THUS RUNS THE WORLD AWAY.
"But we mortals
Planted so lowly, with death to bless us,
Sorrow no longer."
"Our choices are our destiny. Nothing is ours that our choices have
not made ours."
Julius Sandal had precisely those superficial excellences which the
world is ready to accept at their apparent value; and he had been in so
many schools, and imbibed such a variety of opinions, that he had a
mental suit for all occasions. "He knows about every thing," said Sandal
to the clergyman, at the close of an evening spent together,--an evening
in which Julius had been particularly interesting. "Don't you think so,
sir?"
The rector looked up at the starry sky, and around the mountain-girdled
valley, and answered slowly, "He has a great many ideas, squire; but
they are second-hand, and do not fit his intellect."
Charlotte had much the same opinion of the paragon, only she expressed
it in a different way. "He believes in every thing, and he might as well
believe in nothing. Confucius and Christ are about the same to him, and
he thinks Juggernaut only 'a clumsier spelling of a name which no man
spells correctly.'"
"His mind is like a fine mosaic, Charlotte."
"Oh, indeed, Sophia, I don't think so! Mosaics have a design and fit it.
The mind of Julius is more like that quilt of a thousand pieces which
grandmother patched. There they are, the whole thousand, just bits of
color, all sizes and shapes. I would rather have a good square of white
Marseilles."
"I don't think you ought to speak in such a way, Charlotte. You can't
help seeing how much he admires you."
There was a tone in Sophia's carefully modulated voice which made
Charlotte turn, and look at her sister. She was sitting at her
embroidery-frame, and apparently counting the stitches in the rose-leaf
she was copying; but Charlotte noticed that her hand trembled, and that
she was counting at random. In a moment the veil fell from her eyes: she
understood that Sophia was in love with Julius, and fearful of her own
influence over him. She had been about to leave the room: she returned
to the window, and stood at it a few moments, as if considering the
assertion.
"I should be very sorry if that were the case, Sophia."
"Why?"
"Because I do not admire Julius in any way. I never could admire him. I
don't want to be in debt to him for even one-half hour of sentimental
affection."
"You should let him understand that, Charlotte, if it be so."
"He must be very dull if he does not understand."
"When father and you went fishing yesterday, he went with you."
"Why did you not come also? We begged you to do so."
"Because I hate to be hot and untidy, and to get my hands soiled, and my
face flushed. That was your condition when you returned home; but all
the same, he said you looked like a water-nymph or a wood-nymph."
"I think very little of him for such talk. There is nothing 'nymphy'
about me. I should hate myself if there were. I am going to write, and
ask Harry to get a furlough for a few weeks. I want to talk sensibly to
some one. I am tired of being on the heights or in the depths all the
time; and as for poetry, I wish I might never hear words that rhyme
again. I've got to feel that way about it, that if I open a book, and
see the lines begin with capitals, my first impulse is to tear it to
pieces. There, now, you have my opinions, Sophia!"
Sophia laughed softly. "Where are you going? I see you have your bonnet
on."
"I am going to Up-Hill. Grandfather Latrigg had a fall yesterday, and
that's a bad thing at his age. Father is quite put out about it."
"Is he going with you?"
"He was, but two of the shepherds from Holler Scree have just come for
him. There is something wrong with the flocks."
"Julius?"
"He does not know I am going; and if he did, I should tell him plainly
he was not wanted either at Up-Hill, or on the way to it. Ducie thinks
little of him, and grandfather Latrigg makes his face like a stone wall
when Julius talks his finest."
"They don't understand Julius. How can they? Steve is their model, and
Steve is not the least like Julius."
"I should think not."
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind. Good-by."
She shut the door with more emphasis than she was aware of, and went to
her mother for some cordials and dainties to take with her. As she
passed through the hall the squire called her, and she followed his
voice into the small parlor which was emphatically "master's room."
