After some years the old people died, both in one winter, very carefully
tended by their adopted son, and very quietly mourned when they were
gone. People who had heard of his roving fancies supposed he would
hasten to sell the property, and go down the river to push his fortunes.
But there was never any sign of such an intention on the part of Will.
On the contrary, he had the inn set on a better footing, and hired a
couple of servants to assist him in carrying it on; and there he settled
down, a kind, talkative, inscrutable young man, six feet three in his
stockings, with an iron constitution and a friendly voice. He soon began
to take rank in the district as a bit of an oddity: it was not much to
be wondered at from the first, for he was always full of notions, and
kept calling the plainest common-sense in question; but what most raised
the report upon him was the odd circumstance of his courtship with the
parson's Marjory.
The parson's Marjory was a lass about nineteen, when Will would be about
thirty; well enough looking, and much better educated than any other
girl in that part of the country, as became her parentage. She held her
head very high, and had already refused several offers of marriage with
a grand air, which had got her hard names among the neighbours. For all
that she was a good girl, and one that would have made any man well
contented.
Will had never seen much of her; for although the church and parsonage
were only two miles from his own door, he was never known to go there
but on Sundays. It chanced, however, that the parsonage fell into
disrepair, and had to be dismantled; and the parson and his daughter
took lodgings for a month or so, on very much reduced terms, at Will's
inn.
Now, what with the inn, and the mill, and the old miller's savings, our
friend was a man of substance; and besides that, he had a name for good
temper and shrewdness, which make a capital portion in marriage; and so
it was currently gossipped, among their ill-wishers, that the parson and
his daughter had not chosen their temporary lodging with their eyes
shut. Will was about the last man in the world to be cajoled or
frightened into marriage. You had only to look into his eyes, limpid and
still like pools of water, and yet with a sort of clear light that
seemed to come from within, and you would understand at once that here
was one who knew his own mind, and would stand to it immovably. Marjory
herself was no weakling by her looks, with strong, steady eyes and a
resolute and quiet bearing. It might be a question whether she was not
Will's match in steadfastness, after all, or which of them would rule
the roast in marriage. But Marjory had never given it a thought, and
accompanied her father with the most unshaken innocence and unconcern.
The season was still so early that Will's customers were few and far
between; but the lilacs were already flowering, and the weather was so
mild that the party took dinner under the trellice, with the noise of
the river in their ears and the woods ringing about them with the songs
of birds. Will soon began to take a particular pleasure in these
dinners. The parson was rather a dull companion, with a habit of dozing
at table; but nothing rude or cruel ever fell from his lips. And as for
the parson's daughter, she suited her surroundings with the best grace
imaginable; and whatever she said seemed so pat and pretty that Will
conceived a great idea of her talents. He could see her face, as she
leaned forward, against a background of rising pinewoods; her eyes shone
peaceably; the light lay around her hair like a kerchief; something that
was hardly a smile rippled her pale cheeks, and Will could not contain
himself from gazing on her in an agreeable dismay. She looked, even in
her quietest moments, so complete in herself, and so quick with life
down to her finger tips and the very skirts of her dress, that the
remainder of created things became no more than a blot by comparison;
and if Will glanced away from her to her surroundings, the trees looked
inanimate and senseless, the clouds hung in heaven like dead things,
and even the mountain tops were disenchanted. The whole valley could not
compare in looks with this one girl.
Will was always observant in the society of his fellow-creatures; but
his observation became almost painfully eager in the case of Marjory. He
listened to all she uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for
the unspoken commentary. Many kind, simple, and sincere speeches found
an echo in his heart. He became conscious of a soul beautifully poised
upon itself, nothing doubting, nothing desiring, clothed in peace. It
was not possible to separate her thoughts from her appearance. The turn
of her wrist, the still sound of her voice, the light in her eyes, the
lines of her body, fell in tune with her grave and gentle words, like
the accompaniment that sustains and harmonizes the voice of the singer.
Her influence was one thing, not to be divided or discussed, only to be
felt with gratitude and joy. To Will, her presence recalled something of
his childhood, and the thought of her took its place in his mind beside
that of dawn, of running water, and of the earliest violets and lilacs.
It is the property of things seen for the first time, or for the first
time after long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp
edge of sense and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise
passes out of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved
face is what renews a man's character from the fountain upwards.
