A fortnight passed. I had seen little or nothing of Mr. Harrod till one
afternoon when, with a volume of Walter Scott under my arm, I had taken
my basket to get some plovers' eggs off the marsh. I had wandered a
long way far beyond that part of the dike that lay beneath the village
and was apt to be frequented by passers-by, and I had already about a
dozen eggs in my little basket, when I heard some one whistling down
behind the reeds on the opposite side of the bank.
It might have been a shepherd. There was a track across the level here,
and none but the shepherds knew it; but somehow I did not think it was
a shepherd. I sat down upon the turf, for the bulrushes in the dike had
not yet grown to any height, and I did not want to be seen.
"Taff!" called a voice.
Yes, it was Mr. Harrod. I had missed the St. Bernard when I had been
coming out, and had wondered where he had gone, for I had wanted him
for a companion--Luck, the sheep-dog being out with Reuben. I wondered
how it was that Mr. Harrod could have taken him.
I sat quite still among the rushes, where I had been looking for the
birds'-nests. I did not want to be seen, and, as far as I remembered,
there was no plank over the dike just here. But there was some one who
knew the marsh better than I did. It was the dog. As soon as he got
opposite to where I was, he began barking loudly, and then he ran back
some hundred yards and stood still, barking and wagging his tail, and
as plainly as possible inviting his companion to follow him.
Mr. Harrod must have loved dogs almost as much as I did, for he
actually turned back, and when he came to where Taff stood he laughed.
There was evidently a plank there, and I suppose he must have guessed
that he was expected for some reason to cross over. He did so, and Taff
followed. The dog tore along the path to me, and Mr. Harrod followed
slowly. He did not seem at all surprised to see me. He came towards me
with a book in his hand.
"I think you must have dropped this," he said, handing it to me. "We
found it just down yonder."
He said "we." It must have been the sagacity of that wretched dog
which had betrayed me, for there was no name in the book. I took it
reluctantly; I was rather ashamed of my love of reading. Girls in the
country were not supposed usually to be fond of reading. If it hadn't
been for those good old-fashioned novels in father's library, mother
would have considered the Bible, and as much news as was needed not to
make one appear a fool, as much literature as any woman required. A
love of reading might be considered an affectation in me, and there was
nothing of which I had such a wholesome horror as affectation.
I took the book in silence--my manners did not mend--and stooped down
to pat the dog. I wanted to move away, but I didn't quite know how to
do it. Taffy wagged his tail as if he hadn't seen me for weeks. Foolish
beast! If he was so fond of me, why did he go after strangers so easily?
"Taff knows the marsh," said I, for the sake of saying something.
"Famously," said Mr. Harrod. "He shows me the way everywhere. We are
the best of friends."
I frowned. Was it an apology for having taken my dog?
"Taff will follow any one," I said, roughly.
It was not true, for Taff had never been known to follow any one
before; and even as I said it, I wondered if Mr. Harrod were one of
those whom "the beasts love," but he took no notice of my rudeness.
"What have you got there?" asked he, looking into my basket.
"Plovers' eggs," answered I. "There are lots on the marsh nearer the
beach."
"Lapwings' eggs," corrected he, taking one in his hand.
"Oh no! plovers' eggs," insisted I. "They are sold as plovers' eggs in
the shops in town as well as here."
"Yes," smiled he. "They are sold as plovers' eggs all over the London
market also, but the lapwing--or the pewit, as you call it--lays them
for all that. It is a bird of the plover family, but it should not
properly be called a plover."
I bit my lip.
"Of course those are not all plovers' eggs," said I, taking up one of a
creamy color spotted with brown, which was quite different to the gray
ones mottled with black, that seemed to have been designed to escape
detection on the gray beach, where they are generally found. "This is a
dabchick's egg."
"I see you know more about birds than most young ladies do," said Mr.
Harrod; "but I should call that a moor-hen's egg. And as for the gray
plover, it is a migratory bird; it does not breed in England."
I suppose I still looked unconvinced, for he added, pleasantly, "Come,
I'll bet you anything you like; and if we can be lucky enough to find a
bird on the eggs, I'll prove it you now."
