Mr. Bellamy's farm of Westchapel--Chapel Farm it was usually called--lay
about half a mile from Lampson's Ford, and about five miles from
Eastthorpe. The road from Eastthorpe running westerly and parallel with
the river at a distance of about a mile from it sends out at the fourth
milestone a byroad to the south, which crosses the river by a stone
bridge, and there is no doubt that before the bridge existed there was a
ford, and that there was also a chapel hard by where people probably
commended their souls to God before taking the water. In the angle
formed by the main road, the lane, and the river, lay Chapel Farm. The
house stood on a gentle slope, just enough to lift it above the range of
the worst of winter floods, and faced the south. It was not in the lane,
but on a kind of private road or cart-track which issued from it; went
through a gate and under a hedge; expanded itself in an open space of
carefully weeded gravel just opposite the front door, and became a more
insignificant and much rougher track on the other side, passing by the
stacks into the field, and finally disappearing altogether. From the
hand-post on the main road to the gate was half a mile, and from the gate
to the farm nearly another half-mile. In driving from Chapel Farm you
feel, when you reach the gate, you are in the busy world again, and when
you reach the hand-post and turn to Eastthorpe you are in the full tide
of life, although not a soul is to be seen. Opposite the house were the
farm-buildings and the farmyard. The gate to the right of the
farm-buildings led into the meadow, and thus anybody sitting in the front
rooms could see the barges slowly and silently towed from the sea to the
uplands and back again, the rising ground beyond, and so on to Thingleby,
whose little spire just emerged above the horizon. The river, deep and
sluggish for the most part, was fringed with willows on the side opposite
the towing-path. At the bridge, just where the ford used to be, it was
broken into shallows, over which the stream slipped faster, and here and
there there were not above two or three feet of water, so that sometimes
the barges were almost aground. The farmhouse was not quite ideal. It
was plain red brick, now grey and lichen-covered, about a hundred years
old; the windows were white-painted, with heavy frames, and the only
attempt at ornament was a kind of porch over the front door, supported by
brackets, but with no sides to it. Nevertheless, it had its charms. Save
on the northern side, where it was backed by the huge elms in the home-
field, it lay bare to the winds, breezy, airy, full of light. In summer
the front door was always open, and even when it was shut in cold weather
no knocker was ever used. If a visitor came by daylight he was always
seen, and if after dark he was heard. The garden, which lay on the west
side of the house and at the back, was rather warm in hot weather, but
was delicious. Under the wall on the north side the apricot and Orleans
plum ripened well, and round to the right was the dairy, always cool,
sweet, and clean, with the big elder trees before the barred window.
The mistress of the house, Mrs. Bellamy, was not a very robust woman. She
was generally ailing, but never very seriously ill. She had had two
children, but they had both died. Mrs. Bellamy's mind, unoccupied with
parental cares, with politics, or with literature, let itself loose upon
her house, her dairy, and her fowls. She established a series of
precautions to prevent dirt, and the precautions themselves became
objects to be protected. There was a rough scraper intervening on behalf
of the black-leaded scraper; there was a large mat to preserve the mat
beyond it: and although a drugget coveted the stair carpet, Mrs. Bellamy
would have been sorely vexed if she had found a footmark upon it. If a
friend was expected she put some straw outside the garden gate, and she
asked him in gentle tones when he dismounted if he would kindly "just
take the worst off" there. The kitchen was scoured and scrubbed till it
was fleckless. It was theoretically the living-room, and a defence for
the parlour, but it also was defended in its turn like the scraper, and
the back kitchen, which had a fireplace, was used for cooking, the fire
in the state kitchen not being lighted in summer time. Partly Mrs.
Bellamy's excessive neatness was due to the need of an occupation. She
brooded much, and the moment she had nothing to do she became
low-spirited and unwell. Partly also it was due to a touch of poetry.
She polished her verses in beeswax and turpentine, and sought on her
floors and tables for that which the poet seeks in Eden or Atlantis. It
must not be imagined that because she was so particular she was stingy.
She was one of the most open-handed creatures that ever breathed. She
loved plenty. The jug was always full to overflowing with beer, and the
dishes were always heaped up with good things, so that nobody was ever
afraid of robbing his neighbour.
Catharine was never weary of Chapel Farm. She was busy from morning to
night, and the living creatures on it were her especial delight.
Naturally, as is the case with all country girls, the circumference of
her knowledge embraced a region which a town matron would have veiled
from her daughters with the heaviest curtains.
"How's the foal going on?" said Mrs. Bellamy to her husband one evening
when he came in to supper.
