"'I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing on the sea'"--_Nursery Rhyme_.
I
It was market-day in Queningford. Aggie Purcell was wondering whether Mr.
Hurst would look in that afternoon at the Laurels as he had looked in on
other market-days. Supposing he did, and supposing Mr. Gatty were to look
in, too, why then, Aggie said, it would be rather awkward. But whether
awkward for herself, or for Mr. Gatty, or Mr. Hurst, or for all three of
them together, Aggie was unable to explain to her own satisfaction or her
mother's.
In Queningford there were not many suitors for a young lady to choose
from, but it was understood that, such as there were, Aggie Purcell would
have her pick of them. The other young ladies were happy enough if they
could get her leavings. Miss Purcell of the Laurels was by common consent
the prettiest, the best-dressed, and the best-mannered of them all. To be
sure, she could only be judged by Queningford standards; and, as the
railway nearest to Queningford is a terminus that leaves the small gray
town stranded on the borders of the unknown, Queningford standards are not
progressive. Neither are they imitative; for imitation implies a certain
nearness, and between the young ladies of Queningford and the daughters of
the county there is an immeasurable void.
The absence of any effective rivalry made courtship a rather tame and
uninteresting affair to Miss Purcell. She had only to make up her mind
whether she would take the wine-merchant's son, or the lawyer's nephew, or
the doctor's assistant, or, perhaps, it would be one of those mysterious
enthusiasts who sometimes came into the neighborhood to study agriculture.
Anyhow, it was a foregone conclusion that each of these doomed young men
must pass through Miss Purcell's door before he knocked at any other.
Pretty Aggie was rather a long time in making up her mind. It could only
be done by a slow process of elimination, till the embarrassing train of
her adorers was finally reduced to two. At the age of five-and-twenty
(five-and-twenty is not young in Queningford), she had only to solve the
comparatively simple problem: whether it would be Mr. John Hurst or Mr.
Arthur Gatty. Mr. John Hurst was a young farmer just home from Australia,
who had bought High Farm, one of the biggest sheep-farming lands in the
Cotswolds. Mr. Arthur Gatty was a young clerk in a solicitor's office in
London; he was down at Queningford on his Easter holiday, staying with
cousins at the County Bank. Both had the merit of being young men whom
Miss Purcell had never seen before. She was so tired of all the young men
whom she had seen.
Not that pretty Aggie was a flirt and a jilt and a heartless breaker of
hearts. She wouldn't have broken anybody's heart for the whole world; it
would have hurt her own too much. She had never jilted anybody, because
she had never permitted herself to become engaged to any of those young
men. As for flirting, pretty Aggie couldn't have flirted if she had tried.
The manners of Queningford are not cultivated to that delicate pitch when
flirtation becomes a decorative art, and Aggie would have esteemed it
vulgar. But Aggie was very superior and fastidious. She wanted things that
no young man in Queningford would ever be able to offer her. Aggie had
longings for music, better than Queningford's best, for beautiful
pictures, and for poetry. She had come across these things at school. And
now, at five-and-twenty, she couldn't procure one of them for herself. The
arts were not encouraged by her family, and she only had an "allowance" on
condition that she would spend it honorably in clothes. Of course, at
five-and-twenty, she knew all the "pieces" and songs that her friends
knew, and they knew all hers. She had read all the romantic fiction in the
lending library, and all the works of light popular science, and still
lighter and more popular theology, besides borrowing all the readable
books from the vicarage. She had exhausted Queningford. It had no more to
give her.
Queningford would have considered that a young lady who could do all that
had done enough to prove her possession of brains. Not that Queningford
had ever wanted her to prove it; its young men, at any rate, very much
preferred that she should leave her brains and theirs alone. And Aggie had
brains enough to be aware of this; and being a very well-behaved young
lady, and anxious to please, she had never mentioned any of her small
achievements. Nature, safeguarding her own interests, had whispered to
Aggie that young ladies who live in Queningford are better without
intellects that show.
Now, John Hurst was sadly akin to the young men of Queningford, in that he
was unable to offer her any of the things which, Aggie felt, belonged to
the finer part of her that she dared not show. On the other hand, he could
give her (beside himself), a good income, a good house, a horse to ride,
and a trap to drive in. To marry him, as her mother pointed out to her,
would be almost as good as "getting in with the county." Not that Mrs.
Purcell offered this as an inducement. She merely threw it out as a vague
contribution to the subject. Aggie didn't care a rap about the county, as
her mother might have known; but, though she wouldn't have owned it, she
had been attracted by John's personal appearance. Glancing out of the
parlor window, she could see what a gentleman he looked as he crossed the
market-place in his tweed suit, cloth cap, and leather gaiters. He always
had the right clothes. When high collars were the fashion, he wore them
very high. His rivals said that this superstitious reverence for fashion
suggested a revulsion from a past of prehistoric savagery.
Mr. Gatty, on the other hand, had a soul that was higher than any collar.
That, Aggie maintained, was why he always wore the wrong sort. There was
no wrong thing Mr. Gatty could have worn that Aggie would not have found
an excuse for; so assiduously did he minister to the finer part of her. He
shared all her tastes. If she admired a picture or a piece of music or a
book, Mr. Gatty had admired it ever since he was old enough to admire
anything. She was sure that he admired her more for admiring them. She
wasn't obliged to hide those things from Mr. Gatty; besides, what would
have been the use? There was nothing in the soul of Aggie that Mr. Gatty
had not found out and understood, and she felt that there would be no
limit to his understanding.
