Morning is come again. The sun cannot bear to be long away from
his young sweetheart, the earth, so he has come back hasting, with
royal pomp, with his crown of gay gold beams on his head, with his
flame-cloak about his strong shoulders, and with a great troop of
light, flaky clouds--each with a reflex of his red smile on its
courtier face--at his back. He has come back to see himself in the
laughing blue eyes of her seas and streams, and to rest at noontide,
like a sleepy giant, on her warm green lap.
The daily miracle--the miracle that none can contest, to which all
are witness, has been worked--the resurrection of the world. And this
resurrection is not partial, not limited to humanity, as that final one
is towards which the eyes of the Christian church have been looking
steadfastly for eighteen centuries and a half; but every beast and
bird and flower has shaken off Death's sweet semblance, his gentle
counterfeit, and is feeling, in bounding vein and rushing sap, the
ecstatic bliss of the mystery of life. If we never slept, we should not
know the joy of waking; if we never woke, we should not know the joy of
sleep. How, I marvel, shall we _feel_ the happiness of heaven, if we
never lose, and consequently regain it?
The thrushes and blackbirds are already in the midst of their glees
and madrigals and part songs. They sing the same songs every day, so
that they are quite perfect in them; and they are all very joyful ones.
In their sweet flute-language there are no words expressive of sorrow
or pain; they know of no minor key. There were twenty roses born last
night, and the flowers are all rejoicing greatly. They are smiling and
whispering and gossiping together; the sweet peas, like pink and purple
butterflies,
".....on tiptoe for a flight,
With wings of delicate flush o'er virgin white,"
each half-inclined to hover away with the young west wind that is
sighing such a little gentle story all about himself into their ears.
The lambs, grown so big and woolly that one might almost mistake them
for their mothers, are leaping and racing and plunging about in the
field below the house, in the giddiness of youth, unprescient of the
butcher. Hated of Miss Craven's soul as much as ever were the blind and
lame of King David's are those too, _too_ agile sheep. Grievously prone
are they to ignore the low stone wall of partition, and work havoc and
devastation among the aster tops and cabbage shoots of her garden.
"The king was in his counting-house,
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey."
The King of Glan-yr-Afon is not counting out his money, because he has
not any to count, poor young fellow. He is sitting on a garden-chair,
reading the _Times_, and thinking how much better he would rule the
Fatherland, how much less mean and shabby and selfish he would make
her in other nations' eyes, if he might but have the whip and reins
for six months or so. Old Luath lies at his feet, with dim eyes half
closed, snapping lazily at the flies, and catching on an average about
one every quarter of an hour. Esther is in the stack-yard, holding a
levy of ravenous fowls. She has tied a large white kitchen-apron round
her waist; with one hand she is holding it up, with the other she
is scattering light wheat among a mixed multitude. Baby Cochins, in
primrose velvet; hobbledehoy Cochins, _au naturel_, with not a stitch
of clothes on their bare, indecent backs; adult Cochins, muffled and
smothered up to the chin in a wealth of cinnamon feathers, and with
cinnamon stockings down to their heels; Rouen ducks, and scraggy-necked
turkeys. She is doing her very best to administer justice to her
commonwealth, to protect the weak, to prevent aggression and violence;
but like many another lawgiver she finds it rather up-hill work. Strive
as she may, the ducks get far the best of it. They have no sense of
shame, and can shovel up such a quantity at a time in their long yellow
bills. The turkey-cock, on the other hand, gets much the worst, by
reason of the long red pendant to his nose, that gets in his way and
hinders him. They say that Nature never makes anything for ornament
alone, divorced from use; but I confess to being ignorant as to what
function that long flabby dangler has to fulfil. The stack-yard is all
on the slant; it slopes down with its many stack-frames, to the old
rough grey barn that is stained all over--walls and roof and door--with
the stormy tears of a score of winters. There is no lack of voices all
about the farm to-day: voice of Sarah chattering in the drying ground,
where she is hanging Esther's cotton gowns and Jack's shirts on the
lines; voice of Evan Evans, the carter, talking friendly to his heavy
team in that deplorable tongue which, we trust, will soon be among the
abuses of the past; voice of Seryn (Welsh for Star), from the pasture,
lowing for her calf, which a day ago became veal, and a day hence (Oh
blessed short memory! why cannot we take lessons from a cow?) she
will have forgotten utterly. Presently comes another voice, clearer,
stronger, nearer than the others--comes sailing up through the July air.