"I have had very bad news about the Holler Scree flock, Charlotte, and I
must away there to see what can be done. Tell Barf Latrigg it is the
sheep, and he will understand: he was always one to put the dumb
creatures first. The kindest thing that is in your own heart say it to
the dear old man for me; will you, Charlotte?"
"You can trust to me, father."
"Yes, I know I can; for that and more too. And there is more. I feel a
bit about Stephen. Happen I was less than kind to him the other day.
But I gave you good reasons, Charlotte; and I have such confidence in
you, that I said to mother, 'You can send Charlotte. There is nothing
underhand about her. She knows my will, and she'll do it.' Eh? What?"
"Yes, father: I'll be square on all four sides with you. But I told you
there had been no love-making between me and Steve."
"Steve was doing his best at it. Depend upon it he meant love-making;
and I must say I thought you made out to understand him very well. Maybe
I was mistaken. Every woman is a new book, and a book by herself; and it
isn't likely I can understand them all."
"Stephen is sure to speak to me about your being so queer to him. Had I
not better tell the truth?"
"I have a high opinion of that way. Truth may be blamed, but it can't be
shamed. However, if he was not making love to you at the shearing, won't
you find it a bit difficult to speak your mind? Eh? What?"
"He will understand."
"Ay, I thought so."
"Father, we have never had any secrets, you and me. If I am not to
encourage Stephen Latrigg, do you want me to marry Julius Sandal?"
"Well, I never! Such a question! What for?"
"Because, at the very first, I want to tell you that I could not do
it--_no way_. I am quite ready to give up my will to your will, and my
pleasure to your pleasure. That is my duty; but to marry cousin Julius
is a different thing."
"Don't get too far forward, Charlotte. Julius has not said a word to me
about marrying you."
"But he is doing his best at it. Depend upon it he means marrying; and I
must say I thought you made out to understand him very well. Maybe I was
mistaken. Every man is a new book, and a book by himself; and it is not
likely I can understand them all."
"Now you are picking up my own words, and throwing them back at me. That
isn't right. I don't know whatever to say for myself. Eh? What?"
"Say, 'dear Charlotte,' and 'good-by Charlotte,' and take an easy mind
with you to Holler Scree, father. As far as I am concerned, I will
never grieve you, and never deceive you,--no, not in the least little
thing."
So she left him. Her face was bright with smiles, and her words had even
a ring of mirth in them; but below all there was a stubborn weight that
she could not throw off, a darkness of spirit that no sunshine could
brighten. Since Julius had come into their home, home had never been the
same. There was a stranger at the table and in all its sweet, familiar
places, and she was sure that to her he always would be a stranger.
Something was said or done that put them farther apart every day. She
could not understand how any Sandal could be so absolutely out of her
love and sympathy. Who has not experienced these invasions of hostile
natures? Alien voices, characters fundamentally different, yet bound to
them by natural ties which the soul refuses to recognize.
The somberness of her thoughts affected her surroundings very much as
rain affects the atmosphere. The hills looked melancholy: she was aware
of every stone on the road. Alas! this morning she had begun to grow
old, for she felt that she had _a past_,--a past that could never
return. Hitherto her life had been to-day and to-morrow, and to-morrow
always in the sunshine. Hitherto the thought of Stephen had been blended
with something that was to happen. Now she knew she must always be
remembering the days that for them would come no more. She found herself
reviewing even her former visits to Up-Hill. In them also change had
begun. And it is over the young, sorrow triumphs most cruelly. They are
so easily wounded, so inapt to resist, so harassed by scruples, so
astonished at troubles they cannot comprehend, that their very
sensitiveness prepares them for suffering. Very bitter tears are shed
before we are twenty years old. At forty we have learned to accept the
inevitable, and to feel many things possible which we once declared
would break our hearts in two.
There was an air of great depression also at Up-Hill. Ducie was full of
apprehension. She said to Charlotte, "When men as old as father fall,
they stumble at their own grave; and I can't think what I'll do without
father."
"You have Steve."
