"IMPARADIS'D IN ONE ANOTHER'S ARMS."--_Milton_.
Eleanor is busy in the morning sunlight, brightening the pewter dinner
service, the pride of the Grebby family, passed down from generation to
generation, and priceless in her eyes. She can hear the preparations
without for an early start to the neighbouring market. Her mother is
loading a cart of vegetables, while her father "shoos" the cackling
geese into wicker pens, and harnesses "Black Bess" the steady old mare,
who is almost one of themselves. And Eleanor is glad that the market
(a weekly centre of attraction to the old village) will leave her in
peaceful solitude.
She breaks out into a glad song, which mingles with the twittering of
birds:
"There was a jolly miller once,
Lived on the River Dee."
"Eleanor, Eleanor, give me a hand with these vegetables," cries her
mother's voice. There is a thud, and a whole sack of potatoes fall
pell-mell into the yard, still muddy from yesterday's rain.
Eleanor gathers them up, indulging the same tuneful mood:
"He worked and sang from morn till night.
No lark more blithe than he!"
She has a strong, sweet-toned voice, and "Black Bess" turns her head
sleepily at the sound, whisking the tiresome flies with her tail. So
often Eleanor's tread at the door of her shed has meant apples and
carrots and sugar.
She wipes the potatoes clean with her apron, replacing them carefully
at the back of the cart.
Mrs. Grebby takes the reins, while Mr. Grebby follows on foot, driving
a few specially honoured sheep, who frequently serve him for
conversation throughout an entire evening spent smoking with
neighbouring farmers.
Eleanor watches them out of sight, her hand over her brow to shade the
dazzling sunlight from her eyes. A group of chickens congregate around
her with mute inquiry in their beaky faces. She fetches a handful of
grain from the barn, flings it into their midst, and returns singing to
her pewter polishing:
"And this the burden of his song
For ever used to be:
"How dull this soup tureen is, to be sure!" pausing in her verse to rub
it with extra vigour:
"I care for nobody, no not I,
If no one cares for me!"
The delinquencies of the dimmed soup tureen are forgotten as these last
words ring out in the quiet parlour. "Surely," thinks Eleanor, "there
is hidden pathos in the Jolly Miller of Dee's reckless assertion! To
care for nobody! What a horrible thought--a whole life's tragedy lies
in the closing verse. If no one cares for me!"
Eleanor sighs and leans her chin on her hands, kneeling before the
wooden table on which the dinner service is spread. What if nobody
cared for her! How vast and miserable a wilderness this world would
be! Why, even the dumb animals love her.
The little goat she called Nelly, who fell ill the week before, and
gasped out its breath in her arms on a dry heap of hay, gave all the
love of its disputed soul to Eleanor. Of course, it had a soul; she
made up her mind long ago on this point. How can a creature with such
mysteriously human eyes as Nelly possessed be less human than the great
plodding, loose-mouthed ploughboy, who only gapes when he is spoken to,
and contains what Mr. Grebby is pleased to call, "only half a
intellec'!"
Eleanor glances at the old-fashioned clock in the corner, decorated by
grotesque pottery dogs and four-legged creatures with horns, and faces
resembling tigers or cats. She has been up since five, for besides
market day it is churning morning, and she and her mother have worked
for hours in the dairy.
"It is time," she says at last, washing her small hands under the
scullery tap, and then reaching for a hat hanging on the kitchen
dresser.
"I wish I had something pretty to wear," she sighs, glancing at her
reflection in a cracked glass. "Laces and ribbons, beautiful blue
ribbons with pink spots, like the Squire's nieces wore last Sunday.
The tall girl was dreadfully plain, and I should have looked so well in
her silk gown, with the shorter sister's chiffon fichu."
Eleanor's face brightens at the recollection of those costumes in the
Manor House pew, which appeared so lovely in her eyes while she played
the Magnificat. Dreams of dainty dresses are dear to her heart as the
occasional thoughts of love which steal over her at times. "If the two
could be combined," she thinks, "love and wealth."
It is amazing this new and sudden desire for something better, which
all but stops the beating of Eleanor's heart.
"If he loved me," she gasps "_if_--" she staggers back against the
half-closed door, her fingers clenched and pressed to her temples,
throbbing with intense excitement. All the thoughts that crowd to her
brain are offsprings of that improbable "if," each moment growing more
dazzling!
She hastens with light footsteps to an old cupboard in which her mother
has treasured some hand-made lace left in her aunt's will to the
Grebbys of Copthorne Farm.
