much under the dominion of the one to endure the other. He did not wait
for the second line of the song, but turned and escaped from it out into
the warm twilight garden, where the clear, strong notes pursued him
relentlessly. He sat down on a bench and hid his face in his hands.
"Violante! Violante!" he cried, half aloud. "Oh, what a fool I was not
to wait one moment longer! Then I should have been _sure_! What is the
use of it all--" And then Hugh got up and laughed, keenly conscious of
the absurdity of sitting here in his dress-coat lamenting; hating
himself for his folly, and yet haunted by the old, soft accents: "I was
frightened, Signor Hugo."
Suddenly the quiet garden seemed filled with chattering and laughing.
All the younger ones had streamed out on to the terrace, and were
wandering about in twos and threes. Arthur had Mysie to himself at
last, and as they wandered past Hugh's hiding-place, he heard her say,
mischievously, something about "Katie's charming conversation," and
Arthur retort with "That curate that was sitting by you;" and then she
threw a rose at him and they both laughed, till Hugh muttered
passionately to himself: "I wish I had never got to hear them play the
fool and laugh again."
PART THREE, CHAPTER NINETEEN.
SUNDAY AND MONDAY.
"There is no time like spring,
Like spring that passes by;
There is no life like spring-life born to die."
Hugh Crichton was at this time in the sort of humour which, dignified by
the name of misanthropy, would have admirably suited, one of those
interesting and uncomfortable heroes who stalk through the pages of
romance with masks over their faces, under a vow to speak to no one; or
who, like Lara, cloaked and with folded arms, look on at life from an
altitude of melancholy and disenchantment. The world seems to have
watched such vagaries in former days with much patience; but times are
changed, and Hugh had far too much to do to fold his arms, and was
forced to put on a frock-coat and white waistcoat on Sunday morning as
usual. But an invisible and impalpable mask may be as stifling as one
made of black velvet; and the mysterious silence which everyone
respected was scarcely a greater effort than the silence of which no one
was to suspect the necessity, or the words that seemed so trivial or so
foolish. In truth, it was as much to avoid Arthur's constant
companionship as for any other reason that Hugh had so persistently
refused to allow him to begin his work at the Bank. He could not stand
Arthur's bright, shrewd eyes upon him as they went to and fro, or endure
his notice of the fits of idleness which alternated with the hard work
to which he thus condemned himself. For after his long absence he had
more on hand than usual; and Arthur, who was brisk and business-like and
just then full of an energy that would have made stone-breaking light
and interesting work, might have been very helpful to him. Hugh did
not, perhaps, dislike the notion of being overworked; but the fact that
he was so did not tend to smooth his temper or to raise his spirits.
For, of course, the life of a man of business, with all the calls and
occupations of a country gentleman added to it, was an exceedingly
laborious one; but it was Hugh's pride that he had never shirked any of
the work to which his father had been born, and that he made the squire
give way to the banker where the two clashed.
James, on growing up, had so decidedly declared in favour of a London
life that all notion of his coming into the business had been abandoned;
but there was more since his father's death than Hugh could properly
manage; and so his determination that no pressure should be put on
Arthur if his success at Oxford induced him to wish for a more ambitious
career had been a real act of kind and liberal judgment. His refusal to
accept at once Arthur's decision in his favour sprang partly from a
foolish and unworthy pride, which refused to be the better for anyone's
sense or good behaviour, and, partly, as has been said, from a sort of
personal distaste to his bright young cousin--a feeling which Arthur had
done nothing to deserve. Nor was his brother's presence any
satisfaction to Hugh. Now that the danger was past, James was quite
ready to forget all the annoyance with which he had regarded the matter,
and to find the recollection of so romantic an incident rather pleasant
than otherwise. "What is it to him?" thought Hugh bitterly; but it was
quite true that, even had James been himself concerned and had sincerely
felt the disappointment, he would have taken a certain pleasure in
recalling the picturesque aspects of the affair; could have laughed at
himself with a smile on his lip and a tear in his eye have made full
allowance for Violante's difficulties, and even speculated a little
about her future lot, honestly wishing it to be a prosperous one. He
found room for kindly sentiment in his flirtations, and would have
derived amusement from the externals even of a real passion. But Hugh's
equal judgment fell before the force of personal feeling; and as he had
thought of nothing at the time but Violante herself his brother's view
of the matter seemed to him utterly heartless and frivolous.
