Has any person of any nation or language, found out and given to
the world any occupation, work, diversion, or pursuit, more
subtlely dangerous to the susceptible youth of both sexes than
that of nutting in pairs. If so, who, where, what? A few years
later in life perhaps district visiting, and attending schools
together, may in certain instances be more fatal; but, in the
first bright days of youth, a day's nutting against the world! A
day in autumn, warm enough to make sitting in the sheltered nooks
in the woods, where ever the sunshine lies, very pleasant, and
yet not too warm to make exercise uncomfortable--two young people
who have been thrown much together, one of whom is conscious of
the state of his feelings towards the other, and is, moreover,
aware that his hours are numbered, and that in a few days at
furthest they will be separated for many months, that persons in
authority on both sides are beginning to suspect something (as is
apparent from the difficulty they have had in getting away
together at all on this same afternoon) here is a conjunction of
persons and circumstances, if ever there was one in the world,
which is surely likely to end in a catastrophe. Indeed, so
obvious to the meanest capacity is the danger of the situation,
that, as Tom had, in his own mind, staked his character for
resolution with his private self on the keeping of his secret
till after he was of age, it is hard to conceive how he can have
been foolish enough to get himself into a hazel copse alone with
Miss Mary on the earliest day he could manage it after the
arrival of the Porters, on their visit to Mr. and Mrs. Brown.
That is to say, it would be hard to conceive, if it didn't just
happen to be the most natural thing in the world.
For the first twenty-four hours after their meeting in the home
of his fathers, the two young people, and Tom in particular, felt
very uncomfortable. Mary, being a young lady of very high
spirits, and, as our readers may probably have discovered, much
given to that kind of conversation which borders as nearly upon
what men commonly call chaff as a well-bred girl can venture on,
was annoyed to find herself quite at fault in all her attempts to
get her old antagonist of Commemoration to show fight. She felt
in a moment how changed his manner was, and thought it by no
means changed for the better. As for Tom, he felt foolish and shy
at first, to an extent which drove him half wild; his words stuck
in his throat, and he took to blushing again like a boy of
fourteen. In fact, he got so angry with himself that he rather
avoided her actual presence, though she was scarcely a moment out
of his sight. Mr. Brown made the best of his son's retreat,
devoted himself most gallantly to Mary, and was completely
captivated by her before bedtime on the first night of their
visit. He triumphed over his wife when they were alone, and
laughed at the groundlessness of her suspicions. But she was by
no means so satisfied on the subject as her husband.
In a day or two, however, Tom began to take heart of grace, and
to find himself oftener at Mary's side, with something to say,
and more to look. But now she, in her turn, began to be
embarrassed; for all attempts to re-establish their old footing
failed, and the difficulty of finding a satisfactory new one
remained to be solved. So for the present, though neither of them
found it quite satisfactory, they took refuge in the presence of
a third party, and attached themselves to Katie, talking at one
another through her. Nothing could exceed Katie's judiciousness
as a medium of communication; and through her a better
understanding began to establish itself, and the visit which both
of them had been looking forward to so eagerly seemed likely,
after all, to be as pleasant in fact as it had been in
anticipation. As they became more at ease, the vigilance of Mrs.
Brown and Mrs. Porter seemed likely to revive. But in a country
house there must be plenty of chances for young folks who mean
it, to be together; and so they found and made use of their
opportunities, giving at the same time as little cause to their
natural guardians as possible for any serious interference. The
families got on, on the whole, so well together, that the visit
was prolonged from the original four or five days to a fortnight;
and this time of grace was drawing to a close when the event
happened which made the visit memorable to our hero.
On the morning in question, Mr. Brown arranged at breakfast that
he and his wife should drive Mr. and Mrs. Porter to make calls on
several of the neighbors. Tom declared his intention of taking a
long day after the partridges, and the young ladies were to go
and make a sketch of the house from a point which Katie had
chosen. Accordingly, directly after luncheon, the carriage came
round, and the elders departed; and the young ladies started
together, carrying their sketching apparatus with them.
