TWO FRIENDS-TWO LETTERS.
WALTER WILSON, having been all day employed with his friend Ralph
Burgess, who called himself a civil engineer as well as a surveyor, in
theodoliting and chain-dragging over some twenty miles, more or less,
of rough stubble country, and having been ordered off more than one
farm by gentlemen of the bucolic order, who weren't a-going to have
their land cut up by railroads, so they, the hapless intruders, needn't
think it, was returning to his quarters, pretty considerably fatigued
with his day's work, and out of temper, with no one in particular, but
with all in general. And this we take it is the worst, because the
most hopeless kind of bad temper in which a man (or woman either) can
indulge.
Not that Walter had not some grounds for mental worry, which, however,
need not, have bred ill-humour, though it often does, the more is the
pity. It was true, as his father had reported of him, that he was
getting on in his new business well enough, and was hand and glove with
his friend Ralph. But for all that, he was finding it uphill work, and
more than sufficiently fatiguing both to mind and body. So that, what
was a cause of light-hearted merriment to Ralph Burgess, who had been
used to it, considerably chafed poor Walter, who had not. And he, far
too often for his peace of mind, compared his present lot with his
past, always arriving at the conclusion that a farmer's life was, on
the whole, the best life under the sun that a man can lead.
Of course, this brought him to reflect on the immediate cause of what
he called his banishment from home. His uncle Mark was the cause of it,
there was not a doubt.
"If it had not been for his sottish habits," Walter reflected, "he
wouldn't have wanted that money my father threw away upon him; and
then I might have had the use of it to take a farm with, and I might,
by now, have been comfortably married and settled, instead of slaving
about the country in this fashion."
Naturally, these reflections had led him, especially of late, to think
of his betrothed with not entire satisfaction. She had not been so
attentive to him as she might, could, would, or should have been; so he
felt in his heart of hearts. They had been separated now a good many
months, and her letters to him had not yet advanced into the "teens,"
while his to her had made a hole in the "tys." This was not pleasant;
at least it was not reciprocal.
Moreover, had he looked at those letters of hers with any but a
lover's eyes, he could not help thinking that he should have found
very little in them; at any rate, they were not half so long as his
to her had been, and this was clearly reversing the order of nature.
At the same time, little as they contained, they—one or two later
ones, at least—had in them some things not altogether agreeable. He
did not half like Sarah's way of mentioning the young Oxford student.
Oxford student, indeed! What did an Oxford student mean by those
constant visits to High Beech Farm? It was not to see his uncle Mark,
Walter gravely opined; nor his aunt, Mrs. Mark, either. He wisely, or
unwisely, concluded, therefore, that Sarah must be the attraction. And
he had heard enough of Oxford students, from his old friend Mr. Rubric,
to think that they were not to be trusted out of sight.
It was all very well, he argued, for Sarah to write about him as she
had done in that last letter of hers, as though she were annoyed with
his pertinacity, and played practical jokes upon him, by seating him
upon the hardest, knobbiest parlour chair, to get rid of him the
sooner. But Walter knew where such jokes lead to sometimes; and,
at any rate, he himself had, in his earlier days of courtship, had
experience of that same hard and knobby chair without any acceleration
of locomotion on his part; and so it might be on the part of the Oxford
student. Many aches and bruises inflicted by knobby chairs had not
destroyed his love; and if the Oxford student had dared to lift his
eyes to Sarah's charms in the way of admiration, a few knobs on the
hard-bottomed chair would make no difference to that admiration, Master
Walter guessed.
And had not he had hints of what had lately been going on at High Beech
from his sister Elizabeth, who, being the principal scribe, apart
from himself, in the family, took care that he should be pretty well
posted up in all matters calculated to keep warm his not unreasonable
disapproval of his uncle Mark's conduct, and to kindle a lover's
jealousy of his betrothed?
We know that she once said, "Walter shan't marry Sarah, if we can
help it, right or wrong," and she meant what she said. And that she
had the exquisite feminine art of setting about the carrying out of
her determination in the cleverest possible manner, was proved by the
effect her innuendoes had already produced.
All these matters Walter had been turning over in his mind as he
plodded homeward with his friend Ralph, and, combined with bodily
fatigue, they had their natural effect in mental irritation, not at
first perceived, however, by his companion.
"That was a queer start we had with the big farmer at Bingle-bottom,"
said Ralph, laughing.