Sunday was a pleasant day to the young people of Redhurst. Mr
Harcourt, the Rector, was a very old man, who had christened their
mother, and to whom "Mr Spencer, of Oxley Bank," meant their
grandfather. He was still fully capable of managing his little country
parish; and though they had heard his sermons very often, and had not
had the satisfaction of assisting at many improvements in his church--
since the work had been well done for them in a former generation, when
Mr Harcourt, now so cautious, had been regarded as a dangerous
innovator--they were very fond of him and of his wife; and had any one
of them, in a foreign country or in future years, recalled the Sundays
of their youth it would have been the unaltered and seemingly
unalterable services of Redhurst Church and its white-haired Rector that
would have risen before their eyes. Not but that they liked a walk to
Oxley and an evening service at the new Saint Michael's considerably
better than an afternoon one at Redhurst; but, whether they deserted his
second sermon or not, they rarely failed to present themselves at the
Rectory after it was over for a cup of tea and a chat. Indeed, it was
almost a second home to Mysie, who had grown up to be the young lady of
the village--all the Miss Harcourts having married almost before she was
born. Hugh was a very useful and conscientious squire; his mother, by
nature and position, a Lady Bountiful: so Redhurst was a favoured spot.
"So you come and eat my apricots, young people, and run away from my
sermons?" said Mr Harcourt, as he picked out a specially-perfect
specimen of the fruit in question and offered it to Mysie, who, with her
smiling face peeping out from a sky-blue bonnet, looked much like a
bright-eyed forget-me-not.
"I've been to church and to school, too, this afternoon," said Mysie,
with a deprecating look.
"Ah, you are always a good girl. Why didn't you bring Arthur with you?"
"She wouldn't let me come to the Sunday-school," said Arthur. "She says
the girls laugh at her. So you see, sir, I can't be useful if I would."
"For shame, Arthur! Mr Harcourt, he did not want to be of any use,
only to walk down with me."
"Well, my dear, in my young days we liked a walk with our sweethearts on
Sundays."
"And I am going to walk with him to Oxley," said Mysie, slipping her
little hand into the old Rector's arm and very little discomposed by his
joke.
"Ay, ay, walk away, and come back and tell me what fine things they're
doing at Saint Michael's. There is Hugh has never told me a word about
Italy. When young men made the grand tour formerly their conversation
was quite an enlightenment to their friends."
"Weren't they rather a bore, sir?" said Arthur.
"We weren't so easily bored in those days, my dear boy, by useful
information."
"No," said James, "those were the days to live, when each event had time
to round into its proper proportion--the days of taste and leisure, when
people were simple enough to be excited by a Christmas party or by the
coming in of a coach."
"But don't you think, Jem," said Mysie, "that they must have been rather
dull to care about the coach coming. I've heard Arthur say he used to
go at school on a wet half-holiday and watch the trains. I'm sure he
wouldn't have done it if he had had anything else to amuse him."
"Very true," said Arthur.
"Well," said Mrs Harcourt, "when I was a girl I used to read Sir
Charles Grandison, but I took it down the other day and found it very
lengthy."
"Such a prig as Sir Charles Grandison never can have really existed,"
said Hugh.
"Well, Hugh," said the Rector, with a humorous twinkle, "we none of us
know what we might come to under favourable circumstances. But, now,
what day do you think to-morrow is?"
"Your wedding-day, Mr Harcourt," said Mysie, after a moment's pause.
"I remember it was on Sunday last year, and you gave Mrs Harcourt an
apricot."
"Ah, you're the little girl for a good memory. Our golden wedding.
Yes, it's fifty years ago that I married Mrs Harcourt, and she wore a
dark green riding-habit for the occasion. Fifty years to be thankful
for!"
"Fifty years ago!" said Mysie, rather awestruck.
"Yes," said the Rector's wife, "and we have asked the school-children to
come up after school and drink our health; but not having such a good
memory as Mysie I have forgotten some of them. If you could ask the
little Woods, my dear, and the Masons to-morrow I should be glad."
Mysie promised to do so, and distant chimes sounding on their ears
reminded them that it was time to start for Oxley. Hugh and his mother
went home, the old couple went slowly up their sunny garden-path
together, while the young pair, lingering a little behind their
companions, looked back and smiled.
"There's our model, Mysie," said Arthur, as he drew her hand through his
arm. "In fifty years' time--"
"Oh, don't, Arthur!"