It was probably a bad day for scent; for they had not been gone a
quarter of an hour when Tom came home, deposited his gun, and
followed on their steps. He found them sitting under the lee of a
high bank, sufficiently intent on their drawings, but neither
surprised nor sorry to find that he had altered his mind, and
come back to interrupt them. So he lay down near them, and talked
of Oxford and Englebourn, and so from one thing to another, till
he got upon the subject of nutting, and the sylvan beauties of a
neighbouring wood. Mary was getting on badly with her drawing,
and jumped at the idea of a ramble in the wood; but Katie was
obdurate, and resisted all their solicitations to move. She
suggested, however, that they might go; and, as Tom declared that
they should not be out of call, and would be back in half an hour
at furthest, Mary consented; and they left the sketcher and
strolled together out of the fields, and into the road, and so
through a gate into the wood. It was a pleasant oak wood. The
wild flowers were over, but the great masses of ferns, four or
five feet high, made a grand carpet round the stems of the forest
monarchs, and a fitting couch for here and there one of them
which had been lately felled, and lay in fallen majesty, with
bare shrouded trunk awaiting the sawyers. Further on, the hazel
underwood stood thickly on each side of the green rides, down
which they sauntered side by side. Tom talked of the beauty of
the wood in spring-time, and the glorious succession of
colouring--pale yellow, and deep blue and white, and
purple--which the primroses, and hyacinths and starwort, and
foxgloves gave, each in their turn, in the early year, and
mourned over their absence. But Mary preferred Autumn, and would
not agree with him. She was enthusiastic for ferns and heather.
He gathered some sprigs of the latter for her, from a little
sandy patch which they passed, and some more for his own
button-hole, and then they engaged in the absorbing pursuit of
nutting, and the talk almost ceased. He caught the higher
branches, and bent them down to her, and watched her as she
gathered them, and wondered at the ease and grace of all her
movements, and the unconscious beauty of her attitudes. Soon she
became more enterprising herself, and made little excursions into
the copse, surmounting briers, and passing through tangled places
like a Naiad, before he could be there to help her. And so they
went on, along the rides and through the copse, forgetting Katie
and time, till they were brought up by the fence on the further
side of the wood. The ditch was on the outside, and on the inside
a bank with a hedge on the top, full of tempting hazel-bushes.
She clapped her hands at the sight, and, declining his help,
stepped lightly up the bank and began gathering. He turned away
for a moment, jumped up the bank himself, and followed her
example.
He was standing up in the hedge, and reaching after a tempting
cluster of nuts, when he heard a short sharp cry of pain behind
him, which made him spring backwards, and nearly miss his footing
as he came to the ground. Recovering himself, and turning round,
he saw Mary lying at the foot of the bank, writhing in pain.
He was at her side in a minute and dreadfully alarmed.
"Good heavens! what has happened?" he said.
"My ankle!" she cried; and the effort of speaking brought the
sudden flush of pain to her brow.
"Oh! what can I do?"
"The boot! the boot!" she said, leaning forward to unlace it, and
then sinking back against the bank. "It is so painful. I hope I
sha'n't faint!"
Poor Tom could only clasp his hands as he knelt by her, and
repeat, "Oh, what can I do--what can I do?" His utter
bewilderment presently aroused Mary, and her natural high courage
was beginning to master the pain.
"Have you a knife?"
"Yes here," he said, pulling one out of his pocket, and opening
it; "here it is."
"Please cut the lace."
Tom, with beating heart and trembling hand, cut the lace and then
looked up at her.
"Oh, be quick--cut it again! Don't be afraid."
He cut it again; and, without taking hold of the foot, gently
pulled out the ends of the lace.
She again leaned forward, and tried to take off the boot; but the
pain was too great, and she sank back, and put her hand up to her
flushed face.
"May I try?--perhaps I could do it."
