When Harold took his degree, Stephen's father took her to Cambridge. She
enjoyed the trip very much; indeed, it seemed under conditions that were
absolutely happy.
When they had returned to Normanstand, the Squire took an early
opportunity of bringing Harold alone into his study. He spoke to him
with what in a very young man would have seemed diffidence:
'I have been thinking, Harold, that the time has come when you should be
altogether your own master. I am more than pleased, my boy, with the way
you have gone through college; it is, I am sure, just as your dear father
would have wished it, and as it would have pleased him best.' He paused,
and Harold said in a low voice:
'I tried hard, sir, to do what I thought he would like; and what you
would.' The Squire went on more cheerfully:
'I know that, my boy! I know that well. And I can tell you that it is
not the least of the pleasures we have all had in your success, how you
have justified yourself. You have won many honours in the schools, and
you have kept the reputation as an athlete which your father was so proud
of. Well, I suppose in the natural order of things you would go into a
profession; and of course if you so desire you can do that. But if you
can see your way to it I would rather that you stayed here. My house is
your home as long as I live; but I don't wish you to feel in any way
dependent. I want you to stay here if you will; but to do it just
because you wish to. To this end I have made over to you the estate at
Camp which was my father's gift to me when I came of age. It is not a
very large one; but it will give you a nice position of your own, and a
comfortable income. And with it goes my blessing, my dear boy. Take it
as a gift from your father and myself!'
Harold was much moved, not only by the act itself but by the gracious way
of doing it. There were tears in his eyes as he wrung the Squire's hand;
his voice thrilled with feeling as he said:
'Your many goodnesses to my father's son, sir, will, I hope, be justified
by his love and loyalty. If I don't say much it is because I do not feel
quite master of myself. I shall try to show in time, as I cannot say it
all at once, all that I feel.'
Harold continued to live at Normanstand. The house at Camp was in
reality a charming cottage. A couple of servants were installed, and now
and again he stayed there for a few days as he wished to get accustomed
to the place. In a couple of months every one accepted the order of
things; and life at Normanstand went on much as it had done before Harold
had gone to college. There was a man in the house now instead of a boy:
that was all. Stephen too was beginning to be a young woman, but the
relative positions were the same as they had been. Her growth did not
seem to make an ostensible difference to any one. The one who might have
noticed it most, Mrs. Jarrold, had died during the last year of Harold's
life at college.
When the day came for the quarterly meeting of the magistrates of the
county of Norcester, Squire Rowly arranged as usual to drive Squire
Norman. This had been their habit for good many years. The two men
usually liked to talk over the meeting as they returned home together. It
was a beautiful morning for a drive, and when Rowly came flying up the
avenue in his T-cart with three magnificent bays, Stephen ran out on the
top of the steps to see him draw up. Rowly was a fine whip, and his
horses felt it. Squire Norman was ready, and, after a kiss from Stephen,
climbed into the high cart. The men raised their hats and waved good-
bye. A word from Rowly; with a bound the horses were off. Stephen stood
looking at them delighted; all was so sunny, so bright, so happy. The
world was so full of life and happiness to-day that it seemed as if it
would never end; that nothing except good could befall.
Harold, later on that morning, was to go into Norcester also; so Stephen
with a lonely day before her set herself to take up loose-ends of all
sorts of little personal matters. They would all meet at dinner as Rowly
was to stop the night at Normanstand.
Harold left the club in good time to ride home to dinner. As he passed
the County Hotel he stopped to ask if Squire Norman had left; and was
told that he had started only a short time before with Squire Rowly in
his T-cart. He rode on fast, thinking that perhaps he might overtake
them and ride on with them. But the bays knew their work, and did it.
They kept their start; it was only at the top of the North hill, five
miles out of Norcester, that he saw them in the distance, flying along
the level road. He knew he would not now overtake them, and so rode on
somewhat more leisurely.
The Norcester highroad, when it has passed the village of Brackling,
turns away to the right behind the great clump of oaks. From this the
road twists to the left again, making a double curve, and then runs to
Norling Parva in a clear stretch of some miles before reaching the sharp
turn down the hill which is marked 'Dangerous to Cyclists.' From the
latter village branches the by-road over the hill which is the short cut
to Normanstand.
