Transcriber’s Note: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores:
_italics_.
JOSHUA HAGGARD’S DAUGHTER
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
JOSHUA HAGGARD’S DAUGHTER
A Novel
BY THE AUTHOR OF
‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’
ETC. ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
[Illustration: (Colophon)]
LONDON
JOHN MAXWELL AND CO.
4 SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET
1876
[_All rights reserved_]
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAP. PAGE
I. ‘O, LET MY JOYS HAVE SOME ABIDING!’ 1
II. ‘WE ARE IN LOVE’S LAND TO-DAY’ 38
III. ‘SHE IS FAST MY WIFE’ 76
IV. ‘I LEAN UPON THEE, DEAR, WITHOUT ALARM’ 101
V. ‘TROP BELLE POUR MOI, VOILÀ MON TRÉPAS’ 117
VI. A FAMILY PICTURE 132
VII. CYNTHIA TRIES TO BE USEFUL 154
VIII. ‘E’EN AT TURNING O’ THE TIDE’ 166
IX. THE SORROWS OF WERTHER 195
X. ‘TWO SOULS MAY SLEEP AND WAKE UP ONE’ 226
XI. ‘AND ALL IS DROSS THAT IS NOT HELENA’ 244
XII. ‘IT WAS THY LOVE PROVED FALSE AND FRAIL’ 260
XIII. ‘THE DEEP OF NIGHT IS CREPT UPON OUR TALK’ 283
XIV. ‘A STORM WAS COMING, BUT THE WINDS WERE STILL’ 297
JOSHUA HAGGARD’S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I.
‘O, LET MY JOYS HAVE SOME ABIDING!’
Placid and happy, after its quiet fashion, was the Sabbath which
followed. The scene of Joshua Haggard’s life was so rarely shifted,
that he may be pardoned by the hearth goddess for feeling a certain
satisfaction in finding himself away from home. The novelty of Sunday
at Penmoyle was pleasing. It was a relief not to receive exactly the
same greetings he had received last Sunday; not to hear precisely the
same speeches, accompanied by the same tones and looks and becks and
nods, and even the same oratorical flourishes of a stout green-cotton
umbrella or a neatly-polished oak sapling; and a relief perhaps
to the eye not to see those particular coal-scuttle bonnets or
bottle-green spencers which adorned his own Bethel. The differences
between Combhaven and Penmoyle were only differences of detail; but
he felt that he was in a strange land, farther west, among people
still more simple than his own flock, and people who loved him no
less.
His sermon was a success. Sixpences and shillings rattled into the
metal platters which the smug-faced deacons, in their glossy Sunday
coats, held at the doors of the chapel. The temple was crowded to its
utmost capacity, and handkerchiefs were used freely for fanning ruddy
faces or for mopping perspiring foreheads, while peppermint lozenges
and smelling-salts were interchanged among friends.
In a corner of the Miss Weblings’ narrow deal pew sat Cynthia, in a
straw gipsy-hat, her head thrown back a little as she looked up at
the preacher. He saw those spiritual blue eyes gazing upward--saw
and was moved by that unknown passion of joy or pain which had
thrilled him last night. He tried to forget that intent face--tried
to thrust every earthly influence out of his thoughts as he pleaded
for his Creator’s glory, for due honour to be paid to the Lord of
heaven and earth, as he urged with warmth the duty of sacrifice and
unselfishness upon that open-mouthed bucolic flock--the duty of
surrendering something of earth’s enjoyments, some portion of their
temporal blessings, to render homage to Him who gives them all.
‘If we had a friend who was always showering gifts upon us,’ he urged
in his familiar way, ‘should we begrudge him some small offering now
and then in return? Should we take all and give nothing? Should we
not be miserly and mean if we did? Should we not secretly despise our
own meanness, even if we contrived to hide it from the eyes of men?
And we have a Benefactor who is always giving. Our sleeping and our
waking, our uprising and our downsitting, our health, our strength,
our household joys, our homes, our fields, our gardens,--all are
gifts from Him. Shall we offer nothing for all these things, not even
a house in which to worship the universal Giver of good? My brethren,
the pagans, whose gods were foolishness, made their temples so
beautiful, that the beauty of the tabernacle has preserved the memory
of the god. Yes, for two thousand years these childish fables have
lived in the memory of men, because those who believed them spared
neither gold nor silver to testify to their belief. The gods of the
Greeks were as real to the Greeks as your God is to you, and the
splendour of their temples has remained to posterity as a testimony
to the reality of their faith. These were foolish heathens, the
children of darkness. Shall we, the children of light, leave nothing
behind us upon earth to show our descendants that we too were in
earnest--that the God of Truth has had as faithful followers as the
god of lies?’
