AMONGST THE HEATHER.
Gilbert Arundel's visit to Fair Acres extended far beyond the limit of a
week. He felt every day more absorbed by the simple, happy life, in
which, as Joyce had said, Melville was the only cloud.
He was an universal favourite. A man who has been accustomed to yield
respect and courtesy to his own mother, seldom fails in yielding it to
the mothers of his friends.
If anyone in the household at Fair Acres was dissatisfied it was
Melville himself, who found that his friend had been so entirely taken
possession of by his brothers and sister, and was held in such high
esteem by his father and mother, that his own light was effectually put
out.
The twins, Harry and Bunny, came to him about fly-fishing, and Ralph
consulted him as to a difficult passage in his Homer; while he spent a
whole morning in helping Piers to re-arrange his moths and butterflies,
and to look out their names with greater precision in a book he had
actually borrowed from the Palace at Wells, for this purpose.
All the time Joyce went about her accustomed duties: darned Melville's
socks, mended the schoolboys' clothes, and was every morning assisting
her mother in her household duties.
It was an added charm in Gilbert's eyes that Joyce made no difference in
her daily routine, and that what are familiarly called "company manners"
were apparently unknown at Fair Acres.
But the last day came of Gilbert Arundel's visit, as the last must come
to everything, and the squire proclaimed a holiday for every one and an
excursion to Wookey, and a pic-nic to Ebbor. Then there was a great
packing of hampers, and loading of one of the spring carts with the boys
and the provisions, and the "four-wheel" with the more grown-up members
of the party.
Even Mrs. Falconer allowed herself to be enlisted in the service, and to
give herself for once a day's pleasure; while Melville put on a
riding-coat of the most approved cut, and a pair of wellingtons, and was
graciously pleased to lend himself for the occasion, with as much show
of satisfaction as was consistent with his dignity.
After depositing the party at Wookey, the squire kindly drove into
Wells in the "four-wheel" to fetch Charlotte from the Vicar's Close, and
before the dinner had been laid in the Ebbor Valley he was back again,
bearing Charlotte in triumph, in spite of his sister's entreaties that
Charlotte would be careful of adders which swarmed at Ebbor amongst the
loose stones; and that she was to be sure to sit upon a cloak with four
capes, made of large plaid, which Miss Falconer insisted should be put
into the carriage.
But nothing spoiled Charlotte's pleasure when fairly off, and she was
delighted to be helped down from the carriage by her Cousin Melville,
with whose fine ways, and what she would have called "elegant dress,"
she had keen sympathy. Indeed, the hero of the "drooping rose" was in
danger of falling from his pedestal; and the fact of a cousin, who said
a great many flattering things to her was, after all, more interesting
than a minor Canon, who was to be worshipped from afar, and who when
actually introduced to her the day before by her aunt, when he called in
virtue of his office in the cathedral, had not seemed to desire to
cultivate her acquaintance; certainly had made her no pretty speeches.
Melville, on the contrary, made her a great many, and she listened with
unquestioning faith, and profound interest to his stories of high life,
and the men with titles with whom he was on familiar terms, and the
large wine parties at Oxford to which Maythorne came.
Gilbert caught the sound of that name, and turning quickly, his deep
blue eyes shot a warning glance, which could not be mistaken, as he said
in a voice audible to those nearest him:
"The less said about _him_ the better."
The day passed quickly, and it was proposed that the younger portion of
the party should walk up the uneven road between the rocks, and, taking
the rough paths over the flat country, into which the gorge opens, reach
Fair Acres by crossing it, a distance of some six miles.
Charlotte was to remain at Fair Acres for the night, but both she and
Melville preferred to drive with the squire and Mrs. Falconer and Piers.
Charlotte's shoes were too thin for scrambling, and a country walk was
not at all to Melville's taste.
"Off with you, then," said the squire, "and mind you keep the road to
the left, or you will find yourselves on Mendip, and if it gets dark
that may not be so pleasant."
"I know the way, father," Ralph said; "and so do Harry and Bunny. We
shall not lose ourselves."
"Perhaps Joyce had better drive," her father said, just as the five
were starting. "Sunshine, what do you think?"
"I think that we are more likely to lose our way, sir," Gilbert said,
"if you take the sun from us."