She turns down her collar to reveal a shapely throat, pearly white, and
hidden usually from the sun's scorching power, round which the soft
folds of lace fall entrancingly.
What would Eleanor's mother say could she see her precious heirloom
donned hastily on this busy market morning, to adorn her daughter's
neck for a stroll through the fields! It is sacrilege surely, but the
prize!
The girl closes the cupboard noiselessly, creeping away like a criminal
out into the glaring day. Her eyes dance, her cheeks are flushed, and
her hair escaping (as if by accident) from its neat braids, waves in
dainty tendrils round her ears.
"I _am_ beautiful," she murmurs to herself, "why not? Stranger things
have happened--Eleanor Roche, the wife of a rich man--oh!"
The last is a gasp of hitherto unexpressed surprise at the audacity of
her day dreams.
Philip is waiting by the barley field, watching for her. As she sees
him she slackens her steps, not wishing to appear over anxious for the
rendezvous. He advances eagerly, grasps her hands, and devours her
with his eyes.
"So we meet again, Eleanor," he whispers. "I _must_ call you Eleanor;
you don't mind?"
A bold answer that inwardly makes her tremble enters the girl's head.
Why not place herself on an equality with him at once? She nerves
herself to reply:
"Not if I may call you Philip?"
A look of amused surprise flits over Mr. Roche's features. What a
naïve, childlike manner Eleanor possesses!
"Of course," he replies, pulling the small hand through his arm, and
turning out of the public thoroughfare.
"I wonder what you think of me?" asks Eleanor unhesitatingly.
The great sparkling eyes are raised to his with genuine curiosity in
their depths. She is not seeking a compliment; far from it, she really
wants to know, and is waiting for the truth.
He looks from the blue eyes of the girl to the little blue bird's-eye
growing on a bank of clover. She pauses while he stoops to gather the
tiny flower.
"You see this," he says.
"Yes."
"It is only a field blossom blooming unnoticed in this sweet country
atmosphere, yet to me a thousand times fairer than the exotics and
hot-house plants which naturally demand admiration. I love this little
flower," pressing the tender blue to his lips, "because it is wild and
untrained. It appeals to me. It is like you, Eleanor!"
A flush of offence arises to her cheeks.
"Wild!" "Untrained!" the words sting Miss Grebby's pride.
"I did not think you would compare me to a _weed_!" she retorts,
tossing her head proudly.
But Philip will not see he has offended, and continues in the same
strain.
"Don't despise the weeds, Eleanor; they were placed in their
uncultivated beds by Nature's hand, and have as much right to be called
beautiful as any other creation."
He speaks to her authoritatively, and she looks at his strong,
masterful expression with a gradual sense of awe.
"I should not have thought you would care for flowers."
"Why not? Does it seem childish in your eyes to soliloquise over a
wayside 'weed,' as you call it?"
His questions perplex her. She is silent.
"You do not appreciate your beautiful country," he continues, "from
living in it always. Wait till you have tasted the deadly dust of the
town before you curl your lip at a blue bird's-eye, or pass judgment on
the unbroken quiet of sinless Copthorne. Since I came here for rest
and holiday leisure I seem to have grasped the whole history and charm
of the place. It contains endless interest in its Godlike simplicity
to the recluse or the reader. Look what fields for the naturalist or
botanist! Think, too, of an artist here for the first time--what
sketches to be made at sunrise and sunset! You may call your little
world dull, monotonous, uneventful, since, reared in the green
landscape with farmlands and woods around, you are bound through custom
to neglect the pleasures of imagination, and see it only without
observing."
"I am glad you are so enthusiastic over Copthorne," replies Eleanor,
catching at the meadow-sweet, and crumbling it between her fingers. "I
suppose you have been living a very different life in London?"
"It is a great change," he replies, "from the bustle of fashion to the
unbroken quiet. But I must own I didn't enjoy so completely all the
beauty of this glad country scene till you came, Eleanor, happy in the
rich possession of youth and lightheartedness."
Now his conversation grows interesting, the perfect smile with which
she is naturally blessed creeps through her lips to her eyes,
illuminating her whole countenance. In the distance the regular click
of a reaping machine falls on the breeze.
"You must see more of our life," she says impetuously. "Next week all
our labourers will be reaping, and our barns are ready for the first
loads of harvest. Do not go till it is gathered in!"
"Shall I promise? Would it give you pleasure?"
"Yes."