"Why not?"
"It frightens me to think of fifty years," said Mysie, with quivering
lips. Then suddenly she said, "I wonder which are the happiest, they or
we!"
"Let us go to-morrow and ask them," said Arthur, more lightly, perhaps,
than he felt.
"Oh, yes! Let us go the first thing to-morrow and take them some
flowers ready for their breakfast--they always breakfast at eight."
"Very well," said Arthur, "and they will give us some breakfast. I
promised George to take him out shooting to-morrow--the rabbits are
really getting intolerable. I want Hugh to come home early and join
us."
They soon reached Saint Michael's and dispersed in search of places, for
the church was crowded. Arthur and Mysie had the good luck to find them
side by side. Mysie's feelings had been somewhat disturbed by what had
passed, and she was glad of the quiet and of the service, which took her
out of herself. The sermons at Saint Michael's were considered
striking, and this one was about thankfulness. "He giveth us all things
richly to enjoy." Mysie listened, and thought that she had more to be
thankful for than anyone in the world; and she turned her listening into
a prayer that she might never forget it. Arthur listened too, but his
thoughts were less defined and were pervaded by a certain sense of the
prettiness of Mysie's face in its blue setting.
And then they stood up and sang--
"Brief life is here our portion,
Brief sorrow, short-lived care;
The life that knows no ending,
The tearless life, is _there_."
Brief? And yet they might keep their golden wedding after those long
fifty years!
Fifty years of going to church together, of sorrows shared and joys
doubled! And as Mysie's heart went forward to what those joys and
sorrows might be it was no wonder that she walked home hushed and
silent, though there never came to her a moment's doubt of how she might
regard her young lover after the fifty years were past.
The morning light brought the golden wedding before her in a more
cheerful aspect, and she had gathered most of her flowers and was
arranging them in a large basket before Arthur joined her, accusing her
of being unnecessarily early.
"Oh, I wanted to gather plenty. Look. I have put the hothouse flowers
in the centre, and then the outdoor ones, and ferns round the edge."
"And what's that?"
"That is a note from Aunt Lily to ask them to come up to dinner
to-night. It is all ready now."
Arthur took up the basket, and they went down the garden, out at a
side-gate, and across the road into the almost adjoining garden of the
Rectory. This was small, but within walls, and so gay with flowers as
to seem to render Mysie's gift unnecessary. Arthur gave her one side of
the basket, and they came across the lawn in the bright morning sunshine
up to the open French window of the dining-room, where Mr and Mrs
Harcourt had already perceived them.
"Here comes the young couple to see the old one!"
"We have brought you some flowers."
"We have come to wish you many happy returns of the day," said both at
once.
Mrs Harcourt took the flowers, and her husband, kissing Mysie, held out
his hand to Arthur.
"God bless you, my dear children, and give you fifty such happy years as
He has given to my wife and me!"
"Amen!" said Arthur, and he turned, and, drawing Mysie towards him, he
kissed her, as if the blessing had been the seal of their betrothal.
The tears came into her eyes, and she was glad to turn to the old lady
to be praised and thanked for her beautiful flowers.
"Now, then, of course you are come to breakfast? Arthur, when you were
a little boy you always liked my pine-apple preserve; so I shall get you
some."
"At his present stage of existence, my dear, I should think he would
rather begin upon eggs and bacon."
"But don't forget the jam for a finish, Mrs Harcourt," said Arthur.
So they sat down and had a merry breakfast, lingering over it till
Arthur jumped up, saying:
"I must go home to catch Hugh before he goes to Oxley, to ask him where
we shall shoot."
"But you are not going to carry away Mysie?"
"Oh, no," said Mysie. "I don't like the neighbourhood of guns at all,
and I must stay to put my flowers in water."
"Very well, then, I'll leave you. Mr Harcourt, we shall see you
to-night."
Mysie stayed behind, and arranged her flowers and renovated Mrs
Harcourt's dinner-cap, by which time the morning was so far advanced
that she was persuaded to stay to lunch, before going to give the
forgotten invitations. Meanwhile Mrs Harcourt entertained her with
much pleasant gossip about the days of her courtship and the wedding
that had followed it.
"Did not fifty years seem a long time to you then?" asked Mysie.
"Well, my dear, I don't think I looked forward to any special time, or
to any end at all in those days. And I don't now, Mysie--I don't now,
in another sense, for fifty years is a very little bit of eternity."
