to show
traces of many a brawl and fray. It was as if he had deemed anything
good enough for a scapegrace and beast like him, and thought to pay the
whole price in his own person. It would not be with his will if any
other person, high or low, contributed to his heavy forfeits. And
Gervase Norgate's servants, new as well as old, had a pitiful liking
for him, a remorseful regard for his interests, even when these clashed
with their own. So when Gervase had removed the traces, repaired the
damages, and taken the decisive step of forbidding the inroads of his
evil associates, Mrs. Gervase Norgate found a peaceful,
prosperous-seeming, as well as fair, country home awaiting her.
Neither did Mrs. Gervase Norgate droop or mope; she was alive to every
advantage, alert to improve every opportunity. Frankly she praised the
house at Ashpound, which she had formerly known at the distance of
common acquaintanceship, but now knew in the nearness of home, from
garret to cellar. "What a well-seasoned, kindly dwelling you have here,
Gervase. How I like the windows opening down to the floors, the creeping
plants, the hall window-seats, and the attics with their pigeon-hole
bureaux." She made herself familiar with its details, and she flattered
its old occupants with the extent of her intimacy and appreciation. She
did not let the grass grow beneath her feet in learning and acquiring
its owner's habits. Early rising had been one of the good old country
habits which had stuck to Gervase. And not a dairymaid at Ashpound was
up and abroad at so primitive an hour as its mistress, ready to walk
with the Squire to his horses' stalls and paddocks, his cattle sheds,
his game preserves, his workpeople in the fields; anywhere but to the
sign of the 'Spreading Ash-tree,' in the village of Ash-cum-thorpe, for
his morning draught.
"Well-a-day," cried Dolly; "I would not be the mistress, to rise and go
to her work afore the stroke of six, and she a fine lady born and bred,
for all the hats and feathers, table heads, and carriage-seats in this
here world. If I ever have a word to say to Luke Jobling, I know it will
be with an eye to a good long lie in the morning when he has gone to his
mowing or his reaping. How Madam does it without ever drooping an
eyelid, none of us can tell; but they do say the gentlefolks are as
strong as steel when they like to put out their strength; happen it is
the high living as gives it to them. I know Madam puts us to our mettle
here. And lawk! the Squire, he's as restless and lost like as a new
weaned calf. Eh! I had liefer have the holding-in of a senseless calf,
though I had not Luke to help me with the bars of the gates, than the
holding in of a full-grown, whole-witted man. But the poor
mistress--them as don't know the rights of a thing calls her
saucy--young lady though she be, she do work hard for her place and
living, she do, since she has got Master Gervase and Ashpound."
Anticipating her husband's commands, Diana was ever ready to bear him
company, to share his engagements and amusements, walking, riding,
shooting, fishing, playing billiards, cribbage, bowls, racket,
backgammon, draughts, for hours on a stretch; to go abroad attending the
market and doing banking business at Market Hesketh, dining out with the
Vicar or with any country host save Mr. Baring--Mrs. Gervase Norgate
setting her face against the paternal hospitalities--dancing at the
county balls as one of the leaders. She did not seem to know what
weariness meant. She would trudge whole half-days with him and the
keepers, after luncheon, beating the plantations and pacing the
turnip-fields to start and bring down birds, and she would be sauntering
with him on the terrace and in the park after dinner all the same. She
would be in the saddle ten hours during a long day's hunt, as the autumn
advanced and the meets assembled, and within an hour of alighting at the
door of Ashpound, she would have exchanged muddy bottle-green or
Waterloo blue cloth for glistening white satin, and be stepping into the
carriage with Gervase to be present at one of their wedding parties.
There was something positively great in the intentness with which
the woman pursued her end of the man's salvation; the vigilance with
which she ever kept sight of the wounded quarry she was to rescue
and to restore. The neighbourhood watched the struggle with
interest, admiration, hostile criticism, not very delicate
diversion. Only to John Fitzwilliam Baring the struggle was a
matter of indifference--rather of repugnance. He would have liked
Die to be more feminine and more helpless.
Would Die slacken in her energy and devotion? Would Gervase be able to
bear his cure much longer?
Beyond the honeymoon, and with the feeling decidedly growing, Gervase
Norgate was gratified by his wife's sacrifice of herself in every
respect, and long before he grew accustomed to it and felt easy under
it, he was touched by it. He liked her company too, for he was fond of
society, and had been lonely since his father and mother died. She was
an observant, intelligent woman, high-minded and pure-hearted, and
vastly superior to his late satellites. She was eager to suit herself to
him, and made herself as free with him as she could be, as far as he
knew, with any one. At this season Gervase Norgate was attracted to
something warmer, sweeter, more intimate in their intercourse. He
enjoyed her quick remarks and shrewd conclusions. He was pleased with,
and proud of the new blossoming of her beauty under the combined
influences of an open-air life, constant occupation, and a powerful
object. He was willing to wait till more tender feelings should awaken
between them. It looked as if Gervase Norgate had turned over a new
leaf: his cheek lost its dull, engrained red, or its pallor; his lips
grew firmer; his eyes clearer and cooler; he raised his head, and threw
off something of the slouch of his shoulders and the swing and
uncertainty of his walk.
"How well you look in that pretty dress, Diana!" he would say; "I
declare you are as brave a figure as any in my Lord's picture-gallery.
Let me fetch you a cluster of monthly roses, though I am not fit to hold
the candle to you." Or, "Come, Die, let us have a stroll and a smoke in
the garden." Or, "Sit still for another game, will you? My hand is just
in and my luck beginning. I know you are never tired. Mrs. Gervase, you
are a trump--the ace of trumps."
Ignorant spectators might have set them down for a good, happy, well-met
young couple, with regard to whom it would be simply and equally
appropriate to wish "God bless them."