One day after dinner Will took a stroll among the firs; a grave
beatitude possessed him from top to toe, and he kept smiling to himself
and the landscape as he went. The river ran between the stepping-stones
with a pretty wimple; a bird sang loudly in the wood; the hill-tops
looked immeasurably high, and as he glanced at them from time to time
seemed to contemplate his movements with a beneficent but awful
curiosity. His way took him to the eminence which overlooked the plain;
and there he sat down upon a stone, and fell into deep and pleasant
thought. The plain lay abroad with its cities and silver river;
everything was asleep, except a great eddy of birds which kept rising
and falling and going round and round in the blue air. He repeated
Marjory's name aloud, and the sound of it gratified his ear. He shut his
eyes, and her image sprang up before him, quietly luminous and attended
with good thoughts. The river might run for ever; the birds fly higher
and higher till they touched the stars. He saw it was empty bustle after
all; for here, without stirring a foot, waiting patiently in his own
narrow valley, he also had attained the better sunlight.
The next day Will made a sort of declaration across the dinner-table,
while the parson was filling his pipe.
"Miss Marjory," he said, "I never knew any one I liked so well as you. I
am mostly a cold, unkindly sort of man; not from want of heart, but out
of strangeness in my way of thinking; and people seem far away from me.
'Tis as if there were a circle round me, which kept every one out but
you; I can hear the others talking and laughing; but you come quite
close. Maybe, this is disagreeable to you?" he asked.
Marjory made no answer.
"Speak up, girl," said the parson.
"Nay, now," returned Will, "I wouldn't press her, parson. I feel
tongue-tied myself, who am not used to it; and she's a woman, and little
more than a child, when all is said. But for my part, as far as I can
understand what people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they call in
love. I do not wish to be held as committing myself; for I may be wrong;
but that is how I believe things are with me. And if Miss Marjory should
feel any otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake her
head."
Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard.
"How is that, parson?" asked Will.
"The girl must speak," replied the parson, laying down his pipe. "Here's
our neighbour who says he loves you, Madge. Do you love him, ay or no?"
"I think I do," said Marjory, faintly.
"Well then, that's all that could be wished!" cried Will, heartily. And
he took her hand across the table, and held it a moment in both of his
with great satisfaction.
"You must marry," observed the parson, replacing his pipe in his mouth.
"Is that the right thing to do, think you?" demanded Will.
"It is indispensable," said the parson.
"Very well," replied the wooer.
Two or three days passed away with great delight to Will, although a
bystander might scarce have found it out. He continued to take his meals
opposite Marjory, and to talk with her and gaze upon her in her father's
presence; but he made no attempt to see her alone, nor in any other way
changed his conduct towards her from what it had been since the
beginning. Perhaps the girl was a little disappointed, and perhaps not
unjustly; and yet if it had been enough to be always in the thoughts of
another person, and so pervade and alter his whole life, she might have
been thoroughly contented. For she was never out of Will's mind for an
instant. He sat over the stream, and watched the dust of the eddy, and
the poised fish, and straining weeds; he wandered out alone into the
purple even, with all the blackbirds piping round in the wood; he rose
early in the morning, and saw the sky turn from gray to gold, and the
light leap upon the hill-tops; and all the while he kept wondering if he
had never seen such things before, or how it was that they should look
so different now. The sound of his own mill-wheel, or of the wind among
the trees, confounded and charmed his heart. The most enchanting
thoughts presented themselves unbidden in his mind. He was so happy that
he could not sleep at night, and so restless that he could hardly sit
still out of her company. And yet it seemed as if he avoided her rather
than sought her out.
One day, as he was coming home from a ramble, Will found Marjory in the
garden picking flowers, and as he came up with her, slackened his pace
and continued walking by her side.
"You like flowers?" he said.
"Indeed I love them dearly," she replied. "Do you?"
"Why, no," said he, "not so much. They are a very small affair, when all
is done. I can fancy people caring for them greatly, but not doing as
you are just now."
"How?" she asked, pausing and looking up at him.
"Plucking them," said he. "They are a deal better off where they are,
and look a deal prettier, if you go to that."
"I wish to have them for my own," she answered, "to carry them near my
heart, and keep them in my room. They tempt me when they grow here; they
seem to say, 'Come and do something with us,' but once I have cut them
and put them by, the charm is laid, and I can look at them with quite an
easy heart."
"You wish to possess them," replied Will, "in order to think no more
about them. It's a bit like killing the goose with the golden eggs. It's
a bit like what I wished to do when I was a boy. Because I had a fancy
for looking out over the plain, I wished to go down there--where I
couldn't look out over it any longer. Was not that fine reasoning? Dear,
dear, if they only thought of it, all the world would do like me; and
you would let your flowers alone, just as I stay up here in the
mountains." Suddenly he broke off sharp. "By the Lord!" he cried. And
when she asked him what was wrong, he turned the question off, and
walked away into the house with rather a humorous expression of face.
