HARRY JOSCELYN.
VOL. I.
HARRY JOSCELYN.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT
AUTHOR OF
“The Chronicles of Carlingford,”
&c., &c.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1881.
_All rights reserved._
HARRY JOSCELYN.
CHAPTER I.
THE WHITE HOUSE.
“Mother, I wish you would not make such a fuss. It is only Harry
quarrelling with father; I am sure you ought to be used to that by this
time. It is just as sure to happen when they get together as that night
will come after day.”
“I never can be used to it if I should live a hundred years,” said the
mother thus addressed. She was walking up and down a long low room,
wringing her hands as she walked, her brow contracted with anxiety and
alarm. Her daughter sat tranquilly knitting, following her with eyes
full of calm disapproval as her figure crossed the glow of the
firelight, and went and came into the gloom on either side. The
occasional sound of their low voices, the faint rustle of the elder
woman’s movements, the crackle of the fire burning brightly, with now
and then a small explosion and sudden blaze, were all the sounds that
broke the quiet here; and this made all the more apparent a growl of
deep-voiced talk in an adjoining room, with now and then a high word,
almost audible, quite comprehensible in its excited tone. Father and son
were in the dining-room, mother and daughter were in the parlour, a
pleasant division one might have thought. Outside the wind was blowing
down the valley with a force which might have suggested storm in other
localities, but was natural and ordinary here. It was April, but
scarcely spring as yet in the north country. “As the day lengthens the
cold strengthens,” is the rule under the Shap Fells. Joan Joscelyn, the
elder daughter of the house, was seated near the fire with her knitting.
She was quite still save for the twinkle of her knitting needles, which
caught the firelight, and her eyes, with which she watched her mother
without turning her head. Her shadow upon the drawn curtains behind her
was as still as though cut out of paper. She was not very young nor had
she any traces of beauty in the somewhat worn and very fixed and steady
lines of her face. Her dark hair was very smooth, her dress very neat,
everything about her orderly and calm. A slight look of restrained
impatience in her eyes, impatience mingled with disapproval, and that
sort of faint contempt which children so often feel for their parents,
was the only sign which the calm daughter of a nervous mother gave of
her feelings. “I wish you would not make such a fuss, you ought to be
used to it by this time,” was written all over her, and perhaps there
was in her aspect something of that conscientious superiority felt by
Mrs. Hardcastle in the play when she said, “See me, how calm I am;” but
all subdued by the natural spectatorship of her position. What could
_she_ do one way or another? Then why should she excite herself for
nothing? This was Joan’s sensible conclusion--and why her mother could
not adopt it too was a thing she could not understand.
Mrs. Joscelyn was a pale woman of a very different aspect. She was,
people thought at the first glance, not so old as her daughter,
notwithstanding the advantage which a calm temperament is supposed to
have over an excitable one. But it is not always true that the sensitive
and self-tormenting grow old sooner than their more tranquil companions.
Joan had never been young at all, so to speak. Her mother was young
still in the freshness of a mind which would not be controlled by
experience, which trusted every new promise and embraced every new hope,
and was as bitterly disappointed by every failure of her hopes as if she
had never known a disappointment before. How many pangs this temperament
brought to her it would be impossible to reckon; but it kept a sentiment
of youth about her, a sense of living such as her daughter in her best
days never knew. Both of them however agreed in believing that this
temperament was a curse and not a blessing; the daughter with heartfelt
astonishment at the power which her mother possessed of tormenting
herself--if indeed it were not a fictitious torture which she rather
liked than otherwise, as Joan sometimes imagined with instinctive
contempt; while the mother as often sighed, Oh, that she could take
things as quietly, give up making a fuss, bear her troubles with the
same calm as Joan. But neither could the one bring herself to the level
of the other, nor either understand the different conditions which made
similar action impossible. Joan for her part followed Mrs. Joscelyn’s
restless movements with a wonder which she could never get over. What
good could it do? Why couldn’t she sit down and get her work, and occupy
herself? Even, Joan thought, it would be better to get a book and read
(though that was a waste of time) and “take her mind off,” the thing
that so troubled her. “Of course it was a pity that father and Harry
should quarrel; but then, bless me,” Joan said to herself, “boys so
often quarrel with their fathers. Why should there be more fuss made
about it here than anywhere else?” She was knitting a long worsted
stocking which hung down from her hands like a big grey bag; now and
then she gave it a momentary look, to see that the ribs were right and
the “seam” kept straight; but for the most part did not look at it at
all, but watched her mother while the needles twinkled in the firelight
and the big stocking leg turned round in her hands with an occasional
jerk.