Verse by verse he read them--commenting as he went along--the
description of Solomon’s temple, his picturesque mind revelling
in the gorgeousness of the record. He was asking for funds for a
chapel, which might be built for three or four hundred pounds; and
as he enlarged in glowing language on the glories of that Jewish
shrine--the carven cherubim and palm-trees and flowers overlaid with
gold, the door-posts of olive-tree and the doors of fir, the floor
overlaid with gold within and without, the pillars of brass and the
chapiters of molten brass, the nets of checker-work and wreaths
of chain-work, the lily-work and pomegranates, and that mighty sea
of molten brass standing upon twelve sculptured oxen--his hearers
thought within themselves that it behoved Penmoyle to do something;
not to be behind the Jews of old, people with hook-noses, and perhaps
old-clothes bags and a plurality of hats, whom folks looked down
upon nowadays. And Solomon, who at his best was only a Jew, had been
able to build this sublime temple, nay, if tradition were to be
credited, sent as far as Penzance for tin and copper ore wherewith
to accomplish this great work. This moved them much more than any
idea about the Greeks, whom they depictured to themselves vaguely and
variously, according to their several imaginations.
To Cynthia this sermon, which might have seemed trite and commonplace
to that mordant modern intellect which, like the Athenian mind,
spends itself wholly in going after every new orator, from Monsignor
Capel to Moody and Sankey,--to Cynthia this sermon was full of
colour and meaning. Of romance she knew nothing; poetry was a dark
language to her, save the mute poetry of stars or flowers, earth’s
loveliness or heaven’s sublimity. She had never heard fine music
or seen a stage-play, except the rude representations of showmen at
a fair; eloquence, pictures painted in words, were new to her, and
she listened spellbound. She could have given you no definition of
greatness, yet in her mind she was assured that Joshua was a great
man. She thought of St. Paul holding a vast and adverse throng by the
magic of his discourse, and it seemed to her no blasphemy to compare
Joshua with that saint and apostle. Her youth, her ardour, had
nothing on which to fasten except this ideal of a good and perfect
man. She was grateful to her mistresses for their small kindnesses
and indulgences; but she vaguely felt the element of ridiculousness
in the little fidgety ways and petty particularities of these elderly
damsels, and the flowers of her fancy did not entwine themselves
around the images of Miss Deborah and Miss Priscilla. The garden of
her young mind was a fertile soil, however, and the flowers that
sprung there must have something about which to cling and blossom, so
they wreathed their ductile tendrils round that sturdy oak Joshua.
The afternoon was occupied by a second service, in which the mild
exhortations of Mr. Martin had a somewhat sleepy sound to those who
had dined heavily. Spirits weighed down by roast meat and potatoes,
and a regretful conviction that the Sunday joint had been a thought
too greasy, joined languidly in prayers and hymns; and there was a
sense of relief when the lengthy service came to a close, and the
congregation poured out of the oven-like chapel into the sweet fresh
air.
Several friends dropped in upon the Miss Weblings after service: some
who had known Joshua of old, others who were eager to be presented
to him. Mrs. Gibbs, the butcher’s wife, in her green watered silk,
and with a gold watch--one of the few gold watches known to be
extant in Penmoyle--reposing on her portly side, almost the grandest
lady in the village. Miss Toothy, from the general shop, who was
somewhat eccentric in her attire, but reported wealthy. Mr. and Mrs.
Pamble, tenant-farmers of some importance, occupying a square stone
house on the outskirts of Penmoyle--large people both, and given to
pomposity, as conscious that they had never been a day behind with
the half-year’s rent, and could afford to trust in Providence when
times were bad, having laid by a small fortune before the Peace.
These filled Miss Webling’s parlour to overflowing, and taxed the
resources of the household in the way of teapots. If Cynthia had
been less handy, things could not have gone off so genteelly; and
the sisters might have been lowered in the esteem of Mrs. Pamble,
who really condescended somewhat in visiting them, by sloppy tea;
but Cynthia contrived to have a fresh brew in the every-day crockery
teapot ready to replenish that silver vessel which adorned the tray.
She brought in the rock-cakes hot, and nestling in a clean napkin,
and she was never behindhand with bread-and-butter of the genteelest
thinness.
‘That’s a handy girl of yours, Miss Webling,’ said Mrs. Pamble
approvingly, when the chapel and the day’s sermons and the
possibilities of the building-fund had been amply discussed.
