AN ADVENTURE.
But Walter, for his part, could not sleep upon it. He followed his
father out of the room, he scarcely knew with what intention; perhaps
with a hope of further discussion, of being able to open his own mind,
of convincing the wavering mind of Mr. Penton. It seemed to him that he
could set it all forth so clearly if only the permission were given him.
But Mr. Penton gave his son no invitation to accompany him. He asked
where Walter was going, what he meant to do moving about at that hour of
the night.
“I think I will take--a little turn, sir,” the young man said.
“You are always taking turns!” said Mr. Penton, with irritation. “Why
can’t you do something? Why can’t you be going on with your Greek?”
There had been nothing said about Greek for some time. What could he
mean by alluding to it now? Walter’s foreboding mind at once attached
significance to this. He thought that his father meant to suggest a
return to his abandoned studies by way of preparing for something
serious to come of them. But his dismay at the suggestion was not so
ungenerous as the looker-on might have supposed. It was not that he was
afraid of being made to work. What he was afraid of was that this was
but another sign of the abandonment of Penton--of turning aside to other
purposes and other views than those which had been in some sort the
religion of his life.
It need scarcely be said that no such idea was in Mr. Penton’s mind. He
took up the Greek, a missile lying ready to his hand, and tossed it at
Walter as he would have flung a stone at a dog which had come in his way
in the present perturbed state of his spirits. Having done this, he
thought no more of it, but went into his book-room and shut the door
with a little emphasis, which meant that he was not to be troubled, but
which to Walter seemed to mean that he declined further argument and had
made up his mind. The boy stood for a moment groping for his hat,
following his father with his eyes, and then rushed out into the night
in a turmoil of feeling--indignation, misery, surprise. He had been
taken so entirely at unawares. Such a thought as that of being called
upon to relinquish Penton had never entered into his mind; it had never
occurred to him as a possibility. He knew well enough, whatever any one
might say, that to abolish entail was not a thing to be done in a
minute. Revolutions in law take time. It was not likely that a man of
eighty-five would live long enough to see a change like this
accomplished. He had dismissed that idea with scorn; and from what
other quarter could any attack come? Walter had felt himself
invulnerable--unassailable in his own right. No son could be more
dutiful, more affectionate, less likely to calculate upon his father’s
death; yet, oddly enough, his father had appeared to him only as a
secondary person in this matter--a man with a temporary interest; it was
he who was the heir. And--without any fault of his, in complete
independence of him, without asking his opinion any more than as one of
the children, any more than that of Ally or Anne--his birthright was
about to be given away!
A dim evening, soft and damp, and with little light in it, had succeeded
the brilliant watery sunset. There was a moon somewhere about, but she
was visible only by intervals from among the milky clouds. A sort of
pale suffusion of light was in the atmosphere, in which all the chief
features of the landscape were visible, but more clearly the house, with
all its matted-work of creepers, the lights in the windows, the bare
branches rising overhead, with a little sighing wind in them, a wind
that moaned and murmured of rain. More rain!--rain that would fill up
higher the link of darkly shining water which all but surrounded Penton
Hook. The sky was full of it, the atmosphere was full of it; the
branches glistened with damp; the very gravel, where you had made an
indentation with your heel, filled up with the oozing water, of which
the soil was full: and the wind kept sighing with its little lugubrious
tone among the branches, saying, “More rain! more rain!” There was a
certain moral chill in the air by reason of this, but it was not cold;
it was what is called “muggy” on Thames-side. Walter was so well used to
it that he made no remark to himself on the damp, nor did he feel the
chill. He went crunching along the gravel in his boots, which made a
great many indentations, and left a general running of little stray
water-gleams behind him, to a certain bench which he had himself made
under the tall poplar close to the river bank. It had not been put there
because there was shade to be had in the season when shade was wanted,
and when it is pleasant to sit out and see the river at one’s feet. It
was put there for quite a different reason, because when you knew
exactly where to look, there was one small corner, the angle of a
chimney at Penton, visible among the trees. And there he seated himself
to think.
The mother had been right when she said that they had worshiped Penton.
