‘I LEAN UPON THEE, DEAR, WITHOUT ALARM.’
Naomi awoke with a strange feeling of trouble on the morning after
her father’s return with his young wife. She felt like one who, after
some sudden bereavement, awakens to the old familiar world to find it
desolate and empty.
‘I have lost my father,’ came like a cry of despair from her troubled
heart; and then came Reason, the calm and quiet teacher, and sat
down by her bed, and argued the matter to its logical issue, and
showed her that her father had done her no wrong. She blushed at the
thought of her own selfishness--she to grudge her father this new
happiness--she who had given so much of her heart to another--she who
was so soon to abandon the home-nest.
‘But my father has always been first, my father will always be
first, in my heart,’ she said to herself excusingly.
‘Let her only make my father happy, and I shall be satisfied,’ she
thought, as she stood before the little looking-glass, twisting the
heavy coil of hair round her neat tortoise-shell comb. ‘I wish she
were only a little older. She has such a childish look. I cannot
fancy her a companion for my father.’
Naomi went down-stairs with a determination to be very kind to the
poor little wife--to shield her, if need were, from aunt Judith’s
acrimony; but on this first morning aunt Judith was scrupulously
civil; if she erred at all it was on the side of over-politeness. She
was inclined to be righteous over-much in her dealings with the new
member of the household.
Jim greeted his stepmother with frank familiarity, and offered to
take her for a nutting expedition in the woods after dinner.
‘Of course you’re fond of nuts?’ he said.
‘I’m very fond of the woods,’ answered Cynthia, whose heart
overflowed with kindly feeling for these stepchildren, and who was
grateful for the smallest token of regard on their part.
‘I should like to know how the business is to go on if you’re out
nutting every afternoon,’ said Judith, turning sharply on her nephew.
She was not going to waste civility on him.
‘Come, now, I’ve been sticking pretty close to the shop for the last
six months. I don’t often play truant, I’m sure, and there’s not much
doing in my line between dinner and tea.’
‘Of course, if Mrs. Haggard wishes you to go out walking--’
‘Call me Cynthia, please,’ cried the girl, and then added timidly,
‘unless you would like to call me sister.’
‘You’re very kind, but I couldn’t turn my tongue to it. I never had a
sister, and I can’t bring myself to make believe. As to calling you
by your Christian name, I should feel myself wanting in respect to my
brother’s wife; and nobody shall ever have cause to lay that at my
door.’
‘I shall call you Cynthia, though,’ said Jim. ‘It would never do for
a great hobbledehoy like me to be calling a pretty little thing like
you mother. Folks would split their sides with laughing. And you’ll
come nutting this afternoon? There’s hazel and cobnuts, and no end,
in Matcherly Wood. It’s three miles from here; but you can walk that
much, I daresay.’
‘I am a pretty good walker,’ answered Cynthia, delighted to be on
such good terms with her stepson.
‘Shall I wash the tea-things?’ she asked, when breakfast was over and
Joshua had gone out.
‘I’ve washed ’em for the last four-and-twenty years, and I shouldn’t
like harm to come to them,’ answered Judith politely; ‘you needn’t
trouble about it, Mrs. Haggard. All you’ve got to do is to amuse
yourself; you’re the mistress here, and it’s your place to be waited
on.’
‘But, indeed, Miss Haggard, I have never been accustomed--’ protested
Cynthia.
‘What you may have been accustomed to has nothing to do with it,’
replied Judith. ‘You are my brother’s wife, and you shall be treated
as such. There’s the best parlour, when you like to sit by yourself.
_We_ haven’t used it on workadays; but, of course, that’s no reason
why you shouldn’t.’
‘I had rather sit in the room you use,’ said Cynthia, oppressed by
so much courtesy; ‘I should be very sorry to cause any trouble or
alteration in your life.’
Naomi was somewhat restless in her goings in and out, and up and down
stairs, between breakfast and dinner, on this particular morning,
having an idea that, as Oswald had not paid her his accustomed visit
yesterday, he was likely to come early to-day; and she was anxious
to be the first to tell him of the startling change that had taken
place in the household, to soften the edge of his resentment should
he be inclined to resent this act of her father’s. She had not quite
realised the fact that no one had any right to question Joshua’s
disposal of his own life.
There were the usual morning tasks: a batch of starched curtains
to be ironed on the board in front of the kitchen window--the best
parlour to be dusted and beeswaxed--flowers to be trimmed and
watered. But throughout her performance of these duties Naomi was
listening or watching for Oswald’s coming. Dinner-time came, however,
and no Oswald.