He turned round and began walking slowly along the bank of the dike,
close to the water's edge. I gave Taff a friendly cuff to keep him
quiet, for he was rather excitable, and it was necessary that we should
be very wary if we wanted to surprise the bird sitting.
Mr. Harrod crept cautiously along, and I followed; I was as anxious now
as he was, and by this simple means I was entrapped into a walk with my
sworn enemy. A brown bird with a long bill got up among the reeds, and
flew in a halting manner down to the water. It was a water-rail, and
Mr. Harrod said so--for these birds are rarer upon the dike than the
moor-hens and pewits, of which there are a great number, and I suppose
he imagined I would not know it.
Something moved in the growing rushes at our feet; but it was only a
couple of black moor-hens, who took to their heels, so to speak, with
great velocity, and made little flights in the air with their legs
hanging down and their bodies very perpendicular. We stood and laughed
at them a minute, they were so very absurd out of their proper element;
but when they took to the water they were pretty enough, the little red
shields standing out upon their black foreheads as they jerked their
heads in swimming.
I came upon a mother moor-hen presently tending her little brood; the
large flat nest, built of dried rushes, lay in the overhanging branches
of a willow-shrub, and she stood on the bank hard by. She did not fly
or run away as other birds do when frightened, but stood there croaking
as if in anger, and fluttering anxiously round the place where the six
little balls of black down showed their red heads above the edge of the
nest.
I held Taff by the collar, to prevent his doing any mischief, and
we left the poor faithful mother undisturbed. We had not found any
plovers' eggs since we had begun to look. They are always hard to find,
being laid upon the open ground, sometimes on the very beach, where
they almost look like little pebbles themselves, and sometimes in
furrows and clefts of the earth, but always without any nest to mark
the place. I suppose I had pretty well scoured this particular reach.
About a hundred yards farther on, however, the strange cry that
distinguishes the bird we sought fell upon our ears; a cock lapwing
flew up, his long feathery crest erect, and tumbled over and over in
the air in the manner peculiar to his kind, uttering all the while the
plaintive "cheep, cheep" that means distress and anxiety.
Mr. Harrod held out a warning hand behind him as he crept forward
gently on tiptoe, and I was obliged to be silent, although I was
particularly anxious to speak. Presently he beckoned to me to advance,
and as I did so I saw the hen-bird running along the bank as close to
the ground as possible, while in a furrow close by my feet lay the
pretty, gray-spotted eggs that we were looking for.
Mr. Harrod turned and looked at me with a little smile, which I chose
to think was one of triumph. "That proves nothing," said I. "I call
that bird a plover, a green plover. I can't help it if you call it
something else. Of course, I know there's another sort of plover; the
golden plover, but no one could confuse the two, for this one has got a
crest on its head which it lifts up and down when it likes."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," answered he. "I see you know all about it.
It's only a confusion of terms."
I flushed and stooped down to pick up the eggs.
"No, don't," said he; "let the poor thing have them. You will see, she
will fly back as soon as we have gone away."
We stepped back into the path, and surely, in a moment, the two parents
met in the air, tumbling over together, and still uttering their
plaintive cry. Then presently the hen-bird floated down again and
returned to her patient duty; and soon her mate followed her also, and
both were hidden among the rushes.
I turned round with a little laugh. I had thought I was annoyed; but
the fact is, I was too happy to be annoyed.
The panoply of a tender gray sky, fashioned of many and many soft
clouds, floating over and past one another, and lightening a little
where the sun should have been, was spread over the placid ground; the
sea was gray, too, beyond the flats, melting into the gray sky, the
white headland in the distance, and the gray towers along the shore
seemed very near and distinct; sheep wandered up and down the banks of
the dike, cropping steadily; the air was soft and kindly. My heart beat
with a sense of satisfaction that was unlike anything I had ever felt
before; and yet many was the time that I had been out on the marsh on
just such a soft day, among the birds and the beasts whom I loved.
"Listen," said I, presently, breaking the pleasant silence, as a loud,
screaming bird's note, by no means beautiful, but full of delightful
associations, came across the marsh. "The swifts are beginning to sing;
that means summer indeed."
A little company of the lovely black birds came towards us, flying
wildly in circles above the dike, sipping the water as they skimmed its
surface, and then away again over the meadows.