‘And an uncommon good-looking one too,’ added the farmer, in his
beefy voice. ‘You won’t have her long, miss, I fancy; some of the
young chaps will be wanting her to get married. These here pretty
ones go off the hooks so soon.’
The spinsters bridled, taking this as in somewise a personal affront.
They had been accounted personable in their time, they could have
informed Mr. Pamble, though they had not gone off the hooks.
‘If she’s as sensible as I give her credit for being, she’ll be in no
hurry to get married,’ replied Deborah, bridling. ‘Single life is not
without its advantages.’
Miss Webling knew that Mrs. Pamble was one of those disagreeable
women who are as proud of having secured a husband and added largely
to the population as if those achievements were novel and remarkable
facts in the history of womankind.
‘Ah, but they’re all glad to get a husband; even the sensiblest of
them,’ chuckled the farmer. ‘They’re all ready to say snip to the
first as says snap. It’s a feminine failing.’
At which vulgar speech Mrs. Pamble and Mrs. Gibbs laughed until
their silk gowns, or the rigorous corsets under the gowns, creaked
ominously.
Miss Toothy looked daggers. She had never said snip to any one’s
snap, and she felt that the conversation was becoming odiously
personal.
‘Of course I’m not eluding to ladies like you,’ said the farmer,
perchance perceiving that he was on dangerous ground, and accenting
his speech by a slap on Priscilla’s spare shoulder. ‘You’ve had
your offers and throwed over your sweethearts--you and Miss Deborah
and Miss Toothy yonder; but servant-gals and suchlike ain’t so
partickler. A husband’s a husband to their mind, so long as he’s got
a hat, and ain’t blind or deaf. They wouldn’t object to his being
dumb, I daresay, for the sake of havin’ all the talkin’.’
This being an old-established joke, everybody except Joshua laughed
heartily.
‘She’s got very uncommon-coloured hair, that gal of yours, Miss
Webling,’ said Mrs. Pamble. ‘I don’t know as I call it pretty for
a young woman, though it’s very winning in a baby. My Jimmy has
hair just that colour; and when he’s naughty it goes more against
me to slap him than it does the dark-haired ones--he’s got such
an innercent look with him. But I think flaxen hair’s rather too
simple-like for a young woman; it gives her a foolish look.’
‘What matter looks if she is not foolish?’ said Joshua almost
sternly. ‘If you can bring up your daughters to be as sensible and as
pious as that servant-girl, you will be a happy woman, Mrs. Pamble;
and if God makes them as lovely, pray to Him to give them hearts as
pure and minds as innocent as hers.’
From any one else such freedom of speech would have offended the
farmer’s wife; but she had come to see Joshua as a great preacher,
and one must expect hard sayings from prophets and privileged persons
of that kind. She only sniffed dubiously, and looked at her watch,
which, a homely silver one, compared disadvantageously with that
shining golden timekeeper pendent from Mrs. Gibbs’s waistband.
‘I’m afraid we must be going,’ said Mrs. Pamble, as if loth to
pronounce a sentence which must naturally afflict the company.
‘There’s the dairy never gets properly looked after unless I’m
standing behind that girl of mine.’
‘Ah,’ grunted Mr. Pamble, ‘you women can do nothing without a lot o’
cackle. Missusses and maids is pretty much alike. There’s so much
scolding goes on in the dairy I wonder it don’t turn the milk; no
need for rennet, I should think, where there’s women’s tongues.’
‘It isn’t the women that sit arguing about nothing for three hours
at a stretch in a public-house,’ observed Mrs. Pamble, as she drew
her white Paisley shawl across her robust shoulders, and skewered it
on her breast with a large mosaic brooch representing St. Peter’s
at Rome; and after this home-thrust, she rose to depart, the farmer
meekly following.
These magnates of the land being gone, after leave-takings at once
friendly and ceremonious, Miss Toothy discovered that she was wanted
at home, having promised her girl an evening out; and Mrs. Gibbs
pronounced herself pledged to her domestic in the like manner. So
there was a clearance of the smart little parlour, and the Miss
Weblings folded their hands and leaned back in their chairs, feeling
as exhausted after this unwonted assembly as a lady of fashion when
her reception of three or four hundred of the upper ten thousand is
over, and life’s green curtain falls on the social comedy.
‘I hope I was polite to them all, Priscilla,’ said Deborah somewhat
anxiously; ‘but I felt a little confused in my head by their all
dropping in together. I’m afraid Miss Toothy might feel herself
passed over. She’s rather hard to draw out; and the Pambles are so
lively.’
