His Home
All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
SHAKESPEARE.
"Jossy, I think we have ridden far enough. I don't know this part of
the country."
"But that's the fun of it. Oh, do come on. Let us have a tiny little
gallop, and then we'll turn back."
Betty and Jossy were riding out together, and had come to the edge of
a wild bit of common or moorland that seemed to stretch away almost to
the horizon without a break. The turf under their horses' feet was soft
and springy. Jossy's pony threw his head up and snorted with delight at
the prospect in front of him, but Betty demurred.
"It seems rather boggy, Jossy. Look at the rushes over there."
"We won't go near the rushes. Oh, Aunt Betty, come on; we'll have a
glorious charge against fifty thousand rebel Roundheads, and we'll be
two princely Royalists! One, two, three, away! Charge!"
He galloped off, his fair curls flying in the breeze, and Betty,
casting prudence to the wind, followed him recklessly. It was a short,
wild gallop, for suddenly, without any warning, Jossy's pony plunged,
and sank up to his saddle girth in deep black bog. The boy screamed,—
"Turn back, Aunt Betty! Don't come near me!"
But Betty's one idea was to reach him. The pony was making frantic
struggles to extricate himself, but seemed to be sinking deeper in
consequence. Betty fortunately found a bit of firm ground.
"Leave your pony and jump over here, Jossy!"
"I can't leave him. He'll drown; it's all water here!"
Another terrific struggle; the pony succeeded in freeing himself, and
landed on Betty's bit of dry turf. But his poor little master was
unhorsed in the effort, and fell head foremost into the bog. Betty
sprang off her horse in a second, and pulled him out, though she sank
up to her waist in doing so. Gasping and spluttering for breath, Jossy
leant against her, when she had regained her footing, and began to sob
with fright and misery.
"Oh, I'm so wet, so cold, so dirty! What shall I do?"
Betty began to laugh, now their danger was past.
"Did you ever see such guys as we are? Why, Jossy, you're a little
brown! You must get on your horse—or stop, you had better lead him.
That's what people do in bogs, and it is safer. I will go first. Follow
me. I'll go back the way I came. Come on. Don't stop to clean yourself,
or your pony may slip again. Be careful now."
Very warily they made their way past the treacherous bog; but when they
were on safe ground again, Betty's heart misgave her.
Jossy was shivering with fright and cold. He was a delicate child,
and she knew what an anxiety his health was to his mother. She tried
to wipe his clothes, but it seemed a hopeless task. He was encased in
thick black slime, and his courage and pluck had quite deserted him.
With difficulty she persuaded him to mount his pony. She was in a sorry
plight herself, but tried to make light of it.
"Now, Jossy, let us ride for our lives, and get home as fast as
possible. Five hundred rebel Roundheads are chasing us, but we shall
escape them yet!"
But even this failed to inspirit Jossy. His Anglo-Indian constitution
could not shake off his fright and wetting, and his fastidious taste
was outraged.
"It's perfectly disgusting," he sobbed; "the mud is trickling down my
neck, and I'm so greasy and slippery that I don't know how to keep to
my saddle. I 'must' be washed, Aunt Betty. I can't go home like this."
"We will stop at the first cottage we come to," said Betty cheerfully.
"Come on! The quicker we ride, the quicker we shall get there."
She urged him on. They left the common behind them, and were soon
cantering along the high road. Betty scanned the fields on either side
of the hedges in vain for a farmhouse or cottage. The country seemed
deserted, but presently they overtook a stout, respectable-looking
country woman with a basket on her arm. She stared at them in
astonishment, and Betty pulled up by her side.
"We have fallen into a bog," she explained; "and I am so anxious for
this little boy to get into dry clothes. Can you tell me if there is
any cottage near at hand?"
"Sakes! Ye do look in a sorry plight, miss! I'm not so far from our
place. Ye had best come home with me. The measter be out, and I'll dry
your clothes for you. 'Tis the next field; turn in at the white gate
and ride close up by the hedge, then through another gate, and ye'll
find yourself there. I'll hurry all I can!"
"Thank you so very much," Betty said gratefully; and Jossy brightened
up at once.
