Nell slept only by snatches through that night, and waked the next
morning with a heart of lead in her bosom. She had been so long
unused to country sights and sounds, that she opened her eyes with
the first gleam of sunshine that streamed through her window. The
air was so pure, and the surroundings so peaceful, that she could
hear the gardeners whetting their scythes in Sir Archibald Bowmant’s
grounds, and the milkers whistling, or talking to each other, as they
took their way to the cowsheds. A lark was executing his wonderful,
untaught trills far up somewhere in the blue heavens, and the farmyard
chorus had commenced to tune up--hens clucking, ducks quacking, pigs
grunting, and cows lowing, as they asked to be delivered of their
burden of milk. The honeysuckle and roses, which clambered outside
her window and tapped against the panes, were filling the morning air
with their fragrance; the dew-laden grass sent forth a sweet, faint
odour; the smell of ripening fruit and ripened vegetables permeated
the air. These were the things of which Nell had dreamed in her town
life with intense longing; which she had sickened to see and hear
again; the re-enjoyment of which, she had believed would prove the
panacea for every pain, the cure for every trouble. And now they were
all before her in their fullest beauty, and she turned her face from
them and hid it on her pillows. The innocent sights and sounds made her
tremble and turn faint with despair. They were no longer for her; she
had outgrown them. The simple tastes of her childhood mocked her as
she lay there--a deceiver, a pretender, an acting lie in her father’s
household. Nell had kept back the truth for years, but she had never
perverted it before--stooped to falsehoods to hide her shame, deceived
her father and her mother, and come back to take her place amongst
them as a pure woman, when she knew herself to be no longer pure. The
very things which she had believed would be her balm had proved her
bane. The very daisies and buttercups rose up in judgment against her,
until she felt herself unworthy even to pluck the flowers of the field.
These thoughts so depressed her, that she rose in a melancholy mood,
that quite precluded her keeping up the farce of gaiety which she had
played the night before. She appeared at the breakfast-table so pale
and heavy-eyed and languid, that her father gazed at her with surprise,
and her mother, in pity for her looks, tried to divert her husband’s
attention from them as much as possible by talking of Hetty and their
acquaintances in Usk. The conversation came round in time to their
landlord, Sir Archibald Bowmant.
‘Are the family at home, mother?’ asked Nell. ‘I could hear the men
mowing the lawn distinctly from my window this morning, and I fancied
I could smell the scent from those huge mounds of heliotrope they
used to have in front of the dining-room windows. I have never seen
heliotrope grow in such profusion anywhere else.’
‘No, my girl, there’s nobody there, nor likely to be till the summer is
well over. Sir Archibald is our landlord, and a liberal one, so we’ve
no call to say anything against him, and perhaps it’s no business of
ours, but he is a very different gentleman since he married again. The
first Lady Bowmant was a good woman, and though I suppose Sir Archibald
was always inclined to be wild, she kept him straight as you may say.
But since his second marriage, well, Usk Hall is not the same place.’
‘How is it altered?’ said Nell, trying to take a languid interest in
her mother’s conversation.
‘Oh, in everything, my dear. In _my_ lady’s time (I always call her
_my_ lady, you know, Nell, on account of my having been her maid
before her marriage) the family used to go to church regularly every
Sunday; he and she in their carriage, and as many servants as could
be spared following them up the aisle. But now their pew’s empty from
week’s end to week’s end. Of course, if the master and mistress don’t
attend church, the servants can’t be expected to do so. And I doubt if
they’d have the time, for they seem to be kept working more on Sundays
than on any other day in the week.’
‘How is that, mother?’
‘They keep such a heap of company, my dear, and when they’re not
tearing over the country on horseback, they’re playing cards all day.
James Powell, the under footman, says it’s something awful--like hell
opened, was his words. They begin the first thing after breakfast, and
then it’s gambling and swearing, and brandies and sodas, till night.