The children had all been brought up in that devotion. It was a sort of
earthly paradise, in which they took refuge from all the immediate
humiliations and vexations of their lot. To be poor, yet to belong to
the class which is rich, is not a comfortable position. Those who in his
own estimation were Walter’s equals were in every external circumstance
more separated from him than were the young farmers about; and yet the
farmers would have been put out by his presence among them, and he would
have found himself entirely out of his element. He was thus a young
solitary belonging to nobody, at home with none of his compeers, without
companions or friends of his age. The farmers, had he taken to them or
they to him, were better off than he; they had horses to ride, they
followed the hunt, they kept dogs that ran in coursing matches. Wat had
nothing except, if he pleased, a share now and then of the solid, sturdy
little pony-of-all-work, and Elfie, the shaggy little terrier. What
youth of twenty could live in the country and see Fred Milton, who had
been in his division at Eton, and little Bannister, go by in pink and
not feel it? He felt it, and so did Ally feel it when she read Eva
Milton’s name among the list of the young ladies who were presented and
who had been at the court ball. Do you suppose Ally did not wish to see
what a ball was like as well as the rest? The farmers’ daughters had
their dances too, and got beautiful white tulle dresses for them as well
as their superiors in rank. But Ally got nothing; neither the one nor
the other. They were shut out of everything, these poor young people,
and felt it, being made but of ordinary flesh and blood.
But Penton had been amid all this the refuge of their imaginations. They
had been told indeed that even when they were in Penton they would be
poor. But poverty in such circumstances would be transformed. They would
no longer be shut out of everything, they would come within the range of
the people who were “like themselves.” Walter seated himself at the foot
of the poplar-tree, with the river running far too close to his feet,
for it was very high, sweeping round with an ominous hurry and murmur,
preparing floods to come, and the bare branches overhead rustling and
whispering in the wind--and directed his eyes to the high wooded bank,
the belt of trees, the Penton chimney corner. He could not see it with
his bodily eyes, but in his soul he saw it dominating the landscape,
and saw as in a panorama everything it involved. Sir Walter Penton of
Penton was a power in the county, he was not a mere squire like Fred
Milton’s father, or a lordling of yesterday like Bannister’s ennobled
papa. Sir Walter Penton of Penton--not the old man who lived shut up in
his library, who was taken out for a drive on fine days. Young Walter
meant no harm to the old man, but he was himself the Sir Walter Penton
whom he had seen in his dreams. What was it he had looked for? Was it
only the vulgar improvement, more money to spend, better dinners,
horses, travels, all that a young man wants? He had wanted these things,
but something more. He had wanted first of all to find himself in his
place; to be somebody, not nobody; to recover the importance which was
his right, to have all the evils of fortune made up to him. Is not that
what the young dream everywhere, whatever their circumstances may
be?--to have everything set right, to do away with all the spurns that
patient merit of the unworthy takes. Those who spurn you may not be
unworthy, and your own merit may not be patent, or even you may be
conscious that you are not meritorious at all. But still we dream, even
without such a tangible occasion for dreaming as Walter, of everything
being set right.
And now in a moment this hope was all to be cut away. Penton was to be
made nothing--nothing to him, no more than any house about, no more than
Bannister’s fictitious abbey with its new Strawberry Hill cloister,
which was founded upon nothing but wealth, whereas there had been
Pentons of Penton since the thirteenth century, and most likely long
before. And he was the representative of them all! In his veins was
concentrated the essence of theirs: and yet he was to be cut off; he was
to stand stupid and look on, without even a right to say no, though it
was his inheritance. Walter felt the very possibility of thought taken
from him in this dreadful catastrophe. He had nothing to do with it!
that was what everybody would say. He was not one-and-twenty, but even
if he had reached that age he had nothing to do with it, though it meant
his very life.
The tumult of these thoughts overwhelmed the poor young fellow. They
carried him away as the river carries everything away when it is in
flood, and turned him over and over and dashed him against stones and
muddy projections, and poured waves of bitterness over his head. He sat
and bit his nails, and gnawed his under lip, and thought and thought, if
there was any way to get out of it, if he could say anything, make any
protest to his father, declare his own readiness to go anywhere, do
anything, rather than suffer this sacrifice. He might go to
Australia--in Australia people make fortunes quickly. He might soon be
able to make money, to send home something for the children; or to
India, or to the gold fields somewhere where nuggets were still to be
had. These thoughts can scarcely be called disinterested, for it was how
to save what was more to him than nuggets or fortune that Walter was
thinking of; but at all events it was not for himself in the first place
that he meant to labor. It was for an ambition altogether visionary
after all--for Penton, which meant to him the something better, the
something loftier, the ideal of life. As he sat musing, the clouds
cleared away a little; there began to be a clear place in the sky; it
grew lighter, but he did not remark it--until all at once, without a
word of warning, the moon suddenly struck out, and made an outburst of
radiant reflection upon the river at his feet which called his attention
in spite of himself. He looked up instinctively, by the instinct of long
habit, and lo! everything was clear over Penton; the moon shining full,
the clouds all floating away in masses of fleecy whiteness, and a
weather-cock somewhere blazing out, as if it were made of gold and
silver, to the right.
This sudden revelation was too much for the boy. He gave a cry of
insupportable indignation, a loud protest and utterance of despair, and
then hid his face, as if the white light had blinded him, in his hands.