‘Miss Toothy hasn’t seen much company,’ replied Priscilla excusingly.
‘You can’t expect her to be very conversable. But she’s a great
reader, and knows more about politics and the Royal Family than
anybody in Penmoyle. She has friends in London that send her a
newspaper every week; and she’s got some nice books too, Mr. Haggard;
she lent me the _Romance of the Forest_ last winter, and I read it
aloud to Debbie in the long evenings. I don’t see any harm in a good
novel once in a way, if you take your time over it, and don’t loll by
the fireside half the day, poking your nose into a book and letting
your house go to rack and ruin.’
‘I have forbidden my daughter to read novels,’ replied Joshua,
finding himself thus directly appealed to, ‘lest the unrealities
she would find in them should give her a false picture of life, and
encourage her to form baseless hopes or foolish desires. But when she
is married and the mother of a family she may seek amusement for an
evening hour in some innocent fiction, and be none the worse for it.
And, of course, at your discreet age, Miss Priscilla, an appeal to
the imagination can do no harm.’
‘There never was a more particular man than my father,’ said Deborah.
‘He couldn’t abide the sight of a book, when once his children had
learned to read, except the Bible on Sundays and Dr. Watts’s Hymns.
He said books about a place were just an encouragement to idleness,
and that as long as women had the use of their hands they ought never
to waste time in reading. Yet, you see, Priscilla and I wouldn’t be
as independent as we are if Providence hadn’t given us a taste for
learning.’
Joshua bowed assent. He had been somewhat wearied by the
tea-drinking, the fulsome compliments which Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs.
Pamble had paid him, the stuffy parlour smelling of toast and
bread-and-butter. He was yearning for a breath of fresh air.
‘I think I’ll take a turn in that neat little garden of yours,’
he said, as if asking permission of the sisters, who both had a
drowsy look, and regarded him blinkingly, like owls in a zoological
collection.
‘Do, dear Mr. Haggard; and try and get an appetite for your supper.
You made a very poor dinner.’
It was a minor duty of hospitality with the Miss Weblings to pretend
to think that their guests had fared badly, just as it was the major
duty to press the viands upon a visitor’s consideration until he was
so obliging as to over-eat himself.
There was no way of reaching the garden save through the kitchen, so
to the kitchen Joshua went. The door at the end of the narrow little
passage stood open, and the westward-fronting casement was shining
like a jewel at the end of the vista. The kitchen was newly swept
and garnished; no sign of unwashed tea-things or broken victuals;
the polished grate winking and twinkling in the red light from a
neat little fire; the red-brick floor spotless as if it were a
floor in a picture; every pot and pan arranged with the grace that
belongs to perfect order; a dark-brown jug of roses and seringa on
the window-sill; but the figure Joshua had expected to see by the
casement was not there. Cynthia had gone for a walk, he thought;
had gone to meet and mingle with those other handmaidens whose
privilege it was to enjoy a Sabbath-evening ramble; perhaps to keep
company--odious phrase--with some rural swain. The idea was repulsive
to him. It seemed to him that there was pollution in such contact.
He went through the tiny scullery and out into the garden, which
he had surveyed from the window that midsummer evening just a year
ago when he bade Cynthia good-bye. There was not much to admire in
the garden, perhaps, save for those eyes which are in the habit
of looking at all rustic things as pictures, and which can see a
study in brown in an old well and an empty bucket, or a nocturne in
purple and gold in a cottage thatch steeped in moonlight. To Joshua,
whose only experience of landscape-painting had been derived from
tea-trays, that sloping bit of garden seemed commonplace enough;
even for politeness’ sake he would not have gone so far as to say
that he thought it pretty, and yet it charmed him somehow; there
was a beauty in this vulgar rusticity which he felt, although he
could not recognise or understand it. The picture of grassplot
and flower-bed and crooked old apple-trees spreading their gray
branches against the yellow sky; the sweet-pea hedge, the stocks,
the sweet-williams, the blush-roses, the thymy potherbs; the little
thatched shed for the pig yonder in an angle of the hawthorn hedge;
the steep bank where the strawberries grew,--the homely charm of
this picture crept into his heart unawares. He walked slowly across
the little grassplot, where a self-sufficing bantam was pecking at
imaginary worms in dignified solitude; he ascended the narrow path,
which had been cut into steps where the slope was steepest; and on
the higher ground by the hedge discovered Cynthia standing by the
pigsty, and actually exchanging endearments with the pig, whose
black head lolled across the edge of his sty, and who expressed the
gratification he derived from having his ears pulled in a series of
confidential grunts.