My lady seems to think nothing of it. She has a lot of brothers, and I
suppose she was brought up amongst it all. She drives a tandem, and
has nearly killed several people by her fast driving--she _did_ run
over Betsy Rigden’s little girl one day; but it wasn’t much hurt, and
Sir Archibald sent Betsy a ten-pound note, so nothing more was said
about it; but, to my mind, it isn’t decent that just as sober people
are on their way to church, my lady should come tearing down the road
in her tandem, with some young gentleman by her side, and both laughing
so loud you might hear them half a mile off. Ah, it’s a very different
house to what it used to be.’
‘But they’re not at home now, you say.’
‘No, my lass, nor won’t be till October or thereabouts, and then they
will keep it up till it’s time to go back to London, or off to some of
those foreign places Sir Archibald is so fond of, and where, I hear,
they do nothing but gamble. It’s a dreadful habit for them to have got
into. I never thought at one time that I should have lived to see Sir
Archibald the worse for liquor, but I’m sorry to say I have, more than
once. However, as I said before, he’s been a good landlord to father
there, so we’re the last as should speak against him. He fills my two
rooms every autumn, and far into spring; and if I had six I could let
them to him. Last year he came to ask me to let him have the whole
farmhouse, and find beds for ourselves elsewhere, and he would have
made it worth our while to, but I told him it couldn’t be. I couldn’t
sleep away from my dairy and bakehouse; nothing would go right if I
wasn’t on the spot.’
‘Do you go to church still, mother, or to chapel?’ asked her daughter.
‘Why, to church, Nell, of course. What makes you think we should change
our religion? You go to church too, I hope?’
Nell waived the question.
‘Only because of Hugh Owen,’ she said. ‘You spoke so well of his
preaching, that I thought you might have gone over to the Dissenters.’
‘No, no, my lass. No going over for us. Father and I were born and
bred church people, and we’ll be buried as such, eh, father?’
‘Why, certainly,’ replied the farmer. ‘I never hold with chopping and
changing. Live as you’ve been bred. That’s my motto.’
‘Of course the Owens have always been Dissenters,’ continued Mrs
Llewellyn, ‘so I would never say anything against Hetty going to chapel
with her husband, for where he goes it’s her duty to follow; but we
only went to hear Hugh preach for friendship’s sake. But there, it was
beautiful and no mistake. The words seemed to come flowing out of his
mouth like milk and honey. They say as Mr Johnson, the curate, is quite
jealous of the way that Hugh draws his congregation away to chapel. You
must come with me and hear him one evening, Nell. It’s mostly Wednesday
evenings that he takes the open-air service in Mr Tasker’s field. He
stands on a high bench, and the people crowd round to hear him. He
seems to speak so much from his heart. I’m sure if there was one woman
crying, last Wednesday, there was a dozen.’
‘Including Mrs Llewellyn,’ remarked the farmer, as he rose from table,
and shook the crumbs from his coat.
‘Well, I don’t deny it, and I’m not ashamed of it,’ replied his wife,
‘Nell will cry too, maybe, when she hears her old sweetheart talk. It’s
not much of a match for Hetty, Nell--not such a match as I hope to see
_you_ make some day, my girl--but they’re good people, the Owens, and
she’s safe under their care.’
‘And what do you want more?’ demanded the farmer. ‘It’s far better than
if she’d married some half-and-half fellow, who’d have brought her down
to poverty, or worse. All I want for my girls is respectable husbands,
men as will stick to them and work for them, not fashionable popinjays
that would give ’em fine clothes and fine words for awhile, and then
maybe desert ’em for another woman. You had better make a lot of Will
Owen, wife, for you won’t get another son-in-law as good as he in a
hurry.’
With which Mr Llewellyn took his thick, crabthorn walking-stick, and
went on his way.
