SUO SIBI BACULO.
In April, when the sunny buds were showing forth their little frills;
and birds, that love to hop sideways and try the toleration of the
sprays that they are picking at, were almost too busy to chirp, and
hung as happily as possible upside down, shaking the flutter of young
green lace; while at the same time (for it is a season of great
coincidence) pigs reared aloft little corkscrew tails, and scorning
their nose-rings, employed them as thimbles for making a punch in the
broidery of turf; also when--if the above is not enough--ducks and
geese, and cocks and hens, and even the dogs (who regard green grass
as an emetic mainly) were all, without knowing it, beginning to wag
themselves as they walked or waddled, and to shine in the sun, and to
look very large in their own eyes and those of their consorts; neither
was there any man who could ride a horse, without knowing how--unless
he first had starved him;--at this young jump of the year and of life,
Grace Oglander wanted to go for a walk.
She had not by any means been buried in the haunted quarry; neither
had she as yet required burial in any place. On the contrary, here she
walked more blooming and lovely than even her custom was; and the
spring sun glistening upon the gold letters of her tombstone at
Beckley, ordered by her good Aunt Fermitage--the same sun (without any
strain of his eyes at all likely to turn him to a Strabo) was
pleasantly making and taking light in the fluctuations of her growing
hair.
Her bright hair (which had been so cruelly cropped) instead of being
the worse for the process, was waving and glowing again in vast
multiplicity of vigour; like a specimen golden geranium shorn to
double the number of its facets; and the blue in the spring of her
eyes was enough to dissatisfy the sun with his own sky. However, he
showed no discontent, but filled the young wood with cheerful rays,
and the open glades with merriment, and even the sombre heart of
labouring man with streaks of liveliness. For here were comforts that
come in, without the eye considering them; and pleasures, which when
thought of fly; and delicate delights, that have no idea of being
delightful.
Hereupon the proper thing is for something very harsh to break in, and
discomfit all the wandering vision of earthly happiness. But the
proper thing, in the present instance, showed its propriety by
absence. Nothing broke the flow of sunshine and the eddy of soft
shade! unless it were a little ruffle of the south wind seeking leaves
before they were quite ready; or the rustle of a rabbit, anxious about
his family; or the flutter of a bird, uncertain where to stand and
sing his best.
Grace (without a thought of what her own thoughts were or whether she
had any mind for thinking) rambled on, as a school-girl does when the
hours of school are over. Every single fall or rise of nature's work
was kind to her, and led her into various veins of inductive
unphilosophy. The packing and storing of last year's leaves, as if
exceeding precious, gathered together by the wind and land in some
rich rustling corner; the fitting of these into one another (for fear
of losing one of them) wonderfully compact, as if with the hammer of a
gold-beater, or the unknown implement wherewith a hen packs up her
hatched egg-shells; the stiff upstanding of fine young stuff, hazel,
ash, and so on, tapering straight as a fishing-rod, and knobbing out
on either side with scarcely controllable bulges; over, and above, and
throughout all, and sensible of their largeness, the spreading
quietude of great trees, just breathing their buds on the air again,
but not in a hurry (as in young days) to rush into perils of
leafiness--pleased with all these proofs of soft revival and tender
movement, the fair maid almost forgot her own depression and
perplexities.
When howling winter was put to the rout and banished underground; and
the weather, perhaps, might be hoped to behave as decently as an
English spring, most skittish of seasons, should order it; and the
blue ray of growth (which predominates then, according to the
spectroscopists) was pouring encouragement on things green; how was a
girl in her own spring yet, to strive against all such influence?
At any rate Grace made no attempt to do anything of the kind; but
wandered at her own sweet will, within the limits of her own parole.
She knew that she was in seclusion here, by her father's command, for
her own good; and much as she yearned, from time to time, to be at
home, with all the many things she was so fond of, she was such a
dutiful child, and so loving, that she put her own wishes by, and
smiled and sighed, instead of pouting. It could not be very long now,
she was sure, until her father should come home, and call for her, as
he had promised, and take her once more to beloved Beckley, after this
mournful exile.
