“Very glad to see him,” said Patience, with a bold clear voice; and then
the conversation was again dropped, and nothing further was said till
after Captain Broughton’s second arrival in the parish.
Four months had then passed since his departure, and during that time
Miss Woolsworthy had performed all her usual daily duties in their
accustomed course. No one could discover that she had been less careful
in her household matters than had been her wont, less willing to go
among her poor neighbours, or less assiduous in her attentions to her
father. But not the less was there a feeling in the minds of those
around her that some great change had come upon her. She would sit
during the long summer evenings on a certain spot outside the parsonage
orchard, at the top of a small sloping field in which their solitary cow
was always pastured, with a book on her knees before her, but rarely
reading. There she would sit, with the beautiful view down to the
winding river below her, watching the setting sun, and thinking,
thinking, thinking--thinking of something of which she had never spoken.
Often would Miss Le Smyrger come upon her there, and sometimes would
pass by her even without a word; but never--never once did she dare to
ask her of the matter of her thoughts. But she knew the matter well
enough. No confession was necessary to inform her that Patience
Woolsworthy was in love with John Broughton--ay, in love, to the full
and entire loss of her whole heart.
On one evening she was so sitting till the July sun had fallen and
hidden himself for the night, when her father came upon her as he
returned from one of his rambles on the moor. “Patty,” he said, “you are
always sitting there now. Is it not late? Will you not be cold?”
“No, papa,” said she, “I shall not be cold.”
“But won’t you come to the house? I miss you when you come in so late
that there’s no time to say a word before we go to bed.”
She got up and followed him into the parsonage, and when they were in
the sitting-room together, and the door was closed, she came up to him
and kissed him. “Papa,” she said, “would it make you very unhappy if I
were to leave you?”
“Leave me!” he said, startled by the serious and almost solemn tone of
her voice. “Do you mean for always?”
“If I were to marry, papa?”
“Oh, marry! No; that would not make me unhappy. It would make me very
happy, Patty, to see you married to a man you would love--very, very
happy; though my days would be desolate without you.”
“That is it, papa. What would you do if I went from you?”
“What would it matter, Patty? I should be free, at any rate, from a load
which often presses heavy on me now. What will you do when I shall leave
you? A few more years and all will be over with me. But who is it, love?
Has anybody said anything to you?”
“It was only an idea, papa. I don’t often think of such a thing; but I
did think of it then.” And so the subject was allowed to pass by. This
had happened before the day of the second arrival had been absolutely
fixed and made known to Miss Woolsworthy.
And then that second arrival took place. The reader may have understood
from the words with which Miss Le Smyrger authorised her nephew to make
his second visit to Oxney Combe that Miss Woolsworthy’s passion was not
altogether unauthorised. Captain Broughton had been told that he was not
to come unless he came with a certain purpose; and having been so told,
he still persisted in coming. There can be no doubt but that he well
understood the purport to which his aunt alluded. “I shall assuredly
come,” he had said. And true to his word, he was now there.
Patience knew exactly the hour at which he must arrive at the station at
Newton Abbot, and the time also which it would take to travel over those
twelve uphill miles from the station to Oxney. It need hardly be said
that she paid no visit to Miss Le Smyrger’s house on that afternoon;
but she might have known something of Captain Broughton’s approach
without going thither. His road to the Combe passed by the
parsonage-gate, and had Patience sat even at her bedroom window she must
have seen him. But on such a morning she would not sit at her bedroom
window--she would do nothing which would force her to accuse herself of
a restless longing for her lover’s coming. It was for him to seek her.
If he chose to do so, he knew the way to the parsonage.
Miss Le Smyrger--good, dear, honest, hearty Miss Le Smyrger, was in a
fever of anxiety on behalf of her friend. It was not that she wished her
nephew to marry Patience--or rather that she had entertained any such
wish when he first came among them. She was not given to match-making,
and moreover thought, or had thought within herself, that they of Oxney
Colne could do very well without any admixture from Eaton Square. Her
plan of life had been that, when old Mr. Woolsworthy was taken away from
Dartmoor, Patience should live with her; and that when she also shuffled
off her coil, then Patience Woolsworthy should be the maiden mistress of
Oxney Combe--of Oxney Combe and Mr. Cloysey’s farm--to the utter
detriment of all the Broughtons. Such had been her plan before nephew
John had come among them--a plan not to be spoken of till the coming of
that dark day which should make Patience an orphan. But now her nephew
had been there, and all was to be altered. Miss Le Smyrger’s plan would
have provided a companion for her old age; but that had not been her
chief object. She had thought more of Patience than of herself, and now
it seemed that a prospect of a higher happiness was opening for her
friend.