"Steve is going away. He would have left this morning, but for this
fresh trouble. I see you are startled, Charlotte."
"I am that. I heard nothing of it. He moves in a great hurry."
"He always moves that way, does Steve."
"How is grandfather?"
"He has had quite a backening since yesterday night. He has got 'the
call,' Charlotte. I've had more than one sign of it. Just before he fell
he went into the garden, and brought in with him a sprig of
'Death-come-quickly.' [The plant _Geranium Robertianum_.] 'Father,' I
asked, 'whatever made you pull that?' Then he looked so queerly, and
answered, 'I didn't pull it, Ducie: I found it on the wall.' He was quite
curious, and sent me to ask this one and the other one if they had been
in the garden. No one had been there; and, at the long end, he said,
'Make no more talk about it, Ducie. There's _them_ that go up and down
the fellside that no one sees. _They_ lift the latch, and wait not for
the open door, the king's command being urgent. I have had a message.' He
fell an hour afterwards, Charlotte. He did not think he was much hurt at
the time, but he got his death-throw. I know it."
"I should like to speak to him, Ducie. Tell him that Charlotte Sandal
wants his blessing."
He was lying on the big oak bed in the best room, waiting for his
dismissal in cheerful serenity. "Come here, Charlotte," he said; "stoop
down, and let me see you once more. My sight grows dim. I am going away,
dear."
"O grandfather! is there any thing I can do for you?"
"Be a good girl. Be good, and do good. Stand true to
Steve,--remember,--true to Steve." And he did not seem inclined to talk
more.
"He is saving his strength for the squire," said Ducie. "He has a deal
to say to him."
"Father hoped to be back this afternoon."
"Though it be the darkening when he gets home, ask him to come at once,
Charlotte. Father is waiting for him, and I don't think he will pass the
turn of the night."
There were many subtle links of sympathy between Up-Hill and Sandal.
Death could not be in one house without casting a shadow in the other.
Julius privately thought such a fellow-feeling a little stretched. The
Latriggs were on a distinctly lower social footing than the Sandals.
Rich they might be; but they were not written among the list of county
families, nor had they even married into their ranks. He could not
understand why Barf Latrigg's death should be allowed to interfere with
life at Seat-Sandal. Yet Mrs. Sandal was at Up-Hill all the afternoon;
and, though the squire did not get home until quite the darkening, he
went at once, without taking food or rest, to the dying man.
"Why, Barf is very near all the same as my own father," he said. And
then, in a lower voice, "and he may see my father before the strike of
day. I wouldn't miss Barfs last words for a year of life. I wouldn't
that."
It was a lovely night,--warm, and sweet with the scent of August lilies,
and the rich aromas of ripening fruit and grain. The great hills and the
peaceful valleys lay under the soft radiance of a full moon; and there
was not a sound but the gurgle of running water, or the bark of some
solitary sheep-dog, watching the folds on the high fells. Sophia and
Julius were walking in the garden, both feeling the sensitive
suggestiveness of the hour, talking softly together on topics people
seldom discuss in the sunshine,--intimations of lost powers, prior
existences, immortal life. Julius was learned in the Oriental view of
metempsychosis. Sophia could trace the veiled intuition through the
highest inspiration of Western thought.
"It whispers in the heart of every shepherd on these hills," she said;
"and they interpreted for Mr. Wordsworth the dream of his own soul."
"I know, Sophia. I lifted the book yesterday: your mark was in it." And
he recited in a low, intense voice,--
"'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:'"
"Oh, yes!" answered Sophia, lifting her dark eyes in a real enthusiasm.
"Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.'"
And they were both very happy in this luxury of mystical speculation.
Eternity was behind as before them. Soft impulses from moon and stars,
and from the witching beauty of lonely hills and scented garden-ways,
touched within their souls some primal sympathy that drew them close to
that unseen boundary dividing spirits from shadow-casting men. It is
true they rather felt than understood; but when the soul has faith, what
matters comprehension?