"Yes, pray do. Oh, I can't bear the pain!" she added, next
moment; and Tom felt ready to hang himself for having been the
cause of it.
"You must cut the boot off, please."
"But perhaps I may cut you. Do you really mean it?"
"Yes, really. There, take care. How your hand shakes. You will
never do for a doctor."
His hand did shake, certainly. He had cut a little hole the
stocking; but, under the circumstances, we need not wonder--the
situation was new and trying. Urged on by her, he cut and cut
away, and, at last, off came the boot, and her beautiful little
foot lay on the green turf. She was much relieved at once, but
still in great pain; and now he began to recover his head.
"The ankle should be bound up; may I try?"
"Oh, yes; but what with?"
Tom dived into his shooting-coat pocket, and produced one of the
large, many-colored neck-wrappers which were fashionable at
Oxford in those days.
"How lucky!" he said, as he tore it into strips. "I think this
will do. Now, you'll stop me, won't you, if I hurt you, or don't
do it right?"
"Don't be afraid, I'm much better. Bind it tight, tighter than
that."
He wound the strips as tenderly as he could round her foot and
ankle, with hands all alive with nerves, and wondering more and
more at her courage as she kept urging him to draw the bandage
tighter yet. Then, still under her direction, he fastened and
pinned down the ends; and as he was rather neat with his fingers,
from the practice of tying flies and splicing rods and bats,
produced, on the whole, a creditable sort of bandage. Then he
looked up at her, the perspiration standing on his forehead, as
if he had been pulling a race, and said,
"Will that do? I'm afraid it's very awkward."
"Oh, no; thank you so much! But I'm so sorry you have torn your
handkerchief."
Tom made no answer to this remark, except by a look. What could
he say, but that he would gladly have torn his skin off for the
same purpose, if it would have been of any use. But this speech
did not seem quite the thing for the moment.
"But how do you feel? Is it very painful?" he asked.
"Rather. But don't look so anxious. Indeed, it is very bearable.
But what are we to do now?"
He thought for a moment, and said, with something like a sigh--
"Shall I run home, and bring the servants and a sofa, or
something to carry you on?"
"No, I shouldn't like to be left here alone."
His face brightened again.
"How near is the nearest cottage?" she asked.
"There's none nearer than the one which we passed on the road--on
the other side of the wood, you know."
"Then I must try to get there. You must help me up."
He sprang to his feet and stooped over her, doubting how to begin
helping her. He had never felt so shy in his life. He held out
his hands.
"I think you must put your arm round me," she said, after looking
at him for a moment. He lifted her on to her feet.
"Now let me lean on your arm. There, I dare say I shall manage to
hobble along well enough;" and she made a brave attempt to walk.
But the moment the injured foot touched the ground, she stopped
with a catch at her breath, and a shiver, which went through Tom
like a knife; and the flush came back into her face, and she
would have fallen had he not again put his arm round her waist,
and held her up. "I am better again now," she said, after a
second or two.
"But Mary, dear Mary, don't try to walk again. For my sake. I
can't bear it."
"But what am I to do?" she said. "I must get back somehow."
"Will you let me carry you?"
She looked in his face again, and then dropped her eyes, and
hesitated.
"I wouldn't offer, dear, if there were any other way. But you
mustn't walk. Indeed, you must not; you may lame yourself for
life."
He spoke very quietly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, though
his heart was beating so that he feared she would hear it.
"Very well," she said; "but I'm very heavy."
So he lifted her gently, and stepped off down the ride, carrying
his whole world in his arms, in an indescribable flutter of joy,
and triumph, and fear. He had gone some forty yards or so, when
he staggered, and stopped for a moment.
"Oh, pray put me down--pray do! You'll hurt yourself. I'm too
heavy."
For the credit of muscular Christianity, one must say that it was
not her weight, but the tumult in his own inner man, which made
her bearer totter. Nevertheless, if one is wholly unused to the
exercise, the carrying of a healthy young English girl weighing a
good eight stone, is as much as most men can conveniently manage.