The squire laughed.
"Well, that may be true. Take care of your sister, boys."
The ascent through the Ebbor cliffs is difficult; there is a vast
quantity of thin sharp stones, worn by the action of the water from the
face of the rocks. Although not nearly so grand as Cheddar, Ebbor has
many points of beauty. The rocks are fantastic in form, and as the path
winds between them they assume various shapes, like miniature towers and
bastions, clothed with ivy, and coloured with dark brown and yellow
lichen.
The air, when they were fairly in the open country, was fresh and crisp;
the lark sang his sweet song high above their heads, and the sweet,
clear notes of distant thrushes and blackbirds came from the low lying
copses, which fringe the head of the Ebbor valley.
Harry and Bunny chased moths for Piers: Ralph meditated and repeated to
himself some lines of a Greek poet which he wanted to get by heart.
Thus, as was only to be expected, Joyce and Mr Arundel were left to
themselves, and in Gilbert's heart at least was the weight of coming
separation, and the uncertainty as to whether he should ever be able to
renew the sweet, free intercourse of the past fortnight. He dreaded to
change the present happy relations between him and Joyce by telling her
what he felt. She confided so entirely in him; she told him so much of
her little joys, and home happiness, of Ralph's cleverness, of Harry and
Bunny's frantic desires to be sailors, of her father's goodness to
Melville, and infinite patience with him. On this last night especially,
he felt that he could not bring himself to break the spell, and disturb
the serenity of that sweet, pure life, by letting friendship go, to
replace it by the more tumultuous and passionate love, which he knew if
once this barrier were broken down, he should pour forth on her in a
torrent which might distress and almost frighten, one so simple and so
unversed in the world's ways.
Whilst Charlotte was always on the look-out for some _preux chevalier_,
who was to be at her feet and vow eternal devotion, Joyce had as yet no
such airy castles. Her education had been widely different from her
cousin's, and home and home interests had so filled her seventeen years
with their joys and pleasures, that she had no time to dream over
"keepsakes," and read Miss Burney's romances, or steep herself in the
unreality of sentimental verses, which Wordsworth was beginning to break
down and send into the shadows, by bringing out the beauties of
creation into the strong light, which his genius threw around them.
Joyce had not wasted her youth in foolish dreams of impossible
perfection, but when the real story of her life was ready to unfold
itself, she would find a zest and fulness in it, that the sentimental
visionary could never know.
That was a memorable walk over the sweet country side, with the west all
aglow, and the sky above serenely blue. In after years both looked back
on it through that mist of tender sadness, which gathers round the happy
past of youth, even though the present is full of the fruition of joy to
which that very past led.
"This is our last evening," Gilbert said; "I hope, if I can be of any
use, you will write to me."
"Yes," Joyce said, "and I feel as if the worst were over now. If
Melville has a year abroad with the gentleman the bishop recommends, he
may settle afterwards. Of course it is a great pull upon father's purse;
but if Harry and Bunny can get into the navy we shall be able to
manage."
"When we are settled in Clifton I hope you will come and see my mother."
"Oh! I should like that very much; but I have a visit to Barley Wood to
come first, and then in the winter I must do all I can to cheer father.
He feels the want of out-door exercise now he has given up his hunters.
He used to ride to the meet very often."
"I am sorry he has had to give that up, all through Melville's
extravagance."
"Yes, and then farming has been so bad the last year or two. I hope it
may be a better crop this year; but the wheat in this district is very
poor at all times. We must not get too much to the right," she said, "or
we shall get near the miners, who are a rough set of people. Mrs. More
has had a school in these parts for many years; but there are a great
many discontented folks, who seem to think the gentry are their natural
enemies. That man we saw the day you came to Wells was from these
parts."
Joyce raised her voice in a clear, ringing tone, and called her brothers
by name.
"They have gone on so far in front," she said; "but I feel sure this is
the right track." She called again, but there was no reply.
"We had better walk faster," she said, "or we shall be left behind;"
then she stopped.
"I see a man lying in that dip under the gorse-bushes. I hope he will
not beg."
She had scarcely spoken the words when a huge form rose before them,
and stood in the narrow track between the heather and gorse, filling up
the path.
