THE OLD FARM HOUSE――THE MASTER PASSION――JANE RYAN.
The winter has passed away and spring has come again.
All that remains of the much-dreaded Gregson is a few mouldering
bones. His body was buried within the walls of the gaol, and the quick
lime in the coffin has done its work.
Let us return to the scene of the opening chapters of our tale.
Oakfield House presents a charming picture of rustic beauty in the
sweet spring time. In the yard there are milch cows and cart horses,
with fowls fluttering, chirping, and pecking.
Stables and barns with tiled and slated roofs, and strong oaken doors
through which as they stand ajar, one can see the busy shirt sleeves
of the labourer.
A blue river and a long line of willows, a fine view of the arable
country――chalk hills and clay valleys――an orchard with a great stone
pigeon-house rising from the midst and towering over all the trees. A
rookery which is silent, for all the birds are feeding in the fields,
and a little hamlet in the distance seen here and there between the
leaves.
These are the leading and most noticeable features of the fine old
English homestead known as Oakfield House.
But the picture is unfinished, as every picture is unfinished without
a human figure. It is to colours upon canvas what the eye is to the
face, what the sun is to the sky.
At the side door of the homestead is a young woman. She is attending
to a throstle suspended from the wooden porch in its wicker cage. Her
face is pale, its expression is sad and thoughtful. It is evident that
she has been early acquainted with sorrow.
It would be difficult for many, who had known her in earlier years, to
recognise this young woman as the once gay and sprightly Jane Ryan.
A strange change has come over Jane. She moves about the house, and
grounds attached thereto, in a mechanical and listless manner. Her
household duties are attended to with even greater care and
thoughtfulness than heretofore; but a settled melancholy seems to have
fallen upon her, her cheeks are wan and pale, her features are thinner
and more delicately chiselled. It is painfully evident to all within
the farmer’s domicile that Jane is a prey to a deep-seated, and, it is
feared by some, an incurable sorrow.
Nevertheless, she does not complain――does not for a moment admit that
she is otherwise than in her wonted health.
Those about her, however, are of a different opinion. The Ashbrooks
shake their heads. Miss Ashbrook, in answer to her brother’s
questions, murmurs, “Fading away.”
“Poor girl, she cannot forget the past, and, to say the truth, it be
no wonder,” said the farmer’s sister on more than one occasion, when
the question was discussed.
“This is an upright straight for’ard good gell!” exclaimed Richard
Ashbrook. “That what she be, and I donna’ like to see her thus. Ye
must do your best, Maude, to cheer her up.”
“I ha’ done so, many and many a time.”
“Ah! that be but right and proper. I cannot see why she should take on
so. The past be passed away, it canna’ be recalled. But ha’ left its
traces behind――any one on us can see that,” observes John Ashbrook.
“Let the lass alone――maybe she’ll get over it after a bit.”
But the getting over it did not seem so easy as the good-natured
farmer might wish.
Jane, as days and weeks flew by, seemed to grow more sad and
thoughtful, and more than one of the rustics gravely remarked that she
would go off her head if she gave way too much.
Everyone declared that she was a truthful, honest girl; indeed, she
was a general favourite. It is little to say perhaps that she had not
an enemy.
During the period which elapsed between the burglary and conviction of
Gregson, she was looked upon as a sort of heroine, and numbers of
well-to-do folks paid a visit to the farmhouse for the avowed purpose
of making her acquaintance.
This popularity――or notoriety would, perhaps, be the better term――did
not afford Jane any gratification; on the contrary, she was ill at
ease when in the company of strangers, especially so when allusion was
made to the circumstances connected with the crimes of burglary or
murder.
She was a girl possessed of acute feelings――remarkably sensitive――though
few persons would, perhaps, have given her the credit of possessing
this latter quality, the reason for this being that she was reticent
and undemonstrative.
In addition to all these characteristics, she was deeply imbued with
superstition――was, in fact, a fatalist, and believed that all things
were pre-ordained, and that it was useless for anyone to struggle
against the decrees of fate.
The good pastor of the village strove in vain to dismiss from her mind
this idea.
Jane heard all he had to say, but remained inflexible, affirming that
her own life was a proof of this theory. Twice she dreamt that a
burglary would be committed at Oakfield House on the very night that
it did take place. A warning voice told her that the murderer of
Hopgood would be one of the burglars――this came to pass.
It was in vain for anyone to deny the truth of these assertions,
which, as we have already seen, were made manifest to wondering
thousands; and it would be equally useless to deny also that similar
warnings had been given in similar cases. The dead body of Maria
Martin, of Red Barn notoriety, was discovered through the agency of a
dream. This was incontestably proved upon the trial of William Corder,
her murderer.
We are not for a moment assuming that it would be wise of anyone to
put trust in dreams, signs, or omens of any sort――such an act would be
the worst of folly.