In the cold sweetness of the following dawn, the squire returned from
Up-Hill. "Barf is gone, Alice," were his first words.
"But all is well, William."
"No doubt of it. I met the rector on the hillside. 'How is Barf?' I
asked; and he answered, 'Thank God, he has the mastery!' Then he went on
without another word. Barf had lost his sight when I got there; but he
knew my voice, and he asked me to lay my face against his face. 'I've
done well to Sandal,--well to Sandal,' he muttered at intervals.
'You'll know it some day, William.' I can't think what he meant. I hope
he hasn't left me any money. I could not take it, Alice."
"Was that all?"
"When Steve came in he said something like 'Charlotte,' and he looked
hard at me; and then again, 'I've done well by Sandal.' But I was too
late. Ducie said he had been very restless about me earlier in the
afternoon: he was nearly outside life when I got there. We thought he
would speak no more; but about three o'clock this morning he called
quite clearly, '_Ducie, the abbot's cross_.' Then Ducie unlocked the oak
chest that stands by the bed-side, and took from it an ivory crucifix.
She put it in his left hand. With a smile he touched the Christ upon it;
and so, clasping the abbot's cross, he died."
"I wonder at that, William. A better Church-of-England man was not in
all the dales than Barf Latrigg."
"Ay; but you see, Alice, that cross is older than the Church of England.
It was given to the first Latrigg of Up-Hill by the first abbot of
Furness. Before the days of Wyckliffe and Latimer, every one of them,
babe and hoary-head, died with it in their hands. There are things that
go deeper down than creeds, Alice; and the cross with the Saviour on it
is one of them. I would like to feel it myself, even when I was past
seeing it. I would like to take the step between here and there with it
in my hands."
In the cool of the afternoon, Julius and the girls went to Up-Hill. He
had a solemn curiousness about death; and both personally and
theoretically the transition filled him with vague, momentous ideas,
relating to all sides of his conscious being. In every land where he had
sojourned, the superstitions and ceremonials that attended it were
subjects of interest to him. So he was much touched when he entered the
deep, cool porch, and saw the little table at the threshold, covered
with a white linen cloth, and holding a plate of evergreens and a
handful of salt. And when Sophia and Charlotte each scattered a little
salt upon the ground, and broke off a small spray of boxwood, he knew
instinctively that they were silently expressing their faith in the
preservation of the body, and in the life everlasting; and he imitated
them in the simple rite.
Ducie met them with a grave and tender pleasure. "Come, and see the
empty soul-case," she said softly; "there is nothing to fear you." And
she led them into the chamber where it lay. The great bed was white as a
drift of snow. On the dark oak walls, there were branches of laurel and
snowberry. The floor was fragrant under the feet, with bits of rosemary,
and bruised ears of lavender, and leaves of thyme. The casements were
wide open to admit the fresh mountain breeze; and at one of them Steve
rested in the carved chair that had been his grandfather's, and was now
his own.
The young men did not know each other; but this was neither the time nor
the place for social civilities, and they only slightly bowed as their
eyes met. Indeed, it seemed wrong to trouble the peaceful silence with
mere words of courtesy; but Charlotte gave her hand to Stephen, and with
it that candid, loving gaze, which has, from the eyes of the beloved,
the miraculous power of turning the water of life into wine. And
Charlotte perceived this, and she went home happy in the happiness she
had given.
Four days later, Barf Latrigg was buried. In the glory of the August
afternoon, the ladies of Seat-Sandal stood with Julius in the shadow of
the park gates, and watched the long procession winding slowly down the
fells. At first it was accompanied by fitful, varying gusts of solemn
melody; but as it drew nearer, the affecting tones of the funeral hymn
became more and more distinct and sustained. There were at least three
hundred voices thrilling the still, warm air with its pathetic music;
and, as they approached the church gates, it blended itself with the
heavy tread of those who carried and of those who followed the dead,
like a wonderful, triumphant march.
After the funeral was over, the squire went back to Up-Hill to eat the
arvel-meal, [Death-feast.] and to hear the will of his old friend read.