"You are Squire Falconer's lass, ain't you?" he said, defiantly.
"Yes," Gilbert answered, "yes; this is Miss Falconer, of Fair Acres. How
long are you going to stand there and prevent us from passing you?"
"Till I've settled my score. Your gov'nor was hard on me t'other day; he
tried to get me sent to gaol. I'll smash his head for 'im next time I
come across 'im, sure as my name is Bob Priday!"
The broad, Somersetshire lingo made the man all but unintelligible to
Gilbert; but Joyce understood him well enough.
"Ye hand me out a guinea, now, or a trinket, and I'll let bygones be
bygones, specially"--with a horrid leer--"if you'll give me a kiss with
'em; eh?"
In a moment Gilbert had sprung over the bushes which hedged in the track
on either side, and had his hand on the man's throat.
"Let this young lady pass, you villain!" he said, shaking the huge form,
who, taken unawares, had very little power of resistance. "Let her
pass."
There is always something in a brave, strong, young spirit which is too
much for the brute force of an untutored giant like Bob Priday. He
staggered and fell back, Gilbert's hand being still at his throat.
Joyce, pale and trembling, did not lose her self-control. "Please let
me pass," she said; "I have no money to give you, and if I had it would
not be right to bribe you. My father only did his duty on the bench that
day. You were guilty, and you know it; you got off unpunished, and you
should be thankful, and try to lead a better life."
There was something wonderfully grand in the way Joyce spoke, though her
face was white with girlish fear, and her lips quivered, her voice did
not falter as she appealed to the huge man who might, she knew, shake
off Gilbert's restraining hand, and spring on her at any moment.
"Let me pass," she said, "and this gentleman will----"
At this moment a woman's voice was heard, and a girl with a red
handkerchief on her head, with an effort at respectable attire in her
short, blue cotton frock, and large, thick boots, came over the tangled
mass of heath and ling, and cried:
"Father! What are you about now, father?"
"You mind your own business, you hussy, and leave me alone."
"Oh, father!" the girl said, passionately, "I wish you would be good.
Think how mother used to pray for you! Oh, dear lady," the girl said,
bursting into tears, "I am heart-broken about father. Please, sir, let
him go."
"Let me go!" said the giant, with a loud, discordant laugh; "I'll see
about that." Then, with a mighty effort, he hurled Gilbert from him, and
before he could recover his feet, he had seized Joyce's arm. "Give me
the money, or I'll be even with your father; curse him!"
But the girl threw herself on her father and held him back, while
Gilbert, stunned and bewildered by the force with which he had been
hurled over the heather, staggered to his feet again, and, with a
well-aimed blow at the back of the man's head, laid him sprawling on
the path.
"Oh! I hope he is not hurt!" Joyce exclaimed involuntarily, as the huge
form lay motionless; the girl leaning over him.
"He is not hurt," Gilbert said, "any more than he has hurt me; it was in
self-defence," he added.
"Father, father!" moaned the girl. "Oh, sir! oh, miss! I don't know what
to do!"
"Hold your tongue, and let me get up and at him again," growled the man,
struggling to sit upright.
But his daughter had the advantage, and seated herself on her father's
chest, saying to Gilbert, "I'll keep him quiet till you are out of
sight, sir; I will indeed. I know you were driven to do it," she said.
"Father is always fighting; but, oh! sir, we have a hard time of it.
There is no work for the men and boys, and if it were not for the good
lady's schools, and the help she gives, I don't know what would become
of us. Many were starving last winter, and of course it is kind of hard,
to know rich folks have plenty and we are starving. Mother died last
fall; and though Mrs. More sent her physic, and the schoolmistress
broth, she could not stand up against the fever, and trouble about poor
father and Jim, and Dick, and the baby."
Joyce's eyes filled with tears. "What is to be done?" she said,
helplessly; "what can be done?"
"I don't know, miss; I don't know. There's plenty of the ore left, but
it is no use working it, there's no market for it. Mrs. More teaches us
to pray to God and try to trust Him, but He does not seem to hear or
help. I have been in service, and could get a place again at a Farm at
Publow, through Mrs. More, but since mother is gone, there is none to
look after baby. I do love the baby!"
"How long are you going to jaw like this, Sue? Let me get up and settle
the question; if not now, I _will_ settle it at last."