He was silent at table; and after the night had fallen and the stars had
come out overhead, he walked up and down for hours in the courtyard and
garden with an uneven pace. There was still a light in the window of
Marjory's room: one little oblong patch of orange in a world of dark
blue hills and silver starlight. Will's mind ran a great deal on the
window; but his thoughts were not very lover-like. "There she is in her
room," he thought, "and there are the stars overhead:--a blessing upon
both!" Both were good influences in his life; both soothed and braced
him in his profound contentment with the world. And what more should he
desire with either? The fat young man and his councils were so present
to his mind, that he threw back his head, and, putting his hands before
his mouth, shouted aloud to the populous heavens. Whether from the
position of his head or the sudden strain of the exertion, he seemed to
see a momentary shock among the stars, and a diffusion of frosty light
pass from one to another along the sky. At the same instant, a corner of
the blind was lifted up and lowered again at once. He laughed a loud
ho-ho! "One and another!" thought Will. "The stars tremble, and the
blind goes up. Why, before Heaven, what a great magician I must be! Now
if I were only a fool, should not I be in a pretty way?" And he went
off to bed, chuckling to himself: "If I were only a fool!"
The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more in the garden, and
sought her out.
"I have been thinking about getting married," he began abruptly; "and
after having turned it all over, I have made up my mind it's not worth
while."
She turned upon him for a single moment; but his radiant, kindly
appearance would, under the circumstances, have disconcerted an angel,
and she looked down again upon the ground in silence. He could see her
tremble.
"I hope you don't mind," he went on, a little taken aback. "You ought
not. I have turned it all over, and upon my soul there's nothing in it.
We should never be one whit nearer than we are just now, and, if I am a
wise man, nothing like so happy."
"It is unnecessary to go round about with me," she said. "I very well
remember that you refused to commit yourself; and now that I see you
were mistaken, and in reality have never cared for me, I can only feel
sad that I have been so far misled."
"I ask your pardon," said Will stoutly; "you do not understand my
meaning. As to whether I have ever loved you or not, I must leave that
to others. But for one thing, my feeling is not changed; and for
another, you may make it your boast that you have made my whole life and
character something different from what they were. I mean what I say; no
less. I do not think getting married is worth while. I would rather you
went on living with your father, so that I could walk over and see you
once, or maybe twice a week, as people go to church, and then we should
both be all the happier between whiles. That's my notion. But I'll marry
you if you will," he added.
"Do you know that you are insulting me?" she broke out.
"Not I, Marjory," said he; "if there is anything in a clear conscience,
not I. I offer all my heart's best affections; you can take it or want
it, though I suspect it's beyond either your power or mine to change
what has once been done, and set me fancy-free. I'll marry you, if you
like; but I tell you again and again, it's not worth while, and we had
best stay friends. Though I am a quiet man I have noticed a heap of
things in my life. Trust in me, and take things as I propose; or, if you
don't like that, say the word, and I'll marry you out of hand."
There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy,
began to grow angry in consequence.
"It seems you are too proud to say your mind," he said. "Believe me
that's a pity. A clean shrift makes simple living. Can a man be more
downright or honourable to a woman than I have been? I have said my say,
and given you your choice. Do you want me to marry you? or will you take
my friendship, as I think best? or have you had enough of me for good?
Speak out for the dear God's sake! You know your father told you a girl
should speak her mind in these affairs."
She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without a word, walked
rapidly through the garden, and disappeared into the house, leaving Will
in some confusion as to the result. He walked up and down the garden,
whistling softly to himself. Sometimes he stopped and contemplated the
sky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to the tail of the weir and
sat there, looking foolishly in the water. All this dubiety and
perturbation was so foreign to his nature and the life which he had
resolutely chosen for himself, that he began to regret Marjory's
arrival. "After all," he thought, "I was as happy as a man need be. I
could come down here and watch my fishes all day long if I wanted: I was
as settled and contented as my old mill."
Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and quiet; and no sooner
were all three at table than she made her father a speech, with her eyes
fixed upon her plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassment or
distress.
"Father," she began, "Mr. Will and I have been talking things over. We
see that we have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he has
agreed, at my request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more
than my very good friend, as in the past. You see, there is no shadow of
a quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great deal of him in the
future, for his visits will always be welcome in our house. Of course,
father, you will know best, but perhaps we should do better to leave Mr.
Will's house for the present. I believe, after what has passed, we
should hardly be agreeable inmates for some days."
Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty from the first, broke
out upon this into an inarticulate noise, and raised one hand with an
appearance of real dismay, as if he were about to interfere and
contradict. But she checked him at once, looking up at him with a swift
glance and an angry flush upon her cheek.
"You will perhaps have the good grace," she said, "to let me explain
these matters for myself."
Will was put entirely out of countenance by her expression and the ring
of her voice. He held his peace, concluding that there were some things
about this girl beyond his comprehension, in which he was exactly right.
