IN THE GARDEN.
Doubtless the ladies of Ashelton were right in saying that the song
sung by Bill Alardy at Mrs. Dawson’s tea-party was most unsuitable and
highly improper. It was not only the words, though, as was pointed
out, they were reprehensible, but also the terrible earnestness with
which they were sung. Ashelton was justly shocked, and Theresa,
although agreeably surprised by the unexpected richness of her cousin’s
voice, was overcome with shame. Even Gladys Dawson, who was naturally
beyond old-fashioned prejudices, looked at Bill with something more
intelligent than her previous stare. Gilchrist Harborough, sitting by
Miss Dawson, remembered the words spoken by Morton that Thursday night;
the “little girl” certainly could “sing a capital song” of a sort.
But he did not remark on it to Miss Dawson; indeed he seemed to have
forgotten all about her, and looked across to the singer, who had
twisted round on the piano-stool and now sat uneasily regarding the
company with a comical mixture of fear and defiance in her eyes. She
was painfully conscious of their feelings, though not entirely able
to understand them. She was both surprised and angry at the unexpected
storm she had raised. Her eyes met Harborough’s; he at any rate was
not shocked; he understood, he was even a little amused. Bill’s face
began to clear, and the tantalising chameleon eyes changed. Miss Dawson
addressed a remark to the young man, and receiving no reply, glanced in
the direction where his interest obviously lay. Bill saw the glance and
experienced a two-fold gratification; one person in the room sided with
her, and another (she who had sneered at Polly’s skirt!) was annoyed
thereby. Her face cleared entirely, and her eyes absolutely shone. The
mischief was done.
Somehow or other, Bill did not quite know how, she found herself soon
afterwards talking to Harborough, about the song and about all manner
of other things. It was quite easy to talk to him, though he seemed a
grave sort of young man given to taking things seriously, so seriously
that it was rather strange he should approve of the song. He asked her
where she had learned to sing it, and she told him she did not quite
know. “I found the verses written out,” she said, “and I think I must
have heard them sung when I was young. Perhaps my father sang them; I
don’t know.”
“You sang as if you meant it,” he observed.
“So they should be sung.”
“But you have not felt that; you don’t know what you were talking
about.”
“Oh, no,” she agreed readily, “it is all pretending; but that does not
matter; one can pretend anything. Almost it feels sometimes,” she went
on thoughtfully, “as if one had felt it in another first life; don’t
you think so? Or perhaps it is that those who went before--the mothers
and fathers and grandfathers--felt it and passed the memory on.”
Harborough shrugged his shoulders. “That is an old problem,” he said,
“which does not trouble me much. I never think about my ancestry as you
seem to; I find enough to do without seeking for the grip of the dead
hand.”
“Some people do not have to seek for it,” Bill answered. She was
thinking of the Harboroughs of Gurnett. “Have you ever been to Wood
Hall?” she asked abruptly.
“No; I have ridden past it once or twice, but I have not had occasion
to go in that direction often,--why?”
“You know there are Harboroughs there,--people of your name?”
“Yes, possibly distant connections; I have heard my father say that
his people came originally from this part of the country. But I am not
proud of the fact, if it is one; they appear to have been a pretty bad
lot.”
“Yes,” Bill admitted, “and they are poor, desperately poor for the
position: at least, so it is said, and certainly the place looks like
it. Still they have been there for hundreds of years.”
“What the better are they for that? Nothing, I should say, seeing that
each generation seems to have been worse than the previous one, till we
come to the present, last and worst, bankrupt alike in means, morals
and constitution, played out, worn out, done for,--and a good thing
too.”
“It is the grip of the dead hand,” Bill said with conviction, and when
he looked at her, doubtful as to her meaning, she explained: “They have
an awful lot against them; the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the
children have not much choice left them.”
“Much income, you mean.”
“No, I don’t, though they have not very much of that either. I believe
the estate is mortgaged, but so are their natures and characters; they
could hardly go straight if they would. Think what it must be to have
all that weight of tradition and fathers’ sins pulling against you.”
Harborough was not convinced. “Most of us have as many ancestors as
have the great people of Gurnett,” he said, “yet some of us seem
capable of independent action.”
“We don’t know about them; that makes a difference. We have not got
them, in a way, stored up as the Harboroughs have. If you had been into
Wood Hall you would know what I mean.”
“Then you think the next Harborough is bound to go and do likewise?”
“I don’t know him,” Bill said; “but I think he has a bigger chance of
doing likewise than you have.”
“Yes; because if I believed I was doomed to be the same kind of
blackguard as my ancestors I should blow my brains out.”