It was nearly dark when he returned, and he was very glad to find his
wife alone. "I have had a few hard hours, Alice," he said wearily; "and
I am more bothered about Barfs will than I can tell why."
"I suppose Steve got all."
"Pretty nearly. Barf's married daughters had their portions long ago,
but he left each of them three hundred pounds as a good-will token.
Ducie got a thousand pounds and her right in Up-Hill as long as she
lived. All else was for Steve except--and this bothers me--a box of
papers left in Ducie's charge. They are to be given to me at her
discretion; and, if not given during her lifetime or my lifetime, the
charge remains then between those that come after us. I don't like it,
and I can't think what it means. Eh? What?"
"He left you nothing?"
"He left me his staff. He knew better than to leave me money. But I am
bothered about that box of papers. What can they refer to? Eh? What?"
"I can make a guess, William. When your brother Tom left home, and went
to India, he took money enough with him; but I'm afraid he got it
queerly. At any rate, your father had some big sums to raise. You were
at college at the time; and though there was some underhand talk, maybe
you never heard it, for no one round Sandal-Side would pass on a word
likely to trouble the old squire, or offend Mistress Charlotte. Now,
perhaps it was at that time Barf Latrigg 'did well to Sandal.'"
"I think you may be right, Alice. I remember that father was a bit mean
with me the last year I was at Oxford. He would have reasons he did not
tell me of. One should never judge a father. He is often forced to cut
the loaf unevenly for the good of every one."
But this new idea troubled Sandal. He was a man of super-sensitive honor
with regard to money matters. If there were really any obligation of
that kind between the two houses, he hardly felt grateful to Latrigg for
being silent about it. And still more the transfer of these papers vexed
him. Ducie might know what he might never know. Steve might have it in
his power to trouble Harry when he was at rest with his fore-elders. The
subject haunted and worried him; and as worries are never complete
worries till they have an individuality, Steve very soon became the
personal embodiment of mortifying uncertainty, and wounded _amour
propre_. For if Mrs. Sandal's suspicion were true, or even if it were
not true, she was not likely to be the only one in Sandal-Side who would
construe Latrigg's singular disposition of his papers in the same way.
Certainly Squire William did not feel as if the dead man had 'done well
to Sandal.'
Stephen was equally annoyed. His grandfather had belonged to a dead
century, and retained until the last his almost feudal idea of the bond
between his family and the Sandals. But the present squire had stepped
outside the shadows of the past, and Stephen was fully abreast of his
own times. He understood very well, that, whatever these papers related
to, they would be a constant thorn in Sandal's side; and he saw them
lying between Charlotte and himself, a barrier unknown, and
insurmountable because unknown.
From Ducie he could obtain neither information nor assistance. "Mother,"
he asked, "do you know what those papers are about?"
"Ratherly."
"When can you tell me?"
"There must be a deal of sorrow before I can tell you."
"Do you want to tell me?"
"If I should dare to want it one minute, I should ask God's pardon the
next. When I unlock that box, Steve, there is like to be trouble in
Sandal. I think your grandfather would rather the key rusted away."
"Does the squire know any thing about them?"
"Not he."
"If he asks, will you tell him?"
"Not yet. I--hope never."
"I wish they were in the fire."
"Perhaps some day you may put them there. You will have the right when I
am gone."
Then Steve silently kissed her, and went into the garden; and Ducie
watched him through the window, and whispered to herself, "It is a bit
hard, but it might be harder; and right always gets the over-hand at the
long end."
The first interview between the squire and Stephen after Barf Latrigg's
funeral was not a pleasanter one than this misunderstanding promised.
Sandal was walking on Sandal Scree-top one morning, and met Steve.
"Good-morning, Mr. Latrigg," he said; "you are a statesman now, and we
must give you your due respect." He did not say it unkindly; but Steve
somehow felt the difference between Mr. Latrigg and Squire Sandal as he
had never felt it when the greeting had only been, "Good-morning,
Steve. How do all at home do?"