The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to prove that this was
no more than a true lovers' tiff, which would pass off before night; and
when he was dislodged from that position, he went on to argue that where
there was no quarrel there could be no call for a separation; for the
good man liked both his entertainment and his host. It was curious to
see how the girl managed them, saying little all the time, and that very
quietly, and yet twisting them round her finger and insensibly leading
them wherever she would by feminine tact and generalship. It scarcely
seemed to have been her doing--it seemed as if things had merely so
fallen out--that she and her father took their departure that same
afternoon in a farm-cart, and went farther down the valley, to wait,
until their own house was ready for them, in another hamlet. But Will
had been observing closely, and was well aware of her dexterity and
resolution. When he found himself alone he had a great many curious
matters to turn over in his mind. He was very sad and solitary, to begin
with. All the interest had gone out of his life, and he might look up at
the stars as long as he pleased, he somehow failed to find support or
consolation. And then he was in such turmoil of spirit about Marjory. He
had been puzzled and irritated at her behaviour, and yet he could not
keep himself from admiring it. He thought he recognized a fine, perverse
angel in that still soul which he had never hitherto suspected; and
though he saw it was an influence that would fit but ill with his own
life of artificial calm, he could not keep himself from ardently
desiring to possess it. Like a man who has lived among shadows and now
meets the sun, he was both pained and delighted.
As the days went forward he passed from one extreme to another; now
pluming himself on the strength of his determination, now despising his
timid and silly caution. The former was, perhaps, the true thought of
his heart, and represented the regular tenor of the man's reflections;
but the latter burst forth from time to time with an unruly violence,
and then he would forget all consideration, and go up and down his house
and garden or walk among the firwoods like one who is beside himself
with remorse. To equable, steady-minded Will this state of matters was
intolerable; and he determined, at whatever cost, to bring it to an end.
So, one warm summer afternoon he put on his best clothes, took a thorn
switch in his hand, and set out down the valley by the river. As soon as
he had taken his determination, he had regained at a bound his customary
peace of heart, and he enjoyed the bright weather and the variety of the
scene without any admixture of alarm or unpleasant eagerness. It was
nearly the same to him how the matter turned out. If she accepted him he
would have to marry her this time, which perhaps was all for the best.
If she refused him, he would have done his utmost, and might follow his
own way in the future with an untroubled conscience. He hoped, on the
whole, she would refuse him; and then, again, as he saw the brown roof
which sheltered her, peeping through some willows at an angle of the
stream, he was half inclined to reverse the wish, and more than half
ashamed of himself for this infirmity of purpose.
Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her hand without
affectation or delay.
"I have been thinking about this marriage," he began.
"So have I," she answered. "And I respect you more and more for a very
wise man. You understood me better than I understood myself; and I am
now quite certain that things are all for the best as they are."
"At the same time----" ventured Will.
"You must be tired," she interrupted. "Take a seat and let me fetch you
a glass of wine. The afternoon is so warm; and I wish you not to be
displeased with your visit. You must come quite often; once a week, if
you can spare the time; I am always so glad to see my friends."
"O, very well," thought Will to himself. "It appears I was right after
all." And he paid a very agreeable visit, walked home again in capital
spirits, and gave himself no further concern about the matter.
For nearly three years Will and Marjory continued on these terms, seeing
each other once or twice a week without any word of love between them;
and for all that time I believe Will was nearly as happy as a man can
be. He rather stinted himself the pleasure of seeing her; and he would
often walk half-way over to the parsonage, and then back again, as if to
whet his appetite. Indeed there was one corner of the road, whence he
could see the church-spire wedged into a crevice of the valley between
sloping fir woods, with a triangular snatch of plain by way of
background, which he greatly affected as a place to sit and moralize in
before returning homewards; and the peasants got so much into the habit
of finding him there in the twilight that they gave it the name of "Will
o' the Mill's Corner."
At the end of the three years Marjory played him a sad trick by suddenly
marrying somebody else. Will kept his countenance bravely, and merely
remarked that, for as little as he knew of women, he had acted very
prudently in not marrying her himself three years before. She plainly
knew very little of her own mind, and, in spite of a deceptive manner,
was as fickle and flighty as the rest of them. He had to congratulate
himself on an escape, he said, and would take a high opinion of his own
wisdom in consequence. But at heart, he was reasonably displeased, moped
a good deal for a month or two, and fell away in flesh, to the
astonishment of his serving-lads.
It was perhaps a year after this marriage that Will was awakened late
one night by the sound of a horse galloping on the road, followed by
precipitate knocking at the inn-door. He opened his window and saw a
farm servant, mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, who told
him to make what haste he could and go along with him; for Marjory was
dying, and had sent urgently to fetch him to her bedside. Will was no
horseman, and made so little speed upon the way that the poor young wife
was very near her end before he arrived. But they had some minutes' talk
in private, and he was present and wept very bitterly while she breathed
her last.