Bill looked at him gravely. “You wouldn’t really,” she said; “because
you would not be as you are now if you were one of them. I wonder how
nearly you are related?”
“What does it matter?”
“Nothing,--unless you could claim Wood Hall.”
“I am generations away from that,” he laughed; “and I don’t want to be
any nearer.”
“You are not a Catholic? No? I wonder if the owner of Wood Hall must
be?”
“Certainly not; a man’s conscience is his own.”
Bill nodded. “And his family?” she said.
“Have nothing to do with it; a man has a right to his own opinion.”
Harborough spoke warmly: he almost looked as if he defied Bill to
defend the position; but she only said: “A woman is better off then;
she has a right to two opinions,--her own and that of the person she is
with.”
“That is scarcely the point,” Harborough said; but he did not get her
back to the point, for she would have no more serious discussion;
either her ability or her interest was exhausted. Harborough, whose
bent of mind was habitually grave, tried in vain to bring the
conversation back, and was half amused, half vexed by her evasions.
He was certainly wholly vexed when Miss Dawson, from the ottoman,
introduced the labour-problem as a subject likely to interest him.
Bill perceived the vexation and was amused. If she had been truly
feminine she would probably have been gratified; but her nature was
lacking in some of these girlish characteristics, and though she was
pleased by the annoyance of Gladys, her enjoyment partook more of the
pleasure of vengeance than of a womanly appreciation of pre-eminence.
She was glad to have avenged the insult offered to Polly’s skirt, but
she had no other feeling about it. She certainly never thought of
Gilchrist; by the next morning, when she set about her penance in the
garden, she had forgotten all about him.
She enjoyed the penance immensely. It was hard work in the open air
and there was something to show for the labour; moreover, it appealed
strongly to her, for it was a clearing up and setting straight with
the prospect eventually of a productive yield. She had already made
plans for the improvement of other parts of the garden when the long
bed should be finished. There was plenty of room for improvement, for
the garden seemed to be nobody’s business; Robert was not interested in
it, and Theresa,--more because she had never been used to doing so than
for any other reason--never thought of working in it.
“She does not like digging and she hates worms,” Bill said. “You would
not expect T. to grub out here; besides, she has work in the house.”
This was said to Gilchrist, who apparently had not entirely forgotten
her existence, whatever she may have done with regard to his. At all
events, when he saw her from the footpath which crossed the field
beyond the garden, he came to enquire how she was and what she was
doing. She told him her intentions with regard to the plot of ground on
which she was engaged, but she did not cease work to do so.
He watched her half amused. “I wonder Morton did not set one of the men
to dig this for you,” he said.
“Why should he? I can do it well enough.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “but it is hard work for you.”
“Work,” she replied oracularly, “is an excellent thing. You yourself
believe in the dignity of labour.”
“Who told you that?” he asked reddening slightly.
She had stooped down and was wrestling with a giant worm as yet but
half above the soil. “Don’t you believe it?” she inquired. “Out you
come--” this was addressed to the worm--“you’re not going to stop here,
come along now!” It came, and she threw it over the iron fence to find
a new home in the field. “This is the dignity of labour,” she said as
she returned to her work.
There was very little dignity about the small, hatless figure on the
deeply dug plot. Bill had a great faculty for putting trade-marks of
her occupation on herself and clothes; labour she might represent, but
dignity never.
Harborough laughed a little; it was impossible to know when the girl
was in fun and when in earnest. “Mrs. Morton will have a lot of
potatoes if your crop is a good one,” he observed.
“Yes, but they’ll keep,--besides, she can bring them to Wrugglesby for
us if she likes. There is an awful lot of waste in this garden; one
could grow heaps of things--it does seem a pity. While I am here I am
going to try what can be done with it.”
“In the way of growing potatoes?”
“All manner of things. I don’t know much about it, but I’ll find out;
there is a book about gardening here, and Mr. Dane has got another, a
big one, I saw it in his bookshelf. I expect you know a good lot.”
She stopped work for a moment as the idea occurred to her, then went on
again with it and her questions at the same time till Harborough soon
found himself giving information on the subject of fruit and vegetable
culture; flowers did not seem to enter into the girl’s consideration at
all.
“Some grow themselves,” she said of them, “and there are heaps of wild
ones to be got. I would see about flowers afterwards; the other things
must come first.”
“But,” Harborough objected, “in such a garden as this it would be
possible to grow many more eatables than Mrs. Morton could use; surely
it would be better to devote the surplus time and room to flowers.
Unless,” he added slily, “you think the other vegetables could be
brought to Wrugglesby like the potatoes.”