"I wonder how it is that they are so black and glossy when they come
over to us, and so gray and dingy when they go away?" said I.
"Have you noticed that as a fact?" asked he.
"Oh yes," I replied; and I am sure that I was very proud to be able to
say so. "They come for May-Day, looking as smart as possible; and they
don't look at all the better for their seaside season when they leave
at the end of August."
"I expect they moult in those other countries to which they go when
they leave us. But I haven't noticed very many swifts about here,
anyhow. Perhaps the country is too wild for them."
"Well, we have plenty of swallows," said I, "and martins too. And I
don't know why swifts should be so much more particular than the rest
of their family. But I have a standing disagreement upon that point
with our old servant Reuben. He swears that there are only eight pairs
of swifts in the village, and that the same birds come back every year
to the same place."
"That sounds rather incredible," said Mr. Harrod.
"So I say," rejoined I. "But he insists that he has counted the pairs,
and that they are always the same number. And as, of course, there must
be a pair of young to every pair of old birds when they leave us, he
argues that the parent birds refuse to allow the young ones to inhabit
the same place when they return. Reuben is as positive about it as
possible," added I, laughing. "These swifts live under the eaves of the
old church; and I do believe he greets them as old friends every year."
"I shouldn't venture to say that he was mistaken," said Mr. Harrod.
"So many curious things happen among beasts and birds, and swifts
are particularly amusing creatures. Reuben appears to be quite a
naturalist."
I had quite forgotten my self-imposed attitude of defiance in the keen
interest of this talk; but something in the tone of this remark roused
it afresh.
"If that means some one who knows about birds and things, yes--he is,"
answered I, with a shake of my head--a foolish habit which I know I had
when I wanted to be emphatic. "Probably a much better naturalist than
people who learn only from books. He taught me all I know," added I,
proudly, and not for a moment perceiving the construction that might be
put upon this remark. "I used to be out here with him whole days when
I was a child, and we both of us got into no end of scrapes for 'doing
what we ought not to do, and leaving undone what we had to do.' Oh, but
it was fun!" added I, with a sigh.
My companion laughed. "Delightful, I am sure," said he; "and it did you
a great deal more good than sticking to books, I'll be bound."
He looked at me straight as he said this, as though he were taking my
measure.
"I did stick to my books, too," cried I, quickly, anxious that he
should not think me an ignoramus. "Mother was always very particular
about that."
"Yes, yes, of course," said he. And then he added, with what I fancied
was a twinkle of fun in his eye, "'The Fair Maid of Perth' is not every
young lady's choice."
I blushed. Perhaps, after all, he did not think me ridiculous for
reading novels. I was half angry, half ashamed, but it never occurred
to me to wonder why I should care what this new acquaintance said or
thought.
"We didn't read novels in lesson-time," said I, stiffly; "we didn't
read many novels at all. Father and mother don't hold with novels for
girls, and mother don't hold with poetry either, but father likes
Milton and Shakespeare."
"I dare say they are quite right," said my companion. "But you are not
of the same mind I suppose?"
"No," answered I, boldly, determined to be honest. "I think Sir
Walter Scott's novels are lovely; and I like poetry--all that I can
understand."
Mr. Harrod laughed. "I don't think I should have been willing to admit
there was anything I couldn't understand when I was your age," he said.
I looked at him surprised. He talked as though he were ever so much
older than I was, although he did not look more than six or seven and
twenty. I forgot that even then there would be years between us. I
always was forgetting that I was scarcely more than a child.
"I think that would be silly," said I, loftily. I forgot another thing,
and that was that I had shown Mr. Harrod pretty constantly since he had
been at the Grange, that I was not fond of admitting there was anything
I could not understand, and that if there were any shrewdness in him,
he must have set it down by this time as a special trait in me.
"Well, anyhow you understand the 'Fair Maid of Perth,'" added he.
"Yes," answered I. "The heroine is like my sister, beautiful, and
dreadfully good."
I was ashamed directly I had said it: praising one's sister was almost
like praising one's self.
"Indeed," said he; "that's not a fault from which most of us suffer,
but then very few of us have people at hand ready and generous enough
to sing our praises."
I might have taken the speech as a compliment, I suppose, but it seemed
so natural to praise Joyce that I confess it rather puzzled me.