"I'll just put you down for a moment," he said. "Now, take care
of the foot;" and he stooped and placed her tenderly against one
of the oaks which bordered the ride, standing by her side without
looking at her. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then he
asked, still looking away down the ride, "How is the foot?"
"Oh, pretty well," she answered, cheerfully. "Now, leave me here,
and go for help. It is absurd of me to mind being left, and you
mustn't carry me any more."
He turned, and their eyes met for a moment, but that was enough.
"Are you ready?" he said.
"Yes, but take care. Don't go far. Stop directly you feel tired."
Then he lifted her again, and this time carried her without
faltering, till they came to a hillock covered with soft grass.
Here they rested again, and so by easy stages he carried her
through the wood, and out into the road, to the nearest cottage,
neither of them speaking.
An old woman came to the door in answer to his kick, and went off
into ejaculations of pity and wonder in the broadest Berkshire,
at seeing Master Tom and his burthen. But he pushed into the
house and cut her short with--
"Now, Mrs. Pike, don't talk, that's a dear good woman, but bustle
about, and bring that arm-chair here, and the other low one, with
a pillow on it, for the young lady's foot to rest on."
The old woman obeyed his injunctions, except as to talking; and,
while she placed the chairs and shook up the pillow, descanted on
the sovereign virtues of some green oil and opodeldoc, which was
as good as a charm for sprains and bruises.
Mary gave him one grateful look as he lowered her tenderly and
reluctantly into the chair, and then spoke cheerfully to Mrs.
Pike, who was foraging in a cupboard, to find if there was any of
her famous specific in the bottom of the bottle. As he stood up,
and thought what to do next, he heard the sound of distant
wheels, and looking through the window saw the carriage coming
homewards. It was a sorrowful sight to him.
"Now, Mrs. Pike," he said, "never mind the oil. Here's the
carriage coming; just step out and stop it."
The old dame scuttled out into the road. The carriage was within
one hundred yards. He leant over the rough arm-chair in which
Mary was leaning back, looked once more into her eyes; and then,
stooping forwards, kissed her lips, and the next moment was by
the side of Mrs. Pike, signalling the coachman to stop.
In the bustle which followed he stood aside, and watched Mary
with his heart in his mouth. She never looked at him, but there
was no anger, but only a dreamy look in her sweet face, which
seemed to him a thousand times more beautiful than ever before.
Then, to avoid inquiries, and to realize all that had passed in
the last wonderful three hours, he slipped away while they were
getting her into the carriage, and wandered back into the wood,
pausing at each of their halting places. At last he reached the
scene of the accident, and here his cup of happiness was likely
to brim over, for he found the mangled little boot and the cut
lace, and securing the precious prize, hurried back home, to be
in time for dinner.
Mary did not come down; but Katie, the only person of whom he
dared to inquire, assured him that she was doing famously. The
dinner was very embarrassing, and he had the greatest difficulty
in answering the searching inquiries of his mother and Mrs.
Porter, as to how, when, where, and in whose presence the
accident had happened. As soon as the ladies rose, he left his
father and Mr. Porter over their old port and politics, and went
out in the twilight into the garden, burthened with the weight of
sweet thought. He felt that he had something to do--to set
himself quite right with Mary; he must speak somehow, that night,
if possible, or he should not be comfortable or at peace with his
conscience. There were lights in her room. He guessed by the
shadows that she was lying on a couch by the open window, round
which the other ladies were flitting.
Presently lights appeared in the drawing-room; and, as the
shutters were being closed, he saw his mother and Mrs. Porter
come in, and sit down near the fire. Listening intently, he heard
Katie talking in a low voice in the room above, and saw her head
against the light as she sat down close to the window, probably
at the head of the couch where Mary was lying. Should he call to
her? If he did, how could he say what he wanted to say through
her?