“Well, yes,” Bill admitted, “some could, and the rest could be sold.”
“To whom? Believe me there is no profit attached to market-gardening on
a small scale; your profits would not pay your freight to London.”
“I should not send them to London.” Bill was at the end of the row now,
and Harborough had moved farther along the fence to keep even with her.
“I should take some in the light cart to Wrugglesby and sell to people
who had no gardens, and some I should take to Darvel. It is rather a
long distance off, but it is quite a big town with barracks and lots of
houses without gardens. People with things to sell come to our house
in Wrugglesby like that; at first we did not buy much, but now we have
a good deal from them--that is how it would be with me. I should sell
rabbits too, I think, and fowls and eggs; Theresa does not half make
them pay.”
“I fancy she would raise objections to your making them pay in that
way.”
Bill was forced to admit that such a thing was probable. “Still,” she
said, “if it was really right I might do it all the same if I lived
here; I could easily get round Robert. But I don’t live here, so I am
afraid there is an end of the matter.”
Harborough watched her curiously for a moment. “You don’t appear to
suffer from any class-prejudices,” he observed.
“What are they? Do you mean I don’t mind what I do? If that is it, I
don’t; why should I? Do you?”
“No.”
The question was superfluous, he thought, for did not his manner of
living demonstrate his theory to Bill as to everyone else?
“You work your own farm,” she said, so she evidently knew, “and I
should work my own cabbage garden. We should not make big profits, but
we should make enough to live on with what we grew for ourselves, and
we should enjoy ourselves at the same time.”
“You would like it.”
“Yes, very much. I do not mean I should do it if I were rich. I should
find some other work then; there is sure to be some belonging to being
rich; but if I were not rich, only rich enough to have a farm or a
cabbage garden, I should work them like that.”
“I wonder if you know what real work is?”
The remark was more speculation than question, and seemed to emanate
from a different and much older being. Bill was not piqued, for indeed
she regarded him in the light of a different and older being.
“I have not done much,” she said, “but I mean to get this garden a
little straight before I go back to Wrugglesby.”
“If you don’t get tired of it first.”
“I sha’n’t do that; you can come every morning if you like, to see if I
am at work or not.”
This was something of a challenge. Harborough at first had not intended
accepting it, yet, since on the next day circumstances caused him to
come home at mid-day by the field-path, he thought he might as well see
if the girl was really at work. The day was moist and close, and a warm
fine rain, which fell at intervals, might have offered some excuse for
remaining indoors. But she had not availed herself of the excuse; very
likely, he thought, because she expected he would come, thinking which
he wished he had not done so, and even for a moment meditated going
away without betraying his presence. But it was too late for that; she
had seen him and glanced up from her work to ask, “Are you going to
market this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you can’t see Robert off in good time? Theresa will be
waiting for him.”
“I will do what I can.”
“Thank you.” She resumed her work, and he went on his way determined to
keep his promise.
And either he did keep it, or else some other circumstance brought
about the desired results, for Robert came home early that night; and
Bill, who was sitting with Theresa, was satisfied, trying to persuade
herself that Harborough was right in saying that the one escapade was
an accident not likely to be repeated.
She did not see Harborough for the next few days, and so could not
thank him for his good offices. She did not altogether expect to see
him; indeed, to tell the truth, she had forgotten about him in the
engrossing interest of her work. But after nearly a week he passed
that way again and found her still very busy, though now at a spot
some little way from the railing. She did not cease work to come to
him, and as he did not jump the rail to come to her, they carried on
their conversation in tones suitable to the distance that separated
them,--an arrangement which struck Harborough as more practical than
pleasant, though he would not take the initiative in improving upon
it. The conversation itself was practical, strictly horticultural, and
mostly concerned with the growing of lettuces, which, though it showed
a laudable attention to business on Bill’s part, was uninteresting. She
was attending very much to business and not very much to Harborough;
she even once went unceremoniously away to fetch some water-cans,
singing as she went.
Harborough turned to go; the water-cans, it is true, were not far
away, but she had gone for them without a word of apology. He was an
extremely practical young man, believing in utility, in the importance
of work above all things; but he did not quite appreciate seeing
manners (and himself) sacrificed to some one else’s notion of work.
“‘There’s work for all the day-time,’” Bill sang, repeating to herself
fragments of the song she had sung to the other Harborough, and quite
unconscious of having offended this one. “The rose of this can has
rather big holes in it; I believe it will wash the seeds out of the
ground--‘the victor’s crown of glory,--of glory, glory’--now, then, I
have filled my shoes with water. ‘But after life’s long story there’s
the devil’s bill to meet.’”
