THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM.
Man is a triple development; call him, body, soul and spirit, or
mind, matter and extension,--he is, however regarded, a trinity. A
man who recognises his three natures (which fortunately all do not),
and who in his wife or work gratifies two of the three, is asking
much of Providence when he complains that the third is unsatisfied.
Yet this was Gilchrist Harborough’s case. Mind had counselled him to
seek Wilhelmina Alardy as his wife; reason pointed out her unique
suitability to his requirements; common-sense told him that she was
exactly and precisely the person for all practical purposes. Yet he
had hesitated, perhaps because he had an intuitive, if unexpressed,
idea that such excellent logic was not always the best foundation for
domestic happiness. That was a month ago; but then, last night in the
twilight came Matter, and, forgetting Mind’s cool selection, discovered
that the girl was desirable, sought and made her captive in a somewhat
savage fashion, asking no better reason than her voice, no stronger
proof than her contact when his arms held her.
Yet in the morning the man was not satisfied with this double choice.
To begin with, he despised himself because he had allowed Matter to
get the upper hand; as a consequence he--well, no, he did not exactly
despise the cause--but at least he did not altogether respect her just
then. “The woman tempted me,”--it was a coward’s excuse and he would
not make it. She was not to blame, at least not much; he would do her
justice. And he honestly tried, though he did not altogether succeed,
for he did not understand the childish folly which had prompted her to
the game in the orchard. Sheer folly it had been, and nothing more; she
knew nothing of his sensations and emotions, and his capture of her at
the end had come like a thunderclap in its stunning suddenness and left
her even now not fully aware of the true state of the case.
So Harborough in his mind did her justice so far as he could; and in
his actions he determined without delay to explain his equivocal words
of last night and make her a formal offer of marriage. And when he
felt not altogether glad about this decision, he reminded himself how
entirely reason had chosen her before impulse had dictated last night’s
words. As for the ideal, the fair and stately woman, a queen with holy
face and ways of gentle dignity,--there was not room at his hearth for
her. She could not rise early to milk his cows; she could not toil and
work and stand beside him in the dirt and drudgery of his daily round;
at least his queen could not, for so she would not be queen. There is
doubtless a dignity in labour, but it is not easily discernible when
labour is translated into soap and water, mud and ashes, red hands and
tumbled hair. He could not afford an ideal: he did not need a woman
to worship, but one to live with, human, likeable, one to work with,
strong, capable,--and he went to look for Bill.
But Bill was not easy to find; she should have been working in
the garden at this time, but from the field-path he could not see
her. He retraced his steps, and from another point sought her as
unsuccessfully. He climbed a little hill and looked down upon the
garden, but she was not there. Then he went back, by way of the lane,
to the orchard, but she was not there either; she must have gone on
some message for Theresa: he would come again in the afternoon, and
find her then. But he did not find her, for then, as earlier, she saw
him coming and ran away to hide. She did not exactly know why; she
was afraid of what he would say, of what he had said; she did not
altogether understand herself or him or anything; only she was afraid.
She longed to tell someone,--Mr. Dane--her world held no one else who
was likely to be of any use. She would have liked to tell him as she
told him of Harborough of Gurnett, but, for some reason that she could
not fathom, she was ashamed; so she only worked hard and tried not to
think, and when she saw her lover coming (if lover he was) she hid
herself.
But Gilchrist Harborough was not to be turned from his purpose like
this, and, having sought her in vain the next day, he presented himself
at the house in the evening and asked Jessie for Miss Alardy. It was
raining, a fine soft rain, which rejoiced the heart and made things
almost grow before the eyes. Bill would be indoors now, for the rain
clouds had closed the evening in early, and in the drawing-room, where
he waited, it seemed already dark.
Jessie went to find Bill. “She has just gone to the attic for a sieve,”
Theresa said, and Jessie went up the attic-stairs. “Miss Bill!” she
called, standing at the top and looking down the long passage from
the right of which the three attics opened. The place looked ghostly
in the grey twilight; there was a spot of wet on the low ceiling, the
roof leaked by the chimney where the starlings had built last year,
there was a great hole in the floor under the window, and there were
rats in the attic. Jessie gathered her skirts about her, and, after a
preliminary _sh-oo!_ to frighten any chance creatures that might be
about, came into the passage. “Miss Bill,” she called again, “you’re
wanted; Mr. Harborough wants to see you.”