Still, he was anxious to keep Sandal's good-will, and he hastened to ask
his opinion upon several matters relating to the estate which had just
come into his hands. Ordinarily this concession would have been a piece
of subtle flattery quite irresistible to the elder man, but just at that
time it was the most imprudent thing Steve could have done.
"I had an offer this morning from Squire Methley. He wants to rent the
Skelwith 'walk' from me. What do you think of him, sir?"
"As how?"
"As a tenant. I suppose he has money. There are about a thousand sheep
on it."
"He lives on the other side of the range, and I know him not; but our
sheep have mingled on the mountain for thirty years. I count not after
him, and he counts not after me;" and Sandal spoke coldly, like a man
defending his own order. "Are you going to rent your 'walks' so soon?
Eh? What?"
"As soon as I can advantageously."
"I bethink me. At the last shearing you were all for spinning and
weaving. The Coppice Woods were to make your bobbins; Silver Force was
to feed your engines; the little herd lads and lassies to mind your
spinning-frames. Well, well, Mr. Latrigg, such doings are not for me to
join in! I shall be sorry to see these lovely valleys turned into
weaving-shops; but you belong to a new generation, and the young know
every thing,--or they think they do."
"And you will soon join the new generation, squire. You were always
tolerant and wide awake. I never knew your prejudices beyond reasoning
with."
"Mr. Latrigg, leave my prejudices, as you call them, alone. To-day I am
not in the humor either to defend them or repent of them."
They talked for some time longer,--talked until the squire felt bored
with Steve's plans. The young man kept hoping every moment to say
something that would retrieve his previous blunders; but who can please
those who are determined not to be pleased? And yet Sandal was annoyed
at his own injustice, and then still more annoyed at Steve for causing
him to be unjust. Besides which, the young man's eagerness for change,
his enthusiasms and ambitions, offended him in a particular way that
morning; for he had had an unpleasant letter from his son Harry, who was
not eager and enthusiastic and ambitious, but lazy, extravagant, and
quite commonplace. Also Charlotte had not cared to come out with him,
and the immeasurable self-complacency of his nephew Julius had really
quite spoiled his breakfast; and then, below all, there was that
disagreeable feeling about the Latriggs.
So Stephen did not conciliate Sandal, and he was himself very much
grieved at the squire's evident refusal of his friendly advances. There
is no humiliation so bitter as that of a rejected offering. Was it not
the failure of Cain's attempted propitiation that kindled the flame of
hate and murder in his heart? Steve Latrigg went back to Up-Hill,
nursing a feeling of indignation against the man who had so suddenly
conceived a dislike to him, and who had dashed, with regrets and
doubtful speeches and faint praise, all the plans which at sunrise had
seemed so full of hope, and so worthy of success.
The squire was equally annoyed. He could not avoid speaking of the
interview, for it irritated him, and was uppermost in his thoughts. He
detailed it with a faint air of pitying contempt. "The lad is upset with
the money and land he has come into, and the whole place is too small
for his greatness." That was what he said, and he knew he was unjust;
but the moral atmosphere between Steve and himself had become permeated
with distrust and dislike. Unhappy miasmas floated hither and thither in
it, and poisoned him. When with Stephen he hardly recognized himself: he
did not belong to himself. Sarcasm, contradiction, opposing ideas, took
possession of and ruled him by the forces of antipathy, just as others
ruled him by the forces of love and attraction.
The days that had been full of peaceful happiness were troubled in all
their hours; and yet the sources of trouble were so vague, so blended
with what he had called unto himself, that he could not give vent to his
unrest and disappointment. His life had had a jar; nothing ran smoothly;
and he was almost glad when Julius announced the near termination of his
visit. He had begun to feel as if Julius were inimical to him; not
consciously so, but in that occult way which makes certain foods and
drinks, certain winds and weathers, inimical to certain personalities.
