"O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?"
Longfellow.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr Tregennas's answer to the Vicar's letter was a little unsatisfactory
and perplexing. Answer, indeed, it could hardly be called, since it
touched upon no subject which Mr Miles had introduced, but it contained
an unexpected invitation for himself and Anthony to start at once, and
pass a few days at Trenance.
Probably at no other time within the last ten years would such an
invitation have been treated by the Vicar with more consideration than a
hasty reply in the negative, and a speedy forgetfulness that it had been
given. A man who has all his life hated change, and that uprooting of
habit which even the absence of a day will effect, becomes at last a
positive slave to the feeling. Nothing could be more distasteful to Mr
Miles than the prospect of leaving behind him his familiar every-day
life, of having the trouble of accommodating himself to new forms, and
of moving, in feet, out of a world in which instinct had grown to serve
him almost as well as the deliberate exercise of will. When, added to
this, arose a consideration of Mr Tregennas and his uncongenial
society, it was perhaps natural that on ordinary occasions he should
have thrown aside the letter without so much as giving its contents a
second thought.
But now there was a change. Ever since Marion's appeal in the study, a
close observer might have traced an almost wistful uneasiness in her
father, would have noticed that his eyes followed her, that his voice
was modulated into unusual gentleness in addressing her, and that once
or twice in a discussion with Anthony he had sided with her, taking her
part, indeed, with a sharpness which seemed uncalled for. His heart
smote him for the blindness which, after all, had caused little or no
mischief. But we are all inclined to suppose that we might have averted
evil had we only seen it coming. It seemed to him as if his girl's
determination were something against which he should have watched and
prayed. Not that he had any cause of complaint to make him object to
Marmaduke personally as her husband, but that his poverty and present
position held out no prospect of marriage, and he keenly felt what the
bitterness of a long waiting would be to her. It made him long to do
something that should atone for his failure of care. He called Marion
into the study, put the letter into her hand, and waited silently.
"Of course you will accept, papa," Marion said, looking up. "To-morrow
will be a very good day."
"He says nothing of Marmaduke," Mr Miles observed slowly.
"But it means that he will listen to you."
"I suppose I must," said the Vicar, looking round his room with a sigh.
"But I don't know about to-morrow. Anthony may not be able to start so
soon."
"Anthony! Why should he go?" said Marion, in a tone of dissatisfaction.
"We are asked together; I could not go without him."
No more was said, and it may have been that the greatness of the
sacrifice he was about to make in some measure appeared to the Vicar to
compensate for his mistakes, for he did not attempt to disguise his
misery at the prospect before him, and Marion breathed more freely when
she saw him seated with Anthony in the little pony-carriage, of which
James and a portmanteau shared the back seat. Even when they had
started, her anxiety was not ended, for twice, to Sniffs extreme
disgust, the fat pony came tugging round the corner again, once to leave
a message for a farmer, and once to say that Tom Lear must wait to be
married until the Vicar's return. At last they were fairly off. The
children ran out to courtesy; the women speculated as to the meaning of
the portmanteau.
"Mr Anthony's gwoin' agaen," said old Araunah, shaking his head.
"Thyur's a dale of comin' and gwoin' nowadays. Us used to think twice
afore us car'd ower legs dree or fowter miles out o' t' pleace, us did,
and 'twarn't wi'out there wor a good rason for't, a peg to sell, or a
bet o' sense like that. But thyur's a dale of comin' and gwoin'
nowadays."
"I shall never believe they are gone until they are back again, I am
sure," said Mrs Miles, coming into the porch with tearful eyes. "It is
three years since the Vicar slept out of the house, and that was to
preach, and it does seem so unnatural he should have left his sermon
book behind him. But there is really one good thing about it, and that
is that we can have the kitchen chimney swept quite comfortably. Marion
my dear, you'll not mind cold--"
But Marion had escaped. She wanted some vent for the excitement which
was apt to rise even to the verge of pain in its passionate impetuosity.
The little shrubbery path was as oppressive to her as the four walls of
the house, and almost mechanically she opened the gate and crossed the
road towards the Hardlands meadows.
The Squire and Bessie were just starting for a ride when Marion reached
the house, and Winifred was with them at the door, indulging the pony
and the roan cob with lumps of sugar. Bessie was a pretty bright-eyed
girl of sixteen, a good deal spoilt by her father, whose special pride
it was that she displayed a keener talent for housekeeping than Winifred
had ever developed, and who, in consequence, aided and abetted her
attempts to gain the upper hand in that department. The Squire was in
high good-humour over the result of his hay-making, and it was not
lessened by the triumph with which he compared his own success with the
less favourable crop secured on the Vicar's glebe.