"Was it?" said Walter, curtly.
"Wasn't it? Threatening to set his bull-dog at us if we didn't move off
his forty-acre field in less than no time."
"And would have served us right too," growled the assistant surveyor.
"Ullo!"
"Well, what about 'Ullo,' Ralph?" was Walter's rejoinder.
"Why, that it is a queer thing for you to say," replied Ralph,
good-humouredly.
"We were trespassing, weren't we?"
"Trespassing? Oh, bother! We did not do any harm, did we?"
"That has nothing to do with it. We had no business there, without
leave asked," said Walter.
"Come to that, I expect if we were to wait for leave asked, our line
would never be surveyed at all," Ralph concluded.
"And a good thing too," replied the disputant. "Cutting up the country
for railroads! If I was a farmer I wouldn't stand it."
"But not being a farmer, but a civil engineer, what then?"
"What difference does that make? Right is right, isn't it?"
"And wrong is wrong," added the good-tempered principal. "But, Walter,
dear fellow, what has come over you to put you out of sorts?"
"I don't know why you should think anything has come over me," was the
ungracious answer.
"I think so from your manner. But come, we won't say any more about it.
You are tired. So am I, and we'll have a rest-day to-morrow."
"Ralph," said Walter presently, when they had trudged on some distance
in silence, "you are a good fellow to put up with me as you do, and
I beg your pardon for contradicting you as I did just now. I am very
wretched sometimes, if that is any excuse for my ill-temper."
"Don't talk about pardon; there's no occasion for that on either side,
I hope," replied Ralph, affectionately. "We know one another too well.
But I am sorry to hear you talk of being wretched. To tell the truth, I
have been sometimes afraid—lately, I mean—not till lately—that you have
had a weight on your mind. I haven't liked to ask you about it."
"Oh, there isn't much the matter that I know of," said the repentant
friend; "only I think now and then that I am not cut out for this sort
of work."
"Don't say that, Wilson," remonstrated Ralph, earnestly; "because you
are, you know. I never knew a fellow like you for taking to anything as
you have taken to this line."
"Line of railroad, do you mean, Ralph?"
"No, no, line of life in general; line of business, I should say. You
have picked up as much in a year as it took me five to learn. And
with our prospects before us—our joint prospect when the partnership
begins—who can tell what we may do, or where we shall be in ten years,
or less than that?"
"Who indeed?" repeated Walter, with a rather bitter smile and tone of
voice.
"To be sure, it is uphill work at present."
"Yes," Walter assented.
"But when we have got well-established, we shall do famously. It is
only to wait."
"Yes, only to wait," Walter repeated.
"And what is waiting, when you know it will come?" Ralph added.
"You are not in love," Walter remarked, so despondently that his friend
broke out into a merry laugh.
"Glad to say I am not, Walter, except with my profession." Then he
added, apologetically, "I beg your pardon, my dear fellow. I forgot
that you are; but what has that to do with it?"
"Everything, when you talk so coolly about waiting. Look here, Ralph;
before I came away here, I thought I wasn't far-off from being married
to my cousin Sarah; and so I should have been by this time if it hadn't
been for—well, never mind about that. But I sort of promised then that,
at the end of two years, things should come straight for it. And now
you talk about ten years!" This was said with a rueful countenance.
Ralph laughed again. "I did not say it must be ten years before you
could be married, did I, Walter?"
"No; but putting this and that together, it doesn't seem—but there, why
should I bother you with my troubles?"
If he did not bother his friend, poor Walter confided in him, and he
was presently pouring into Ralph's sympathising understanding the tale
of his griefs hitherto undivulged to his friend. The reader knows what
these troubles were—some real, some fanciful—so we need not repeat
them. They were foolish and trivial, no doubt. But who is without them?
Or who would be without them if he could?
"Here we are at last," said Ralph, cheerily, as the two theodolite and
chain-bearing wanderers reached Ralph's home; "and now I hope sister
Mary has thought of us while we have been away," he added, as he pushed
open the door.
If Sarah Wilson were ever jealous, in her pretty pouting way, of the
unknown Mary Burgess, she might have known that there was no foundation
for such a feeling. Ralph's sister was ten years older than himself,
and he was some two or three years older than his friend Walter.