Superstition is a blight, a mildew, and a curse to all who come under
its fatal influence, and to a certain extent it was a blight upon the
young life of Jane Ryan.
She had borne up for years hopefully and trustfully, in the full
belief that the death of her lover would be avenged.
Now that this had come to pass, Jane felt that her mission was
fulfilled. She had little to care for, nothing to hope, and it
mattered not to her how her future course was shaped.
She consulted the wise woman who had prognosticated the appearance of
Gregson at the farmhouse. The woman told her to forget the past, and
look hopefully to the future, which is about the best advice she could
give.
But Jane found it difficult to forget. A shadow had fallen upon her
like a funeral pall.
One afternoon, while sitting alone in the breakfast-room of Oakfield,
she met with a surprise. She had been at needlework. She put this
aside, and leaning her head on her hand, with her elbow resting on the
table, she fell into one of those deep reveries which had been so
frequent with her of late.
A hand was placed on her shoulder, whereupon she gave a slight scream.
Upon looking up she found Mr. Richard Ashbrook by her side; his
brother John had gone with his sister to pay a visit to a neighbouring
agriculturist.
The farmer smiled, and said, good-naturedly――
“Why, Jane, lass, thee beest eas’ly frightened.”
“I did not know anyone was here,” she answered, “and I was a little
startled, and that’s the truth.”
“You’ve got very timursome o’ late. Tell me, girl, what ails ye? Ye
gets paler and thinner every mortal day; and ye see we are getting a
bit concerned.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered, with a faint smile. “There’s
nothin’ amiss wi’ me.”
“Aye, but there is, gell. I tell ’ee thee is getting in a bad way.
Dall it, I do not want to see ye go melancholy mad.”
“Oh, I shan’t do that.”
“Jane,” said the farmer, in a more solemn and serious tone than he was
wont to assume; “ye been a thinkin’ an’ a thinkin’ till your brain
becomes all of a whirl. Tell us, lass, what ails ye, and if anything
can be done to put thee right it sha’ be done. You know, Jane, we all
o’ us are as fond o’ ye as if――as if ye were our own flesh and blood.
Your troubles are our troubles, an’――well, what was I saying? Oh, you
must not look like that.”
“How am I to look, then?”
“More natural like.”
The farmer stood for a few moments after this silent and thoughtful.
Presently he drew a chair beside Jane’s and sat down. Upon this the
girl was about to rise when he motioned her to keep her seat.
She looked surprised, but said nothing.
There they both sat for a short time without exchanging a word.
Presently Richard Ashbrook broke the silence, which was becoming
painful and perplexing to both.
“Ye must know,” began the farmer, “that I ha’ something to say to ye.
That be why I came here. I don’t want to open old wounds afresh, but
there is a reason for yer droopin’ and droopin’ as ye have been for
ever so long a time, and I mean to know what it be.”
“I s’pose you can guess?”
“Maybe I can; but I want to have it from yer own lips.”
“Oh, sir, ye don’t want me to tell ’ee more than ye already know?”
“Ye’ve mourning for one that be dead and gone. Is that it?”
The girl nodded her head.
“I knew it――I could ha’ sworn it. Well, Jane, it is no discredit to
ye; still at the same time, gell, thee knows that the wisest and the
best of us cannot recall the dead to life, and to cherish a hopeless
sorrow is neither wise or discreet. I don’t wish to pain ye, but I
tell ye plainly that you are altogether wrong. You are young, and
although yer have gone through a deal o’ trouble that is no reason why
you should let the past embitter your life.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Richard――it shall not do so.”
“But it does, lass, anyone can see that it does. Tell me, do ye think
yourself the same gell as came here some five year and a half agone?”
“I hope I am,” she murmured; “time has changed me a little, I
suppose.”
“Jane,” said Ashbrook, “we are one an’ all of us fond of ye. I had
somethin’ to say that mustn’t go unsaid. Listen――ye’d not disgrace any
man, and ye’d be no discredit to any farmer as the mistress o’ his
house――as his wife――do ye understand what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I don’t want to see ’ee fade away before my very eyes,
under my very nose. I can’t and won’t stand that, an’ ye shall not if
I can help it.”
Then he took her hand in his own and said, in a voice broken by
emotion――
“I love ye, Jane.”
Then he placed his other arm across her shoulders and said no more.
The pale cheeks of Jane Ryan were suffused with a deep flush of red,
in another moment they became paler than ever.
“Ah! ah!” she ejaculated, after a pause――“ah, Mr. Richard, ye do not
know what ye’ve been sayin’.”
“Don’t I?” said the farmer, resolutely――“don’t I?”
“I do not think so.”
“Well, then, if it comes to that, I will say it agin. I love ye. I’ll
deal honest and fair by ye. If thee likest, if ye’ll consent, ye shall
be my wife.”