"Oh, the foal's all right; he'll be just like his father--just the same
broad hind-quarters. Lord! we shall hardly get him into the shafts. You
remember, Miss Catharine, as I showed you what extrornary quarters King
Tom had when he came here? It is a curious thing, there ain't one of his
foals that hasn't got that mark of him. I allus likes a horse, I do,
that leaves his mark strong. If you pay pretty heavy you ought to have
something for your money. The mother, though, is in a bad way: my belief
is she'll have milk-fever."
"That mare never seemed healthy to me," said Catharine.
"No; she was brought up anyhow. When she was about a fortnight old her
mother died. They didn't know how to manage her, and half starved her."
"I don't believe in starvin' creatures when they are young," said Mrs.
Bellamy, who was herself a very small eater.
"Nor I, either, and yet that mare, although, as you say, Miss Catharine,
she was never healthy, has the most wonderful pluck, as you know. I
remember once I had two ton o' muck in the waggon, and we were stuck.
Jack and Blossom couldn't stir it, and, after a bit, chucked up. I put
in Maggie--you should have seen her! She moved it, a'most all herself,
aye, as far as from here to the gate, and then of course the others took
it up. That's blood! What a thing blood is!--you may load it, but you
can't break it. Never a touch of the whip would she stand, and yet it's
quite true she isn't right, and never was. Maybe the foal will be like
her; the shape goes after the father mostly, but the sperrit and temper
after the mother."
The next morning Maggie was worse. Catharine was in the stable as soon
as anybody was stirring, and the poor creature was trembling violently.
She was watched with the most tender care, and when she became too weak
to stand to eat or drink she was slung with soft bands and pads. Her
groans were dreadful. After about a week of cruel misery she died. It
was evening, and Catharine sat down and looked at what was left of her
friend. She had never before even partly realised what death meant. She
was too young to feel its full force. The time was yet to come when
death would mean despair--when the insolubility of the problem would
induce carelessness to all other problems and their solution.
Furthermore, this was only a horse. Still, the contrast struck her
between the corpse before her and Maggie with her bright eyes and vivid
force. What had become of all that strength; what had become of
_her_?--and the girl mused, as countless generations had mused before
her. Then there was the pathos of it. She thought of the brave animal
which she had so often seen, apparently for the mere love of difficulty,
struggling as if its sinews would crack. She thought of its glad
recognition when she came into the stable, and of its evident affection,
half human, or perhaps wholly human, and imprisoned in a form which did
not permit full expression. She looked at its body as it lay there
extended, quiet, pleading as it were against the doom of man and of
beast, and tears came to her eyes as she noted the appeal--tears not
altogether of sorrow, but partly of revolt.
Mr. Bellamy came in.
"Ah, Miss Catharine, I don't wonder at it. There's many a human as I
should less have missed than Maggie. I can't make out at times why we
should love the beasts so as perish."
"Perhaps they don't."
"Really, Miss, of course they do. What's the Lord to do with all the
dead horses and cows?"
Catharine thought, "Or with the dead men and women," but she said
nothing. The subject was new to her. She took her scissors and cut off
a wisp of Maggie's beautiful mane, twisted it up, put it carefully in a
piece of paper, and placed it in a little pocket-book which she always
carried. The next morning as soon as it was daylight a man came over
from Eastthorpe; Maggie was hoisted into a cart, her legs dangling down
outside, and was driven away to be converted into food for dogs.
One of Catharine's favourite haunts was a meadow by the bridge. She was
not given to reading, but she liked a stroll and, as there were plenty of
rats, the dog enjoyed the stroll too. Not a week after Maggie's death
she had wandered to this point without her usual companion. A barge had
gone down just before she arrived, and for some reason or other had made
fast to the bank about a quarter of a mile below her on the side opposite
to the towing-path. She sat down under a willow with her face to the
water and back to the sun, for it was very hot, and in a few minutes she
was half dozing. Suddenly she started, and one of the bargemen stood
close by her.
"Hullo, my beauty! Why, you was asleep! Wot's the time?"
"I haven't a watch."
"Haven't a watch! Now that's a shame; if you was mine, my love, you
should 'ave one o' gold."
"It is time I was at home," said Catharine, rising with as much presence
of mind as she could muster; "and I should think it must be your dinner-
hour."
"Damn my dinner-hour, when I've got the chance of sittin' alongside a gal
with sich eyes as yourn, my beauty. Why, you make me all of a tremble.
Sit down for a bit."
Catharine moved away, but the bargee caught her round the waist.
"Sit down, I tell yer, jist for a minute. Who's a-goin' to hurt yer?"
