WHAT HAPPENED AT LOW BEECH FARM.
A WEEK had passed away. Poor Styles was dead, and had been buried in
the small enclosed plot which five years before was set apart as the
burial-ground of Sedley Station. All were on a level there.
Walter Wilson still remained at the station, and, nothing having been
seen or heard of the bushrangers, whose career, it was afterwards
found, had been cut short in an unsuccessful raid upon another station,
he was thinking of renewing his journey, when a proposal was made to
him by his host which altered his intention. And, without lingering
unnecessarily over this part of our history, it is sufficient to say
that the young man remained to take the oversight of the home and
out-stations, and to add to the protection of the lonely inhabitants of
the log-house.
Walter had his desire now, so far as being a farmer was concerned;
and he turned his previous knowledge to good account. And I hope my
readers are sufficiently impressed in his favour by what they already
know of him—though he has shown himself to be impetuous, obstinate,
and unreasonable—to be pleased to learn that he not only honestly and
honourably threw all his energies into the service of his new employer,
but gradually lost the first smart of the bitter disappointment which
he could not help knowing he had brought upon himself, and in the first
flush of which he had abandoned his bright prospects of success in
England, and severed himself from his own family by a distance of so
many thousands of miles, and by a greater distance still in sympathy.
For Walter could but attribute to the deliberate design of these
relatives, and their constant ill-offices, the loss of his cousin; and,
on the first discovery of what he called their cruelty and treachery,
he vowed that he would have no more to say to them. Perhaps the time
came when he was sorry for this resolution, but that time was not yet.
Gradually, however, as I have said, Walter became reconciled to his
lot, or at least more contented with it.
After all, he argued within himself, and as, indeed, he wrote to his
friend Ralph Burgess, it was only a woman he had lost, and he was not
going to make himself miserable all his life long because of this. As
to Sarah, he loved her as a cousin still, and there was no harm in
that, he hoped. He was also heartily sorry that he had ever suspected
her, and so caused her a moment's sorrow. But that was among the
bygones now; and he was glad his cousin had got a good husband, though
not the one first thought of and planned for and wished for.
But he was sure that Mr. Tincroft, who was a worthy fellow, after all
his hard thoughts of him, and his insults too, would use her well; and
he hoped and believed that Sarah would be a happy wife, especially as
there would be no want nor hard work for her in her new home, now that
her husband had got back his rights, as he (Walter) had happened to
find out. All this and more the softened penitent wrote to Ralph; and
if there was a blot on the paper, as if a big tear had dropped upon one
particular part of it while the ink was yet wet, I don't think that
either Ralph Burgess or Ralph's sister thought the worse of him for
that.
And now we shall leave Walter Wilson to the experiences of colonial
life, in which the reader may, if so disposed, picture him as a
faithful steward, in all the delights of a life in the bush—the
stockyard, the branding-day, with its bustling excitement, shepherding,
sheep-shearing, and so forth—with an occasional brush with the natives
thrown into the bargain. Occupying him thus, we have leisure to turn to
other parties concerned in this narrative. Not to our principal hero,
however, whom we must keep in the background for a little while longer,
in the yet novel experience of married life, and his otium cum (vel
sine) dignitate.
We are once more in England, and at the old Manor House. Not many
changes have taken place there, save that Richard Grigson (with
all besides) is several years older than when we first made his
acquaintance. He is more than ever confirmed in his bachelorhood;
it does not lie in his way, he says, to be married. He is as keen
a sportsman as ever; and, as of yore, he maintains a sufficient
establishment and keeps a hospitable table, though he has not been able
to persuade his good friend Tincroft to pay him another visit.
We can understand very well, without having to explain in many words
(though we may as well tell it in few), that John has a kind of
undefined shrinking from visiting the old spot where, without intending
it, he did so much that gave so entirely a new direction to his
after-life.
"I'll let well enough alone," says John.
Tom Grigson has some time since left college, but his particular
affairs must wait while we devote this chapter to looking up one or two
other of our former acquaintances.