The old lady spoke rather to herself than to the girl; but the words
chimed in with Mysie's previous thoughts.
"I think," she said, dreamily, "you _are_ the happiest. If Mr Harcourt
were to die you would have such a little while to wait; but if Arthur--
It's almost all _life_, if it is but a little bit of eternity."
"Die, my dear? What has put such sad thoughts into your head this
bright morning?"
"I don't know. But I shall remember this morning as long as I live."
Then, shaking off her sadness, she started up, and, kissing the old
lady, went off rather hastily on her errands.
The everyday occupation soon chased away the solemn thoughts that had
oppressed her, and having disposed of her other business she went down
to the canal, along the bank, and across the gates of the lock--the
unrailed condition of which was one of those grievances which are always
talked of and never remedied--to the lock-keeper's cottage, where she
gave her message about the health-drinking; and sent two little girls,
who were at home from school, off in a great hurry to join their
companions. These children were motherless, and Mysie took great
interest in the pretty sister Alice, who had charge of them.
The youngest boy was ill, and Mr Dickenson, the Oxley doctor--who was
most favoured at Redhurst--was paying him a visit. Mysie heard his
opinion, and promised sundry delicacies to assist the child's recovery.
"Then you will send the children down to the Rectory, Alice?" she said.
"Yes, Miss Mysie. I can't come with them, because of Freddy."
"No, of course not. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, miss."
Mysie tripped out into the sunshine, and on to the gates of the lock,
Alice thinking how pretty her white dress and muslin-covered hat looked
on this hot August day. "She always wears her prettiest things now Mr
Arthur's here," she thought, when the sudden loud report of a gun
sounded from the copse close at hand. Alice gave a little scream and
start. Mysie, half-way across, started violently also, and, either
losing her balance or catching her foot on the rough surface, slipped
and fell, out of the sunshine, out of the light, down into the cold,
dark water below.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of the First Volume.
PART THREE, CHAPTER TWENTY.
THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
"Tina died."
Mr Gilfil's Love Story.
Arthur went away from the Rectory whistling gaily, and succeeded in
catching Hugh before he started for Oxley. Hugh was a good but not a
very keen sportsman, and the rabbits were rather a sore subject; and he
replied to Arthur's representations that, as they had been left entirely
for the delectation of himself and George, it was his own fault if they
were too numerous. Arthur answered that he knew Hugh had asked two
friends next week, and had supposed he would want something for them to
shoot.
"The Molyneuxes, do you mean? They're not sportsmen. Never take out a
gun."
"So you said yesterday, and if you have no objection George and I will
polish a few off to-day. And if you will just come out early and meet
us in the plantations down by the canal, you'll see if I'm not right."
Hugh never liked to appear indifferent about sporting matters, so he
agreed to the proposal, though not very willingly, and they appointed a
place and time of meeting in the afternoon. Meanwhile, Arthur, who
enjoyed most things that fell to his lot, and George, who lived for the
pursuit of rats and rabbits, spent a pleasant and successful morning,
and when Hugh joined them could display a sufficient number of rabbits
to presuppose either considerable skill on their parts or the existence
of plenty of food for powder. Hugh, at Arthur's suggestion, despatched
George with three couple of rabbits to the tenant-farmer on whose land
they had been shooting, and sent the keeper for some more cartridges, as
their supply seemed likely to run short. Hugh and Arthur, thus left
together, went on through the copses, now in the full weight and depth
of their summer foliage, before the first tints of autumn varied them.
It was, perhaps, the time when the woods were least attractive, since
they were powerless and almost silent. Hugh was unsuccessful, and not
particularly pleased thereat.
"You have got your hand out in Italy," said Arthur, "and you have never
given yourself a day's shooting since you came home."
"I _am_ unlucky," said Hugh, "but you know I am never a very good shot."
"I wanted Jem to come; but he began to discuss the whole question of
cruelty, etc, from beginning to end. So I made myself scarce."
"It does seem a barbarous way for civilised gentlemen to spend their
time," said Hugh, but the appearance of a rabbit cut his remark short as
he fired and missed it, with an exclamation of annoyance rather strong
for a civilised gentleman with a contempt for sport.
"So that rabbit thinks," said Arthur, laughing.
