The folk at Chidhurst village and at the outlying farms talked a good
deal when they heard that Mrs. Barton was going to be married to Gerald
Vincent--for somehow it soon came to be known. He was a stranger, and
nearly eight years her junior; they had discovered this, and one or two
other things concerning him, that he had two hundred pounds a year, and
did no work save writing--writing books, perhaps, which was not work at
all, but the sort of thing that people did when they had nothing else to
do. And then he never went to church or chapel. It was a strange and
awful thing to them to see in the living flesh, to have as a neighbor,
even though they saw but little of him, some one who was certainly going
to be damned hereafter. They were sorry for him in a way; for he was
good-looking, and when occasion offered gave his money freely; moreover,
they felt sure that his people had been above the common. So they tried
to make things a little pleasant to him in this world by showing him
politeness and extra consideration; but the fact of what was in store
for him could not be doubted.
When the Petersfield relations heard the news they thought it their
bounden duty to promptly take the train to Haslemere, and then to commit
the untold extravagance of hiring a fly to carry them to Woodside Farm.
They would have told their daughter-in-law to send the brown cart to
meet them; but they hoped by not giving notice of their coming to catch
the unbeliever in his iniquity. They had a vague idea that he was horned
and carried a pitchfork; and they would not have been surprised at
finding a faint odor of brimstone about the place. They looked sharply
round on arriving, and were disappointed at not seeing him; then they
made the best of the situation by at once sitting down in the
living-room and arguing with Mrs. Barton. In ten minutes at most they
hoped to make her see the folly of her position, and that it would not
only be flying in the face of Providence, which had always made her
comfortable in this world, but a disrespect to James Barton, dead and
gone to the next, if she married a man not good enough to lie in the
family grave if it pleased the Lord to take him also.
"But one of the things I like him for," she said, "is that he is a good
deal younger than I am, so most likely it's he that will have the
burying to do this time--it'll save me a world of trouble."
This was a point of view they had not considered, and were unprepared to
argue, so they tried a fresh one. There was Hannah. Had she remembered
that Hannah would have to live in the same house with him, too? Oh yes;
and after being used to a man about the place at Petersfield, she
thought it would be so good for Hannah to feel there was one over her at
Woodside Farm--an indirect compliment that somewhat pacified old Mr.
Barton. Moreover he was touched with the respect with which his
daughter-in-law listened to all he had to say, and the sincerity in her
voice when she regretted that Mr. Vincent had walked over to Lynchmere
and would not be back till past tea-time. She was sure he would have
liked to meet James's relations; but perhaps they would be able to stay
till he returned?
"When he comes," said Mrs. Barton the elder, "I hope you will see that
it is your duty to give him up, especially after the trouble that we
have taken in coming over. We should like to hear you tell him so before
we leave."
But the younger woman was quite calm and collected, and tried to change
the subject. "Won't you sit a little nearer to the fire, father?" she
asked the old man; "it's a rough road from Haslemere, and you must be
tired with your drive. You should have come in time for dinner; you will
have to be starting so soon after you have done your tea."
"We didn't come over for meals, Annie, but on more important business,"
he answered.
Mrs. Barton went to the oak chest and took out a fresh damask
tablecloth and put it on the table. Then she stood up beside it, as she
had done on the first day that Gerald Vincent came to the farm.
"I don't want to show you any want of respect," she said, firmly; "but
it's no good saying anything about Mr. Vincent, for I am going to marry
him, and his religion makes no difference. He has given up a great deal
because he would not make a pretence; he has thought about things, and
read and studied, and if he thinks they are not true he has a right to
say it. I think God will respect a man who says out honestly what he
feels. There are some who haven't courage to do it, and I know this--I'd
rather have his chance in the next world than the chance of many a man
who lifts his voice in Petersfield chapel at prayer-meeting on Sunday
nights. If he doesn't get to heaven because he has faith, why, he'll get
there because he's honest."
"And what do you think James would say?" asked old Mrs. Barton.
"James knew it would be hard for me to manage alone. I'll be proud to
stand up and tell him how Mr. Vincent came and took care of me after I
was left--he'll be glad enough."
"Not when it's an unbeliever, Annie--"
"A man that's honest and speaks the truth, even though it makes people
turn against him, mother."
The old people began to feel uncomfortable. Tears or excitement they
could have done with, but this quiet determination was more difficult to
fight.
"Have you thought of the example for Hannah?" they asked, harking back
to what they felt to be a strong point in their favor.
"I have thought of everything," she said, lifting her calm eyes. "He'll
not interfere with Hannah; she'll be allowed to go to Petersfield
whenever you want her, and she'll go to church just the same; and so
shall I." She turned to old Mrs. Barton and went on: "Hannah is James's
child, and she'll be brought up as James's people wish. She is a girl
that will have a will of her own--she has got it already, and it will
grow. There is no occasion to be anxious about her."