Now that was precisely the information for which Bill was waiting.
She had heard the door-bell ring as she looked over some tools in the
back attic, but she had not associated the sound with herself until
Jessie began to ascend the stairs. Then she had guessed that the
visitor was Gilchrist Harborough, and that he had come to see her. She
fully intended to go down and see him; it was, of course, what she
must do, and there certainly was no reason why she should not; yet
when she heard Jessie’s voice an uncontrollable impulse to escape took
possession of her. She looked round; there was no escape, no way out
but the door by which Jessie would enter. The door of a big cupboard,
however, stood ajar behind her; quick as thought she opened it, pulled
it to after her and stood pressed against the wall within, holding the
door close by its rough planking.
Jessie peeped into each of the attics in turn, and then muttering, “She
ain’t here after all,” went down-stairs again; but Bill remained in the
cupboard till she heard the front door shut after Harborough. It was
some time, for they looked thoroughly for her before he went away. Her
prison was cramped, dark, and very close, and there was a warm smell
of old hops about it which afterwards she always associated with that
evening and her folly. It was folly, and as such she regretted it when
it was too late and would have gladly undone it if she could.
Later, when she came down-stairs, Theresa told her of Harborough’s
visit and asked her where she was when they called her. She did not
tell and her reply, guardedly given, left only a vague impression on
her cousin’s mind. Theresa, believing she must have gone to the barn
with her tools, thought no more about it until the next afternoon when
Harborough presented himself again. This time he asked for Theresa,
having learned from Robert that his wife and Polly were left guardians
of their young cousin.
It was Sunday, and by Theresa’s invitation Bella and Polly had walked
from Wrugglesby that morning to spend the day at Haylands; they had
come early and would stay till the evening, when Robert was going to
drive them home. Polly was dozing placidly on the dining-room sofa
when Harborough came, and Bill was curled up in the orchard with a
book, oblivious alike of impending events and the dampness of the
grass. Harborough might almost have caught her now had he tried; but
he did not, for he decided that his best plan would be to apply in the
old-fashioned way to Mrs. Morton for permission to address her cousin.
Accordingly he did so, and he did it with some self-possession, for the
whole thing was now very clear in his own mind and he wished to get it
settled. It was, after all, to him a very simple and straightforward
matter now.
But to Theresa it was very different, very overwhelming, it might
almost be said, in its unexpectedness. She gazed at him blankly for
a moment, too much astonished for speech. “Bill?” she said at last,
“Bill? She is a child!”
“She is young,” Harborough admitted, “but she must be nearly eighteen;
that is not so very young, you know.”
“She is not eighteen till the winter; we have always looked upon her as
a child. You must forgive my astonishment, she seems such a child to
us.”
Harborough said he could easily understand her feelings; indeed, he
allowed, in some respects Bill seemed a child to him, though in others
the very reverse.
“She is very capable,” Theresa said, “but I am afraid when you come to
speak to her on this subject you will find her very childish,--I mean,
she will be so unprepared for it, it will be difficult.”
Harborough smiled slightly. “I do not think it will be an entire
surprise to her,” he said. “I do not mean that I know how she will
receive me, but that I should come will not, I fancy, altogether
astonish her.”
Theresa felt more and more bewildered. “I think you must be mistaken,”
was all she could say; but he was persistent in his opinion, and
certainly, whether he was right or wrong, there was no valid reason why
he should not speak to Bill. Theresa, however, still believing in the
girl’s complete ignorance, stipulated for one thing: Bill’s decision,
whatever it was, should not be considered final. “For,” Theresa said,
“I am very much afraid she will not really know her own mind.”
Harborough acquiesced to this, and also to the suggestion that Polly
should be consulted. “She is here now,” Theresa told him; “perhaps it
would be better if you were to see her, as Bill is really more her
charge than mine.”
Harborough had no particular wish to consult the unknown Polly, but
he could not do less than agree, so Theresa went to find her. She was
still dozing on the sofa in the dining-room, and there was no one else
there. Theresa roused her and told her the news briefly, wishing the
while that Polly had not slept so soundly, and fearing lest she should
not fully understand. But she need have had no fears; Polly grasped the
situation completely. “Has he any money?” she asked.