When Harold turned the corner under the shadow of the oaks he saw a
belated road-mender, surrounded by some gaping peasants, pointing
excitedly in the distance. The man, who of course knew him, called to
him to stop.
'What is it?' he asked, reining up.
'It be Squire Rowly's bays which have run away with him. Three on 'em,
all in a row and comin' like the wind. Squire he had his reins all
right, but they 'osses didn't seem to mind 'un. They was fair mad and
bolted. The leader he had got frightened at the heap o' stones theer,
an' the others took scare from him.'
Without a word Harold shook his reins and touched the horse with his
whip. The animal seemed to understand and sprang forward, covering the
ground at a terrific pace. Harold was not given to alarms, but here
might be serious danger. Three spirited horses in a light cart made for
pace, all bolting in fright, might end any moment in calamity. Never in
his life did he ride faster than on the road to Norling Parva. Far ahead
of him he could see at the turn, now and again, a figure running.
Something had happened. His heart grew cold: he knew as well as though
he had seen it, the high cart swaying on one wheel round the corner as
the maddened horses tore on their way; the one jerk too much, and the
momentary reaction in the crash! . . .
With beating heart and eyes aflame in his white face he dashed on.
It was all too true. By the side of the roadway on the inner curve lay
the cart on its side with broken shafts. The horses were prancing and
stamping about along the roadway not recovered from their fright. Each
was held by several men.
And on the grass two figures were still lying where they had been thrown
out. Rowly, who had of course been on the off-side, had been thrown
furthest. His head had struck the milestone that stood back on the waste
ground before the ditch. There was no need for any one to tell that his
neck had been broken. The way his head lay on one side, and the twisted,
inert limbs, all told their story plainly enough.
Squire Norman lay on his back stretched out. Some one had raised him to
a sitting posture and then lowered him again, straightening his limbs. He
did not therefore look so dreadful as Rowly, but there were signs of
coming death in the stertorous breathing, the ooze of blood from nostrils
and ears as well as mouth. Harold knelt down by him at once and examined
him. Those who were round all knew him and stood back. He felt the ribs
and limbs; so far as he could ascertain by touch no bone was broken.
Just then the local doctor, for whom some one had run, arrived in his
gig. He, too, knelt beside the injured man, a quick glance having
satisfied him that there was only one patient requiring his care. Harold
stood up and waited. The doctor looked up, shaking his head. Harold
could hardly suppress the groan which was rising in his throat. He
asked:
'Is it immediate? Should his daughter be brought here?'
'How long would it take her to arrive?'
'Perhaps half an hour; she would not lose an instant.'
'Then you had better send for her.'
'I shall go at once!' answered Harold, turning to jump on his horse,
which was held on the road.
'No, no!' said the doctor, 'send some one else. You had better stay here
yourself. He may become conscious just before the end; and he may want
to say something!' It seemed to Harold that a great bell was sounding in
his ears.--'Before the end! Good God! Poor Stephen!' . . . But this was
no time for sorrow, or for thinking of it. That would come later. All
that was possible must be done; and to do it required a cool head. He
called to one of the lads he knew could ride and said to him:
'Get on my horse and ride as fast as you can to Normanstand. Send at
once to Miss Norman and tell her that she is wanted instantly. Tell her
that there has been an accident; that her father is alive, but that she
must come at once without a moment's delay. She had better ride my horse
back as it will save time. She will understand from that the importance
of time. Quick!'
The lad sprang to the saddle, and was off in a flash. Whilst Harold was
speaking, the doctor had told the men, who, accustomed to hunting
accidents, had taken a gate from its hinges and held it in readiness, to
bring it closer. Then under his direction the Squire was placed on the
gate. The nearest house was only about a hundred yards away; and thither
they bore him. He was lifted on a bed, and then the doctor made fuller
examination. When he stood up he looked very grave and said to Harold:
'I greatly fear she cannot arrive in time. That bleeding from the ears
means rupture of the brain. It is relieving the pressure, however, and
he may recover consciousness before he dies. You had better be close to
him. There is at present nothing that can be done. If he becomes
conscious at all it will be suddenly. He will relapse and probably die
as quickly.'
All at once Norman opened his eyes, and seeing him said quietly, as he
looked around:
'What place is this, Harold?'