He drew her towards him, and imprinted on her lips the first kiss of
pure love.
“Ye mek no answer,” he murmured. “Speak, gell.”
“I bid ye think agen, Mr. Ashbrook,” answered Jane. “Think agen.”
“I have thought of it over and over agen. What need is there o’
further thinkin’ when a man has made up his mind?”
“You are too good and kind to me, that’s what you are,” said his
companion. “Much too good, an’ that be the truth on’t; but, my dear
master, you deserve someone better than myself, and it may not be. My
heart is bruised and broken, and it be a poor offering to any man.
Seek someone more worthy of ye. Ah, Mr. Richard, ye make the hot
scalding tears come to mine eyes, which ha’ been dry these many a
year.”
She ceased suddenly, bent forward, buried her face in her hands, and
burst into a passionate flood of tears.
The farmer was touched. He was more than this――he was fairly overcome.
He was quite unprepared for this violent demonstration of grief.
“I be sorry I’ve hurt your feelings, Jane, truly sorry,” he murmured.
“Don’t say anything to me. Don’t say kind things. Oh, how truly
wretched I am!” interrupted Jane.
“Wretched!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise.
“I had never counted on this.”
“And is an honest man’s love a thing to be despised?” he said, with
something like indignation in his tone.
“No, my dear master, it’s a thing to be proud of,” returned Jane,
throwing her arms round his neck, and embracing him tenderly. “It
would and ought to make any girl proud and happy――any but me.”
“Ah, that’s it――is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You love another.”
“Now, I’m sure you do not mean what you say. I did love another――him
as is dead and gone these six years ago an’ more.”
“Ah! true. No one else?”
“Certainly not. It seems strange to me that you should ask such a
question.”
“Does it?” said the farmer, musingly, gazing, at the same time,
abstractedly through the lozenge panes of the lattice window of the
apartment. Then, after a pause, he added――
“I don’no but what you beest right. I don’no what med me ask such a
question.”
He again became silent and thoughtful. He was doatingly fond of the
young woman by his side――much more attached to her than he had
supposed, or, indeed, cared to confess.
A suspicion crossed his mind; it was vague and shadowy at first, and
did not assume any tangible shape. It was this――
“What if Jane had formed an attachment in the neighbourhood?”
He had never given that a thought before, not until after he had
avowed his love.
The thought was agony. Poor Ashbrook was a man of impulse. He had
never throughout his life been accustomed to consider twice before he
spoke. He was hasty and at times brusque in his manner; for the rest
he was as upright and honest as the day, and was quite incapable of
doing a mean, paltry, or ungenerous action. Of all men in the world he
was, perhaps, the one least able to bear a disappointment or a repulse
from the woman he loved.
The bare supposition of a rival――and it might be a successful one――was
gall and wormwood to him.
“Ye’ve heard what I’ve bin sayin’, Jane,” said the farmer, in a tone
of voice which, to say the truth, was in strange contrast to its usual
tone.
There was a mournful cadence in his voice which his companion never
remembered to have heard on any former occasion. He proceeded with his
discourse slowly and deliberately.
“As I ha’ just sed,” he observed, thoughtfully. “You’ve heard the few
words that ha’ fallen from my lips, and, hark ’ee, it aint because I’m
in a better position than ye are, Jane, that I would seek by word or
deed to control ye in a matter which concerns ye more perhaps than
aught else. I’ve no right to control ye. A woman cannot help her
likins’ and dislikins’ any more than a man, and if ye cannot find it
in your heart to look upon me wi’――wi’ eyes o’ favour――”
“Mr. Richard――Mr. Ashbrook,” interrupted the girl, with sudden warmth,
“you not goin’ to tell me that you believe for a moment that I would
turn from ye――that I would not lay down my life gladly and cheerfully
for you or your’n――at any turn, at any time, or do aught that a poor
creature like myself could do to help and benefit you. Ah, ah! if ye
doubt this ye do me but scant justice.”
“I do not doubt it――I should be worse than a fool to doubt it,” said
the farmer, bending fondly ever her.
“Spoken like yourself――your own good self!” exclaimed Jane.
Ashbrook did not deem it advisable to press the question further. He
contented himself with imprinting a kiss on the girl’s forehead, and
said gently――
“You are troubled. Now, think over what I’ve bin a-sayin’; we’ll talk
further on this matter another time.”
And with these few parting words he crept softly out of the apartment
and went abroad in the fields.
“She must ha’ bin mighty fond o’ the young carpenter,” he murmured, as
he took his way over the meadows. “Mighty fond, to keep the memory o’
him green for so long a time. Wimmen they’re strange creatures――the
best on us can’t mek ’em out at times, and yet――yet――dall it, I do
love that gell, and that’s the honest truth.”