‘I thought you had gone for a walk, Cynthia,’ said Mr. Haggard.
‘No, sir. I go across the fields sometimes, and as far as the
copse’--pointing to a dark waving line against the sunset--‘and
gather a bunch of wild flowers, when the ladies give me leave.’
‘You go with your friends, I suppose; some of the young women in
service here?’
‘No, sir. I have no friends except my mistresses.’
‘And no sweetheart, Cynthia?’
‘No,’ she answered, with a curious little smile.
What a relief it was to find that her girlish fancy had not idealised
some boor!
‘Ah, the time will come when you will begin to think of a sweetheart,
I daresay; but I’m glad it hasn’t come yet. I am going for a stroll
across the fields, as far as that wood, perhaps. Will you come with
me, and show me where your wild flowers grow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And are you quite happy here, Cynthia?’ asked Joshua, when they
had walked a little way. There were sheep in the meadow, and the
sheep-bell was ringing with a pleasant sound in the twilight.
‘Yes, sir; quite happy; most of all when you come here.’
‘That is not often, Cynthia,’ he answered, his dark eyes softening
to tenderness as they looked at her. Why did she say these things in
her thoughtless innocence, and why should words so simple, a mere
childish expression of grateful affection, set his heart beating?
‘No,’ answered Cynthia; ‘it isn’t often you come, sir. But it is
something to think of, and something to remember.’
‘I cannot tell you what pleasure your progress has given me,’ said
Joshua gravely, but with a tenderness in his voice that was quite
involuntary. ‘I have thought of you often in the year that has gone,
and have supplicated for you in my prayers every day of my life. But
I never hoped to reap so rich a harvest. I never thought God would
reward me so bounteously--to find your intelligence so bright, your
heart so pious, your conduct so exemplary. It is very sweet to me;
sweeter than words can say.’
There was a mist before his eyes as he looked away to the broken line
of wood yonder, not trusting himself to look at his protégée.
‘Could I do less than strive to learn what you wished me to learn,
sir?’ asked Cynthia. ‘Can I ever forget what you have done for me? I
was a heathen, as bad as those poor creatures the missionary told us
about last winter. I was left outside in the darkness. I must have
gone to the habitation of the lost but for you. I pray for you night
and day; but my prayers are so little, they can never repay you. I
wish I could be your servant, that I might work my fingers to the
bone to prove my gratitude. I pray for you, I think of you, I dream
of you sometimes; and I see your face all shining, with a glory upon
it, like Stephen’s when the wicked Jews stoned him.’
‘Foolish dreams, my dear. I am neither saint nor hero; only a common
man, with all our common infirmities; prone to sin when tempted,
and chiefly blest in having led a life exempt from temptation to
do wrong. Providence has been very good to me, Cynthia; my lines
have been cast in pleasant places. I have never known hardships or
ill-usage as you have, poor fragile child. No dark shadow has ever
fallen across my path.’
‘It would be hard if you had sorrows to bear, sir; you who are
so good,’ said Cynthia. ‘Miss Priscilla has told me about you:
how you used to preach to the rough miners--men almost as wild as
savages--and how their hearts were melted; how you used to walk many
miles and suffer hardships, for the sake of doing good and teaching
God’s word, though you had a comfortable home, where you might have
stayed if you had chosen. She told me that you offended your father
by field-preaching, and that you were likely to have lost all the
money he had to leave you, yet you never gave way. Was not that being
a hero?’
‘No, my dear; it was only being steadfast. The man who is without
steadfastness will neither do good to others nor to himself. I saw
that there were waste lands to be made ready for harvest, and I put
my hand to the plough. God gave me health and strength, and love of
the work. It would have gone much harder with me to stay at home
behind my father’s counter than to bear the worst hardships that
ever befell me in my wanderings.’
‘Yes, I can understand that,’ said the girl, looking up at him full
of enthusiasm; ‘that is because you are good and great. It was
sweeter to you to help others than to be happy yourself. Every soul
snatched from darkness and death was a rich harvest. Some of those
you have saved are in heaven now. How sweet it must be for you to
think that they are pleading for you at the throne of God!’
‘My dear child, you let your affection carry you too far. I have but
done a humble share of a great work; I only tread in the footsteps of
greater men who have gone before. I am but one of many.’
‘The Bible does not say that,’ replied Cynthia. ‘“The harvest truly
is plenteous, but the labourers are few.”’