Besides this disparity of age, Miss Burgess was so far afflicted in
health as that, while she was not incapacitated from active domestic
life in general, she knew it to be indispensable that that life should
be a single one. And she submitted to this necessity, not only without
a murmur, but cheerfully; for she was a heroine of no common stamp—she
was a Christian heroine.
It is true Walter had written admiringly and praisingly, both to his
sister and his cousin, of Mary Burgess's excellent qualities and
superior good sense, and above all, of her kindness to him. And he had
not thought it necessary to mention those disqualifications which he
would have felt were nothing to him, one way or the other. Naturally
enough, therefore, Elizabeth and Sarah might have been innocently led
into an error which, in one case, excited exultation, and in the other,
jealousy and suspicion.
This short explanation is necessary to clear the way. We now resume our
narrative proper.
Mary Burgess had thought of her brother and his friend; and they were
all seated at the substantial meal, comprehending dinner, tea, and
supper in one, provided by her carefulness, when the postman's knock
was heard.
"Two for you, Walter," said Ralph, handing them over to him, when the
budget of letters, mostly on business, was laid on the table.
Walter glanced at their superscription, and went on with his meal.
"They will keep till after dinner," said he, which they did.
Then he broke the seal, first of one, then of the other, and was
presently immersed in their contents, as fine writers would say.
Very soon his countenance was overclouded, and exclamations of
impatience from time to time escaped his lips. He read on, however, to
the end of them both, and then threw them passionately on the table.
"Read them, please, Ralph, and you also, Miss Burgess, if you care to
be bothered with my concerns, and tell me what you think of them," said
Walter, huskily, as he left the room for a stroll in the garden.
His friends accepted the office; and while they are thus employed, we
may glance over their shoulders, and register a few extracts from the
letters.
"Such fun—" thus wrote Walter's lover; "what do you think, Walter?
Only yesterday, when I was gathering filberts, you know where, to send
to market to-day, who should make his appearance but that stupid John
Tincroft. He had come up to High Beech, as he had done a deal oftener
than I have liked, and finding nobody in the house but Meg, he came
blundering into the garden, where I was. I was that mad with him that I
could have boxed his ears, but I didn't; I left that for you to do. But
I set him to work, and made him help me gather the filberts. You can't
think what a ninny he is; he doesn't know how to do anything properly;
and he kept pulling down the boughs, and breaking them off—there,
nobody knows how. I hope he got covered with harvest-bugs, I do; and
won't they tease him?"
"Well, when we had filled the basket—the old bushel basket, you know,
that we used to gather apples in, when—oh dear, you know when, Walter—I
told him I was going to darn stockings in the holly arbour, and made
sure that would get rid of him. But no such thing. There he followed
me; and there he sat staring, with both his eyes wide open, till I
was ready to scream out. I don't know but what I should, if he hadn't
opened his mouth at last, and told me that he had come up to the farm
to say good-bye; for he was going next day (that's to-day, you know)
to Oxford, because his lawyer had sent for him. Wasn't that a relief,
Walter? Then, after that, he began to talk wild about father. What
stuff he had got in his head, I can't think; but he was going on at a
rate, when, who do you think should pop her head into the arbour, but
cousin Elizabeth, your sister!"
"I was never more put out in my life—never; and I couldn't say a
word, till she went in at us, about being so sorry she had interrupted
us, and all that sort of thing. And then, before I could speak, off she
marched, as grand as my lady, and left me and that Tincroft alone
again. But I know Elizabeth had been watching all the time; and she
will be trying to make mischief between us out of it, I know she will;
but don't you believe a word she says, Walter."
"Mr. Tincroft didn't stay long after that; and he is gone off to
Oxford to-day, I know that, for Meg was down at the shop, and she saw
him drive by in the squire's cart, and Master Tom Grigson with him;
and what I hope is, that he will never come to these parts again."
"And, dear Walter, don't believe anything Elizabeth tells you, for
it is all spite—all."
So much for the cousin and lover. Now for the sister:
"And now I have got something to tell you that you won't like to
hear, but it is my duty to let you know how things are going on at
High Beech, and I must do my duty by you, whether you like it or not.
You know, in my last letter, I wrote to you about the goings on of
Sarah and that college man, and you sent me word it was all stuff
and nonsense. Not a pretty thing to say to your sister, who is only
thinking of your good, Walter. But that's how it often is, when the
best friends get the worst treatment. But I shan't be turned out of my
proper and right way for any hard words you have written. And I didn't
know, when I last wrote, all I do now, not by a long way: and so you
shall have it, whether you like it or not; for I mean to save you from
making a bad match of it, if I can."