His presence seemed to have blighted his happiness, as the north wind
blighted his myrtles. "If I could only have let 'well' alone. If I had
never written that letter." Many a time a day he said such words to his
own heart.
In the mean time, Julius was quite unconscious of his position. He was
thoroughly enjoying himself. If others were losing, he was not. He was
in love with the fine old hall. The simple, sylvan character of its
daily life charmed his poetic instincts. The sweet, hot days on the
fells, with a rod in his hand, and Charlotte and the squire for company,
were like an idyl. The rainy days in the large, low drawing-room,
singing with Sophia, or dreaming and speculating with her on all sorts
of mysteries, were, in their way, equally charmful. He liked to walk
slowly up and down, and to talk to her softly of things obscure,
cryptic, cabalistic. The plashing rain, the moaning wind, made just the
monotonous accompaniment that seemed fitting; and the lovely girl,
listening, with needle half-drawn, and sensitive, sensuous face lifted
to his own, made a situation in which he knew he did himself full
justice.
At such times he thought Sophia was surely his natural mate,--'the soul
that halved his own,' the one of 'nearer kindred than life hinted of.'
At other times he was equally conscious that he loved Charlotte Sandal
with an intensity to which his love for Sophia was as water is to wine.
But Charlotte's indifference mortified him, and their natures were
almost antagonistic to each other. Under such circumstances a great love
is often a dangerous one. Very little will turn it into hatred. And
Julius had been made to feel more than once the utter superfluity of his
existence, as far as Charlotte Sandal was concerned.
Still, he determined not to resign the hope of winning her until he was
sure that her indifference was not an affectation. He had read of women
who used it as a lure. If it were Charlotte's special weapon he was
quite willing to be brought to submission by it. After all, there was
piquancy in the situation; for to most men, love sought and hardly won
is far sweeter than love freely given.
Yet of all the women whom he had known, Charlotte Sandal was the least
approachable. She was fertile in preventing an opportunity; and if the
opportunity came, she was equally fertile in spoiling it. But Julius had
patience; and patience is the art and secret of hoping. A woman cannot
always be on guard, and he believed in not losing heart, and in waiting.
Sooner or later, the happy moment when success would be possible was
certain to arrive.
One day in the early part of September, the squire asked his wife for
all the house-servants she could spare. "A few more hands will bring
home the harvest to-night," he said; "and it would be a great thing to
get it in without a drop of rain."
So the men and maids went off to the wheat-fields, as if they were going
to a frolic; and there was a happy sense of freedom, with the picnicky
dinner, and the general air of things being left to themselves about the
house. After an unusually merry lunch, Julius proposed a walk to the
harvest-field, and Sophia and Charlotte eagerly agreed to it.
It was a joy to be out of doors under such a sky. The intense,
repressing greens of summer were now subdued and shaded. The air was
subtle and fragrant. Amber rays shone through the boughs. The hills were
clothed in purple. An exquisite, impalpable haze idealized all nature.
Right and left the reapers swept their sharp sickles through the ripe
wheat. The women went after them, binding the sheaves, and singing among
the yellow swaths shrill, wild songs, full of simple modulations.
The squire's field was busy as a fair; and the idle young people sat
under the oaks, or walked slowly in the shadow of the hedges, pulling
poppies and wild flowers, and realizing all the poetry of a pastoral
life, without any of its hard labor or its vulgar cares. Mrs. Sandal had
given them a basket with berries and cake and cream in it. They were all
young enough to get pleasantly hungry in the open air, all young enough
to look upon berries and cake and cream as a distinct addition to
happiness. They set out a little feast under the trees, and called the
squire to come and taste their dainties.
He was standing, without his coat and vest, on the top of a loaded wain,
the very embodiment of a jovial, handsome, country gentleman. The reins
were in his hand; he was going to drive home the wealthy wagon; but he
stopped and stooped, and Charlotte, standing on tip-toes, handed him a
glass of cream. "God love thy bonny face," he said, with a beaming
smile, as he handed her back the empty glass. Then off went the great
horses with their towering load, treading carefully between the hedges
of the narrow lane, and leaving upon the hawthorns many a stray ear for
the birds gleaning.