They turned into the field as she told them, then passed through
another, and came out before a quaint, old-fashioned farmhouse, with
thatched roof and casement windows, and a wealth of old-fashioned
climbing roses and creepers up its walls. The sun was shining full upon
it. It seemed strangely quiet. A row of beehives stood along the green
lawn in front, and a sweet scent of lavender from some flower beds
close to the house was borne upon the air towards them. As they came to
a standstill before the door, Betty exclaimed,—
"Oh, Jossy, isn't this a sweet little farm? I do love farmhouses. They
always have such peace about them, without being deadly dull. Can you
slip off your pony? That is right! Now let us try the door. It is
locked. Ah, here comes the farmer's wife!"
The good woman appeared, very warm and breathless.
"Come straight into the kitchen, miss, and take your skirt off. I'll
see to the young gentleman."
In an incredibly short time Jossy was sitting before the kitchen fire
wrapped up in a blanket. Betty had borrowed a blue serge skirt from
Mrs. Winstone, as she was called, and both were enjoying a cup of hot
tea. The kitchen with its oak beams and dresser, the shining crockery
on its shelves, and its well-scoured floor and tables, was fascinating
in Betty's eyes.
She sat in a wooden rocking-chair in perfect content, whilst Mrs.
Winstone was bustling about, trying to dry Jossy's suit of clothes
before the blazing fire, with many comments and ejaculations.
"I mind a man last Christmas twelvemonth got dropped into the bog out
there, by his horse. They said he were a little unsteady from an extra
glass or two at the Three Anchors, but he were found nex' mornin' by
one boot stickin' up. An' his poor wife went off her head when his
corpse were broughted in."
"Oh, please, Mrs. Winstone, don't tell us any more! Jossy will dream of
it. What pretty flowers you have in the window!"
"Yes, miss, I be powerful fond o' flowers. But the measter—he only seem
to care for roses, and they be the white ones that be climbin' over
the house. He allays has a jar on 'em in t'other room, but I haves my
favourites in here."
"May I peep into the other room? If I were your husband, I should
always sit in the kitchen. I should like it much the best."
Mrs. Winstone opened a door, and Betty walked through into a room
that made her look round her with a dazed bewildered glance. Who had
described this room to her? The broad wooden staircase going up out
of the middle of it; the old-fashioned fireplace with the armchair
in front, and a pipe and a book close by. A table with papers, and a
bunch of white roses in the middle; a cap and gloves on one chair,
an overcoat on another. A gun slung up on the wall, a whip lying on
the floor; many other indications of a man's constant presence. Betty
stood with white face and quickened breath, then she turned upon Mrs.
Winstone like a flash of lightning,—
"Who is your master? This is not your husband's room?"
"Eh, dear no, miss! My good husband be in the churchyard this ten year
or more. 'Tis Mr. Arundel—Squire Arundel that used so to be!"
"Then why didn't you say so? We must go this very minute! I wouldn't
have dreamed of coming in, if I had known this was a gentleman's house.
Jossy, put on your clothes, quick! We have stayed too long already!"
Betty swept back into the kitchen with hot cheeks and flashing eyes.
Mrs. Winstone followed her in wonder at her impetuosity.
"Indeed, miss, the measter would wish to befriend any fellow-creature
in need, and the young gent's clothes be not dry yet, though they be
coming on nicely. The measter will not be in till late, I fancy. Will
you not sit down for a half-hour more? One o' the lads be rubbin' down
the horses, but they'll not be ready for a bit."
Betty calmed down after her first fright; but she was anxious and ill
at ease, starting at every footfall, and longing to be away. What would
Gerald think or say, if he came back and found them in possession of
his rooms? She paced up and down the kitchen restlessly, then could
not resist going back to that room, which for months past had been
photographed upon her mind.
She stood in the middle of it, and Jossy, with a boy's curiosity, put
his head in at the door to see what she was doing. He saw her move
across to the chair by the fireplace, rest her hand on the back of
it, then stoop and put her lips to it. After which she took up the
book which was lying face downwards, and then for some minutes stood
reading a well-worn passage in Tennyson's Love and Duty. Deeply scored
in pencil were the lines, and more deeply were they to be scored on
Betty's soul.