But what she liked best about him was his gentleness. She had never seen
any young man so gentle as Mr. Gatty.
And his face was every bit as nice as John's. Nicer, for it was
excessively refined, and John's wasn't. You could see that his head was
full of beautiful thoughts, whereas John's head was full of nothing in
particular. Then, Mr. Gatty's eyes were large and spiritual; yes,
spiritual was the word for them. John's eyes were small, and, well,
spiritual would never be the word for _them_.
Unfortunately, John had been on the field first, before the unique
appearance of Mr. Gatty, and Aggie felt that she was bound in honor to
consider him. She had been considering him for some time without any
compulsion. But when things began to look so serious that it really became
a question which of these two she would take, she called in her mother to
help her to decide.
Mrs. Purcell was a comfortable, fat lady, who loved the state of peace she
had been born in, had married into, and had never lost. Aggie was her
eldest daughter, and she was a little vexed to think that she might have
married five years ago if she hadn't been so particular. Meanwhile, what
with her prettiness and her superiority, she was spoiling her younger
sisters' chances. None of her rejected suitors had ever turned to Kate or
Susie or Eliza. They were well enough, poor girls, but as long as Aggie
was there they couldn't help looking plain. But as for deciding between
John Hurst and Mr. Gatty, Mrs. Purcell couldn't do it. And when Aggie
said, in her solemn way, "Mother, I think it's coming; and I don't know
how to choose between them," her mother had nothing to say but:
"You must use your own judgment, my dear."
"My own judgment? I wonder if I really have any? You see, I feel as if I
liked them both about the same."
"Then just say to yourself that if you marry John Hurst you'll have a big
house in the country, and if you marry Mr. Gatty you'll have a little one
in town, and choose between the houses. That'll be easy enough."
Secretly, Mrs. Purcell was all for John Hurst, though he couldn't be
considered as exactly Aggie's equal in station. (They were always saying
how like a gentleman he looked, which showed that that was the last thing
they had expected of him. But in Queningford one does as best one can.)
For all John's merits, she was not going to force him on Aggie in as many
words. Mrs. Purcell deeply desired her daughter's happiness, and she said
to herself: "If Aggie marries either of them, and it turns out unhappily,
I don't want her to be able to say I over-persuaded her. If her poor
father were alive, _he_'d have known how to advise her."
Then, all of a sudden, without anybody's advice, John was eliminated, too.
It was not Aggie's doing. In fact, he may be said to have eliminated
himself. It happened in this way:
Mr. Hurst had been taking tea with Aggie one market-day. The others were
all out, and he had the field to himself. She always remembered just how
he looked when he did it. He was standing on the white mohair rag in the
drawing-room, and was running his fingers through his hair for the third
time. He had been telling her how he had first taken up sheep-farming in
Australia, how he'd been a farm-hand before that in California, how he'd
always set his mind on that one thing--sheep-farming--because he had been
born and bred in the Cotswolds. Aggie's dark-blue eyes were fixed on him,
serious and intent. That flattered him, and the gods, for his undoing,
dowered him with a disastrous fluency.
He had a way of thrusting out his jaw when he talked, and Aggie noted the
singular determination of his chin. It was so powerful as to be almost
brutal. (The same could certainly not be said of Mr. Gatty's.)
Then, in the light of his reminiscences, a dreadful thought came to her.
"John," she said, suddenly, "did you ever kill a pig?"
[Illustration: "'John,' she said, suddenly, 'did you ever kill
a pig?'"]
He answered, absently, as was his way when directly addressed.
"A pig? Yes, I've killed one or two in California."
She drew back in her chair; but, as she still gazed at him, he went on,
well pleased:
"I can't tell you much about California. It was in Australia I learned
sheep-farming."
"So, of course," said Aggie, frigidly, "you killed sheep, too?"
"For our own consumption--yes."
He said it a little haughtily. He wished her to understand the difference
between a grazier and a butcher.
"And lambs? Little lambs?"
"Well, yes. I'm afraid the little lambs had to go, too, sometimes."
"How could you? How could you?"
"How could I? Well, you see, I just had to. I couldn't shirk when the
other fellows didn't. In time you get not to mind."
"Not to mind?"
"Well, I never exactly enjoyed doing it."
"No. But you did it. And you didn't mind."
She saw him steeped in butcheries, in the blood of little lambs, and her
tender heart revolted against him. She tried to persuade herself that it
was the lambs she minded most; but it was the pig she minded. There was
something so low about killing a pig. It seemed to mark him.
And it was marked, stained abominably, that he went from her presence. He
said to himself: "I've dished myself now with my silly jabber. Damn those
lambs!"
Young Arthur Gatty, winged by some divine intuition, called at the Laurels
the next afternoon. The gods were good to young Arthur, they breathed upon
him the spirit of refinement and an indestructible gentleness that day.
There was no jarring note in him. He rang all golden to Aggie's testing
touch.
When he had gone a great calm settled upon her. It was all so simple now.
Nobody was left but Arthur Gatty. She had just got to make up her mind
about _him_--which would take a little time--and then--either she was a
happy married woman or, said Aggie, coyly, a still happier old maid in
Queningford forever.
It was surprising how little the alternative distressed her.