"Come away," Gilbert said, putting his hand on Joyce's arm; "we can do
no good. It is getting so dark. Do come!" He put his hand to his head,
for he still felt dazed and giddy with his fall.
"Tell me your name," Joyce said, "and where I should find you."
"Susan Priday, Mendip Mines, that's my name, miss."
"I am going to see Mrs. More soon, and I will tell her about you," Joyce
said, in a low tone; "and do believe I am sorry for you. How old are
you?"
"Eighteen come Christmas," the girl said, looking up into Joyce's
beautiful face with undisguised admiration.
"Just my age," Joyce said. "Oh, I should like to make you happy! How old
is the baby?"
"Born when mother died--just nine months old; he is so pretty, he is!"
Joyce had seldom, if ever, spoken familiarly to any of the girls about
the country side before. Mrs. Falconer had her views on the subject, and
the "miner folks" were her especial aversion, while Mrs. More's attempts
to civilise them were met with derision and scorn. The gulf set between
her and her household of respectable maids, and the rough, half-clothed
miner's families, was in her eyes impassable! What was the use of
trying to reclaim those who preferred their own rough and evil ways?
They ought to be well punished for raids made on farm yards, and snares
set in copses and plantations; but to teach them to read, and talk to
them about their duty to God and their neighbour, was in Mrs. Falconer's
eyes worse than lost labour; it did harm rather than good.
And not only by Mrs. Falconer was this view of the unclothed and
unwashed masses taken! In our days of widely spread and organised
charities, and zeal, sometimes I fear hardly tempered with wisdom, it is
difficult to throw ourselves back to the beginning of the century now
drawing to its close, when efforts like those of the four sisters of the
Mendips, of whom Hannah was the leading spirit, were met with scoffs and
disapproval; or deep compassion, that educated women could be so
misguided, as to wish to teach the boys and girls of their district,
anything but to use their legs and arms in the service of their betters!
As I stood by the heavy stone in Wrington churchyard, in the gloom of
an autumn afternoon, where the names of the four sisters are inscribed,
I could but think of the gratitude we ought to feel to them for their
brave efforts to spread the knowledge of the religion of Christ amongst
the poor of those 'rolling hills' and peaceful valleys of
Somersetshire. It must have been hard for a woman of culture like Hannah
More to be met by opposition, and in some cases fierce denunciation;
harder still to be smiled at by those in high places, as a fanatic and a
visionary. But turning from the ugly, weather-worn stone, enclosed in
high rusty railings, to the beautiful church, where what light there was
yet in the sky, came through the many-coloured window lately erected to
Hannah More's memory, I thought, that as nothing that is good and
beautiful, coming from the Fountain of all beauty and all goodness, can
ever die, so the light which Hannah More kindled in many humble hearts
was still shining in the eternal kingdom, where those that have lived as
in the presence of the Son of God here, shine as the stars for ever in
their Heavenly Father's realm.
That touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin brought the two
girls near to each other, as Joyce laid her hand upon Susan's, and said:
"I am very sorry for you; I shall not forget you;" then added, looking
down on the prostrate form which Susan had so determinedly kept from
doing further mischief:
"I am sorry for you, too; it must be hard to want bread--but, but--do
try to be good and find work."
"Find work, find work! If that's all you can say you'd better hold your
tongue."
But though the words were rough the tones grew less fierce, and Susan,
finding her restraint was no longer needed, stood up and watched Gilbert
Arundel and Joyce pursue the narrow track across the heather till they
were lost in the shadows of the gathering twilight.
"Do you know your way?" Gilbert asked.
"I think I do," Joyce answered; "our shepherd's cottage is on the next
ridge, and when we get there we can see our own valley and the tower of
the church."
"Are you very tired?" Gilbert asked again.
"Not very; but I cannot help trembling; it is so silly. Do tell me if
that man hurt you."
"He gave me a good shaking. What a giant he is! I felt as your Nip or
Pip might feel in Duke's clutches if he were angry."
"What a comfort we had not Charlotte with us, and that the boys had gone
on so far! I hope they will not be very anxious at home."