‘Lor’,’ said his wife, as he disappeared, ‘the way father do stick up
for the Owens is wonderful. Not that I’ve a word to say against them,
but I should have looked higher for Hetty myself. William is a good
lad, but not more than a labourer on his father’s farm, and John Nelson
at the post-office proposed twice for her, but she wouldn’t look at
him, though he makes three hundred a year in hard cash. But I won’t
hear of any farm-hand for you, Nell. You’ve got the looks to make a
good marriage, my girl, and I hope you’ll make it. You’re rather peaky
now, and your eyes are sunken and dark underneath. I shouldn’t wonder
if your liver wasn’t out of order, but country fare and air will soon
set you right again, and then there won’t be a prettier girl for miles
round. It was time you came back to us, for you’d have lost all your
good looks if you’d remained in London much longer.’
Nell had listened to this lengthy discourse almost in silence. She had
been thinking all the time, ‘Oh, if they knew--if they only knew!’ She
had tried to pull herself together several times, and laugh and chat
as she had done the night before, but she had found it impossible. It
was as if some weight had been attached to all her mental powers and
dragged them down. She had a horrible feeling that if she spoke at
all she should blurt out the truth and tell them everything. So she
remained silent and miserable, wishing that she had never come back to
Usk, but been drowned in the deep bosom of the Thames.
‘I’m afraid you’ve got a bit of a headache still, my dear,’ remarked
her voluble mother, as she rose from the breakfast-table, ‘and so I
won’t ask you to come round the dairy with me this morning. You’d
rather rest on the sofa and read a book, I daresay?’
‘No, no,’ cried Nell, rousing herself, ‘I’d rather go where you go,
mother. I should go mad--I mean, I should feel my headache much more
sitting here by myself. Let me come and see all over the dear old house
with you. It will do me good--I must keep stirring, or I shall feel
things--my headache, so much worse for thinking of it.’
So she made a great effort, and followed her mother on her various
vocations, and made the dairymaids open their eyes to hear the
refinement of her speech and to see her graceful movements and the
daintiness with which her clothes were made and worn. Had they but
been able to read her mind they would have seen with amazement that
she shrunk from contact with them, because her dread secret was eating
into her very soul and making her feel unfit to associate with her
fellow-men. She had only realised the truth, and what her love for Lord
Ilfracombe had made her, by fits and starts in London, but here, in the
heart of God’s country, it was borne in upon her to such an extent that
she felt as if every innocent animal, and fresh, modest, wild blossom
must proclaim it to the world. So she went moodily about the farmhouse
all day, and her mother believed that she was ill, and ransacked her
brain to think of a remedy for her. In the evening, as they were all
sitting quietly together (for Mrs Llewellyn had been asking her husband
for some money to get Nell a new outfit, which had recalled to his mind
the impoverished condition in which his daughter had returned home),
who should walk in amongst them, to the general surprise, but Hugh
Owen. He looked rather conscious as he entered the room, but excused
his visit on the score of asking how Nell had borne her journey, and to
bring her a book which he thought she might like to read.
‘You need no excuses for coming to Panty-cuckoo Farm, my lad!’
exclaimed the farmer; ‘you’re always welcome here. What’s the day?
Tuesday? Ah, then to-morrow’s the grand field-night, which accounts for
your having the time to come over this evening.’
The young man blushed, and looked at Nell.
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘to-morrow is my field night, as you call it,
farmer. I hope it may prove a harvest field.’
‘Now, just tell me how you do it, lad,’ said the old man. ‘Do you lie
awake of nights, and make up all you’re going to say, or do you wait
till the people are before you, and then just tell ’em what’s in your
mind? I’m curious to know, for your flow of words is wonderful, and I
can’t understand how any man can talk for two mortal hours as you did
last Wednesday, unless he’s stored it all up beforehand. It beats me
altogether. I never heard the like before.’
He had got Hugh astride his hobby, and the young man found his tongue
at once.