“Stay, Martha, look! there’s some one on the bank. If it’s one of the
family what shall I do? or if it’s a tramp? Look! either he’s gone to
sleep and he’ll catch his death of cold, or else he’s blinded with the
moonlight, as people say.”
It was a pretty voice that spoke, with a little catch in it as of
mingled fright and audacity: and then followed a slight stir on the
gravel as though the speaker had started back at sight of the
unlooked-for figure under the tree. “Oh, Martha! what shall I do? I’ve
no business to be here at this time of the night.”
“You’re doing no harm,” said Martha. “The missis will think I was
showing a friend round the grounds to look at the moon, and she’ll never
say a word. It’s Master Walter. Hush! Don’t you take no notice, and
he’ll take none. He’s often here of nights.”
“But he’s gone to sleep, and he’ll catch his death of cold,” the
stranger said. “Oh, Martha, you that know him, go and wake him up!”
“Hush, then, come along. It’s not cold, only a bit damp, and we’re used
to that in this house. Come along,” Martha said.
Walter heard with an acuteness of hearing which perhaps, had it been
only Martha, would not have been his; but the other voice was not like
Martha’s--he thought it sounded like a lady’s voice. And he was pleased
by the solicitude about himself. And he was very young, and in great
need of some new interest that might call him out of himself. He rose up
suddenly, and took a long step after the two startled figures, which
flew before him as soon as he was seen to move.
“Hi, Martha! where are you off to? Come back, I tell you. Do you think
I’ll do you any harm, that you run from me?”
“Oh, no, sir, please, sir; it’s only me and a friend taking a turn by
the river afore she goes up to the village. It’s a friend, please, sir,
as is staying with us at ’ome.”
“There’s no harm done,” said Walter. “You need not run because of me.
I’m going in.” The two young women had come to a pause in a spot where
the moon was shining clearly, showing in a little opening, amid all the
tracery of interlacing boughs, of which she was making a shadow pattern
everywhere, the square figure of Martha, standing firm, with another
lighter, shrinking shadow, slim and youthful, beside her. There was
something romantic to Walter’s imagination in this unknown, who had
shown so much interest in himself. “Going to the village at this hour!”
he added. “I hope she is not going by herself.”
“Oh, it’s of no consequence, sir,” said Martha, pulling rather
imperatively her companion by the gown.
“Is it a bad road, or are there tramps, or--anything? Oh, Martha!” the
other said, in a voice which sounded very clear, though subdued.
“Oh, nonsense, Emmy! It’s just like any other road. It’s a bit dark and
steep to begin with. But there’s nothing to be frightened of.”
“Oh, why did I stay so late!” said the other. “How silly of me not to
think! No lamps, nor--nor shops, nor people. I never was out on a
country road in the dark. Oh, why didn’t I think--”
“Don’t be silly! It’s as safe as safe; there’s never no accidents here.”
“You had better keep your friend with you all night, Martha; my mother
will not mind.”
“Oh!--but _my_ mother, sir! she would go out of her senses wondering
what had come to me.”
“Emmy, don’t be a silly. I tell you it’s as safe--”
“I have nothing particular to do,” said Walter, good-humoredly. “Since
she is so frightened I will walk with her as far as the turnpike. You
can see the lights of the village from there.”
“Oh, Mr. Walter, I couldn’t let you take that trouble. I’d rather go
with her myself. I’ll run and get Jarvis. I’ll--”
“You need not do anything. It’s turned out a lovely night,” said Walter,
“and I shall be all the better for the walk.”
It was all settled in a moment, before he himself knew what was being
done, with the carelessness, the suddenness which sometimes decides an
all-important event. Walter was seized just at the moment when his own
evil fortune seemed overwhelming, when fate seemed to be laying hold on
him, with a force which nothing could resist. He was seized by a kind
impulse, a good-natured wish to be of use to somebody, to escape from
himself in this most legitimate, most virtuous way, by doing something
for another. He was pleased with himself for thinking of it. A sense of
being good came into his mind, with a little surprise and even amusement
such as only an hour ago would have seemed impossible to him. It was
like what his mother or one of the girls might have done, but such
impulses did not occur readily to himself. He walked round toward the
gate by which Martha and her friend stood and whispered together. Martha
he could see did not like it; she was shocked to think of her young
master having the trouble. The trouble! that was the thing that made it
pleasant. He felt for the moment delivered from himself.
“If I am walking too fast for you, tell me,” he said, when he found
himself upon the road with the small, timid figure keeping a respectful
distance at his side.
“Oh, no, sir,” but with a little pant of breathlessness, she said.
“I _am_ going too fast--how thoughtless of me! Is that better? And so
you are not used to country roads?”