A happy thought struck him. He turned to the flowerbeds, hunted
about, and gathered a bunch of heliotrope, hurried up to his
room, took the sprig of heather out of his shooting coat, tied
them together, caught up a reel and line from his table, and went
into the room over Mary's. He threw the window open, and, leaning
out, said gently,
"Katie." No answer. He repeated the name louder. No answer still,
and, leaning out yet further, he saw that the window had been
shut. He lowered the bunch of flowers, and, swinging it backwards
and forward, made it strike the window below--once, twice; at the
third stroke he heard the window open.
"Katie," he whispered again, "is that you?"
"Yes, where are you? What is this?"
"For her," he said, in the same whisper. Katie untied the
flowers, and he waited a few moments, and then again called her
name, and she answered.
"Has she the flowers?" he asked.
"Yes, and she sends you her love, and says you are to go down to
the drawing-room;" and with that the window closed, and he went
down with a lightened conscience into the drawing-room, and,
after joining in the talk by the fire for a few minutes, took a
book, and sat down at the further side of the table. Whether he
ever knew what the book was may be fairly questioned, but to all
appearances he was deep in the perusal of it till the tea and
Katie arrived, and the gentlemen from the dining-room. Then he
tried to join in the conversation again; but, on the whole, life
was a burthen to him that night, till he could get fairly away to
his own room, and commune with himself, gazing at the yellow
harvest moon, with his elbows on the window sill.
The ankle got well very quickly, and Mary was soon going about
with a gold-headed stick which had belonged to Mr. Brown's
father, and a limp which Tom thought the most beautiful movement
he had ever seen. But, though she was about again, by no amount
of patient vigilance could he now get the chance of speaking to
her alone. But he consoled himself with the thought that she must
understand him; if he had spoken he couldn't have made himself
clearer.
And now the Porters' visit was all but over, and Katie and her
father left for Englebourn. The Porters were to follow the next
day, and promised to drive round and stop at the Rectory for
lunch. Tom petitioned for a seat in their carriage to Englebourn.
He had been devoting himself to Mrs. Porter ever since the
accident, and had told her a good deal about his own early life.
His account of his early friendship for Betty and her son, and
the renewal of it on the day he left Barton Manor, had interested
her, and she was moreover not insensible to his assiduous and
respectful attentions to herself, which had of late been quite
marked; she was touched, too, at his anxiety to hear all about
her boys, and how they were getting on at school. So on the whole
Tom was in high favour with her, and she most graciously assented
to his occupying the fourth seat in their barouche. She was not
without her suspicions of the real state of the case with him;
but his behavior had been so discreet that she had no immediate
fears; and, after all, if anything should come of it some years
hence, her daughter might do worse. In the meantime she would see
plenty of society in London; where Mr. Porter's vocations kept
him during the greater part of the year.
They reached Englebourn after a pleasant long morning's drive;
and Tom stole a glance at Mary and felt that she understood him,
as he pointed out the Hawk's Lynch and the clump of scotch firs
to her mother; and told how you might see Barton from the top of
it, and how he loved the place, and the old trees, and the view.
Katie was at the door ready to receive them, and carried off Mary
and Mrs. Porter to her own room. Tom walked round the garden with
Mr. Porter, and then sat in the drawing-room, and felt
melancholy. He roused himself, however, when the ladies came down
and luncheon was announced. Mary was full of her reminiscences of
the Englebourn people, and especially of poor Mrs. Winburn and
her son, in whom she had begun to take a deep interest, perhaps
from overhearing some of Tom's talk to her mother. So Harry's
story was canvassed again, and Katie told them how he had been
turned out of his cottage, and how anxious she was as to what
would come of it.
"And is he going to marry your gardener's daughter after all?"
asked Mrs. Porter.
"I am afraid there is not much chance of it," said Katie; "I
cannot make Martha out."
"Is she at home, Katie?" asked Mary; "I should like to see her
again. I took a great fancy to her when I was here."