‘Oh, Mr Llewellyn, if you loved the people as I do, you would find it
quite as easy as talking to your family at home. I do think of what I
wish to say to them; sometimes the thought walks with me, as you might
say, all day long; but I seldom use the words I’ve been dreaming of. I
go to the spot with my mind full of some set speech, but when I see
the people who wait for me--all of them old neighbours or children whom
I’ve seen grow up amongst us--and most of them dear friends, I feel as
if my very soul went out to meet them, yearning to gather them all safe
into the fold. The words in which to warn and entreat them come too
quick then to my lips for utterance, and sometimes I’ve had to swallow
down my sobs before I could find a voice with which to speak. The
difficulty is _not_ to speak, Mr Llewellyn. The hard part is to keep
silence, when one sees so many whom one loves living for nothing but to
eat and to drink, and as if there were no God in the world.’
The farmer and his wife had been regarding Hugh Owen during this speech
with open-eyed amazement--Nell, with a scared look, half fear and half
annoyance.
‘Eh, lad,’ said Mr Llewellyn, ‘but it’s a rare gift, and you’ve got it,
there’s no doubt of that. But as for living to eat and drink, we must
do it, or we shouldn’t live at all, and we do it for others as well as
ourselves. What would become of my missus there, and Nell now for the
matter of that, if I didn’t see after the ploughing and reaping, and
wife after the dairy and the bakehouse. We’d all be dead of starvation
by the end of the year if I took to preaching in the fields like you,
instead of farming them.’
‘Indeed, yes, Mr Llewellyn, you quite mistake if you think I consider
it part of religion to neglect the work we have been given to do. But
we can live to God and do our duty at one and the same time. It seems
so difficult to me,’ continued the young enthusiast, as he flung his
hair off his brow, and lifted his dark eyes to Nell’s face, ‘to live in
the country, surrounded by God’s works, and _not_ remember Him. Why,
a countryside like Usk is a continual church-going. Every leafy tree
is a cathedral--the flowery meadows are altar carpets--each wild bird
singing in its thankfulness a chorister. God’s face is reflected in the
least of His works. How can we look at them and forget Him?’
‘Ay, ay, my lad,’ responded the farmer, as with a glance at his wife,
as much as to say, ‘he’s as mad as a March hare,’ he rose to quit the
house for the stables.
Hugh directed his attention more particularly to Nell.
‘I hope I haven’t worried you,’ he said sweetly. ‘I do not often
introduce these subjects into my ordinary conversation, but your father
drew me on before I was quite aware of it. I have brought you a book
to read, which cannot fail to interest you, Livingstone’s Travels in
Africa. Have you seen it yet?’
She took the volume listlessly, and answered ‘No.’
‘How I should love to travel amongst those wild tribes,’ continued
Hugh enthusiastically; ‘to make friends with them, and bring them to
a knowledge of the truth. The fauna and the flora, too, of strange
climates, how interesting they must be. To have undertaken such a
journey--to have left such a record behind one--would almost satisfy
the ambition of a lifetime.’
‘You should be a missionary,’ said Nell; ‘you are cut out for it.’
‘Do you really think so, that I could be worthy of so high a vocation?
I have sometimes thought of it, but always shrunk back from so great a
responsibility.’
‘You seem fond of sacrifices,’ said Nell, half mockingly; ‘you were
talking of making them just now. You would have plenty then. You would
have to leave your parents and brother and sister, perhaps for ever;
and be eaten up by a lion or your interesting cannibals instead.’
‘Yes, yes, it would be hard,’ he answered, ignoring, or not perceiving
the joking spirit in which she treated the idea, ‘and harder now than
it has ever seemed before; but the prospect will be always before me,
to my life’s end, as something that may come to pass, if I find no
higher duties to keep me at home. But I am tiring you perhaps. You
have not yet recovered from your long journey, Nell--if I may call you
so--your eyes look weary, and your hands tremble. Are you sure you are
quite well?’