“What are you singing?” Harborough stopped to ask.
“Nothing,” and Bill stood on one foot while she emptied the water out
of her shoe.
“Yes, but what was it?”
Bill recited the verse to him and began to water her seed-patch.
“Why don’t you come nearer?” Harborough asked. “All the men in the yard
will hear what you are saying.”
“There are none there now, they are all eating their lunch in the barn;
besides what does it matter if they do? It will do no harm.”
“Oh, no; it might even do some good; it is almost a pity they should
not be edified by your--hymn is it?”
Bill looked up arrested by his tone. “It isn’t a hymn,” she said, “but
it is true all the same, every bit of it, the laughter and the work and
the bill, only I don’t think you always have to wait till the end of
life’s long story for that. After all it is only fair; you must expect
to pay a good price for a good thing,--and it is good!”
“Which? The broken cucumber-frame or your own work? You are admiring
both.”
“Everything,--just being alive.”
“Do you consider one is in the devil’s debt for life? It is a new idea.”
“No, not exactly that. The debt you owe is the wrong you do. You have
not half lived if you have done no wrong; you miss an awful lot if you
never do any wrong,--don’t you think so?”
She looked up as she spoke. Wrong so prefigured appeared wonderfully
alluring, for there was an indescribable provocation in her face and
figure, a fascination, nay, a temptation personified, which roused the
youth in him, stirring the pulses usually so cool. Theory and reason
are all very well, admirable in fact for ordinary use, but young blood
will course in spite of them; the world’s spring will not always take
_no_ for answer.
Harborough went home that day vibrating with an emotion which was
strange to him. Afterwards, when he was cool again, he was ashamed of
it, for it did not seem exactly a good thing, and he vowed he would
not go near the garden again. Yet how could he help himself? In a
rash moment he had offered to mend the broken cucumber-frame for the
girl, and she, serenely unconscious of his emotions, had accepted the
offer. There had not been time then: Theresa wanted her in the house
in five minutes; but he would come some other time. She had suggested
to-morrow, or any day he liked. It did not matter when it was done, but
it had to be done; he had left himself no choice.
That same evening he met Theresa in the lane, and, acting on impulse,
he told her of his offer to mend the frame. On the whole, he thought
it better, even if she put a false construction on his actions, than
jumping the fence some morning when Bill was alone in the garden. But
Theresa did not put any construction whatever on his actions; she
looked upon her young cousin as more of a child than she really was,
and much more of one than Harborough thought her. “She told me you
offered to do it,” Theresa said; “it is very kind of you, I’m sure. She
has taken a great fancy to gardening, and I am glad of it, though I
cannot give her much help myself, for I know so little about it, and am
so busy besides.”
Harborough assured her he was pleased to give any assistance he could,
and Theresa thanked him again for sparing his valuable time, and
invited him to do so to-morrow afternoon, and to have tea afterwards.
This he did, he and Bill spending an hour in the garden before tea.
That afternoon Bill did not arouse any sentiments, unholy or otherwise,
in his breast, neither did she sing or whistle; she devoted herself to
business, and Harborough, having of late worked with farm-labourers,
found it a refreshing change to work with a person who understood what
was wanted and did as she was told. “She has more common-sense than
most of the men I know,” was the opinion he formed that day, both when
they were at work before tea, and when they were at the table later
on. Her intercourse with Robert Morton impressed him very much; she
had gauged the man’s character to a nicety, and Harborough could not
but see that she understood him better, blamed him less, and could do
infinitely more with him than could his stately young wife. He was
not sure that he liked her the better for that. “An odd girl,” was
his opinion, when at last he had convinced himself that she was not
really conscious of the part she was playing; “she simply reflects
her surroundings, but--” His ideal of womanhood was not a changing
elf, a will-o’-the-wisp, a creature who could in mind enter into all
things, reflect all things, good, bad, and indifferent, without judging
or condemning. Woman should be above man; she should not understand
evil except when he taught her; she should be merciful, of course,
with the mercy of love, the pity of superiority, but not tolerant
with the liberality of good fellowship; she should have nothing in
common with a man like Robert Morton; she should be something fairer,
better--unconsciously he looked at Theresa.
Yet Bill fascinated him. She was not fair, above, apart; she was of
the earth earthy, a brownie by the hearth, not a goddess for a shrine.
And yet the last thing in his waking thoughts that night was the dark
glowing face watching him from the gate, the first thing that haunted
his dreams was the small figure gliding into the green twilight of the
nut-bushes.