“Yes, oh yes, some, not a great deal, of course; he has a little farm.
But, Polly, Bill--”
“A farm? Oh, he is the man who lives by himself and does his own work
to prove something, I remember. That will just suit Bill.”
Polly got up, went to the glass above the mantelpiece and began to
arrange her front hair.
“It is impossible to think of that child marrying him, of her marrying
anyone yet,” Theresa protested.
Polly did not think so. “I don’t see why she should not,” she said
coolly; “you may be pretty sure she has given him encouragement, or he
would not come here like this.”
“That proves nothing,” said Theresa. “He does not know in the least
whether she will have him or not; he spoke to me first because she is
so very young.”
“Possibly, but she knows what is coming; he as good as told you so.”
“He is mistaken; I am sure he is.”
“I’ll tell you whether I think so or not after I have seen him. I don’t
much expect he is; and knowing Bill as well as I do, well--” Polly
broke off and with an impressive silence conveyed more than words could.
Theresa did not altogether believe her, but she felt that she herself
was far from understanding Bill. “At all events,” she said, “I told him
he could speak to her. There is nothing against him as far as I know,
and whatever she says now is not to be considered absolutely binding.”
“What do you mean?” Polly stopped abruptly to ask the question as she
was opening the door.
“I mean,” Theresa answered, “that if she accepts him she is not to be
considered engaged; she shall be free to change her mind if she likes,
for I am sure she cannot really know anything about it.”
“Not to be engaged?” Polly repeated. “Is it to be kept private? No one
is to be told, we are to have no hold over him?”
“I will not have her bound; it is not right,--you can’t think it right.”
Theresa was surprised at Polly’s manner, and still more surprised when
she turned upon her in low-voiced wrath,--“You idiot!” she said.
“Polly!” Theresa exclaimed reddening, and then added: “I will not have
it; mind, I will not have her bound!”
And then the two passed into the drawing-room. Polly was affability
itself; she spoke of “dear little Wilhelmina’s” youth, and of her own
surprise, but held out some hopes of success to Harborough, who did not
altogether trust her, though owing to her skill he did not distrust her
as much as might have been expected. Nothing was said about Theresa’s
condition, except that as Harborough was leaving she repeated it, and
Polly, unable to do anything else, seconded her.
“I expect he wanted to see Bill this afternoon,” Theresa said when he
had gone.
“I expect he did,” Polly replied; “but I want to see her first. I mean
to know what she has been doing.”
“What she intends to do,” was also part of Polly’s meaning, and she set
off at once to the orchard, feeling the remainder of the afternoon was
all too short for her investigations.
“Bill,” she said, sitting down beside her cousin on a cushion she had
brought for the purpose, “Bill, what about Mr. Harborough?” Polly
wasted no time over preliminaries. “The Mr. Harborough who lives here,
I mean.”
“What about him?” Bill inquired, looking up from her book.
Polly closed the book for her. “Yes, what?” she said. “When and where
have you seen him?”
“Oh in lots of places,--why? He does not belong to Wood Hall.”
“I know that. Bill,” she added suddenly, “has he been making love to
you?”
Then the time had come; Bill felt it intuitively and braced herself to
meet it. But for the life of her she would have found it hard to say
whether he had or had not committed the offence in question. She would
not permit herself to do more than ask cautiously, “Why?”
“He has!” Polly exclaimed.
“Well, I’m not sure;” and Bill so evidently meant what she said that
Polly for a moment was nonplussed. “He has been here this afternoon,”
she said.
“To see me?” Bill asked, and Polly felt that was something of an
admission. “No,” she answered, “to see Theresa and me about you.”
“Whatever for?”
“To ask our permission--”
“To make love to me?” At first the idea struck Bill as comical, but its
gravity soon came home to her.
“I suppose you think that absurd,” Polly said, “since he has already
done it without our permission; and he has done it, Bill, or something
very like it. It is no use denying it; something must have happened,
something fairly pronounced, before a man of his stamp would come to
Theresa and me as he came this afternoon. You must have given him very
direct encouragement.”
Polly paused for Bill to deny the charge, but the denial did not come;
the girl sat silently considering the matter, tearing a leaf to pieces
as she did so.
“Well?” Polly said at last interrogatively.
“Did he tell you I had encouraged him? I mean, did he absolutely say
so? I shall ask him myself if I think you are deceiving me.”