"Ah, there's Mysie talking to the Woods," he added, as they came across
a stile into the copse by the canal and saw, through an opening, the
lock and Mysie and Alice standing by it.
"Hugh, I wish you would make them put a rail on to those gates."
"It's not my affair," said Hugh, "and they're safe enough. You had
better go and help her across."
As Hugh spoke, rather irritated by Arthur's fancifulness, as he
considered it, another little brown rabbit started out of the ferns.
"I'll have that one!" he said.
"Don't fire," said Arthur. "Look, you'll startle Mysie."
"Nonsense, it's too far off," answered Hugh sharply, and fired.
They saw the white figure start and reel, then vanish from their eyes.
With a loud shout of horror Arthur flung aside his gun, and leapt down
through the bushes on to the path, pursued, almost outstripped, by Hugh,
who sprang right into the water, as Alice's screams brought her father
and the doctor both at once to the spot.
Arthur stopped short on the brink, as nothing but the blank water met
his eyes.
"She fell in here!" he cried, clutching Alice's arm.
"Oh yes, sir; yes--off the gates! Oh, where is she?"
"She must have caught her dress in the gate!" cried Wood.
"Or struck her head?" said Mr Dickenson.
"Let off the water--is there no boat-hook--nothing?"
What gave to Arthur the power of acting and judging he knew neither then
nor afterwards. He turned round and said, low and clear:
"No, that will take too long. Open the gates, and she will be washed
down the stream. Come out, Hugh, that is useless."
"Yes, sir, for the Lord's sake come out, or you'll be drowned too,"
cried the lock-keeper, as he turned to the great handles of the gates.
"Run, Alice, open the other!"
Quick as thought, Alice crossed the upper gates, and seized the handle.
Arthur held out his hand, and, holding by a post, helped Hugh up the
steep side, then ran down the bank, and stood some yards below the lock,
waiting. Slowly the great doors groaned back and, with a swirl and a
rush, out poured the muddy water, for the lock was full. Hugh would
have thrown himself in again, but Wood held him back. Arthur strained
his eyes as the water rushed through, saw something dim and white above
him; sprang after it; dived, disappeared, then rose to the surface--
empty-handed. The impetus of the water had carried her further than he
had calculated on. Both Hugh and the lock-keeper had come to his help
before the white dress rose again: but it was his hand that caught it--
he caught _her_ once more in his arms, gained his feet in the shallow
water, and carried her to the bank.
There he laid her down with her head on Alice's lap, and wrung the water
from her soft, clinging dress. She had lost her hat; but her
tightly-folded hair was still in its place, and one was left of the
carnations that he had put in front of her dress in the morning.
Mr Dickenson knelt down and examined her carefully.
"It was not the length of time," he said, after a few moments.
"Oh, sir, sir, she's not _dead_, not _drowned_!" screamed Alice.
"She is not drowned. She struck her head and the back of her neck
against the side. It was all over before she touched the bottom."
He added a few technical words to explain his meaning, and Arthur
understood and knew that it was true.
"Yes, she is dead," he said, and the tone was as quiet, far quieter than
the doctor's own. He stood up, put Hugh aside, and took her in his arms
again.
"Will you get into that boat, Alice?" he said, pointing to one moored at
the side.
Awe-struck and sobbing, Alice obeyed.
"Sit down in the stern," he said.
And then he laid Mysie down with her head once more on Alice's lap,
unmoored the boat, and, with quick, vigorous strokes, rowed down towards
Redhurst; rowed past the meadows and the copses, as once before he had
rowed his love in the same bright evening sunlight, under the same blue
sky, and had talked of the future. Now the boat went on, the girl's
long fair hair dancing and waving, but her face all white and
tear-stained; Arthur bare-headed, his eyes fixed far away and his lips
set; and the white motionless figure, with Alice's little handkerchief
over the face, between them. Those who followed them on the bank said
that it was the most awful sight their eyes had ever seen--all the more
awful in that it was in a way picturesque and beautiful.
Arthur stopped at the landing. He fastened up the boat and once more
lifted up his burden.
"Mr Arthur, you'll want help," cried Wood.
"No," said Arthur, "she is very light. Go first, Mr Dickenson, and
tell them."
But, as he said "and tell them," a sort of quiver came over his face,
and he faltered for a moment.
"Keep close to him," said the doctor, "I'll go on. But where's Mr
Crichton?"
"He may have gone ahead, sir, to break the news first."