"You must miss your sister," added Mr. Harrod.
"Of course I do," cried I, warmly. "Luckily she isn't going to be away
for long, or I don't know what mother would do. She's mother's right
hand in the house. I'm no use in-doors."
"You always seem to me to be very busy," said Harrod.
"Oh no," insisted I; "it was father I used to help."
"Don't you help him now?" asked he.
"No," I answered, shortly; and as I spoke the recollection of my
grievance swept over me, and brought the tears very close, "he doesn't
need me."
Mr. Harrod did not say a word, he did not even look at me, and I was
grateful to him for that; but I was sure that he had understood, and I
grew more sore than ever, knowing that I had let him guess at my sore
place. We walked on in silence.
"I used to love the Waverley novels when I was a lad," said he,
changing the subject kindly.
"Don't you now?" asked I.
"I dare say I should if I read them, but I have to read stiffer books
now--when I read at all."
"Books on agriculture! I suppose," said I, scornfully; "but father says
a little practical knowledge is worth all the books in the world."
It did not strike me at the moment how very rude this speech was; but
Mr. Harrod smiled.
"Your father is quite right, Miss Maliphant," said he. "Books are
of little use till tested by practical knowledge; but after all, if
they are good books, they were written from practical knowledge, you
know, and perhaps it would take one a lifetime to reap the individual
knowledge of all that they have swept together."
"I only know what father said," repeated I, half sullenly.
"Perhaps you don't remember it all," said he. "I think your father
would agree with me this time; he is a very wise man, and I fancy I
have stated the case pretty fairly."
"I should think he _was_ a wise man!" I exclaimed, and I think my pride
was pardonable this time. "All the country-side knows that."
"I know it," he answered. "One can't go into a cottage without hearing
him spoken of with love and reverence."
"Yes; I never saw any one so sorry for people as father is," answered
I. "I'm frightened of people who are ill and unhappy; but father--he
wants to help them--well, just as I wanted to help the beasts and
birds," I ended up with a laugh.
As I spoke the curious twittering note of the female cuckoo sounded in
one of the trees upon the cliff, and immediately from four different
quarters, one after the other, the reply came in the two distinct notes
of the male bird. I stood still upon the path, and looked about me. The
sound, and perhaps partly what I had just said, reminded me of one of
the objects of my walk.
"I declare I had almost forgotten," I cried, and without another word
of explanation I dashed up the bank of the cliff, Taff following.
Mr. Harrod stood below on the path. A few minutes more were enough to
enable me to find the bush, which I had marked with a bit of the braid
off my cloak on that memorable evening a few nights ago.
The lark's nest was still there. The cruel little cuckoo sat in it
alone, while hovering in the air, close at hand, was the foolish mother
waiting, with a dainty morsel in her beak, till I should be gone, and
she could safely feed the vicious little interloper who had destroyed
her own brood. The bodies of the little titlarks lay upon the bank. I
jumped down to the path again and told Mr. Harrod the tale.
"I wish I had put the cuckoo out," I said. "I hate cuckoos--all the
more because every one admires them." And I remember that all the way
home I kept reverting to that distressing little piece of bird-tragedy.
We returned by the sea-shore. It was a longer way, but I declared that
I must have a sight of the ocean on this soft, calm day. And soft it
was, and calm and gray and mild. The sun was setting, but there was no
sunset. Only behind the village on the hill the clouds lifted a little
towards the horizon, and left a line of whiter light, against which the
trees and houses detached themselves vividly; the marsh was uniform and
sober.
When we had climbed the steep road and were at the Grange gates, Mr.
Harrod held out his hand and said, as he bade me good-night, "I don't
see why you shouldn't be of just as much use to your father as ever you
were, Miss Maliphant. Please be very sure that no one ever would or
ever could replace you to your father."
He spoke as though it were not altogether easy for him to do so; but
there was a ring of honest kindliness in his voice that left me mute
and almost ashamed. He held my hand a moment in his strong grip, but he
did not look at me; and then he turned and almost fled down the road,
as if he, too, were almost ashamed of what he had said.
And I had not answered a word. I stood there surprised, perplexed, and
even a little frightened, surrounded by new and curious emotions, which
I did not even try to unravel.