Joshua went out directly after dinner, and Judith retired to her
stronghold behind the counter. Cynthia and Jim started for their walk
to Matcherly Wood, and Naomi was standing at the parlour window,
in her afternoon dress, in that quiet hour of the declining day
when the sky takes a golden tinge above distant woods. She had been
watching some time, when she saw her lover coming round the bend
of the road, walking slowly till he caught sight of her, and then
quickening his pace, and approaching her with a smile. She went out
to the garden-gate to meet him, and they went to the garden together,
instead of going into the dull old house. They greeted each other
with the tranquil affection of lovers whose future happiness is
secure, whose present bliss is undisturbed by outward influences or
inward doubts.
‘Why didn’t you come yesterday evening, Oswald?’
‘Because my father took it into his head to be unusually
conversational, and I did not like to leave him without a listener. I
thought I could make amends for last night’s self-denial by coming to
tempt you out for a morning ramble in the woods; but this morning the
Squire discovered that he was not well enough to keep an appointment
with his tenant at Chale, and sent me off to represent him; so
after a ten-mile ride upon Herne I had to walk about a farm all the
morning, hearing complaints and excuses, and inspecting improvements
of whose nature or advantage I had only the vaguest idea, yet about
which I knew I should have to stand a rasping cross-examination on my
return.’
‘Poor Oswald!’
‘I’m afraid I never was made to grow rich out of the soil, Naomi. And
did you really miss me, dearest? That would be a wonderful admission
from you. You don’t often gratify my self-esteem by letting me think
myself necessary to your happiness.’
‘Oswald!’ she said, with a tender reproachfulness in the serious
eyes, which meant much more than words.
‘You would have me believe that love’s best language is silence,’ he
answered playfully; ‘but I sometimes wish you were just a little more
given to sweet words.’
‘There are some feelings that are too sacred to be spoken of lightly.
If it should please Heaven to put my affection to the test, you would
not find it wanting.’
‘I believe that, dear. I have a measureless faith in your truth and
constancy, only I am exacting enough to sigh for a little more warmth
as well. There are moments in which I have asked myself, Is this
love, or only a sublimated friendship? We have schooled ourselves to
such perfect tranquillity; we have so stifled all the agitations and
emotions which poets depict as love’s necessary adjuncts--nay, love’s
very atmosphere--that I have found myself asking, Is it really love?
or is it some calmer, softer, holier feeling, such as the saints of
old felt for each other; a sentiment which might be breathed through
a convent grating, or communicated by martyr to martyr in a pitying
sigh on the pathway to the stake?’
‘I don’t know whether my love is like the love your poets write
about, Oswald--that Court poet, for instance, who was in love with
Amoret and Sacharissa at the same time--but I know that if my life
were weighed against it, love would conquer life.’
‘My dearest,’ cried Oswald tenderly, drawing her to him, ‘I will
never say these foolish things again. Yours is the true love, yours
are the depth and steadfastness; and I am a shallow wretch who cannot
properly understand any feeling that does not gush forth in a torrent
of words. Darling, I will trust you, and believe implicitly in the
love that is not loud.’
They had come to the end of the garden, and to that green oasis of
grass plot where there were a bench and table under the shade of
trees whose leaves were now fast falling, or hanging limp and yellow
on the dark-brown branches. It was one of those still autumnal
afternoons on which the earth seems to rest in a dreamy silence, as
if wearied by summer’s long pageant. Her corn is garnered, her fruits
are stored, she has done her work, this faithful Mother Earth, and
she folds her hands in the soft September atmosphere and composes
herself for winter’s long sleep.
‘My Naomi, how grave you are!’ said Oswald when they had strolled to
the wilderness without a word on either side.
‘I have something to tell you, Oswald,’ she answered, looking at him
anxiously.
‘Nothing bad, I hope. No postponement of our marriage?’
‘No. It is something about my father, something that will surprise
you very much--perhaps shock you.’
Oswald was puzzled. He had been taught to consider Joshua Haggard a
rich man--a man who made money fast and spent it slowly; but Naomi’s
words and manner suggested trouble of some kind, and he could only
imagine financial difficulty.
‘You mean that your father’s business is not so profitable as we
believe,’ he said; ‘he has some apprehension of failure?’
‘It is nothing about business. My father has married again, Oswald.
He brought his wife home to us yesterday evening.’
Oswald gave a long sigh of astonishment.
‘That is a surprise! But as long as it does not make you unhappy,
darling, and I don’t see why it should, as you’ll soon be out of a
stepmother’s power, it can’t make any difference to me. Who is the
lady? Is she very grim and awful?’
‘She is very pretty, and younger than I.’
‘You don’t mean it?’
‘I hope you won’t despise my father, Oswald?’ said Naomi
deprecatingly.
‘Despise him for marrying a pretty young woman instead of an ugly old
one! No, my dear, I am not so inhuman. The fact is sudden enough to
be startling, but it is not unnatural. And a pretty girl will hardly
be a gorgon as a stepmother. You are not very much afraid of her, are
you, Naomi?’
‘Poor child! I think she is more inclined to be afraid of me. It is
such a relief to have told you, Oswald. You will not think any the
worse of my father, will you, dear?’