"Good morning, Marion, good morning," he began in his loud hearty voice,
"what does your father say now to my waiting a good fortnight after my
neighbours? Tell him to come up and have a look at the ricks, if he's
not convinced yet. I suppose he was wanting to jump with Master
Anthony's theories, eh? He'll lead you all a pretty dance yet, if you
don't look out."
"That's a shame, papa," said Bessie, promptly, "for Anthony was not at
home when they cut their hay at the Vicarage."
"I don't know, I don't know, I'm sure. Anthony has a finger in every
pie that I can see. Where's he off now? Who's this old Tregennas?
Well, Bessie, you and I had better be jogging, or Winifred's fine cook
will be spoiling the luncheon, and swearing it's our fault."
With Marion's feverish longing for the open air, she would not allow
Winifred to go into the house, but insisted upon her walking to the end
of the garden and crossing one of the newly mown fields, which led up to
a crowning circle of firs commanding the widest view in the
neighbourhood. There she poured out a torrent of hopes and fears, all
Marmaduke's wrongs, and all she had determined Mr Tregennas should do.
It struck Winifred at times as a little strange that Marion could speak
so readily of things which her own instinct, more delicate and more
proud, would have guarded like a treasure in a casket, but she put the
thought aside. Marion was lying on the grass, rolling the short blades
into balls, while Winifred sat up and looked straight before her over
the gently sloping fields, the apple orchards, Underham with its white
houses and black wharves, the river winding and broadening between red
wooded banks, until it lost itself in a distant dimly glimmering sea.
All the colours blended into each other with a sweet fair freshness.
There was just that subtile charm of warmth which brings life, not
languor. Sounds reached them, softened, but vigorous. Vessels were
discernible in the river, coming up with spread sails before the breeze,
and timber or coal on board for those same black wharves. It might have
been a blank to Marion, whose mind was too self-absorbed to be affected
by the outer world, but Winifred was at all times open to these external
influences, and they contrasted strangely with Marion's impetuous
complaints of misery.
"If I could be only at Trenance!" she ended.
"Dear Marion, Anthony will be there,--he will do his best. Old Mr
Tregennas is sure to like him."
"Anthony!" said Marion, with a hard little laugh. "Anthony will fell
into one of his fevers. He will find the estate at sixes and sevens,
and imagine it to be his mission to set it to rights. Besides, it is
Marmaduke, not Anthony, whom it is of consequence that Mr Tregennas
should like."
Winifred hardly knew what to say. Her sympathies were so active that a
strongly expressed idea such as Marion's was apt to carry her away, even
in spite of her better judgment, and yet her mind was healthfully
constituted, and repelled by what was morbid or strained. Surely there
was no such absence of hope in Marmaduke's lot that it should be
bewailed as unbearable. Surely Mr Miles had painfully uprooted
himself, and Anthony agreed to a distasteful journey for his sake. And
meanwhile the sun was shining, and the larks singing, and a sea-breeze
sweeping along the water up to the fir-crowned height. She must have
sung, too, if it had not been for the risk of hurting Marion's feelings.
As it was, her foot was beating on the short grass, and her eyes danced
in spite of all her efforts to feel concerned.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Marion discontentedly.
"Of what we shall wear as your bridesmaids. If you don't let me choose
for myself, I will never forgive you."
"How silly you are! If things go on as they are going now, I shall be
too old to have any bridesmaids at all, by the time we are married."
"Well, I don't know how things could go much faster, but I believe you
would like to be married in a whirlwind. Now, it seems to me it would
have been quite dreadful if you had not had these little hitches and
impediments. Why should you be different from other people?"
"I hope you will have them yourself, and then you will know they are not
so agreeable."
"But I did not say they were agreeable," said Winifred, her voice taking
a changed tone. "Only that they are such small things in comparison--"
"In comparison with what? I don't understand,--I don't think you
understand yourself," Marion exclaimed impatiently.
"O yes, I do," Winifred said confidently, but without further
explanation. Marion was not the person to whom she could have breathed
a word of the little visions that trooped up softly as she spoke,--
innocent womanly visions, coming and going with a tender grace. She
only looked out towards the shining streak of sea and smiled.