First and foremost is our good friend Rubric, who, becoming a trifle
more infirm, as well as convinced that his "cure of souls" is
over-weighty for his single strength, has taken to himself a curate,
who, by some, is reckoned as much too fast as the rector was, by
others, thought too slow. It is to be hoped, however, that after a
little shaking up together, as they are both good men and true, the
mixture of fast and slow will be found the right pace for all parties
concerned.
Then there are the Wilsons (Matthew and his family) of Low Beech, and
High Beech also. It falls to my lot to report of them that they are
prospering in the world, apparently. Matthew is as industrious and
plodding as ever; so is his wife. He pays his rent (of both farms), and
also his tithe and poor's-rate punctually, and without more than the
regular amount of grumbling which certain days in the year (especially
tithe-paying days) always witnessed, for they were not yet commuted.
The married son lives at High Beech, as has been previously intimated,
and being of a prudent turn of mind, and having got his late uncle's
furniture at a low valuation, he is contented with the knobby-seated
parlour chairs aforementioned. He is the better satisfied with them
that he rarely uses them, preferring to rest and refresh himself in the
roomy kitchen of the old farmhouse.
His younger brothers work on the farm, or on one or other of the farms,
and are understood to be keeping an eye (of hope and expectation) on
two other of the squire's farms which report says will soon be vacant.
So "Long live the Plough," say we.
It is a small trouble to the Matthew Wilsons that they never hear from
Walter—never have heard from him, nor of him, except indirectly, since
he went to Australia.
"His spirit is that high," says the father, "that he doesn't choose to
let us know what he is doing; which isn't much, I reckon, or else we
should have heard his brag soon enough, I'll warrant."
But for all he talks about his eldest son in this fashion, he knows in
his heart, what he does not care to acknowledge, that why Walter keeps
such silence has a deeper and sadder reason, or unreason; and that the
quarrel (for a quarrel there is) is traceable to much underdealing on
the part of himself and his.
They never say much, if anything—these thriving Wilsons—of their niece
or cousin, Sarah Tincroft. I am afraid it rather galls them to think
of her being "a grand lady;" and that, in fact, their ill-nature and
injustice towards her turned out to be, as they believe, the making
of her. There are few sayings oftener found true, than that people
almost always dislike those whom they have striven without cause to
injure, except, perhaps, this other saying, that a sure way to incur
the lasting ill-will of some persons is to confer on them a signal
benefit. I do not know how this too well-known fact is to be accounted
for, except by supposing that to receive a great boon with true
gratitude from one whom we had always looked upon as an equal, requires
magnanimity of which few are capable. This, however, is a digression:
we return to our narrative.
There is yet another reason, however, why the Wilsons are chary of
speaking of Mrs. Tincroft. They dare not do this in the hearing of
their daughter Elizabeth, of whom I have not yet spoken, but of whom
I have somewhat to say. Poor remorse-stricken Elizabeth! Here is her
little story:
Not long after the death of her uncle Mark, and the annexation of High
Beech to Low Beech by her father, Miss Elizabeth was made sensible of
having, of course undesignedly and unaidingly on her part, become the
object of admiration to a certain rich young farmer in the neighbouring
parish. How could she help this? She wanted to know, when her brothers
joked her about it.
And how could she prevent his leaving his own parish church every
Sunday to walk three miles, through almost all weathers, to hers—being
suddenly enlightened, as he said, as to the superiority of dear good
Mr. Rubric's discourses? No, she couldn't prevent this any more than
she was able to prevent his offering her his arm on her return home
from church, and his insisting on relieving her of the weight of her
prayer-book even before they had left the building. And this, although
it took Mr. Admirer, otherwise named Smith, another long mile out of
his way.
And so the intimacy increased as weeks and even months wore on, till
Elizabeth was called upon, as she thought, to yield up her heart,
or what she believed to be that seat of affection, without much
struggling, to the—Ah, well! We will not talk about the little blind
god Cupid, which is heathenish; but without even so much as mentioning
the name, you know what I mean, darling wife and daughters.
But poor Elizabeth was unwise. To be sure, it was pleasant to think
of stopping from the hard work of Low Beech Farm, which now she began
to despise for its smallness and meanness, into the cosy, comfortable
position of a rich farmer's wife, with no occasion to do more work
than she pleased, and with fine furniture and plenty of servants at
her command. And, oh! Who of all the fair readers of this history has
not had day-dreams like this? Nevertheless, Miss Elizabeth would have
been happier if she had not yielded up her fortress so readily; for Mr.