Polly thought it very likely that she would do so, and accordingly
made answer: “No, of course he did not say so in so many words, but
his coming to us showed it; besides he told Theresa, when she said you
would be astonished, that he did not think you would be, that he had
reason to believe you expected him.” _Not be surprised to see him_ and
_expected him_ were convertible, if not synonymous, terms.
“Oh!” was Bill’s only answer.
“Did you expect him?” Polly demanded.
“I suppose I did; I don’t know.”
“You must know what you expect if you are not absolutely stupid, and
you might as well be honest about it; some people would have a good
deal to say about your underhand dealings.”
Bill suggested that her cousin should say all she wished on the
subject, but Polly, regarding it as a waste of time, went on to observe
with dignity: “I don’t want to inquire into your actions nor yet your
intentions, but all I can say is that you have made an honourable
man,--a good man, Bill--believe you care for him; and if you do not, if
you mean nothing, you must settle the matter with him.”
“I don’t believe you!” Bill exclaimed. “I ran away from him, though I
did tell him to come--I was only in fun--he hardly held--”
She broke off, feeling that she could not lay the matter bare to her
cousin. Polly was disappointed at the confession ending so abruptly,
but she only said: “Tell him you were only in fun. If he knew you
as well as I do he might not be surprised at such a questionable
proceeding; but as he loves you, I am afraid it will be rather a shock
to him.”
“Loves me!--he loves me!” Bill repeated the words gently, her whole
face softening. She had not thought of this before. She had such high,
idyllic notions of love, hardly definite notions at all, only a feeling
that it was very great and supreme and far removed from her own life.
“Of course he does,” Polly said, surprised at having touched an
answering chord here, “else why should he want to marry you? You have
nothing to recommend you.”
“No,” Bill admitted, “no, I have not. How strange that he should want
to marry me,--how strange and wonderful!”
She sat looking across the orchard, her eyes filled with a great
shining, her heart thrilled with gratitude to one who could love her.
For herself, she did not know; his emotion would arouse an answering
emotion in her; if he loved her she could not choose but love him, just
as when he held her she could not choose but stay for just a moment.
She was very humble and submissive in heart just then.
On the whole Polly was well satisfied with her talk. Bill would accept
Harborough. Two things were in his favour, the girl’s joy and pride
in this, the first love offered to her, her innocence of life and all
it held, and also her curious, one-sided sense of honour. The first,
aided by her oddly sympathetic, almost reflective, nature, would make
her wish to accept the lover; the second, aided by Polly’s statement of
the case, would make it impossible for her to refuse the man. So Polly
was satisfied that Bill would marry Harborough; probably next summer,
as Theresa would not allow it before then, and Polly herself did not
wish it. She wanted to begin her lodging-venture in the winter, and,
though she would take Bella into partnership when Bill was married,
she would prefer to have the younger cousin at the beginning of the
enterprise. She considered that Bill was now settled for life, her
future assured in a most unexpected fashion. Harborough, she judged,
was the sort of man she could depend upon to do his duty by his wife,
and in spite of Theresa’s words, she would take care that at least a
little of the arrangement was known to a few mutual friends. In this
laudable intention, however, she was eventually frustrated by Bill.
She had reckoned that Bill would see no reason for secrecy; being sure
of herself, whatever motives ruled her decision now would rule it in
a year’s time, and so she would oppose Theresa. But she did no such
thing, not because she objected to publicity or saw any reason against
it, but because Polly was in favour of it and Theresa against it.
“It may be wise,” she said to Polly, “if you urge it, but if Theresa
does it is right; in this I would rather do what is right than wise.”
In vain Polly pointed out the wisdom, and explained that publicity was
the only hold they had. Bill retorted haughtily that she wished for no
hold, and went on to add that, if any rumour of her affairs should get
about, she should consider Polly the culprit, and behave accordingly.
And Polly, having an inward conviction that she would keep her word in
some unpleasant way, was obliged to remain silent.
On that same Sunday evening, when Harborough spoke to the cousins, came
Theresa to Bill’s room after she had gone to bed, and kissed her and
cried over her and asked her if she really loved him. And Bill flung
her arms round the young wife’s neck, almost suffocating her in the
wealth of her hair, and said she did not know, feeling vaguely sorry
for Theresa, and wondering if loving and being loved always brought
tears.