They made but slow progress. Joyce's usually swift, elastic steps were
slow and faltering. She took several wrong paths, and they came once to
a steep dip in the heather, and were within a few inches of one of
those rocky pits which are frequent on the face of the level country
about Cheddar and the neighbouring district. Indeed Cheddar itself
begins with one of these small defiles, when entered from the top of the
Mendip, and the gradually increasing height of the rocks, and the
widening of the gorge as the road winds through it, is one of its most
striking features.
Joyce was so wholly unaccustomed to feel tired and unnerved, that she
surprised herself, as well as Gilbert, by sitting down helplessly, and
bursting into tears.
"Oh! we should have been killed if we had fallen down there. Won't you
leave me, and go on to the shepherd's cottage? What can be the matter
with me?" she said, sobbing hysterically.
Gilbert hardly knew whether distress at her condition, or delight in
having her all to himself to comfort, predominated.
"Do not be frightened,' he said; we shall get on very well if you will
let me carry you."
"Oh! no, no," she said, trying to spring up with her accustomed energy.
"I will push on again."
But although she summoned all her courage, she was obliged to let
Gilbert put his arm round her and support her, and finally she was
lifted in his strong arms and carried whether she wished it or not.
"I shall tire you so dreadfully," Joyce whispered.
"If you do, it is the sweetest tiredness I ever knew; you know that,
Joyce."
Then they went on in silence. Gilbert was still suffering from the
treatment he had received at Bob Priday's hands, and they made slow
progress.
"Just raise your head," he said, after ten minutes' tramp through the
narrow track, which he lost at times through the thick tangle of heath
and gorse and low-growing bracken. "Raise your head and tell me if you
can see the shepherd's cottage. It is getting very dark."
Joyce did as he told her, but, after straining her eyes for a few
moments, she said:
"I can't see anything, it is so dark. I don't know where we are. Oh, I
don't know!"
"You are safe with me," Gilbert said; and then added, fervently: "I am
not afraid for God is with us."
It was so unusual for Joyce to hear that Name spoken. She did not
respond, but let her head fall upon his shoulder again.
Presently he said:
"There is a tiny light now--two lights--they must be in the shepherd's
cottage. Take heart, my darling. We shall soon be home."
The word had slipped from his lips unawares.
"I am going away early to-morrow. You will not forget me?"
Once more she raised her face, and in the dim light he saw her beautiful
eyes gazing at him with an expression which was half wonder and half
joy. But she said, simply:
"No, I will never forget you."
The light was close to them now, and there was a sound of men's feet
drawing nearer and then Duke came bounding up.
With a cry of "Father! father!" Joyce struggled to her feet, and threw
herself into her father's arms.
"Why, Joyce, my Sunshine, where have you been? We have been very
anxious, your mother on thorns, and poor Piers imagining all kinds of
disasters. Why did you not keep up with the boys? They had been at home
an hour before I started. What has happened sir?" the squire said,
turning a little sharply on Gilbert Arundel.
"It is too long a story to tell now, sir," Gilbert said. "Miss Falconer
and I fell into bad hands, and we may thank God nothing worse has
happened."
"Some of the miners, eh?"
"One of them, sir, who is a host in himself; he blocked our way, and
threatened us; but I would rather not go over it all now. She is so
overwrought, though she has been so splendidly brave."
"Oh! father, dearest dad! take me home," Joyce said. "Is it far; is it
far?"
"Some two miles, my Sunshine; but I can carry you. Now for it, be brave,
my sweet one, and we shall soon be home. Now, then, Sam and Thomas,
march on."
"I think I can walk, father now," Joyce said; "and here is Duke, dear
Duke!"
"Why, of course, I brought Duke. He is cleverer at finding his way than
I am. He soon snuffed you out, good old fellow."
The two other men now turned towards home, with the big lanthorns in
their hands, which served for guiding stars. Duke paced slowly between
the men, and his master and young mistress, and Gilbert brought up the
rear.
The lights of the village were a welcome sight, and the hall door of
Fair Acres was open as they came up the road, showing a group of dark,
expectant figures, thrown out by the blaze of a wood fire.
"The mistress has lit a fire that we might have a welcome; that is like
her wisdom," the squire said. "A few tallow candles would not have been
half as cheerful."