"And what's to become of the farm?"
"The farm will stand where it is. I shall deal fairly by it for Hannah,
if that's what you are thinking of."
Then the old man came to the rescue. "God will not have mercy on you
hereafter, Annie, if you marry this unbeliever."
"Father, I will trust God to deal fairly by me. He'll not do less than
man." She paused a moment and then went on: "You mustn't think I haven't
thought it over, for I have. We must all work out our salvation for
ourselves, and if we start from different points, and if Mr. Vincent
has chosen a different road that we don't go along ourselves, why, I
think the end will be the same for us all who try to do our best. It
would be shaking one's confidence in God to think different. But you'll
be wanting your tea, and it will be better than arguing about a man you
don't understand, and one that I am going to marry, say what you will."
"I never thought you'd be so obstinate, Annie," Mrs. Barton said.
But nothing moved the mistress of Woodside Farm, and the old people felt
their visit to be a mistake. They had not gained their point by coming;
on the contrary, they were going away beaten, and they didn't like the
position. They even began to cherish a latent hope that Mr. Vincent
would not return before they left, lest they should come off second best
in argument with him too. Meanwhile, they made a large and mournful meal
with the air of folk at a funeral feast, for they felt that it might be
the last time they would sit round the big oak table. Luckily the tea
was strong and the cream thick. Towsey's scones were admirable, the
strawberries in the jam were whole, and the poached eggs and ham done to
a turn. Then the fly was brought to the door, a reproachful farewell
taken of Mrs. Barton, and the disconsolate pair drove away towards
Haslemere station.
Gerald Vincent and Mrs. Barton were married a month later. Outwardly it
made little difference in their relations. The best parlor was still his
own retreat, and his books and papers were scattered about with a happy
confidence that no hands but his own would touch them. In the evening he
generally sat in the living-place with his wife; he liked its gauntness,
the big fireplace, the old oak table, the comfortable chairs, and the
heavy door that in the summer-time stood wide open and let in, from the
Dutch garden beyond the porch, the scent of flowers, the stir of leaves,
and the rustling sound from the tall trees behind. In the winter there
was the crackle of the beech logs, the flickering of the candles in the
double candlesticks with japanned shades, and the long, deep shadows on
the walls. It was all old-world-like and peaceful. He wondered that he
had ever endured the hurry and noise of towns. In the first year he used
to read to his wife--Scott and Kingsley and other authors that he
thought might interest her. She was always appreciative, and from her
pure-hearted outlook even gave some criticism that was worth hearing,
though she never became cultured in any sense. But simple though she
remained, Gerald Vincent was never ashamed of her, and she never bored
him. He felt that daily life, or such portion of it as he spent with
her, was to his soul pretty much what a cool bath was to his body.
After a time there was Margaret, a babe with blue eyes and little double
fists, and then, seeing that the child took up much of its mother's time
and thought, he drew back into the isolation of the best parlor without
fear of being thought neglectful.
The Petersfield relations kept Hannah with them till she was sixteen.
Then, since she had left school, and her hair, that always looked scanty
on the temples, was done up into a knot behind, and one of her eye-teeth
had decayed, they thought it well to send her back to the farm. But old
Mr. Barton had not talked to her in vain, and she went home with a
smothered resentment in her heart that had a touch of horror in it
towards the stranger, and a shrinking she could never overcome towards
his child. She kept herself well in hand, it is true, and, except that
he could never get behind her reserve and somewhat snappy manner, she
and Mr. Vincent got on pretty well together, seeing that they inhabited
the same house. She developed into a thrifty young woman with a distinct
capacity for that state of life in which she found herself, and with
dissent so strong within her that, within a month of her going back to
Woodside Farm for good, she had begun secretly to store such little sums
as she could honestly consider her own in order some day to build a
chapel at Chidhurst. Meanwhile, she contented herself with the somewhat
dreary service at the little church on the hill.
To Mrs. Vincent the years after her marriage were the happiest of her
life. She gave her husband a quiet, self-contained worship that
expressed itself in many creature comforts, for which, from sheer
blindness, he was never sufficiently grateful. But he knew that he was
the whole world to her, and, as time went on, this knowledge was not
untouched with dismay at finding that sometimes he wanted more
intellectual sympathy than she was able to give him. But she never
guessed this, and after her little Margaret was born it seemed sometimes
as if only tears would prevent her joy from being more than she could
bear.
It was during these years that Hannah saw her opportunity, and little by
little managed to govern her mother and every one on the farm with the
exception of Mr. Vincent. Even Margaret was made to feel that Hannah was
mistress of the situation, and the putting on of a best frock or the
arranging of a little holiday could not be done peacefully without
asking her consent.