It was of no use to resist, and she did not scream. She sat down, and
his arm relaxed its hold to pick up his pipe which had fallen on the
other side. Instantly, without a second's hesitation she leaped up, and,
before his heavy bulk could lift itself, she had turned and rushed along
the bank. Had she made for the bridge, he would have overtaken her in
the lane, but she went the other way. About fifty yards down the stream,
and in the direction of Chapel Farm, was a deep hole in the river bed,
about five feet wide. On the other side of it there were not more than
eighteen inches of water at any point. Catharine knew that hole well, as
the haunt of the jack and the perch. She reached it, cleared it at a
bound, and alighted on the bit of shingle just beyond it. Her pursuer
came up and stared at her silently, with his mouth half open. Just at
that moment the instant sound of wheels was heard, and he slowly
sauntered back to his barge. Catharine boldly waded over the intervening
shallows, and was across just as the cart reached the top of the bridge,
but her shoes remained behind her in the mud. It proved to be her
father's cart, and to contain Tom, who had been over to Thingleby that
morning to see what chance there was of getting any money out of a
blacksmith who was largely in Mr. Furze's debt. He saw there was
something wrong, and dismounted.
"Why, Miss Catharine, you are all wet! What is the matter?"
"I slipped down."
She could not tell the truth, although usually so straightforward. Tom
looked at her inquiringly as if he was not quite sure, but there was
something in her face which forbade further investigation.
"You've lost your shoes; you cannot walk home; will you let me give you a
lift to Chapel Farm?"
"They do not matter a straw: it is grass nearly the whole way."
"I'll fish them out, if you will show me where they are."
"Carried down by this time ever so far."
"But you will hurt your feet; it isn't all grass; you had better get in."
She thought suddenly of the bargee again, and reflected that the barge
might still be moored where it was an hour ago.
"Very well, then, I will go."
She essayed to put her foot upon the step, but the mud on her stocking
was greasy, and she fell backwards. Tom caught her in his arms, and a
strange thrill passed through him when he felt that the whole weight of
her body rested on him. Many a man there is who can call to mind, across
forty years, a silly passage like this in his life. His hair has
whitened; all passion ought long ago to have died out of him; thousands
of events of infinitely greater consequence have happened; he has read
much in philosophy and religion, and has forgotten it all, and a slip on
the ice when skating together, or a stumble on the stair, or the pressure
of a hand prolonged just for a second in parting, is felt with its
original intensity, and the thought of it drives warm blood once more
through the arteries.
"Let me get in first," said Tom, putting some straw on the step.
He got into the cart, and he gently pulled her up, relinquishing her very
carefully, and, in fact, not until after his assistance was no longer
needed.
"How _did_ you manage it?"
"You know how these things happen: it was all-over in a minute: how are
father and mother?"
"They are very well."
There was a pause for a minute or two.
"Well, how are things going on at Eastthorpe?"
"Oh, pretty well; the building is three parts done. I don't think, Miss
Catharine, you'll ever go back to the old spot again."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think your father and mother will leave the Terrace."
"Very likely," she replied, decisively. "It will be better, perhaps,
that they should not. I am sure that whatever they do will be quite
right."
"Of course, Miss Catharine, but _I_ shall be sorry. I wish my bedroom
could have been built up again between the old walls. In that bedroom
you saved my life."
"Rubbish! Even suppose _I_ had done it, as you say, I should have done
just the same for my silkworms, and then, somehow when I do a thing on a
sudden like that, I always feel as if _I_ had not done it. I am sure I
didn't do it."
The last few words were spoken in a strangely different tone, much softer
and sweeter.
"I don't quite understand."
"I mean," said Catharine, speaking slowly, as if half surprised at what
had occurred to her, and half lost in looking at it--"I mean that I do
not a bit reflect at such times upon what I do. It is as if something or
somebody took hold of me, and, before I know where I am, the thing is
done, and yet there is no something nor somebody--at least, so far as I
can see. It is wonderful, for after all it is I who do it."
Tom looked intently at her. She seemed to be taking no notice of him and
to be talking to herself. He had never seen her in that mood before,
although he had often seen her abstracted and heedless of what was
passing. In a few moments she recovered herself, and the usual everyday
accent returned with an added hardness.
"Here we are at Chapel Farm. Mind you say nothing to father or mother;
it will only frighten them."
Mrs. Bellamy came to the gate.
"Lor' bless the child! wherever have you been!"
"Slipped into the water and left my shoes behind me, that's all"; and she
ran indoors, jumping from mat to mat, and without even so much as bidding
Tom goodbye, who rode home, not thinking much about his business, but
lost in a muddle of most contradictory presentations, a constant glimmer
of Catharine's ankles, wonderment at her accident--was it all true?--the
strange look when she disclaimed the honour of his rescue and expounded
her philosophy, and the fall between his shoulders. When he slept, his
sleep was usually dreamless, but that night he dreamed as he hardly ever
dreamed before. He perpetually saw the foot on the step, and she was
slipping into his arms continually, until he awoke with the sun.