“I am only a little cockney, sir. I have never been out of London
before. It’s a bad time to come to the country in the winter: for one
forgets how short the days are, and it’s silly to be frightened. I am
silly, I suppose.”
“Let us hope not about other things,” said Walter. “The road is very
dark, to be sure.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, with a little shiver, drawing closer. They were
still in the hollow and the hedges were high on either side, and the
darkness was complete upon their path, though a little way above the
moon penetrated, and made the ascent as white as silver and as light
almost as day.
“Should you like,” he said, with a little laugh of embarrassment, yet an
impulse which gave him a curious pleasure, such as he was quite
unfamiliar with, “to hold on by me?--would you like to take my arm?”
“Oh, no, sir!”
The suggestion seemed to fill her with alarm, and she shrunk away after
coming so close. Walter was, on the whole, relieved that she did not
take his offer, but he was pleased with himself for having made it, and
immensely interested in this little modest unknown, who was unseen as
well--this little mysterious being by his side in the dark.
“The wood is very pretty,” he said, “although you can’t see it, and
there are no lamps.”
“You are laughing at me, sir; but if you consider that I never was out
of the reach of the lamps before. Hampstead is the furthest I have been,
and there are lamps there even on the heath. The darkness is one of the
things that strikes me most. It is so dark you can feel it. It’s black.”
She gave another little shiver, and said, after a moment, “I do so love
the light.”
Her tone, her words, the ease with which she spoke, filled Walter with
surprise--a surprise which he expressed without thinking, with a
frankness which perhaps he would not have displayed had his companion
not been Martha’s friend.
“And what,” he said, “can you be doing in our village, and at old
Crockford’s? I can’t understand it. You are a--you’re not a--”
He began to recollect himself when he came this length. To say “you’re a
lady” seemed quite simple when he began to speak; but as he went on it
did not prove so easy. If she was a lady how could he venture to make
any such remark?
She gave a little soft laugh which was very pretty to hear. “Old
Crockford is--a sort of an uncle of mine,” she said.
“Your uncle!”
“Well, no--not quite my uncle, but something a little like it. When I am
humble-minded I call him so; when I am not humble-minded--”
“What happens then?”
“I say as little about it as I can; I think as little about it as I can.
No,” she said, with a little vehemence, “I’m not a lady, and yet I’m not
a--Martha Crockford. I am a poor little London cockney girl. You
shouldn’t be walking with me, sir; you oughtn’t to see me home, you, a
gentleman’s son. People might talk. As soon as we get into the moonlight
there, where it is so bright, I will release you and run home.”
“Home!” said Walter, incredulous; “it is not possible. Whoever you
are--and of course I have no right to ask--I am sure you are a lady. You
are as little like the Crockfords as any one could be. No doubt you must
have some reason--”
“Oh, yes,” she said, with a laugh, clasping her hands, “a mysterious
reason; how can you doubt it? I am a heroine, and I have got a story. I
am in hiding from Prince Charming, who wants to run away with me and
make me his queen; but I won’t have him, for I am too high-toned. I
could not have him shock his court and break the queen mother’s heart.
Every word I say makes you more certain what sort of person I am. Now
doesn’t it?” she cried, with another laugh.
“I can’t tell what sort of a person you are,” said Walter, “for I am
sure I never talked to any one like you before.”
“Well,” she said, with a quick breath which might have been a sigh, “I
hope that is a compliment. I have been talking to Martha all night,
dropping my h’s and making havoc with my grammar. It is nice to do the
other thing for a little and bewilder some one else. Yes; I am sure this
is a pretty road when there is light to see it. One can’t see it in the
moonlight, one can see nothing for the moon.”
“That is true,” said Walter; “just as in summer you can’t see the grass
for flowers.”
“I don’t exactly catch the resemblance. What is that lying under the
hedge? The shadow is so black, so black now we have got into the light.
Look, please; I feel a little frightened. What is that under the hedge?”
“Nothing,” said Walter; “only a heap of stones. If you will look back
now we have got up here you will see the river and all the valley. The
view is very pretty from here.”
He hoped to see her face when she should turn round, for, though the
moonlight is deceiving, it is still better than darkness. Even though
she had her back turned to the light he could now see something--the
round of what was a pretty cheek.
“I am sure there is something there under the hedge, something that
moved.”
“I will look to satisfy you,” said Walter; “but I know there is nothing.
Ah--”
A quick rush, a little patter of steps flying along the white road, were
the first indications he had of what had happened. Then, before he could
recover himself, a laughing “Good-bye, good-bye, sir. Thank you; I see
the village lights,” came to him down the road. He made a few steps in
pursuit, but then stopped, for the little flying figure was already out
of sight. And then he stood looking after her _planté la_, as the French
say. Why, it was an adventure!--such a break as had never happened
before in his tranquil life.