"Es--ther!"
"Ye--es!" responds Esther at the tip-top of her voice, and consequently
not particularly harmonious. It is only the lark that can talk at the
top of his voice and yet not be shrill.
"Where are you?" (_Forte_.)
"In the stack-yard." (_Fortissimo_).
Obedient to this direction, in about two minutes the owner of the
voice, and of the excellent lungs which sent it out, makes his
appearance in loose cool clothes and a smile--Jack, in fact, looking
very ugly and pleasant and good-natured.
"Jack, dear boy, open the gate. Quick! Out of the way! Don't let him
get under the stack-frame. Shoo!" cries Esther, in great excitement,
rushing wildly about in her big apron, in pursuit of a large drake with
a grasping soul, and a wonderful rainbow neck, who, with bill wide
open and wings half extended, is waddling, flying, quacking away from
Nemesis as hard as his splay feet and his full crop will let him.
Jack obeys. "There is a person in the drawing-room wanting to speak to
you," he says, leaning his arms on the top of the gate, and looking
rather malicious.
"What sort of a person?" Esther asks abstractedly, craning her long
neck round the corner of the barn, to see whether the drake shows
symptoms of returning. "There he is again! Shoo!"
"What was the name of Esther's husband? the man that bullied his first
wife so. Oh! I know; his name, oh Queen Esther, is Ahasuerus, which,
being interpreted, is Bob."
Esther's apron drops from her fingers and the wheat rolls down in a
shower on to the broad backs of the Cochin householders. Fiercely the
war of chickens--the pushing, the fluttering, the pecking--rages about
her feet. "Already!" she says: and in her voice there is none of love's
sweet quiver, nor on her cheeks is there any sign of love's pretty flag
being hung out, neither the red nor the white one. She only looks a
little blank--a little troubled.
"Yes, already," says Jack, mercilessly; "and not only has he come
himself, but he has brought all his household gods with him. He has
come with a great company of old women at his back. I fancy they have
brought a notary or a scrivener, or what do you call it? with them, and
that there is to be a grand betrothal in form."
"Nonsense!" says Esther, and she comes all over to the gate, and clasps
two little petitioning hands on his shoulder. "You will come with me,
won't you, Jack?"
"Not I!" says Jack, stoutly. "I would not trust myself with those old
maids, in their present excited state, if you were to give me my next
half-year's rent: they would be employing the notary in my case too
before I knew where I was."
"Jack, is my hair pretty tidy?" stroking it down with the improvised
brush and comb of her slim fingers.
"Extremely so: it looks as if the chickens had got into it, and been
scratching there by mistake."
Meanwhile Master Brandon and his old women, to wit, his mother, Mrs.
Brandon, and his sisters, the two Misses Brandon, are posed about the
drawing-room, waiting. Waiting is always a painful process, from the
modified form of suffering involved in the ten minutes before dinner,
when every man's tongue is tied, and his wits congealed by the frost
of expectant hunger; upward to the Gehenna of a dentist's antechamber.
Robert is all on wires this morning: he cannot sit still; he keeps
shuffling and twisting his long, awkward legs about, beating the
devil's tattoo on the floor with his nailed boots, and hammering an
ugly little tune with a paper knife on an old Book of Beauty on the
table. "How you fidget, Bob!" cries his sister Bessy.
Miss Elizabeth Brandon is ten years older and about ten feet shorter
than her brother; she is in process of souring, like cowslip wine that
has been kept too long, or small beer in thunder. She is not so very
sour, after all, poor little virgin! only ten years ago she was, and
ten years hence she will be mellower than she is now.