“John,” she said, as soon as the first greetings were over, “do you
remember the last words that I said to you before you went away?” Now,
for myself, I much admire Miss Le Smyrger’s heartiness, but I do not
think much of her discretion. It would have been better, perhaps, had
she allowed things to take their course.
“I can’t say that I do,” said the Captain. At the same time the Captain
did remember very well what those last words had been.
“I am so glad to see you, so delighted to see you, if--if--if--,” and
then she paused, for with all her courage she hardly dared to ask her
nephew whether he had come there with the express purpose of asking Miss
Woolsworthy to marry him.
To tell the truth, for there is no room for mystery within the limits
of this short story,--to tell, I say, at a word the plain and simple
truth, Captain Broughton had already asked that question. On the day
before he left Oxney Colne, he had in set terms proposed to the parson’s
daughter, and indeed the words, the hot and frequent words, which
previously to that had fallen like sweetest honey into the ears of
Patience Woolsworthy, had made it imperative on him to do so. When a man
in such a place as that has talked to a girl of love day after day, must
not he talk of it to some definite purpose on the day on which he leaves
her? Or if he do not, must he not submit to be regarded as false,
selfish, and almost fraudulent? Captain Broughton, however, had asked
the question honestly and truly. He had done so honestly and truly, but
in words, or, perhaps, simply with a tone, that had hardly sufficed to
satisfy the proud spirit of the girl he loved. She by that time had
confessed to herself that she loved him with all her heart; but she had
made no such confession to him. To him she had spoken no word, granted
no favour, that any lover might rightfully regard as a token of love
returned. She had listened to him as he spoke, and bade him keep such
sayings for the drawing-rooms of his fashionable friends. Then he had
spoken out and had asked for that hand,--not, perhaps, as a suitor
tremulous with hope,--but as a rich man who knows that he can command
that which he desires to purchase.
“You should think more of this,” she had said to him at last. “If you
would really have me for your wife, it will not be much to you to return
here again when time for thinking of it shall have passed by.” With
these words she had dismissed him, and now he had again come back to
Oxney Colne. But still she would not place herself at the window to look
for him, nor dress herself in other than her simple morning country
dress, nor omit one item of her daily work. If he wished to take her at
all, he should wish to take her as she really was, in her plain country
life, but he should take her also with full observance of all those
privileges which maidens are allowed to claim from their lovers. He
should contract no ceremonious observance because she was the daughter
of a poor country parson who would come to him without a shilling,
whereas he stood high in the world’s books. He had asked her to give him
all that she had, and that all she was ready to give, without stint. But
the gift must be valued before it could be given or received. He also
was to give her as much, and she would accept it as beyond all price.
But she would not allow that that which was offered to her was in any
degree the more precious because of his outward worldly standing.
She would not pretend to herself that she thought he would come to her
that day, and therefore she busied herself in the kitchen and about the
house, giving directions to her two maids as though the afternoon would
pass as all other days did pass in that household. They usually dined at
four, and she rarely in these summer months went far from the house
before that hour. At four precisely she sat down with her father, and
then said that she was going up as far as Helpholme after dinner.
Helpholme was a solitary farmhouse in another parish, on the border of
the moor, and Mr. Woolsworthy asked her whether he should accompany her.
“Do, papa,” she said, “if you are not too tired.” And yet she had
thought how probable it might be that she should meet John Broughton on
her walk. And so it was arranged; but just as dinner was over, Mr.
Woolsworthy remembered himself. “Gracious me,” he said, “how my memory
is going. Gribbles, from Ivybridge, and old John Poulter, from Bovey,
are coming to meet here by appointment. You can’t put Helpholme off till
to-morrow?”