"Yes, she is at the lodge. We will walk there after luncheon."
So it was settled that the carriage should pick them up at the
lodge; and soon after luncheon, while the horses were being put
to, the whole party started for the lodge, after saying good-bye
to Mr. Winter, who retired to his room much fatigued by his
unwonted hospitality.
Old Simon's wife answered their knock at the lodge door, and they
all entered, and Mrs. Porter paid her compliments on the
cleanliness of the room.
Then Mary said, "Is your daughter at home, Mrs. Gibbons?"
"Ees, miss, someweres handy," replied Mrs. Gibbons; "her hav'n't
been gone out, not dree minnit."
"I should like so much to say good-bye to her," said Mary. "We
shall be leaving Barton soon, and I shall not see her again till
next summer."
"Lor bless'ee, miss, 'tis werry good ov'ee," said the old dame,
very proud; "do'ee set down then while I gees her a call." And
with that she hurried out of the door which led through the back
kitchen into the little yard behind the lodge, and the next
moment they heard her calling out--
"Patty, Patty, wher bist got to? Come in and see the gentlefolk."
The name which the old woman was calling out made Tom start.
"I thought you said her name was Martha," said Mrs. Porter.
"Patty is short for Martha in Berkshire," said Katie, laughing.
"And Patty is such a pretty name. I wonder you don't call her
Patty," said Mary.
"We had a housemaid of the same name a year or two ago, and it
made such a confusion--and when one once gets used to a name it
is so hard to change--so she has always been called Martha."
"Well, I'm all for Patty; don't you think so?" said Mary, turning
to Tom.
The sudden introduction of a name which he had such reasons for
remembering, the memories and fears which it called up--above
all, the bewilderment which he felt at hearing it tossed about
and canvassed by Mary in his presence, as if there were nothing
more in it than in any other name--confused him so that he
floundered and blundered in his attempt to answer, and at last
gave it up altogether. She was surprised, and looked at him
inquiringly. His eyes fell before hers, and he turned away to the
window, and looked at the carriage, which had just drawn up at
the lodge door. He had scarcely time to think how foolish he was
to be so moved, when he heard the back-kitchen door open again,
and the old woman and her daughter come in.
He turned round sharply, and there on the floor of the room,
courtseying to the ladies, stood the ex-barmaid of the "Choughs".
His first impulse was to hurry away--she was looking down, and he
might not be recognized; his next, to stand his ground, and take
whatever might come. Mary went up to her and took her hand,
saying that she could not go away without coming to see her.
Patty looked up to answer, and, glancing round the room, caught
sight of him.
He stepped forward, and then stopped and tried to speak, but no
words would come. Patty looked at him, dropped Mary's hand,
blushed up to the roots of her hair as she looked timidly round
at the wondering spectators, and, putting her hands to her face,
ran out of the back door again.
"Lawk a massy! what ever can ha' cum to our Patty?" said Mrs.
Gibbons, following her out.
"I think we had better go," said Mr. Porter, giving his arm to
his daughter, and leading her to the door, "Goodbye, Katie; shall
we see you again at Barton?"
"I don't know, uncle," Katie answered, following with Mrs.
Porter, in a state of sad bewilderment.
Tom, with his brain swimming, got out a few stammering farewell
words, which Mr. and Mrs. Porter received with marked coldness,
as they stepped into their carriage. Mary's face was flushed and
uneasy; but at her he scarcely dared to steal a look, and to her
was quite unable to speak a word.
Then the carriage drove off, and he turned, and found Katie
standing at his side, her eyes full of serious wonder. His fell
before them.
"My dear Tom," she said, "what is all this? I thought you had
never seen Martha?"
"So I thought--I don't know--I can't talk now--I'll explain all
to you--don't think very badly of me, Katie--God bless you!" with
which words he strode away, while she looked after him with
increasing wonder, and then turned and went into the lodge.