Meanwhile Mrs. Joscelyn walked up and down wringing her hands. The room
was not very light. There were two candles on the table; but it was the
brilliant glow of the fire which lit up the space in front, throwing a
ruddy reflection even into the darkness of the corners. She paced all
the length of the room, crossing periodically the bar of brighter light.
She was rather tall, but stooped, her shoulders coming together with the
ceaseless movement of her hands. Harry had put his hand into hers and
vowed to her that he would avoid all subjects of quarrel, that he would
give to his father the soft answer that turns away wrath. But, alas! he
must have broken his word. It was not the first time nor the thirtieth
time; but she felt astonished and disappointed as if up to that moment
all promises had been kept to her. She was one who could not get used to
suffering. It was as intolerable to her after so many years of it, so
many pangs, as if she had lived the life of a spoilt child up to that
moment and never known what contradiction was. The sound of the voices
in the next room seemed to pierce into her heart. When they rose louder
than usual she would give a low cry. Sometimes she stood still for a
moment to hear the better, sometimes she spoke half to Joan, half to
herself.
“I think I must go in--I must go in, I can’t let them go on like this.
What if they were to lift their hands to each other, father and son, oh!
father and son,” and then she made a sudden impulsive step towards the
door; but paused again with a convulsive pressure together of her worn
hands.
“Let them alone mother,” said Joan, “what good could you do? Only turn
both of them upon yourself.”
“I know, I know,” moaned the poor lady. Then she stopped in the middle
of the light. “Oh!” she said, raising her arms with a gesture which
would have been theatrical had it not been so real, “oh! what have I
done, what have I done that I can never have peace in my house?”
Joan never took her eyes from this moving figure, but the long grey
stocking jerked and turned round in her hands, and the needles twinkled
without intermission.
“You expect too much,” she said; “bless me! there’s quarrels in all
houses, and lads go wrong, and all sorts of things happen. Girls too,
which is worse. We should be thankful nothing of that kind has happened
to us. If Will and Tom have been a little wild in their time they’ve
settled down; and I’ve always behaved myself. You have a deal to be
thankful for, mother. As for sons at home when the father is a hale man
like father, they’re always quarrelling. What young fellows want is
their own way. Father’s too young to manage Harry, he’s too strong and
likely, just as good a man as any of them. That’s my opinion; so are you
a deal too young. Bless me, you’re not a bit older than I am. If I
wasn’t so steady I shouldn’t like it, I’d rather have an old wife that
would give in to me and admire me, whatever I did--”
Joan continued the monologue with a little curve at one corner of her
mouth which did duty for a smile. It was not much more than a soliloquy,
if truth were told. She knew very well her mother was not listening and
did not hear her. Mrs. Joscelyn had re-commenced the walk with which she
was trying to subdue her restlessness. And now the voices grew louder
than ever. There was a long volley of sounds, in the deepest tone, a
sort of discharge of musketry, vituperation rounded off with a large
mouth-filling oath or two; then a louder noise like the pushing back of
chairs, one of which was thrown down with a heavy crash on the floor.
Even Joan started at this noise, and her mother rushed trembling to the
door. But before she could open it the door of the next room was thrown
violently against the wall, and some one plunged out, rushing across the
hall and flinging forth at the outer door. Another volley from the deep
voice accompanied this hasty retreat. The mother turned, and hurrying
across the room to the window, disappeared behind the drawn curtain that
covered it. She opened the shutter as softly and quickly as her
trembling would permit, and looking out watched the owner of the hasty
steps disappearing, with a clang of the garden gate, in the faint wintry
moonlight, which made the landscape beyond look like a white mist. She
stood and watched him, shaking her head with a low moan.
“Now he is away to the village,” she said piteously, “oh, my poor lad!
the ‘Red Lion,’ that’s all the fireside my Harry will get. Oh, good
Lord, good Lord! and me here breaking my heart; and neither sleep nor
rest will I get this night till I hear my boy come home. But it is not
his fault, it’s not his fault; and what is to be the end of it?” the
poor lady cried.
Joan, though she was so tranquil, was not unsympathetic. She made a
little remonstrative sound with her tongue in unison with the clicking
of her needles.
“Bless me! dear me! but he’ll take no harm at the ‘Red Lion;’ don’t
always be thinking the worst, and making things out more dreadful than
they are,” she said.
Mrs. Joscelyn emerged from the heavy dark-hued curtains with a sigh, but
yet there was a certain softening in her face. Her anxiety was changed,
at least, if not relieved. She came and stood in front of the fire,
holding up a thin shapely foot to the red glow.
“I am so cold,” she said, with a nervous shiver.
“That’s because you will fret so, mother, and make such a deal of
everything,” Joan said.
Mrs. Joscelyn made no answer to this reproach.