Patience, however, never put off anything, and therefore at six o’clock,
when her father had finished his slender modicum of toddy, she tied on
her hat and went on her walk. She started with a quick step, and left no
word to say by which route she would go. As she passed up along the
little lane which led towards Oxney Combe, she would not even look to
see if he was coming towards her; and when she left the road, passing
over a stone stile into a little path which ran first through the upland
fields, and then across the moor ground towards Helpholme, she did not
look back once, or listen for his coming step.
She paid her visit, remaining upwards of an hour with the old bedridden
mother of the tenant of Helpholme. “God bless you, my darling!” said the
old woman as she left her; “and send you some one to make your own path
bright and happy through the world.” These words were still ringing in
her ears with all their significance as she saw John Broughton waiting
for her at the first stile which she had to pass after leaving the
farmer’s haggard.
“Patty,” he said, as he took her hand, and held it close within both his
own, “what a chase I have had after you!”
“And who asked you, Captain Broughton?” she answered, smiling. “If the
journey was too much for your poor London strength, could you not have
waited till to-morrow morning, when you would have found me at the
parsonage?” But she did not draw her hand away from him, or in any way
pretend that he had not a right to accost her as a lover.
“No, I could not wait. I am more eager to see those I love than you seem
to be.”
“How do you know whom I love, or how eager I might be to see them? There
is an old woman there whom I love, and I have thought nothing of this
walk with the object of seeing her.” And now, slowly drawing her hand
away from him, she pointed to the farmhouse which she had left.
“Patty,” he said, after a minute’s pause, during which she had looked
full into his face with all the force of her bright eyes; “I have come
from London to-day, straight down here to Oxney, and from my aunt’s
house close upon your footsteps after you, to ask you that one
question--Do you love me?”
“What a Hercules!” she said, again laughing. “Do you really mean that
you left London only this morning? Why, you must have been five hours in
a railway carriage and two in a postchaise, not to talk of the walk
afterwards. You ought to take more care of yourself, Captain Broughton!”
He would have been angry with her--for he did not like to be
quizzed--had she not put her hand on his arm as she spoke, and the
softness of her touch had redeemed the offence of her words.
“All that I have done,” said he, “that I may hear one word from you.”
“That any word of mine should have such potency! But let us walk on, or
my father will take us for some of the standing stones of the moor. How
have you found your aunt? If you only knew the cares that have sat on
her dear shoulders for the last week past, in order that your high
mightiness might have a sufficiency to eat and drink in these desolate
half-starved regions!”
“She might have saved herself such anxiety. No one can care less for
such things than I do.”
“And yet I think I have heard you boast of the cook of your club.” And
then again there was silence for a minute or two.
“Patty,” said he, stopping again in the path; “answer my question. I
have a right to demand an answer. Do you love me?”
“And what if I do? What if I have been so silly as to allow your
perfections to be too many for my weak heart? What then, Captain
Broughton?”
“It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.”
“Perhaps not, indeed,” she said. It seemed as though she were resolved
not to yield an inch in her own humour. And then again they walked on.
“Patty,” he said once more, “I shall get an answer from you
to-night,--this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall return
to-morrow, and never revisit this spot again.”
“Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?”
“Very well,” he said; “up to the end of this walk I can bear it
all;--and one word spoken then will mend it all.”
During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him. She
knew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly kill
her to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with an
ecstacy of joy. She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof of
his devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover.
And yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed to
hear. That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb to
her love for ever! That word once said, and there would be nothing for
her but to spoil him with her idolatry! That word once said, and she
must continue to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tired
of hearing it! And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak
after that? She certainly would not speak it unless he asked her again
without such threat. And so they walked on in silence.
“Patty,” he said at last. “By the heavens above us you shall answer me.
Do you love me?”
She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face.
She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands
on his shoulders, she answered him. “I do, I do, I do,” she said, “with
all my heart; with all my heart--with all my heart and strength.” And
then her head fell upon his breast.
* * * * *
Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the
warmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl
whom he now held within his arms. She had said it now; the words had
been spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and
over again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true--true as
her soul. And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage
gate. He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of
his day’s journey. But he stopped her at every turn that he might press
her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of
her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no more gibes now
on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on
his coming and going. With downright honesty she told him everything:
how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion;
how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to
take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should
return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of
her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he
would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old
friend had told her that he was coming.
“And yet,” said he, “you were not glad to see me!”
“Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who
has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt.