"All right!" says Bob, "I won't;" and he stops, only to commence, two
seconds later, a new noise, seven times worse than the first; a very
disagreeable sort of scraping with the hind legs of his chair. Is not
it one of Miss Yonge's goody heroes, who, when he feels disposed to be
impatient, sits down and strums away at the "Harmonious Blacksmith?"
Bob could not get through a bar of that soothing melody this morning.
Mrs. Brandon is just beginning to say, "Do you think the servant could
have told her?" when the door opens, and a little vision comes in with
delicate hair ruffling about her sweet, shining eyes; a little vision
that ought to be walking on rosy clouds, Bob thinks, with cherubim and
seraphim holding up her train, instead of on shabby oil-cloth and faded
carpet, dragging her train behind her.
"I--I'm very sorry; I'm afraid I have kept you waiting: I did not" (did
not expect you so early is on the tip of her tongue, but she remembers
just in time that it would be about the impolitest remark she could
make. Never, until the millennium, will the marriage of Truth and
Civility be solemnized)--"did not know you were here till Jack came and
told me a moment ago," she substitutes so adroitly that none of her
auditors perceive the rivet that joins the two halves of her sentence
together.
"I don't know what your brother will say to us for taking his house by
storm, but you must blame _him_, my dear, you must blame _him!_" says
Mrs. Brandon, nodding her head towards Bob, and looking as if there
was something peculiarly humorous in the idea of Esther being in a
condition to blame him for anything he could do or leave undone.
Mrs. Brandon is an old woman, with a smooth, holy face, and a
villainous black poke bonnet: she kisses Esther, and the Misses Brandon
likewise come forward and inflict a prim sisterly salute with their
thin old-maid lips, on the velvet rose-leaf of her cheek. They had
never kissed her before, and she felt as if the manacles were being
fastened round her wrists, and the gyves about her ankles. She longs to
cry out and say, "What are you all about? you are quite mistaken, every
one of you; Mrs. Brandon, I am not your daughter; Miss Bessy, I am not
your sister; I don't want to be: take back those kisses of yours, if
you please, if they mean that!" Had she been alone with Robert, she
would probably have said this; have said it without much difficulty,
but now the words seemed infinitely, impossibly hard to frame. There is
upon her the shyness of a young woman with an old one; the shyness of
one against three. She feels, too, that it seems ungracious, churlish,
when they are so glad to take her in to themselves, to adopt her as
their own, not to be very glad too. When a person says to one, if
not in words, yet with looks and gestures, "Our people shall be thy
people, and our God thy God," it is not easy for a plastic, gracious
nature to say "No, they shall not!" however little they may relish the
arrangement. So, in her muteness, Esther accepts the Brandon God and
people as hers.
Wordless and demure, she sits down on a little low seat as far removed
as may be from Robert. Esther will, no doubt, be an ugly old woman;
she makes rather an ugly photograph; but who can deny that she is a
delicious bit of colour as she sits there right in the eye of the
morning sun, and not at all afraid of his strict scrutiny? So many
women, now-a-days, are neutral-tinted, drabbish, greyish, as if the
colours that God painted with were not fast, but faded, like Reynolds'.
Esther's colouring is as distinct, as decided, as clean and clear as
that on a flower's petal or a butterfly's wing. Nobody speaks, except
the clock with the short-waisted Minerva on it, and it does not say
anything particularly original. Then the old woman bends towards the
young one, and says in a kind, low voice, "You see Robert has told us
his news, my dear." There is flowing in through the French window a
broad river of yellow light from the great fountain in the sky; it is
deluging Mrs. Brandon's bonnet and Esther's hair. The bonnet is black,
and the hair is black; but there are blacks and blacks. The May grass
is green, and a beer bottle is green; but the resemblance between the
two is not striking. Esther has not the remotest idea what answer to
make; so she chooses one of the shortest words she knows of, and says
"Yes!" half-assentingly, half-interrogatively.
"And we could not rest till we came and told you what good news we
thought it," pursues the old lady, encouragingly.
Esther says nothing. Her eyelids feel glued down to her cheeks; she is
conscious, with inward rage and vexation, of looking blushing, bashful,
everything that a young betrothed should look.