Full as she was of all these thoughts, and heeding her own ways but
little, so long as she kept within the outer ring of fence allowed to
her, she fell into a little stupid fright, as she called it
afterwards; for which there was no one but herself to blame. Only
yesterday that good Miss Patch (her governess and sweet guardian) had
particularly begged her to be careful; because the times were now so
bad that lawless people went everywhere. Miss Patch herself had heard
several noises she could not at all account for; and while she
considered it quite a duty to trace up everything to its proper
source, and absolutely confide in Providence, whose instrumentality is
to be traced by all the poor instruments seeking it, still there are
times when it cannot be done; and then the right thing is to keep
within sight or call of a highly respectable man.
This was exactly what Grace might have done, and would have done, but
for the tempting day; for a truly respectable man had been near her,
when first she began her little walk; a man whom she had beheld more
than once, but always at a little distance; a tall stout man,
according to her distant ideas of him, always busy in a quiet way, and
almost grudging the time to touch his broad-flapped hat without
lifting his head, when he saw her in the woodland. Grace had never
asked him who he was, nor been within talking distance of him; at
which she was almost surprised, when she thought how glad, as a rule,
are all Oxfordshire workmen to have a good excuse for leaving off.
However, she was far beyond him now, when she met another man who
frightened her.
This was a fellow of dark complexion, dressed in a dirty fustian suit,
and bearing on his shoulder a thick hedge-stake, from which hung a
number of rabbit-skins. His character might be excellent; but his
appearance did not recommend him to the confidence of the public.
Grace shrank aside, but his quick eyes had spied her; and, indeed, she
almost feared from his manner, that he had been on the watch for her.
So she put the best face on it, and tried to pass him, without showing
any misgivings.
But the rabbit-man was not to be thus defrauded of his right to good
society. With a quick sharp turn he cast off the skins from his staff,
and stretched that slimy implement across the way with one hand; while
he held forth the other caressingly, and performed a pretty little
caper.
"Allow me to pass, if you please," said Grace, attempting to look very
resolute; "these are our grounds. You are trespassing."
"Now, my purty young lady," said the rabbit-man, coming so close that
she could not fly, "you wouldn't be too hard, would you now? I sees a
great many young maids about--but Lor' there, what be they to compare
with you!"
"I am sure that you do not mean any harm," replied Grace, though with
much inward doubt: "nobody ever does any harm to me; but every one is
so kind to me. My father is so good to all who get into any trouble. I
am not worth robbing, Mr. Rabbit-man; honest as you are, no doubt. But
I think that I can find a shilling, for you to take home to your
family."
"Now, Missy, sweet Missy, when once I seen you, how could I think of a
shilling--or two? You was coming out herefor to kiss me, I know; the
same as I dreamed about last night. Lor' bless them bootiful eyes and
lips, the most massionary man as ever was a'most, would sooner have a
kiss, than a crown, of 'em!"
"You insolent fellow! how dare you speak to me in this manner? Do you
know who I am? Do you know who my father is?"
"No, Missy; but I dessay a thunderin' beak, as have sent me to prison;
and now I have got you in prison too. No comin' out, wi'out paying of
your fine, my dear." The dirty scamp, with an appreciative grin, laid
hold of poor Grace's trembling hand, and drew her towards him; while
she tried vainly to shriek, for her voice had forsaken her--when
bodily down went the rabbit-man, felled by a most inconsiderate blow.
He dropped so suddenly, that he fetched poor Grace to her knees, by
his violent grasp of her; and when he let go, she could not get up for
a moment, because her head went round. Then two strong hands were put
into hers; and she rose, and faced a young gentleman.