When the squire returned he called to Julius and his daughters, "What
idle-backs you are! Come, and bind a sheaf with me." And they rose with
a merry laugh, and followed him down the field, working a little, and
resting a little; and towards the close of the afternoon, listening to
the singing of an old man who had brought his fiddle to the field in
order to be ready to play at the squire's "harvest-home." He was a thin,
crooked, old man, very spare and ruddy. "Eighty-three years old, young
sir," he said to Julius; and then, in a trembling, cracked voice, he
quavered out,--
"Says t' auld man to t' auld oak-tree,
Young and lusty was I when I kenned thee:
I was young and lusty, I was fair and clear,
Young and lusty was I, many a long year.
But sair failed is I, sair failed now;
Sair failed is I, since I kenned thou.
Sair failed, honey,
Sair failed now;
Sair failed, honey,
Since I kenned thou."
It was the appeal of tottering age to happy, handsome youth, and Julius
could not resist it. With a royal grace he laid a guinea in the old
man's open palm, and felt fully rewarded by his look of wonder and
delight.
"God give you love and luck, young sir. I am eighty-three now, and sair
failed; but I was once twenty-three, and young and lusty as you be. But
life is at the fag end with me now. God save us all!" Then, with a
meaning look at the two pretty girls watching him, he went slowly off,
droning out to a monotonous accompaniment, an old love ballad:--
"Picking of lilies the other day,
Picking of lilies both fresh and gay,
Picking of lilies, red, white, and blue,
Little I thought what love could do."
"'_Little I thought what love could do_,'" Julius repeated; and he sang
the doleful refrain over and over, as they strolled back to the oak
under which they had had their little feast. Then Sophia, who had a
natural love of neatness and order, began to collect the plates and
napkins, and arrange them in the basket; and this being done, she looked
around for the housemaid in order to put it in her charge. The girl was
at the other end of the field, and she went to her.
Charlotte had scarcely perceived what was going on. The old man's
singing had made her a little sad. She, too, was thinking of "what love
could do." She was standing under the tree, leaning against the great
mossy trunk. Her brown hair had fallen loose, her cheeks were flushed,
her lips crimson, her whole form a glowing picture of youth in its
perfect beauty and freshness. Sophia was out of hearing. Julius stepped
close to her. His soul was in his face; he spoke like a man who was no
longer master of himself.
"Charlotte, I love you. I love you with all my heart."
She looked at him steadily. Her eyes flashed. She threw downward her
hands with a deprecating motion.
"You have no right to say such words to me, Julius. I have done all a
woman could do to prevent, them. I have never given you any
encouragement. A gentleman does not speak without it."
"I could not help speaking. I love you, Charlotte. Is there any wrong in
loving you? If I had any hope of winning you."
"No, no; there is no hope. I do not love you. I never shall love you."
"Unless you have some other lover, Charlotte, I shall dare to hope"--
"I have a lover."
"Oh!"
"And I am frank with you because it is best. I trust you will respect my
candor."
He only bowed. Indeed, he found speech impossible. Never before had
Charlotte looked so lovely and so desirable to him. He felt her positive
rejection very keenly.
"Sophia is coming. Please to forget that this conversation has ever
been."
"You are very cruel."
"No. I am truly kind. Sophia, I am tired; let us go home."
So they turned out of the field, and into the lane. But something was
gone, and something had come. Sophia felt the change, and she looked
curiously at Julius and Charlotte. Charlotte was calmly mingling the
poppies and wheat in her hands. Her face revealed nothing. Julius was a
little melancholy. "The fairies have left us," he said. "All of a
sudden, the revel is over." Then as they walked slowly homeward, he took
Sophia's hand, and swayed it gently to and fro to the old fiddler's
refrain,--
"'Little I thought what love could do.'"