"I'm an old woman," concludes Mrs. Brandon, rather moved by her own
eloquence, "and I cannot expect a great many more years of life. You
know what the Psalmist sweetly says, love; but I trust I may be spared
to see God bless both my children, and make them His happy servants for
this world and the next."
As she speaks she lays one hand on Esther's head. Bob is happily too
far off, or she would lay the other on his, while the two little
virgin clerks from the sofa cry "Amen!" in a breath. Esther is
half-frightened. What with the serious words, with the three women's
solemn faces, she half feels as if she were being married on the spot;
her thoughts fly to Jack and the notary; after that "Amen!" she is not
quite sure that her name is not Esther Brandon. She shrinks away a
little, but not at all rudely.
"You are very kind," she says, in her gentle voice, "and it was so good
of you coming all through the wood--such a long walk for you, too; but
I think--I'm afraid that there is some mistake about--this--about me;
there is nothing settled--nothing at all, I assure you. I told your son
so yesterday quite plainly, only I'm afraid he did not understand me,"
she concludes, looking rather reproachfully over at him.
"I did understand you," protests poor Bob, eagerly, jumping up,
upsetting his chair, and never thinking of picking it up again, "I did,
indeed. I told mother your very words, only she would have it that they
meant--what we all wished they should mean," he ends, looking very
downcast and snubbed and disconsolate.
There is another pause, then Mrs. Brandon rises and puts out her hand
to Esther--in farewell this time.
"I'm afraid I've been in too great a hurry, my dear," she says, trying
not to speak stiffly, and not succeeding quite so well as she deserved.
"But you'll forgive me, I'm sure; you see, mothers are apt to be
partial people, and I could not imagine any one trying to love my boy,
and not succeeding."
But Miss Craven can never let well alone. She would marry Old Nick
himself sooner than that his mother or sister should look askance at
her, or seem hurt and grieved with her for expressing any want of
relish for him, hoofs and tail and horns and all.
"Oh no, you must not go!" she cries, in her quick, eager way, putting
up two anxious hands in deprecation; "you must not be vexed with me;
I did not mean to be disagreeable. I shall like very much to belong
to you, I'm sure. I was only afraid of your expecting more from me
than I had to give _yet_," she ends, with head drooped a little, and
cheeks reddened like a peach's that the sun has been kissing all the
afternoon.
The stiffness goes away: nobody can be stiff for long with Esther
Craven, any more than a snow-ball can remain a snow-ball under the
fire's warm gaze.
"We don't want you to belong to us if you don't wish it yourself," the
old woman says, very gravely, yet not ill-naturedly.
"I hardly know what I wish," answers the girl, naïvely, in a sort of
bewilderment.
Then they go, and Robert walks off with his old mother on his arm.
He would walk down Pall Mall with her in that identical poke bonnet,
and the two little dowdy vestals pottering behind in the most perfect
unconsciousness and simplicity, even if he were to know that his
brother officers, to a man, were looking out at him from the "Rag"
windows.
"Oh, my cheeks! my cheeks! will they ever get cool again!" cries
Esther, flinging herself down on the oak bench in the porch, and laying
her face against the cold ivy leaves.
"You look rather as if you had been poking your countenance between
the bars of the kitchen grate," responds Jack, with all a brother's
candour. Jack has been dodging behind the laurel bushes, after the
fashion in which the English gentleman is fond of receiving his friends
when they come to call on him.
"Why did not you come to my rescue, you unnatural brother? What chance
had I, single-handed, against those three Gorgons? Pah! it makes my
head ache to think of mamma's coiffure."
"When a person gets into a scrape themselves, I make it a rule to let
them get out of it themselves, as it makes them more careful for the
future," replies Jack, with philosophy.
"But I'm not getting out of it; I'm floundering deeper and deeper and
deeper in, like a man in an Irish bog," says Esther, ruefully. "Oh,
Jack!" she concludes, laughing, yet vexed (laughter is as often the
exponent of annoyance as of enjoyment, I think), "if you could have
heard the stories I was forced to tell, I'm sure I deserve to be wound
up, carried out, and buried, as much as ever Ananias did."