‘Yes, yes, perfectly so, only fatigued, as you surmise, and in need of
fresh air. All Londoners are obliged, as a rule, to leave town after
the hot season, you know, in order to recruit. I shall be all right
when I have spent a few weeks in Usk.’
‘And then I hope you will cease to speak or think of yourself as a
Londoner. I have never been there, but I have heard it is full of
temptations to frivolity and careless living, and that it is difficult
to keep close to God in London. Tell me something of your life there,
Nell. Had you liberty to go to church whenever you chose, and did you
hear any fine preachers, such as Dr Liddon and Dr Irons? Did you ever
go amongst the poor--the poor who live in alleys and back slums, or did
your employer disapprove of your visiting such?’
‘I know nothing--I mean, I can tell you nothing,’ cried Nell, suddenly
rising to her feet. ‘I am weary. I must go to my own room. It will take
me days to recover the fatigue I have gone through. Good-night. Don’t
think me rude, but I cannot talk to you of such things now.’
And with a curt nod Nell went off in search of her mother, leaving
him alone, and somewhat disconcerted at the abrupt ending of their
conversation. Mrs Llewellyn was almost as puzzled as Hugh Owen at her
daughter’s strange behaviour. She could not understand her. The next
day dragged itself disappointingly away. Nell continued in the same
passive, indifferent disposition, and when some neighbours, who had
heard of her return home, called at Panty-cuckoo Farm expressly to
welcome her, she locked herself into her bedroom, and refused even to
answer Mrs Llewellyn’s entreaties that she would make an effort to come
down and see them. Towards evening, however, she became feverishly
excitable again, and seemed impatient to find some vent for it.
‘What can we do, mother?’ she exclaimed as they rose from the
tea-table. ‘Isn’t this the night for Hugh Owen’s preaching? Let’s go
and hear him. It’ll make me scream with laughter to see old Hugh stuck
up as a minister.’
‘Ay, but, dearie, you mustn’t laugh when you get there, or there will
be a scandal, and poor Hugh will be main hurt. Besides, you had better
rest in the garden; the field’s more than a mile off, and I’m afraid
you’ll feel tired before you get there.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ cried the girl. ‘I’m just in the humour for walking
this evening, mother. I couldn’t remain in the garden; it’s too slow,
so, if you don’t want to hear Hugh, I’ll go by myself.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t do that,’ replied Mrs Llewellyn hastily. ‘I’m too
proud of getting my handsome daughter back again after so many years to
let her go tramping over Usk by herself the first day she is at home.
The Owens are sure to be there, and Hetty will be main glad to see us.
So put on your hat, Nell, and we’ll be off. I wish you’d something a
bit smarter to wear than that big black thing; however, I can’t deny
but it suits you all the same.’
So chattering, the old woman trotted off by her tall daughter’s side,
until they had reached Mr Tasker’s field. The open-air service had
commenced some time when they arrived there. The thirty or forty people
assembled had sung several hymns and listened to Hugh Owen’s earnest
prayer, and were now engrossed by his address. The young preacher stood
upon a bench, his long hair waving in the summer breeze; his eyes fixed
upon his small congregation, and his arms stretched out as though to
embrace them. He was not so enrapt, though, but that he perceived the
approach of Nell and her mother, who took up their stand on the outside
of the little group. His pale cheek glowed for a moment, and his heart
beat more rapidly, but he soon subdued these feelings and threw his
soul once more into the work he had appointed himself to do. He paused
for one instant to recover his equanimity, and then proceeded with his
discourse.