‘That was in the beginning, Cynthia, when God’s light was but dawning
on the darkness of this world. The prayer has been heard, and the
labourers now are many. Let us pray that they may labour aright. You
have a lively and ardent mind, my dear; God grant it may never be
led astray. For a nature so fervent, so ready to admire and believe,
an evil world is full of snares and springes; but so long as you are
content to remain at Penmoyle with our kind friends, I feel assured
you will be safe and happy. The life is somewhat monotonous, I
daresay, but I hope you will not grow weary of it.’
‘I shall have your coming to look forward to,’ said Cynthia.
‘And perhaps in time, if you advance steadily with your education,
the Miss Weblings will let you teach in the school; and by and by, as
they get into years, they may give you the entire management of their
pupils; and you will be doing a holy and useful work, and occupying
an important place in your little world. So you see, Cynthia, you
have something better than domestic service to look forward to, if
you go on improving yourself.’
‘I shall try to do that, to please you,’ replied Cynthia. ‘I never
forget anything you say to me. I think I could tell you every word
you have said, from the time you first spoke to me on the common.’
Joshua was silent. There are some emotions whose ineffable sweetness
is akin to pain--there are thrilling moments in which the soul burns
with a rapture that is almost agony. How was he to construe these
innocent expressions of regard, these little gushes of grateful
feeling? Could they, did they, mean something warmer than regard,
something deeper than gratitude?
They had crossed a couple of meadows and come to the edge of the
copse by this time. It was only a narrow strip of wood, pine-trees
for the most part, dividing one farm from another--a ragged edge
of wilderness upon the skirts of cultivation and fertility; but to
Joshua, that Sabbath evening, it was solemn as that darksome dell
Dante walked in--a forest full of mystery and awe. He could scarcely
see his companion’s face under the pine-trees. It was shadowy as the
face of a spirit.
‘It is too late to find any flowers,’ said Cynthia; ‘but this was a
lovely place in the spring. There were violets and wild crocuses, and
bluebells and wind flowers. There are rabbits too; look--do you see
them flashing past that dark-red trunk yonder?’
Joshua was too preoccupied in spirit to look at rabbits. He walked
with his head bent, his hands clasping his stout oak stick, his lips
tightly drawn, as if he were trying to solve some problem. One might
suppose that he had forgotten the existence of his companion.
He was putting curious questions to himself: ‘If I were so
foolish--if I, who have thought myself so strong, should be weak
enough to lay down my life at this girl’s feet, to set all my hopes
on her, to give her the remnant of my days--would there be any going
backward in such an act? Is it sinful to love her for her youth and
her beauty, her sweet tones and looks and fond winning ways? Is the
attraction that draws me to her despite myself sensual or devilish,
a snare of Satan set to catch me in my pride, or is the charm as
innocent as it seems to me to-night? God enlighten me and give me
grace to be wise; for, whether it be for good or ill, I love her.’
Silver arrows of pale summer moonlight pierced the feathery
pine-branches, evening’s breath crept through the wood with a
plaintive sound that was half whisper, half sigh. It was time that
Joshua and his companion should go back to the white cottage yonder
on the lower ground across the meadows.
‘It is getting late, sir,’ said Cynthia; ‘the ladies will be wanting
me.’
‘Yes, Cynthia; but I have a question to ask before we go. Soon after
daybreak to-morrow I shall be on my way home--for I mean to walk the
best part of the way--and then, unless you wish, I shall not see you
for a year--perhaps never again; for who can tell how your mind may
change in a year?’
‘It can never change so as to forget your goodness, sir.’
‘Child, you make too much of my goodness. What I did for you I would
have done for the lowest, the ugliest, a leper standing outside the
gate and crying, Unclean, unclean! I would have gathered a weed by
the wayside, my dear, and cared for it as truly as I cared for the
flower. But God chose that I should gather the fairest flower that
ever grew in His earthly garden, and keep and cherish it to adorn
His heavenly paradise. And this sweet flower, unawares, has grown
very dear to me. Cynthia, in your childlike gratitude you have said
many words of which perchance you have not weighed the meaning. You
have spoken lightly out of the innocence of your mind, but your words
have gone deep into my heart. You have talked of being my servant,
of working for me all the days of my life. Look up at me, love, with
those sweet eyes; look at me, my cherished one, my darling, with the
straight look that goes from soul to soul, and tell me if you could
love me well enough to be my wife--love me well enough to live with
me, and be a part of my life, the blessedest, brightest, fairest part
of life, all that this earth holds for me of human happiness. I have
given my daughter to her lover; henceforth I hold the second place in
her heart. O Lord, let me have something that shall be all my own! I
have tasted but little of temporal joys; I have given my hopes and
desires for others. Before age creeps on, before my day is done, let
me have something on which to pour forth my treasure of earthly love;
let me be blessed like Abraham and Thy chosen ones of old, in the
sacred joys of home. Child, child, it is the cry of a strong man’s
heart that goes forth to thee. Answer, and answer faithfully. Do you
love me well enough to be my wife?’