"No, I didn't know, when I wrote last, of what happened more than a
month ago at the squire's picnic; but I have heard the rights of it
since. There was uncle Mark and aunt and Sarah—all there, as I told
you; and after tea, as I told you too, aunt had to take uncle home—you
know why. But where do you think Sarah was all that long evening till
after dark? Ah, you wouldn't guess; but I'll tell you, I will. I
won't deceive you, Walter, if SHE does. Why, she was shut up all that
time, for hours and hours, along with that college man, in the stone
summer-house, at the far end of Mr. Grigson's lawn; and you know how
far-off that is from sight and sound. And there they were drinking
wine together, that I do know, and courting, of course, till after all
the people had left; and then Sarah was so bad, what with the wine, I
suppose, and having her head turned with praise, that she couldn't go
home alone, and that—that gentleman—a pretty sort of gentleman he is,
too—had to see her safe to High Beech."
"I daresay you will want to know how I know this. I'll tell you,
Walter; I saw some part of it with my own eyes. I saw Sarah in the
summer-house my own self, for I followed her there, and had some words
with her about her shameful using of you, in keeping you to your boy
and girl engagement. And there I left her. Ah, I didn't know who she
was waiting for then; but he knew well enough, I warrant. And no sooner
was I gone than in he went, to comfort her, of course, as he did. I
wish I had seen him—that I do! I would have comforted him, I reckon."
"And I did see them together later that night—ever so long after I
had got home. I was looking out of my window, into the bright moonlight,
before I got into bed, when what should I see but two persons going up
the hill together through the Lees right on the way to High Beech. Ah,
I didn't give a guess who it was then, for it was too far-off to see
distinct. But I did see that them two were uncommon close together,
and walked slow, as if they didn't mean to get to the end of their
moonlight walk sooner than they could help. But now I know who that
loving pair was; and so does everybody else about here. And you have
only to ask the question yourself, and you will be told that they was
none other than that college man and your dear Sarah!"
"Have I anything more to tell you? Yes, Walter, I have; and mean to.
If you like not to read it, you can put the letter in the fire without;
but you will have to take the consequences. I have this more to say,
that uncle Mark goes about everywhere, but oftener at the White Hart,
where he spends most of his time, and money too, as you know,—telling
everybody that you are not going to have Sarah, and that the college
man is; and that when the college man comes into his great fortune,
Sarah will be a lady—a pretty lady, she indeed! There; what do you
think of that?"
"Anything else? Yes, there's something else, Walter," the letter went
on, like the second edition of a morning paper, keeping the latest news
till last. "Yes, there is something else. It was only yesterday—" (only
yesterday, as being more forcible) "that I went up to High Beech to see
how they were going on. Of course uncle Mark wasn't at home—he was at
the White Hart, I found out afterwards; and aunt was in bed. Sarah was
in the garden; so there I went. And what do you think? There she was
with that college man, Tincroft, having high romps, pretending to be
gathering filberts; and you know what that means. I kept myself out of
sight till they had done; and then where should they go but into the
holly arbour, where you have made a fool of yourself hundreds of times
I daresay. Well, there they were, billing and cooing like a pair of
pigeons—" (it was spelt "pigguns" in the letter, but no matter), "and
I thought it was time for somebody to see after them. So in I went.
And there was Sarah, darning her stockings, and looking as innocent as
a new-born; and there was that college man, pretty near on his knees,
looking so loving, and talking so earnest! And didn't I give them a
start! They hadn't a word to say for themselves; and so, after I had
said my say, I left them to make the best of it. But, Walter, if you
are the man I expect you to be, you'll have nothing more to say to
Sarah Wilson."
Thus far the letter. But there was a postscript: "The college man
is off this morning, back to Oxford. I reckon I frightened him away.
But he will be back again, no fear."
"Poor Walter!" sighed Mary Burgess, when she had laid down the second
letter.
"Poor Walter!" echoed Ralph, in a tone accordant. "A pretty fix he is
in, and no mistake."
"He will want your advice, Ralph."
"And I can't give it. What am I to say to him?"
"What would you do in such a case, brother?" asked Mary.