"Here we are; here we are!" the squire called out; and then there was a
rush of boyish feet, and a great chorus of rejoicing, and a host of
questions.
"We have been so anxious, _dying_ of anxiety," exclaimed Charlotte,
thinking it necessary to begin to cry.
"What fools you were to walk over that rough, lonely country," Melville
said. While Piers could only hover round Joyce, who, seated on a bench
or old-fashioned settle by the side of the wide open hearth, held her
mother in a tight embrace.
"The boys ought never to have left you," Piers said. "How could Mr.
Arundel find the way?"
"Joyce knew it," said Bunny. "Joyce knew it. We have been over that
track several times."
"Yes," echoed Harry, "several times; only Joyce and Mr. Arundel were
talking so much, they never thought where they were going."
"'All's well that ends well,'" said the squire. "She had better go to
bed, my dear; and this young gentleman looks white enough. You must get
him a good hot glass of negus; and I hope supper is ready; but take the
poor child to bed first."
Mrs. Falconer had not said much beyond a few words in Joyce's ear, which
no one else heard. Her usual vivacity and quick, sharp words seemed to
have suddenly failed her.
"Yes; I'll take her to bed, and there she will have to lie all
to-morrow, I expect. It's the last time I'll allow her to separate from
the rest of us, when we are out on an excursion. Order the supper in,
boys; and Melville, look after your friend; he is as white as a ghost;
perhaps he has seen one!"
The tone was a little bitter and satirical. Mrs. Falconer resented the
hours' keen anxiety she had endured, and was inclined to lay the fault
on Gilbert.
He certainly did look exhausted, and leaned back with his head against
the wall, over which a large stag's head with spreading antlers gazed
down upon him with liquid, meaningless eyes.
"Mother," Joyce said, as, with her brother's arm round her, she rose to
go upstairs; "mother, Mr. Arundel was so very brave; he was thrown down
by that dreadful man and nearly stunned; he carried me till we met
father; he was--he was--so good to me. Do pray thank him." Then
disengaging herself from her mother's grasp, Joyce tottered across to
the old oak chair, on which Gilbert had sunk. "Good-night, and
good-bye," she said; "and don't think them ungrateful. Good-bye."
He stood upright, and took one of her hands in his, raised it reverently
to his lips; and so they parted.
He was off the next morning early to catch the coach at Wells. Not this
time in a post-chaise with scarlet-clad post-boy, but driven by the
squire himself, in a high gig, his portmanteau strapped behind. Melville
roused himself to come down in a magnificent flowered dressing-gown, to
see him off; and the boys were all there. Just as the gig was starting,
Mrs. Falconer appeared. It was unusual for her to be later than her
household, but she had a good reason, for Joyce had passed a restless
night, and she had not liked to leave her. She was asleep now, she said,
and a day's rest would restore her.
"I hope we shall see you here again," Mrs. Falconer added, "before long.
But you won't be trusted on the Mendips again, I can tell you!"
"Let bygones be bygones, that's my motto," said the squire, as the gig
went swinging out through the white gates near the house, and turned
into the road which led through the village.
"And 'all's well that ends well,'" Gilbert said, as he waved his hat in
token of farewell.
That evening, when the squire and his wife were alone together, Mrs.
Falconer said:
"Did Mr. Arundel say anything to you as he drove into Wells?"
"Say!" exclaimed the squire. "Well, he is not dumb. He said his head
ached, for one thing."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Falconer; "he did not say any thing about his heart?"
The squire puffed a little smoke from his long clay pipe; for he
indulged in a pipe sometimes, though the amount of tobacco consumed in
the present day would have amazed him, and shocked him also, had he
known that the greatest smokers were the young men and boys, to whom,
sixty years ago, smoking was forbidden. He did not seem inclined to say
anything in reply to his wife's last question.
"Because," said Mrs. Falconer, with that far-seeing and oracular wisdom
in which men hope in vain to rival us in these matters, at least;
"because I believe Gilbert Arundel is in love with our Joyce."
"Well," said the squire, "that would be no wonder to me; but I daresay
it is only one of your fancies, Kate."
"We shall see; we shall see," said Mrs. Falconer. "I only hope he has
not trifled with my child, and that my 'fancies,' as you call them,
_are_ fancies, that is all."