In her confusion, and sense of vile indignity, she did the natural
thing. She staggered away to a tree, and spread both hands before her
eyes, and burst forth sobbing, as if her heart would break. Instead of
approaching to comfort her, the young man applied himself first to
revenge. He espied on the path the stick of the prostrate rabbit-man,
and laid hold of it. Then, striving to keep his conscience clear, and
by no means hit a man on the ground, he seized the poor dealer in fur
by the neck, and propped him well up in a sapling fork. Having him
thus well situated for penal operations, without any question of
jurisdiction, or even of the merits of the case, he proceeded to
exhaust the utility of the stick, by breaking it over its owner's
back. The calm wood echoed with the sound of wooden thumps, and the
young buds trembled at the activity of a stick.
"Lor' a' mussy, a' mussy!" cried the rabbit-man. "You be gooin'
outside of the bargain, sir!"
"Oh, don't!--oh, please don't!" Grace exclaimed, running forth from
her retirement. "I dare say he did not know any better. He may have
had a little too much beer. Poor fellow, he has had quite enough! Oh,
stop, do stop, for my sake!"
"For nothing else--in the world--would I stop," said the youth, who
was breathless with hitting so hard, and still looking yearningly at
the stick, now splintered by so much exercise; "but if you beg him
off, he gets off, of course--though he has not had half enough of it.
You vile black rascal, will you ever look at a young lady in your life
again?"
"Oh, no, so--oh, no, sir--so help me--" cried the rabbit-man, rubbing
himself all over. "Do 'ee let me whisper a word to you."
"If I see your filthy sneaking face two seconds more, I'll take a new
stick to you, and a much tougher one. Out of my sight with your
carrion!"
Black George, with amazement and fury, gazed at the stern and
threatening countenance. Then seeing the elbow beginning to lift, he
hobbled, as fast as his bruises allowed, to his bundle of skins in the
brushwood. Then with a whimper and snivel he passed the broken staff,
now thrown at him, through his savoury burden, and with exaggerated
limps departed.
"See if I don't show this to your governor," he muttered, as he turned
back and scowled, when out of sight and hearing; "I never were took in
so over a job, in all my life afore, were I! One bull for a hiding
like that!" he grumbled, as he pulled out a sovereign, and looked at
it. "Five bull would hardly cover it. Why, the young cove can't a'
been told nort about it. A scurvy joke--a very scurvy joke. I ain't
got a bone in me as don't ache!"
Leaving him thus to pursue his departure, young Christopher Sharp,
with great self-content at the good luck of this exploit, turned
towards Grace, who was trembling and blushing; and he trembled and
blushed in his turn at her.
"I am so sorry I have frightened you," he said in the most submissive
way; "I have done you more harm than good, I fear. I should have known
better. But for the moment, I really could not command myself. I hope
you will not despise me for it."
"Despise you! Can I ever thank you? But I am not fit to do anything
now. I think I had better go home if you please. I am not likely to be
annoyed again. And there is a good man in a field half-way."
"To be sure, you know best," the young man answered, cooling into
disappointment. "Still, I may follow at a distance, mayn't I? The
weather looks quite as if it would be dark. And at this time of year,
scarcely anybody knows. There seem to be tramps almost everywhere. But
I am sure I do not wish to press myself. I can go on with the business
that brought me here. I am searching for the true old wind-flower."
"Oh, are you?" said Grace; "how exceedingly lucky! I can show you
exactly where to find it; if only you could manage to come to-morrow."
"To-morrow? Let me see--to-morrow! Yes, I believe I have no
engagements. But will you not be afraid--I mean--after that
blackguard's behaviour to-day? Not, of course, that he should be
thought of twice--but still--oh, I never can express myself."
"I understand every word you would say," the young lady answered
decisively; "and I never mean to wander so far again. Still, when I
know that you are botanising; or rather, I mean when a gentleman is
near--but I also can never express myself. You never must come--oh, I
mean--good-bye! But I feel that you ought to be careful, because that
bad man may lie in wait for you."