Admirer had never yet taken a step that he could not retrace without
fear of "damages."
And he did retrace his steps, every one of them. First, the attendances
at church slackened—but perhaps Mr. Rubric was getting prosy; or
perhaps the new curate (for he had now made his appearance) was not
to the gentleman's taste. Still, there were other days in the week
besides Sunday, when he would have been welcomed to Low Beech. But he
did not come. And then—but let us draw a veil over the rest; only it
soon became known that the cautious gentleman (an admirer no longer)
was about to be married, indeed—but not to Elizabeth Wilson. Worse
even than this, the unfeeling man had the hardihood to boast of his
achievement at Low Beech Farm, saying that at last the blushing damsel
there did go in for it so strong, and was so sentimental over it, that
he could not stand it any longer.
This being conveyed to the forsaken one by a dear female friend, who
thought she ought to know what the perfidious man said of her, was
the sharpest, deepest cut Of all. She could have borne anything else,
Elizabeth said; but to be called SENTIMENTAL!—she who had despised
sentiment in her cousin Sarah!
One Sunday, a few weeks after this terrible blow, Miss Elizabeth opened
the great family Bible, which, covered with green baize, ordinarily
lay in repose on a side-table in the state-room (otherwise called the
parlour) of Low Beech farmhouse, a room always smelling damp and musty,
but carefully swept and garnished every seventh day, and put to use
after dinner every first day (unless the roads were muddy), and on
first days only.
Well, one first day, or Sunday, Miss Elizabeth, happening to be curious
concerning some birth, death, or marriage therein recorded, opened the
family Bible to refresh her memory respecting that particular event.
And then, being in a reflective mood, she turned over the leaves of the
heavy volume, not to find consolation under her trial, nor instruction
to her ignorance, I am sorry to say, but to forget her harassment in
meditating over the wonderful engravings interspersed throughout the
book. In doing this, her eye caught the word "treacherously" on the
large letterpress of the page opposite one of those pretty pictures.
The word tallied with the poor forlorn one's thoughts; for had she not
known treachery? So she read the verse. This it was:
"Woe to thee that spoilest, and thou wast not spoiled; and dealest
treacherously, and they dealt not treacherously with thee! When thou
shalt cease to spoil, thou shalt be spoiled; and when thou shalt make
an end to deal treacherously, they shall deal treacherously with thee."
Now, I am grieved to say, Elizabeth Wilson was not a Bible student.
But, like many others who rarely open the sacred book, she had a
kind of superstitious reverence for, not unmingled with fear of, its
"lively oracles." And now, without knowing or seeking to know of whom
and on what occasion those ominous words were originally spoken by
the prophet, she gave them, rightly enough, a general application.
More than this, she believed that they had a particular application to
herself, and that they now stared her in the face to taunt and condemn
her.
"Oh, it is true!" she cried, hastily shutting up the book. "I did deal
treacherously with poor dear Sarah, and now it is come home to me just
as the Bible says. He" (the false and fickle one, she meant) "has dealt
treacherously with me, to punish me for what I did to my poor cousin
and my brother Walter."
We need not follow the distressed girl in her self-reproaches, which
were loud and long, and were openly as well as often repeated—so often
that her father and mother and brothers got tired of hearing them; the
more so, that they themselves did not mean to repent of their misdeeds
as Elizabeth was doing. It is enough to say that since that time, the
heart-stricken girl has always stood up for her cousin Sarah and her
brother Walter when they have been spoken about; and, indeed, often
drags in their names and their virtues, and their sufferings of social
and domestic martyrdom—so often that father, mother, and brothers
now dread to make the slightest allusion to them, in Elizabeth's
presence, at all events. Possibly they also feel some pangs of remorse,
especially when they think of the absent and expatriated eldest son and
brother. But remorse is not real sorrow.
This is rather a dull chapter perhaps, but it will not have been
written in vain, if it should start a few serious reflections in any
thoughtless mind. There is an old saying that unmerited curses come
home to roost. And it is quite as true of treachery, such as has been
rather hinted at than described in our previous pages.
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