“My feet are like lumps of lead,” she said. “It’s more like December
than April. I think I will never be warm again.”
A little sympathetic moisture softened Joan’s steady eyes. She felt
towards her mother as she might have felt to a tiresome but amiable
child, impatient of her vagaries, yet sorry for the useless trouble and
pain the poor thing gave herself.
“It’s all the fretting,” she said, “it’s not the weather. Sit down here
by the fire and I’ll get you a shawl. Bless me! there’s father coming
in.”
Mrs. Joscelvn retreated hastily from the fireside, and sat down by the
table, where the candles were shining steadily upon a heap of linen to
mend. She took up something hurriedly without appearing to notice what
it was, and began to work, or to put on an appearance of working. It
seemed at first a false alarm, but, after a minute or two of uncertain
movement outside, the door opened and a tall and strong man came in.
There was a great arm-chair standing by the side of the fire, which
evidently, as soon as he appeared, proclaimed itself to be waiting for
him, his harsh and big domestic throne; a hard, broad, uncompromising
piece of furniture, with its two great wooden elbows thrust out. He
stood for a moment at the door, looking round the room--perhaps to see
whether his son had taken refuge there, perhaps only to find out any
lurking offence. Ralph Joscelyn was a man whose habit it was to look
out for offence meant or possible. He inspected the downcast faces of
the women, for even Joan now, after one momentary glance at him, turned
her eyes upon her knitting--and the bright space before the fire, and
all the darker corners round. Then his keen eye caught the ruffled
curtain, and the slight whiteness behind of the moonlight showing
through the shutter, which his wife had left half open. She had meant to
go back when the rest of the house was quiet, and watch noiseless at
that window till her son came back, and probably her husband divined
this. He walked straight to the window, pushing the curtains aside, and
with much demonstration closed the shutters, and with a heavy tug
brought the curtains together again.
“There’s no order in this house, nor ever was,” he said, in a strong
North country accent. Then he crossed the room again and threw himself
into the big chair. The house was solidly built, and the parlour was on
the ground floor; nevertheless, his step made the floor jar and creak as
if it had found loose boards under the carpet, and shook the room as
though it had been in a slim villa. The big chair creaked too as he
threw himself into it. All other sounds had ceased as by magic, even the
click of Joan’s needles, which only occurred at long intervals, though
she worked on with more devotion than ever. Even the coals made no
further explosions, sent out no little gay jets of gas, but burned
soberly, stolidly under the master’s eye. Mrs. Joscelyn, in her
agitation, was less silent. Her elbow knocked against the table, her
needle stumbled and broke in her work, her reels of thread fell down and
rolled about the carpet. All this the master contemplated with his keen
spectator-eyes. He had altogether changed the character of the scene.
The two very distinctly marked individuals, so unlike in nature, though
so closely bound together, who had put forth unawares each her own phase
of life in the household quiet, were now cowed into a sort of composed
and alarmed opposition, dumbly resistant, making common cause together;
typical women merely, not individuals at all. The typical domestic
tyrant who had worked this change looked round him with a glance in
which contempt for them and a kind of pleasure in their subjugation were
mingled with resentment against them for the distrust and sudden silence
which he knew his appearance had produced. He crossed his long legs
half way across the hearth, thrusting up his heavy boot almost in his
daughter’s face. Many men do this who mean no particular harm, but
Joscelyn did mean harm, and did not care who knew it. In a moment the
room had become full of him, and of his oppressive shadow. He took away
and devoured, drawing into his capacious gullet, the very air they
breathed.
“You are a nice cheerful lot for a man to come in to,” he said; “a nice
pleasant home you make for me, with that click-clack. I don’t wonder,
not I, that men turn out to the ale-house, though I’ve got to punish ’em
for it now and again. No, I don’t wonder, not a bit. A couple of
white-faced women filling up his rooms, taking the heat out of his fire
and the light out of his lamp for their confounded stockings and
rubbish--when there isn’t an old woman in the dale but could do them a
sight better and save all that pretence.”
Joan upon this raised her eyes. She was not timid, though she avoided
strife.
“You don’t mind, then, about the light and the fire of other men,” she
said, “if we were to give your stockings to other women to knit for
you. But you’re none so fond of spending your money even for the yarn,
let alone the knitting. You’re a heavy man upon your feet, and wear out
a deal of heels and toes. Some one’s bound to knit them for you. If you
like better to pay, I don’t mind, you may make sure of that.”
“You!” cried her father, “a piece of stale goods that can’t find a
market; who cares for you? You should have been the plague of some other
house these ten years, and not sucking the life out of mine, and setting
up your face before your betters. _She_ don’t make any observations; and
whatever else she is, she’s my wife, and has some right to speak.”