‘What is the great evil of this world, my friends?’ he said. ‘What is
the greatest sin we sin against each other and ourselves? The sin
of deceit. We deceive each other in trading--even the smallest grain
of cheating, be it the quarter of a quarter of an ounce less in the
scales than it should be, is as great a robbery in God’s eyes; as
great a wrong to our neighbour; as great a wrong to ourselves, as if
it had been a hundredweight! We deceive each other in religion. We
go to church or chapel because others do, and others would think us
irreligious if we neglected to do so, but we do not tell our neighbours
this. We profess that we attend service for the love of God--because we
could not be happy without attending; because the duty is a comfort and
a delight to us. Can any duty so fulfilled bring any blessing in its
train? And many of us are living lies! This seems a hard judgment, but
look into your own hearts and say if it is not true! Which of you shows
yourself in your true light to the world? Your small meannesses--your
hasty tempers--your neglected duties--your backbitings--you put
them all aside in public, and let your neighbours think you good
mistresses; kind wives and husbands; liberal parents, and faithful
friends. But do you imagine you can deceive God--the God of truth,
who hates a lie--from whose heaven, we are told, all liars shall be
excluded? How many of you now before me could enter that heaven to-day?
How many are there who, if their real characters were known--if their
secret sins were laid bare--would be received with the love and respect
which you all accept as your due? Many a pure and beautiful outside
conceals a deceitful soul--many an apparently innocent face is the mask
for a guilty conscience; but you cannot deceive your God; He knows
every sin you have committed--every wrong thought you have entertained.
Is it not strange that what you are not afraid to let your God know
you have done, you would not have your neighbour find out for all the
world! But which is better, to be rejected of men to-day or of God in
the days to come?--to endure a little scorn and contumely now, in a
life which can only last at the best for a few years, or to be shut
out from God’s love for ever? Think, my dearest friends, of what His
love _for ever_ means! For ever and for ever and for ever!--without
sorrow, or sickness, or sin--wrapped in the arms of His boundless mercy
and protection for all time, and then compare it with the paltry gain
of keeping the good opinion of your neighbour here below--one, who
probably (if the truth were known) has sinned in like proportion with
yourself! If I could only make you realise what God’s love is like,
you would, in order to gain it, throw all earthly consideration to the
winds and think of Him and of Him only! He loves you as no mortal man
can ever love you, and He hates a liar. He has said He will have none
of them--that if men will not confess their sins before the world, He
will not number them with His elect in heaven; and this confessing
includes--’
But here Hugh Owen’s discourse was interrupted by a shrill scream, as
Nell Llewellyn fell back in her mother’s arms in a fit of violent
hysterics. Of course everyone present (who had been longing for the
address to be concluded, that they might renew their acquaintance
with her) rushed forward simultaneously to offer their advice, or
assistance. But Nell shrunk from them all alike, as she tried to quell
the distressing cries that rose involuntarily from her, in her mother’s
bosom.
‘Just stand aside a bit and let the poor lass have air,’ said Mrs
Llewellyn. ‘She’s so weak and faint after that nasty London, that the
walk’s been too much for her. I was afraid it might be, but she was so
bent on hearing Hugh Owen preach! There! Nell--there, my lass! try and
control yourself, do! Lean on me, and we’ll go slowly home again. I’m
main sorry we’ve interrupted your discourse, Hugh, but I hope you’ll go
on now all the same! And you must forgive poor Nell! It’s all because
she’s so weak and upset like.’
‘I’m sorry she came this evening,’ replied Hugh, who was the picture
of distress, ‘but let me take her, Mrs Llewellyn, I am stronger than
you are and Nell can lean as hard as she likes, on me!’
But Nell turned her head away, and at this juncture, one of the
neighbours, who lived close by, returned with a little chaise drawn by
a ragged pony, which he had been to fetch, and putting Nell and her
mother in it, he drove them home; and Mrs Llewellyn’s whole care was
then directed to getting her daughter into bed, where she trusted she
would sleep and recuperate her exhausted strength. But creeping up an
hour afterwards to see how she was going on, she found her so ill that
she sent for the village doctor, who pronounced her to be in a very
critical condition, and before another twelve hours were over her head,
Nell was raving in the delirium of a nervous fever.