He held her in his arms, held her to his heart, looking down into her
eyes. They had both grown accustomed to the half light of the wood
by this time, and saw each other’s faces very clearly; hers looking
upward, pale, earnest, full of sweetness and a rapturous content, as
of one in sight of her earthly heaven; his blanched with suppressed
feeling, the mouth firmly set, the eyes grave and sombre.
‘Answer, love, answer; and as God sees us here in this wood, under
this evening sky, answer truly.’
‘I love you well enough to be your servant all the days of my life,’
she said in a low voice--‘and to be made happy by one kind look from
your eyes now and then when you stooped to remember me. I could never
be your equal--could never feel myself good enough to sit by your
side, to be called by your name; but I love you with all my heart and
strength and mind, as I have been taught to love God.’
She slipped from his breast to his feet before he was aware, and
knelt there with clasped hands, looking up at him--a lovely image of
devotion.
‘Not at my feet, but next my heart, dearest,’ he cried, raising her
from that humble posture. ‘You have made me happy beyond the limit
of man’s earthly blessedness. If I could have known, when the path
seemed most difficult, that behind the curtain of long years God held
this joy in store for me, it would have been like a star shining on
me, and beckoning me on. How light all present labours, all present
perplexities would have seemed, measured against this reward!’
The moon shone full on the face lying on his breast. Purity,
innocence, truth, a childlike love, were written there--love so
blended with reverence that it had something devotional in its
character. Why should the young heart ever change or fall away from
affection so pure in its beginning, so holy in its growth? Why,
indeed, save for the reason spoken of by the Prophet: ‘The heart is
deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?’
A moment never to be forgotten--a solemn crisis in life’s history to
be remembered with awe in all the years to come--a moment in which
earth and earthly things seem to fall away, and spirit speaks to
spirit.
They went back through the dewy fields together, Cynthia’s hand in
Joshua’s--the hand which was his own henceforward--a symbol of their
life-long union. The sheep were running about the field, and the
bell ringing. The church-clock struck nine with a sonorous knell,
like the bell of Time counting the measure of man’s years. A little
while, a little while, and the end shall come. While your heart beats
so passionately, while your hopes build so boldly, while your fancy
makes palaces and earthly paradises to dwell in, time is passing, and
the end is at hand. Life is but a journey, and the home where you are
happiest is only an inn, from which you must be gone to-morrow.
* * * * *
‘Dear heart alive!’ cried Deborah, waking from her gentle nap to find
herself in darkness; ‘what’s become of Cynthia, and why hasn’t she
brought candles and the supper-tray? We must have been asleep ever so
long.’
‘The heat quite overcame me,’ said Priscilla, ‘and Mr. Pamble is so
noisy; his coarse jokes and loud vulgar laugh gave me the headache.
I’m afraid Mr. Haggard must have been shocked with him.’
‘I could see it in his face,’ replied Deborah.
Cynthia came in with a pair of mould candles in shining brass
candlesticks and snuffer-tray to match. Joshua followed, grave of
countenance, and paler than usual.
‘How tired you look, dear Mr. Haggard!’ cried Priscilla. ‘I’m afraid
the sermon this morning and those noisy Pambles have wearied you. You
must have a glass of cowslip wine this minute; it’s very reviving.’
Joshua consented, absently, to be revived, and sipped the home-made
nectar with a dreamy look, while the sisters watched him curiously.
He looked like one whose spirit has detached itself temporarily from
the flesh. The body was there, but the eyes saw not, the lips spoke
not; it was a mere automatic body.
‘I’m afraid he’s ill,’ whispered Priscilla to Deborah, ‘and not a
drop of brandy in the house.’
Joshua looked up presently, and saw two pairs of affrighted eyes
gazing at him as at a spectre.
‘I am ready to read and pray with you, dear friends, at the close of
this peaceful day,’ he said.
‘It has been a day that will be remembered in Penmoyle for many a
year to come,’ exclaimed the ardent Priscilla.