So let me think 'tis well for thee and me,
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine,
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow
To feel it I For how hard it seemed to me,
When eyes, love-languid through half tears would dwell
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine,
Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice,
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep
My own full-tuned—hold passion in a leash,
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,
And on thy bosom (deep desired relief!)
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weighed
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul!
For Love himself took part against himself
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love—
O this world's curse—beloved but hated—came
Like death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,
And crying, "Who is this? behold thy bride,"
She pushed me from thee.
If the sense is hard
To alien ears, I did not speak to these—
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me:
Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.
Could Love part thus? Was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once? It could not but be well.
With parted lips and heaving breast, Betty drank in these pathetic
lines, and then she noticed one little word written in the margin
against—
It could not but be well.
The word was "No."
She read and re-read the lines in a dream, and tears slowly filled her
eyes.
Then she dropped the book with a violent start, for horses' hoofs were
heard outside; and she had only time to get back to the kitchen before
the master of the house had flung open the door. Jossy was buttoning up
his jacket with a wry face.
"Aren't you ready, Jossy? Come along. Oh, never mind your collar; let
us get away!"
She hastened his steps. Mrs. Winstone had not heard Gerald's approach,
and wondered at their haste, but she accompanied them out to the yard,
where their horses were in readiness for them, and in a few minutes
they were riding across the fields again, before Gerald was aware that
he had had visitors in his domain.
He was very tired, and, sitting down in his chair, took his pipe out
and lighted it. What was it that made his thoughts turn to a little
figure flitting in and out of these quaint old rooms? He shut his eyes,
and seemed to see her tripping up and down the old wooden stairs—a dark
curly head, a pure white clinging dress, and a bunch of white roses in
her belt.
"Oh," he groaned, "I believe even here I could make her happy!"
Then he picked up his book that was lying on the floor, but he picked
up something else as well, and his face was full of bewilderment as he
held in his hand a lady's riding glove.
For some minutes, he fingered it thoughtfully, then he strode to the
kitchen door.
"Mrs. Winstone, has any one been here this afternoon?"
His tone was so abrupt and fierce that Mrs. Winstone dropped an
apologetic curtsey at once.
"If you please, sir, I hope as no harm has been done or said, but I
did make free to offer to dry their wet things, for 'twas a reg'lar
tumble into the bog they had, and the young gent so small and frail
like, and they were that anxious to be gone when they found out 'twas a
gen'leman's house that I thought as how you wouldn't have minded them
havin' a cup o' tea. And 'tis only five minutes gone that they rode
away; and please, sir, I wasn't aware that you be home."
"Who were they?"
"They didn't give no names, sir, and I didn't think it manners to ask.
The young lady be a bonny young creature as straight as a dart, and
like a bit o' quicksilver, with a proud turn o' the head, and a sweet,
merry smile."
"Was she in here?"
"Well, sir, b'lieve me, not above a minute or two. Her were terrible
anxious to get away."
Gerald returned to his room, slamming the door violently behind him. He
stood at the table, with the glove in his hand. Floy crept up to him
and sniffed at it suspiciously, but his master did not heed him.
"She was here in this very room a few minutes ago! And I was just too
late. Well—" A deep sigh followed. "It is better so. The less we meet
the better."
He looked down at the glove, then he put it into his breast-pocket with
a smile.
"I must return her her property, but till I do it will stay there!"
Betty, meanwhile, was riding home as fast as she could, and when they
arrived there, Jossy was the object of so much care and attention from
his anxious mother, that her own hot cheeks and perturbed spirits were
unnoticed.
When she went to bed that night she sat long in thought at her window,
with a copy of Tennyson's poems on her lap.
Was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once?
rang through her heart and brain like a chiming bell, and then like a
knell rang the one little word written on the page, "No."
At last she rose and put the book away, then, kneeling at her window,
she spoke, and her eyes were gazing at the starry heavens outside,—
"O, God, I am happy. Thou hast made me happy. Help me not to dwell on
thoughts that bring discontent and longing. Comfort and bless him,
comfort and bless me. I don't want to ask Thee for anything that Thou
dost not want me to have."
And then she went to bed, and slept peacefully.