'Martin's--James Martin's, sir. You were brought here after the
accident.'
'Yes, I remember! Am I badly hurt? I can feel nothing!'
'I fear so, sir! I have sent for Stephen.'
'Sent for Stephen! Am I about to die?' His voice, though feeble, was
grave and even.
'Alas! sir, I fear so!' He sank on his knees as he spoke and took him,
his second father, in his arms.
'Is it close?'
'Yes.'
'Then listen to me! If I don't see Stephen, give her my love and
blessing! Say that with my last breath I prayed God to keep her and make
her happy! You will tell her this?'
'I will! I will!' He could hardly speak for the emotion which was
choking him. Then the voice went on, but slower and weaker:
'And Harold, my dear boy, you will look after her, will you not? Guard
her and cherish her, as if you were indeed my son and she your sister!'
'I will. So help me God!' There was a pause of a few seconds which
seemed an interminable time. Then in a feebler voice Squire Norman spoke
again:
'And Harold--bend down--I must whisper! If it should be that in time you
and Stephen should find that there is another affection between you,
remember that I sanction it--with my dying breath. But give her time! I
trust that to you! She is young, and the world is all before her. Let
her choose . . . and be loyal to her if it is another! It may be a hard
task, but I trust you, Harold. God bless you, my other son!' He rose
slightly and listened. Harold's heart leaped. The swift hoof-strokes of
a galloping horse were heard . . . The father spoke joyously:
'There she is! That is my brave girl! God grant that she may be in
time. I know what it will mean to her hereafter!'
The horse stopped suddenly.
A quick patter of feet along the passage and then Stephen half dressed
with a peignoir thrown over her, swept into the room. With the soft
agility of a leopard she threw herself on her knees beside her father and
put her arms round him. The dying man motioned to Harold to raise him.
When this had been done he laid his hand tenderly on his daughter's head,
saying:
'Let now, O Lord, Thy servant depart in peace! God bless and keep you,
my dear child! You have been all your life a joy and a delight to me! I
shall tell your mother when I meet her all that you have been to me!
Harold, be good to her! Good-bye--Stephen! . . . Margaret! . . . '
His head fell over, and Harold, laying him gently down, knelt beside
Stephen. He put his arm round her; and she, turning to him, laid her
hand on his breast and sobbed as though her heart would break.
* * * * *
The bodies of the two squires were brought to Normanstand. Rowly had
long ago said that if he died unmarried he would like to lie beside his
half-sister, and that it was fitting that, as Stephen would be the new
Squire of Norwood, her dust should in time lie by his. When the terrible
news of her nephew's and of Norman's death came to Norwood, Miss Laetitia
hurried off to Normanstand as fast as the horses could bring her.
Her coming was an inexpressible comfort to Stephen. After the first
overwhelming burst of grief she had settled into an acute despair. Of
course she had been helped by the fact that Harold had been with her, and
she was grateful for that too. But it did not live in her memory of
gratitude in the same way. Of course Harold was with her in trouble! He
had always been; would always be.
But the comfort which Aunt Laetitia could give was of a more positive
kind.
From that hour Miss Rowly stayed at Normanstand. Stephen wanted her; and
she wanted to be with Stephen.
After the funeral Harold, with an instinctive delicacy of feeling, had
gone to live in his own house; but he came to Normanstand every day.
Stephen had so long been accustomed to consulting him about everything
that there was no perceptible change in their relations. Even necessary
business to be done did not come as a new thing.
And so things went on outwardly at Normanstand very much as they had done
before the coming of the tragedy. But for a long time Stephen had
occasional bursts of grief which to witness was positive anguish to those
who loved her.
Then her duty towards her neighbours became a sort of passion. She did
not spare herself by day or by night. With swift intuition she grasped
the needs of any ill case which came before her, and with swift movement
she took the remedy in hand.
Her aunt saw and approved. Stephen, she felt, was in this way truly
fulfilling her duty as a woman. The old lady began to secretly hope, and
almost to believe, that she had laid aside those theories whose carrying
into action she so dreaded.
But theories do not die so easily. It is from theory that practice takes
its real strength, as well as its direction. And did the older woman
whose life had been bound under more orderly restraint but know, Stephen
was following out her theories, remorselessly and to the end.