‘Think worse of him for being human enough to fall in love. No,
Naomi; I am too deeply entangled in the meshes myself not to have
a fellow-feeling for another prisoner in the net. And for a man
of your father’s age, love is a very serious business. Cupid has
a stronger grip upon sober manhood than on shallow and frivolous
youth. Tell me all about it, dear. Who is the lady? Young, you say,
and pretty? Do I know her? Have I ever seen her? Is she one of your
Bethelites?’
‘No, Oswald; she’s quite a stranger. She was never at Combhaven till
yesterday evening.’
‘And do you know nothing about her?’
Naomi was silent. Here was a divided duty. Oswald, as her future
husband, had a right to possess her confidence; yet loyalty to her
father demanded that she should keep the secret of his wife’s lowly
origin; and she had some sense of personal shame in the idea that her
father’s wife had been one little year ago a houseless wanderer upon
the country side, without name or friends--a waif, whose only history
was of starvation and ill-usage.
‘Is she vulgar, or disagreeable in any way?’ asked Oswald, taking
Naomi’s silence as an evidence of embarrassment, and picturing to
himself some miller’s blowsy-cheeked daughter, or worse, perhaps,
the vivacious handmaid of some roadside inn.
‘No; she is gentle and quiet. I do not think you will dislike her. I
only feared that you might think my father foolish for having chosen
such a young wife.’
The church-clock struck five, the inevitable tea-time; and Naomi
turned to leave the wilderness, where the patriarchal ferns were
already brown and yellow, while younger varieties still retained
their tender green.
They went back to the house by the long straight pathway between
the borders of rose-bushes and old-fashioned autumn flowers, which
bounded the neat expanse of vegetables in carefully kept rows; the
celery-bed, which already breathed forth its aromatic odour; the
dark leaves of beet-root, and straggling winter kail. Oswald felt a
mild curiosity about the preacher’s new wife. He was slightly amused
at this revelation of human weakness in the reserved and dignified
Joshua, a man who had seemed to occupy a higher stage of life than
that on which human weaknesses have sway. He followed Naomi into the
house, and stood close behind her as she opened the parlour-door,
and, looking over her shoulder, saw Joshua’s wife.
Cynthia was kneeling by the newly-lighted fire, with her straw bonnet
hanging over her arm, just as she had come in from the nutting
expedition; her loosened hair falling a little over her face, her
cheeks flushed to a delicate carnation by air and exercise, her
eyes looking dreamily at the bright flames leaping up from the
newly-kindled wood; a pretty picture assuredly, concentrating all the
light in the dusky room. The tea-things were laid, but the family had
not yet assembled. Cynthia was alone.
She started up as Naomi entered with her lover, and stood before them
shyly, too much abashed by a stranger’s presence for speech.
‘I hope you enjoyed your ramble,’ said Naomi kindly.
‘The wood was lovely. It was very kind of your brother to take me
there.’
‘I think it was kind of you to go with him. This is Mr. Pentreath.
I--I have told him about my father’s marriage.’
Cynthia curtsied, and Oswald held out his hand, at which she gave him
hers shyly, never having shaken hands with any one so different from
the young men of Penmoyle, whose hands were always red and inclined
to coarseness, and who breathed hard in society. She was not awed or
impressed by Oswald’s appearance, as she had been by Joshua Haggard’s
dark and earnest face, but she considered him highly ornamental.
Oswald was surprised by this delicate and flower-like beauty. He
had expected to see a pretty young woman, buxom and good-tempered,
with rosy cheeks adorned by large bunches of curls, not innocent of
bergamot-scented pomatum, coral earrings, perhaps, and one of those
velvet headbands which he so heartily detested--the kind of young
woman he had seen in a tobacconist’s shop at Exeter.
He looked at Cynthia silently, lost in wonder. Where could Joshua
Haggard have discovered this gracious creature? It was as if he had
come unawares into that homely parlour and found Milton’s Sabrina or
Ovid’s Daphne standing by the hearth.
Mr. Haggard came in presently, followed by his sister. He gave his
wife a little look of greeting which was full of quiet tenderness,
and then welcomed his future son-in-law with a hearty shake-hands.
‘You see I have stolen a march upon you all, Oswald,’ he said. ‘At my
age a man does not care to make a fuss about getting married; and I
knew that Naomi and you would give my wife an affectionate welcome. I
had no occasion to stipulate for that beforehand.’
Cynthia had slipped away to carry her bonnet up-stairs. She had been
too well trained by the Miss Weblings not to know that a bonnet flung
carelessly on a chair in the family sitting-room would be an offence
to aunt Judith. She came back breathless, with her hair neatly
arranged, and took her seat by her husband’s side, but not before
Miss Haggard had exclaimed,
‘When ever are we going to sit down to tea, I wonder? It’s a
quarter-past already. I don’t know what’s come to the house.’