A pause, during which an old horse puts his nose over the gate of an
adjacent field, regarding Philip and Eleanor complacently.
"Then it's a bargain! If _you_ will be pleased, I will stay; but not
unless."
A little gasp escapes her lips.
"Can you doubt it, Philip?" she murmurs.
He is satisfied by the earnest tone, gratified by her humility and
undisguised devotion.
"Would you like to see my home?" she asks, for their steps are nearing
the quaint farmhouse.
"Indeed, I should."
She takes him from the sloping cornfield, topped by a windmill, to
where the path joins a kitchen garden--a perfect holiday ground for
bees. The vegetables seem in perfect harmony with yellow marigolds and
calceolaria. The house is divided from the road by palings richly
covered by Virginia creepers, and as they approach Philip pauses to
lean on the wicket gate and view the peaceful homestead silently. The
drone of bees and busy presence of insect toil is soothing and
melodious. He takes Eleanor's hand and kisses it in the full glare of
the mid-day sun under the heavily laden fruit trees. Then they pass by
the brilliant flower-beds to the rustic porch, through which is visible
the Grebbys' twelve o'clock repast spread on a clean white linen cloth,
a vase of wild flowers for simple decoration. There are
bright-coloured texts on the walls, and an old Family Bible under a
glass case.
"My mother will be back from the market directly," says Eleanor; "would
you do us the honour of stopping to dinner?"
The tone became a supplication, mingled with smiles.
"You are too kind," declares Philip, touched by the unostentatious
hospitality of his newly found friend. "I shall be most delighted."
"Come and let us watch for the return of Black Bess," she cries,
leading the way out into the garden again. Philip thinks he has never
spent a more delightful morning.
To have missed it would have been to lose one of the sweetest episodes
of his life. The intense restfulness of Copthorne Farm, the fragrance
of the air, the softness of the carpet beneath his feet, the cattle
browsing in verdant pastures, and the murmur of those winged and drowsy
honey-laden workers from the meadows, make a picture which will never
pass from his mind. For the moment, while basking in the harvest sun,
a scene which must some day be only a faded pleasure left to
recollection, is Paradise!
Then the Grebbys' return from their marketing, to welcome the stranger
whom Eleanor proudly introduces. Hospitality is a creed with them, and
renewing their daughter's invitation, they place the choicest their
home affords before the unexpected guest. Thus it is that Philip Roche
finds himself in Eleanor's family circle, discussing the crops and
weather with her father, a rubicund, hale old man, whose life is
centred in bucolic pursuits.
* * * * *
The harvest is over, the wheat and barley are garnered, but still
Philip lingers, chained by that mysterious agent the world calls--Love!
He sees the embodiment of all he most admires in Eleanor, the sweet
domesticated country maiden, pure as the health-laden breezes sighing
through the trees. His love ennobles his being, he is surprised at
this inexplicable and unfathomable passion.
"Eleanor," he says, "I am going away--I want to take you with me. Will
you be my wife?"
It is more a command than a question. He cannot do without her. She
_must_ consent.
The girl's breath comes and goes swiftly; for a moment he fears she
will faint.
The future dances before her swimming brain, the alluring prospect of
money, position, pleasure, whisper like fiends in Eleanor's ears. Love
is forgotten; she only remembers the vague unsatisfied ambitions of her
young dreams. She lets him kiss her lips again and again, she is
clasped in his arms, yet feels them not; her mind fixed on the dazzling
picture of "what is to be!"
"Your answer, Eleanor, darling--love!" he gasps, watching the glorious
colour mount to her face, the marvellous radiance fill her eyes.
"Yes, Philip, your wife always!" Her head is on his shoulder, he has
gathered her hands about his neck. The brief midday hours fly as she
yields to the tender wooing.
"Soon," he whispers, "autumn's fingers of decay will creep over
Copthorne, while leaves must fall damp and dead in the country lanes.
Marry me, Eleanor, now the summer is here."
She starts back, a deadly fear knocking at her heart. She laughs,
apparently frivolous and light-hearted.
"Yes, in the summer, sometime next year."
"Next year!" his face falling. "But when? Next year has three hundred
and sixty-five long days!"
She smiles entrancingly, shrugging her shoulders.
"Oh! well--when the birds begin to sing."
"No," he cries, drawing her to him, "before they are silent, Eleanor,
before the light of summer goes out of the heavens, and the blue sky
fades to grey!"
Her eyes droop, her cheek is pale.