Joan’s brown eyes gave out a flash. She was no longer cowed.
“I have had a good lesson,” she said. “I can see how nice it is to be
your wife, father, and I don’t want to try it on my own account.”
“Oh, hush! hush! Joan,” the mother said, her hands coming together once
more.
“_You_ don’t want to try!” said Joscelyn. “Who’s given you a chance?
that’s what I’d like to know. If I had my own way I’d clear you all out
of this house. I’d have no useless women here. When a man gets sense he
knows what a fool he’s been, burdening himself with a wife and
children--a wife that gets old and ugly, and a set of children that defy
him under his own roof. Good Lord! think of me, a man in my prime, with
a middle-aged woman like that saying father to me! when I might have had
my fling, and been a gay young fellow with the best of them. There’s
your son too, madam, just gone out of here shaking his fist in my face;
and if I knock him down there will be a great hulabooloo got up because
he’s my son. Son! what’s a son? or daughter either? A rebellious scamp
that will neither do anything for himself nor do what you tell him to
do. By the Lord Harry! when I think what a snug comfortable life I might
have been living here with nothing to trouble me. And now I can’t
stretch my legs under my own mahogany but there’s a brat of a boy to
contradict me, or come into my own parlour but there’s a brat of a
girl---- no, by Jove no,” he added, with a coarse laugh, “there I’m
going too far; not a girl, or anything like it--an old maid. That’s what
a man makes by marrying young, like a fool, as I was.”
While he thus discharged his volleys on both sides, the women relapsed
into absolute silence. Mrs. Joscelyn was too much afraid to interfere,
while Joan shrugged her shoulders, with the philosophy that was natural
to her. What does it matter to me what he says? she said to herself; I
didn’t choose him for a father, and she expressed her indifference as a
Frenchwoman might have done by that shrug of her shoulders. He was
allowed to talk on without any reply; and if there is one thing more
exasperating than another to a violent temper, it is the silence of the
natural antagonists who ought to furnish it with the means of prolonging
its utterances. He thought, like all other bad-tempered men, that this
was done “a’ purpose,” and his passion rose higher.
“Women,” he said, snarling, with a furious fear that he was not really
touching them to the quick, as he intended, “women! that are supposed to
clean up a house and make it pleasant! a deuced deal of that we ever see
here. Train up lads in rebellion, and in thinking themselves wiser than
them that’s before them, that’s what you can do. And sit about in the
warmest corners and clog up the whole space, so that a man can’t move
for them--that’s women! And eat of the best like fighting-cocks, and
dress themselves up like peacocks, that’s all they think of. By Jove!
I’d make a clean sweep of them out of this house if I had my way.”
“Then you’d better have your way,” said Joan; “sweep as much as you
please. Mother, will you mind what I tell you, and not make a fuss? I
hope I’m worth my salt wherever I go: and he knows well enough I’m the
best servant he has in the house, and work for no wages, and stand
bullying like ne’er another. What do I care for that rubbish? Come along
upstairs with me, and let him have his room to himself and his fire to
himself. He should have his house to himself if it were not for you; but
for mercy’s sake don’t you make a fuss, and clasp your hands like that.
Come along upstairs with me, and let him talk.”
“Joan! Joan!” the mother whispered. “Joan! who will there be to let
Harry in if you take me away? It’s too early yet,” she said faltering,
aloud. “I’ve got the things to put away. I’ve got--many little things to
do. I haven’t half finished my mending. Your father’s put out, he does
not mean it. It’s too early yet to go to bed.”
“Then I’ll stay and let Harry in,” said Joan, aloud, scorning the
whisper. “Go you and rest, you look more dead than alive. You may trust
Harry to me.”
Then the master of the house, sitting in his chair with his legs
stretched out in front of the fire, poured forth another volley of
oaths.
“We’ll just see if you let Harry in,” he cried. “Harry, confound him!
let him stay out, as he’s gone out. I’ll have none of his dissipations
here, nor your conniving neither, you fools. Here, get off with you as
you said. I’ll lock up your things, madam. I’ll take care of your keys,
I’ll see the house shut up. It’s my business, and it’s my house, not
yours. You’ll be cleverer than I take you for if either one or the other
of you let that confounded young scapegrace in here this night.”
“Oh, Joan! Joan! hold your peace! do not make things worse,” cried Mrs.
Joscelyn, wringing her thin hands.
Joan stood confronting her father, looking him full in the face. She was
of a short and full figure, shapely enough, but without a trace in it
of her mother’s grace. She kept on knitting in the very midst of the
controversy, standing between the fire and the table.
“It will have to come to a crisis one time or another. As well this
night as another night,” she said.