Somebody opened the gate at the bottom of the field, waved his hat, and
began to clamber lazily towards the two girls,--a big man, with long
limbs and high shoulders. Winifred jumped up with a little relief when
she saw him, and nodded and beckoned at once as if he needed to be shown
where they were.
"How did you find us, Frank?" she called out.
"Parker told me you were somewhere about. Women always give themselves
so much trouble before they can do anything comfortable, that I knew I
should find you at the highest point of the place."
He came straggling up, and stretched himself on the grass with an air of
contentment. The lark had finished its song, and dropped silently into
the grass; the wind was freshening, blowing back Winifred's hair, and
stirring her face into colour;--everything was full of delicious, strong
beauty. Winifred looked down at her cousin and smiled, perhaps at the
sight of his brown, good-tempered eyes.
"Now that you are come, you shall tell us what you have been doing," she
said, not sorry to lead Marion's thoughts away from the road of
unavailing regrets.
"Doing? I have been walking through the mud. That is what you all do
here always, isn't it? I met an old woman who told me a great deal more
about cider than I ever knew before, and a man--O, by the way, Winifred,
that is what I wanted to ask you--who is a short man, rather deformed,
with a powerful face, and strong religious opinions?"
"It must have been David Stephens, Anthony's bugbear," said Winifred.
Other people's bugbears often strike one curiously in an opposite light.
Frank repeated the word a little wonderingly.
"He is a dissenter," said Marion, beginning to listen. "He actually
wanted to build a chapel in Thorpe, and had almost got that stupid old
Maddox to let him have the field by the church. Luckily Anthony found
it out, and stopped it. I dare say he hates him for it."
"Poor fellow!" said Frank kindly, while Marion stared at him. "One can
soon see he is a dissenter. There is nothing very original in his
opinions, either, so far as they go: he has got hold of the usual
distortion of facts. But it was the intensity of the man's convictions
which impressed me. In these days it is something even to be a
fanatic."
"Every one says he is a most mischievous agitator," persisted Marion,
eagerly. "We are quite unhappy because our maid--Faith Stokes--has
allowed herself to be engaged to him. Her father is gardener at the Red
House. All her family dislike it."
"She will stick to him," asserted Captain Orde. "He is the very man to
get a hold over a woman. Unless he himself gives her up. If I don't
mistake him, he would neither let his own happiness nor another person's
stand in the way of what he imagined to be his work,--perhaps not even
his own conscience."
"How could you talk to him?" Marion said reproachfully. "He must be
very unsafe."
"Unsafe? Unsafe as a powder-train. But I don't know that it is
altogether his fault. He has been cramped and goaded and sat upon, and
no one has taken the trouble to do anything but run counter to his
opinions."
"Because they are so wrong."
"Not altogether wrong. They may get mixed up with no end of mistakes,
but there are some which seem to me a little beyond our improving. He
believes he may help some poor men and women up towards God," said
Captain Orde, speaking with tender reverence. "There is that, at all
events."
Winifred, who had been listening silently, turned round quickly and
clasped her hands.
"O yes, we cannot judge him," she said earnestly, "when we have never
tried to do anything for him! I am so glad you have told us, Frank."
All her feelings had been stirred and touched somehow that morning. We
cannot explain how it is that very often this is so when there seems no
particular reason for it, it may be a chance word that awakens a chain
of ideas, or reaches springs which are sealed at other times when we
take more trouble to get at them. The happy sunshine about her, the
thoughts which had grown into life, quickened Winifreds sympathies into
generous glow. Frank was looking at her, at the flush on her cheek, the
eager kindness of her eyes, with a strange thrill in his heart that his
words should have so moved her. He could have very easily forgotten
David Stephens, if Marion had not said coldly,--
"Anthony will not be much obliged to you, Winifred."
"O, Anthony will understand!" said Winifred, speaking with quick
conviction. "It was natural that he should be annoyed about the chapel.
That is another thing. But if Frank convinces him that the poor fellow
is in earnest, Anthony will respect him, however much they may differ.
I am sure he will try to help him."
Frank Orde did not say any more. His eyes had an odd, wistful look in
them, as if some discord had suddenly jarred; but Winifred was quite
blind to the look. Perhaps this very want of self-consciousness, which
dulled the perception of things that touched herself, was one secret of
her power of influence. People who forget themselves seldom fail to
impress others.