But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledge
that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seen
you till to-morrow.” But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this
caress gave the lie to her last words.
“No, do not come in to-night,” she said, when she reached the little
wicket that led up to the parsonage. “Indeed, you shall not. I could not
behave myself properly if you did.”
“But I don’t want you to behave properly.”
“Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain
Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper to-night.”
“Surely I may shake hands with your father.”
“Not to-night--not till---- John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tell
him at once.”
“Certainly,” said he.
“And then you shall see him to-morrow. Let me see--at what hour shall I
bid you come?”
“To breakfast.”
“No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey
and the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.”
“I hate cold pie.”
“What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after
breakfast. Come down--come down at two, or three; and then I will go
back with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her to-morrow;” and so at
last the matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was
hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.
When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there
still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon
lore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till
they should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and
Poulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that Patience
Woolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing
herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes
good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when
things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good.
“Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at
the door. “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would
say if I were to leave you?”
“Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.
“I am going to leave you now,” she said. “Dear, dearest father, how am I
to go from you?”
“Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and
thinking of nothing else.
Now, there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old lady
there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme
pastures. But though owner in fee of all those wild acres, and of the
cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around
him, either in manners or education. He had his merits, however; for he
was honest, well-to-do in the world, and modest withal. How strong love
had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience
and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come
another love--or an ambition which might have grown to love. The young
man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but
he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger. If there could be any hope for
him, he would present himself as a suitor--on trial. He did not owe a
shilling in the world, and had money by him--saved. He wouldn’t ask the
parson for a shilling of fortune. Such had been the tenor of his
message, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully, “He does not
mean it,” Patience had said with her stern voice “Indeed he does, my
dear. You may be sure he is in earnest,” Miss Le Smyrger had replied;
“and there is not an honester man in these parts.”
“Tell him,” said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of her
friend’s last speech, “that it cannot be--make him understand, you
know--and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.”
The matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the young
farmer still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted a mistress.
But all this came back upon the parson’s mind when his daughter told him
that she was about to leave him.
“Yes, dearest,” she said; and as she spoke she now knelt at his knees.
“I have been, asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.”
“Well, my love, if you will be happy----”
“I hope I shall; I think I shall. But you, papa?”
“You will not be far from us.”
“Oh, yes; in London.”
“In London?”
“Captain Broughton lives in London generally.”
“And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?”
“Yes, papa--who else? Is he not good? Will you not love him? Oh, papa,
do not say that I am wrong to love him?”
He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had not
thought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great man
should have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embraced
her, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy,
and would be happy in her happiness. “My own Patty,” he said, “I have
ever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.” And then
the evening wore away into the night, with many tears, but still with
much happiness.
Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Combe, made up his mind
that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next
morning. He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if
possible, by himself. He had taken a step in life, the most important
that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or
no he had taken it with wisdom.
“Have you seen her?” said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he came
into the drawing-room.
“Miss Woolsworthy you mean,” said he. “Yes, I’ve seen her. As I found
her out, I took a long walk, and happened to meet her. Do you know,
aunt, I think I’ll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have
been on the move ever since.”
Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, so
she handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room.
But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor when he
did so was he able to sleep at once. Had this step that he had taken
been a wise one? He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowed
things to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men.
He had formed views for himself, and had a theory of life. Money for
money’s sake he had declared to himself to be bad. Money, as a
concomitant to things which were in themselves good, he had declared to
himself to be good also. That concomitant in this affair of his
marriage, he had now missed. Well; he had made up his mind to that, and
would put up with the loss. He had means of living of his own, the means
not so extensive as might have been desirable. That it would be well for
him to become a married man, looking merely to the state of life as
opposed to his present state, he had fully resolved. On that point,
therefore, there was nothing to repent. That Patty Woolsworthy was good,
affectionate, clever, and beautiful, he was sufficiently satisfied. It
would be odd indeed if he were not so satisfied now, seeing that for the
last four months he had so declared to himself daily with many inward
asseverations. And yet though he repeated, now again, that he was
satisfied, I do not think that he was so fully satisfied of it as he had
been throughout the whole of those four months. It is sad to say so, but
I fear--I fear that such was the case. When you have your plaything, how
much of the anticipated pleasure vanishes, especially if it be won
easily.