"I fancy I should throw the girl overboard," said he.
"Would that be just and right, do you think?"
"Better do that than be married and lead a miserable life ever
afterwards," said Ralph.
Presently Walter came in. He had "cooled his heels," and was all the
better for it; or thought he was.
"Now then, I am ready," said he. "Come, Miss Burgess, what about it
all? I mean, what do you think of the letters?"
"Your cousin writes very confidingly and affectionately," said Mary.
"Poor thing, so she does," Walter responded; "but then, you see, if
what Elizabeth writes is true, what am I to think?"
"And do you think that what she writes is truer than what your cousin
writes?"
"I have always believed in them both," replied Walter, in perplexity.
"May you not believe in them both now?"
"How can I when they write such different things?"
"They write the same things, Walter," said Mary, mildly, and calling
him by his Christian name, as she always did, for she linked upon him
almost as a brother, and he regarded her as a sister. "They write the
same things, only they place them in a different light. Don't you see
that?"
Walter was not quite sure that he did. He thought there was only one
way of looking at things—such things, at any rate.
Mary Burgess thought there were more ways than one of looking at the
same thing. "All this may have happened as your sister has written; and
indeed your cousin gives nearly the same account: and yet the different
lights in which they place it make all the difference."
"But supposing it to be true, what Elizabeth says, and Sarah lets
another man be making love to her and be always hanging about, as she
herself says that Tincroft is, what am I to think of it? I am not much
of a match for her, I know, poor girl, as things have turned out,
though I may be better than nothing, situated as she is," said the
manly fellow; brushing a tear away. "But if I thought Sarah was tired
of me, or that giving her up would be anyhow better for her, and make
her any way happier, why I'd do it, Miss Burgess."
"I believe you would, Walter; but I do not see any reason for your
thinking so yet. Read again what she says."
"Yes; but then I must read again what Elizabeth says. What do you say,
Ralph?"
Ralph did not like to say exactly what he thought; but at last he
blurted out, "I have no notion of a girl's having two strings to her
bow in that fashion."
"That is too hard a thing to say, Ralph," interposed his sister. "It
is plain that this intimacy is not of your cousin's seeking, Walter;
and it is quite as plain that your sister, with the best intentions,
no doubt, is attempting to prevent your marrying your cousin. Possibly
Sarah may have been a little imprudent in suffering herself to be in
that gentleman's company so much; but then you should consider how
difficult it is to avoid such mischances, especially as your cousin
seems to be left so much alone."
"You are a good angel, Mary," said Walter.
"I am only a poor weak woman, Walter; but I was going on to say that
now that person has gone away, the danger, whatever it might have been,
has passed away too. Though I don't believe in the danger. Only see how
your cousin writes about him."
Walter had seen that, and if he had had perfect faith in Sarah, he
would have laughed at his sister's alarms. But it was plain his faith
and trust were being undermined.
"I don't think you, Miss Burgess, would have played that sort of game
with any other young man had you been engaged."
Mary Burgess smiled. "It was never put to me to be so tried," she said,
softly.
"Dear Miss Burgess," said Walter, quickly, and self-reproachfully,
as he remembered why, probably, she had never been so tried, "I
forgot—pray forgive me. My trials are light compared with yours."
"And yet they are heavy to you. Will you not lay them where, long ago,
I laid mine?"
"Yes, yes, I know. But what shall I do now?" Walter asked, impatiently.
"Why not go home for a week, and see how the land lies, and set things
to rights, if they can be?" demanded Ralph.
"You know I can't leave now, with all the work we have on hand; and if
I could, I am afraid it would only set things more to wrongs than they
are. I'll tell you what I'll do," he added, in a more sprightly tone.
"I'll write to Mr. Rubric, and ask him to tell me the truth right out.
He must know all about it; and he is a good man, and a friend of both
families—ours and uncle Mark's. And he won't go talking about my having
written to him."
"The best thing you can do," said Ralph, glad to shift the
responsibility of advice on to other shoulders.
"But you must not give up your cousin without good cause," added Mary
Burgess.
"No, I won't," replied Walter.
Walter did write to Mr. Rubric; but it was many weeks before he had
a reply, for the rector had just started for his annual holiday, on
a tour through the Continent, whither the letter, after long delay,
followed him, but did not reach him till two months afterward; when he
was quietly settled down again to his home duties.
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