In the placid monotony of her life the advent of such a man as
Joshua made an event of mark. She was not likely to forget his rare
appearances in that remote village. She had indeed cherished his
image for these fifteen years past--ever since his widowhood made it
a lawful thing to worship him with a more individual regard than that
reverent affection which the flock gives its shepherd.
Joshua opened his pocket Bible, and read the second chapter of
Ruth; Cynthia seated meekly in her accustomed place by the door. In
his commentary on the text he spoke of that instinct of the heart
which has been called love at first sight, but which is rather an
inspiration, a divine prompting of the spirit, which leads man to his
fittest helpmate. He touched tenderly on the favour which the gentle
Moabitess found in the sight of the stranger; how his heart went
forth to her at the very first, even before his servants had told him
her pathetic story. He dwelt on the blessedness of such an union, and
how God had crowned this marriage with richest honour, His chosen
servant David being descended from this stem.
Priscilla wept copiously, her sentimental soul moved deeply by
Joshua’s discourse; and after he had said his evening prayer, she
approached him with a little gush of rapture, and exclaimed:
‘Dear Mr. Haggard, it has been my privilege often to hear you
eloquent, but your words were never so melting as they have been
to-night. The hardest heart must have shed tears,’ added Miss
Priscilla, too enthusiastic to care for anatomical truth.
Joshua blushed; yes, through the dark clear skin there glowed an
actual blush, as he looked at the Miss Weblings almost sheepishly.
‘I thought that tender story would win your sympathy,’ he said; ‘and
I am glad, for I want you to look with increasing favour upon my
Ruth.’
He put his arm round Cynthia and drew her to his side. The
fair-haired child nestled there, looking up at her mistresses half
shyly, half proudly.
‘What!’ cried Priscilla, with a shrill scream; ‘you don’t mean--’
‘I am like Boaz,’ he said; ‘I have no need to tarry any longer in
doubtfulness of my own heart. This damsel has found grace in mine
eyes, albeit she is a stranger. Heaven gave her to me that summer
day, on Springfield Common. Heaven has given me new thoughts and new
hopes since I have known her. I am more blessed in having found her
than if all the riches of all the mines in Cornwall had been poured
into my lap. May God give me grace to love and cherish her, and to
make the life she has trusted to me happy!’
‘You are going to marry that child!’ cried Priscilla, plucking at the
velvet circlet on her brow in the wild agitation of the moment. ‘You,
a sober serious man of forty and upwards, a chit younger than your
daughter!’
‘If I am not too old to find a place in her heart, I care not how
young she is. It will be all the sweeter duty to protect and cherish
her.’
Priscilla cast away her velvet head-band, reckless of the little
mourning brooch, with her father’s silver hairs behind a tiny square
of crystal, which confined it on her intellectual brow. She looked
wildly round the best parlour, gave a stifled shriek, a gurgle or
two, flung herself on the chintz-covered sofa, grasping the hard
bolster convulsively in her agony, and went into vehement hysterics.
She lay there gurgling and choking, with occasional bursts of shrill
laughter, for the next ten minutes, while cold water was sprinkled
over her head and face, to the detriment of her Sunday toilet and the
sofa-cover.
‘You shouldn’t have told her quite so suddenly,’ said Deborah,
somewhat ashamed of this emotional display. ‘She has such a mind.
The shock has been too much for her. She hasn’t had such a fit of
hysterics since father died.’
Priscilla recovered sufficiently to be led up the corkscrew
staircase, and before departing cast a piteous look at the minister.
‘I should be the last to fling a shadow on your happiness,’ she
said, ‘but I thought you’d never marry again. I thought your mind
was lifted above it; or that if you did, it would be some one of a
suitable age, and with a mind fit to mate with yours. But the human
heart is a mystery.’
And with a strangled sob Priscilla drooped her disordered head upon
her sister’s shoulder, and suffered herself to be assisted up the
corkscrew staircase, an operation which occasioned some bumping of
heads and rapping of elbows at awkward turns in the stair.
This was the beginning of evils that came out of Joshua Haggard’s
second marriage; an event in the life of man to which his kindred
in particular and his friends in general are especially apt to take
objection; and yet the responsibility of the act is all his, and the
good or ill thereof is a cup which his lips alone can drink. Whether
he chains himself to a fury who shall make his days and nights
miserable, or wins to his side an angel who shall shed upon his
pathway the sunshine of domestic bliss, and make his progress to the
grave pleasant as a noontide ramble through a rose-garden, it is he
who shall pay the penalty of a foolish choice or reap the reward of a
wise one.