All the next day she was quiet and subdued, and in the evening the time
came. She went into the orchard, thinking it likely that he would come
down the lane to her. He did come; he saw her, and jumped the gate and
came to her as she stood in the soft grass, her heart beating, a shy
fearing happiness in her half-awakened soul. He came to her striding
over the grass in the twilight of the apple-trees; but he did not
know the tumult in her breast, did not recognise the half-awakened
womanhood. He was not to-night, as once before, the strong man wooing
the maid, nor was he the lover come to claim a girl’s heart. He came
to ask her to be his wife because he believed it right to do so,
because he believed it wise, because he thought for all practical
purposes she was the woman best suited to his needs. He had desired
her, it is true, but to-night it was not desire, not impulse; it was
a deliberate plan, the wise performance of a wise act. But it lacked
fire, lacked it woefully. And she, who shyly lifted shining eyes to
those of the sober lover, could not kindle it; nay, she herself was not
the same as the alluring shadow of the other night. He did not love the
woman; the elf-child fascinated him, the housewife pleased him, but
the woman he did not recognise. The best of his nature was untouched
by her; he knew that he did not in the highest sense love her, and he
did not pretend that he did. But, the pity was she thought he did; they
had told her so, and, after all, as _to love_ is often translated into
daily life, perhaps they were right, though in her idyllic, almost
childish rendering of the word, they were entirely and hopelessly wrong.
So the question was asked and answered under the lichen-covered
branches; coolly, dispassionately, yet withal gently he asked; shyly
she answered, not yet aware of the lack in it all. She was so ignorant,
what should she know of love’s ways? So awed, she could not criticise
his words, so subdued and humble she could not doubt him. Thus she
gave her word not knowing, stood awhile under the trees a little
disappointed but not yet aware, and bade him good-bye with only a
half-wakened doubt.
He left her, thinking perhaps she would prefer to see her cousin alone
first, refusing her invitation to come to the house from a sense of
delicacy. She did not know his reason, but she was vaguely glad
he refused. They walked together to the gate, talking ordinarily,
rationally, his manner as usual, hers as calm as it was reflective
of his. There was no passion, no shyness; it would not have been
embarrassing to meet Theresa, though she was glad they were not going
to meet her. Glad, too, she was, consciously glad that he was going;
she wanted him to go,--she hated to have him there--she was beginning
to realise the lack in it all.
They parted at the orchard-gate; the first wild roses were opening,
their fragrance filled the air, a spray showed faintly pink against
the girl’s hair as she leaned over the gate. Something in the scent
and the face, half seen in the twilight, stirred Harborough; he made
an impulsive movement, but he had himself well in hand that night, and
the impulse ended in nothing more than stooping to kiss her without
any demonstration of emotion. So he bade her good-bye and went, she
standing to watch him till he was lost in the dusk of the summer night,
standing to watch him quite calmly though her breast heaved, until he
was out of sight; then with a movement of passionate rage she wiped the
kiss from her face and flung the handkerchief into the hedge.
“He did not make love to me a little bit!” she wailed. “‘Will you marry
me?’ ‘Will you scrub the floor?’ It might as well have been one as the
other. ‘Can you make butter?’ ‘Can you love me?’ Can I? I could hate
you! How I shall hate you, if you don’t take care!”
There was someone talking in the garden, Theresa and Robert perhaps;
she almost thought it was, and fearful of discovery crept into the
deep dry ditch and lay hid among the tall stalks of the cow-parsley.
In that green darkness she sobbed out her grief for the loss of her
dream, the dream of loving and being loved which comes to all women
at some time. It had come to her only yesterday; it had died unborn
to-day,--unborn, for she did not love the man; had he loved her, or
had he wooed her with the passion of the other night, her responsive
nature might have replied, or at least she would have thought it did.
But he had not done so, and the thing was only a dream; loving and
being loved,--both must be mourned as never known, both buried together
in the twilight of the white-flowered weeds. Nevertheless she was in
honour bound to the man, that curious, distorted, inviolable law of
honour which she had from some ancestry and could not break. The spoken
word must be fulfilled, the unspoken pledge redeemed, the unconscious
encouragement, of which Polly had made so much, justified. Polly had
done well to trust to this other bond.