He hastened away from the Rectory and down the village street,
taking the road home mechanically, but otherwise wholly
unconscious of roads and men. David, who was very anxious to
speak to him about Harry, stood at his door making signs to him
to stop, in vain; and then gave chase, calling out after him,
till he saw that all attempts to attract his notice were useless,
and so ambled back to his shop-board much troubled in mind.
The first object which recalled Tom at all to himself was the
little white cottage looking out of Englebourn copse towards the
village, in which he had sat by poor Betty's death-bed. The
garden was already getting wild and tangled, and the house seemed
uninhabited. He stopped for a moment and looked at it with bitter
searchings of heart. Here was the place where he had taken such a
good turn, as he had fondly hoped--in connection with the then
inmates of which he had made the strongest good resolutions he
had ever made in his life perhaps. What was the good of his
trying to befriend anybody? His friendship turned to a blight;
whatever he had as yet tried to do for Harry had only injured
him, and now how did they stand? Could they ever be friends again
after that day's discovery? To do him justice, the probable ruin
of all his own prospects, the sudden coldness of Mr. and Mrs.
Porter's looks, and Mary's averted face, were not the things he
thought of first, and did not trouble him most. He thought of
Harry, and shuddered at the wrong he had done him as he looked at
his deserted home. The door opened and a figure appeared. It was
Mr. Wurley's agent, the lawyer who had been employed by Farmer
Tester in his contest with Harry and his mates about the pound.
The man of law saluted him with a smirk of scarcely concealed
triumph, and then turned into the house again and shut the door,
as if he did not consider further communication necessary or
safe. Tom turned with a muttered imprecation on him and his
master, and hurried away along the lane which led to the heath.
The Hawk's Lynch lay above him, and he climbed the side
mechanically and sat himself again on the old spot.
He sat for some time looking over the landscape, graven on his
mind as it was by his former visit, and bitterly, oh, how
bitterly! did the remembrance of that visit, and of the
exultation and triumph which then filled him, and carried him
away over the heath with a shout towards his home, come back on
him. He could look out from his watchtower no longer, and lay
down with his face between his hands on the turf, and groaned as
he lay.
But his good angel seemed to haunt the place, and soon the cold
fit began to pass away, and better and more hopeful thoughts to
return. After all what had he done since his last visit to that
place to be ashamed of? Nothing. His attempts to do Harry
service, unlucky as they had proved, had been honest. Had he
become less worthy of the love which had first consciously
mastered him there some four weeks ago? No; he felt on the
contrary, that it had already raised him, and purified him, and
made a man of him. But this last discovery, how could he ever get
over that? Well, after all, the facts were just the same as
before; only now they had come out. It was right that they should
have come out; better for him and for everyone that they should
be known and faced. He was ready to face them, to abide any
consequences that they might now bring in their train. His heart
was right towards Mary, towards Patty, towards Harry--that he
felt sure of. And, if so, why should he despair of either his
love or his friendship coming to a good end?
And so he sat up again, and looked out bravely towards Barton,
and began to consider what was to be done. His eye rested on the
Rectory. That was the first place to begin with. He must set
himself right with Katie--let her know the whole story. Through
her he could reach all the rest, and do whatever must be done to
clear the ground and start fresh again.
At first he thought of returning to her at once, and rose to go
down to Englebourn. But anything like retracing his steps was
utterly distasteful to him just then. Before him he saw light,
dim enough as yet, but still a dawning; towards that he would
press, leaving everything behind him to take care of itself. So
he turned northwards, and struck across the heath at his best
pace. The violent exercise almost finished his cure, and his
thoughts became clearer and more hopeful as he neared home. He
arrived there as the household was going to bed, and found a
letter waiting for him. It was from Hardy, saying that Blake had
left him, and he was now thinking of returning to Oxford, and
would come for his long talked of visit to Berkshire, if Tom was
still at home, and in the mind to receive him.
Never was a letter more opportune. Here was the tried friend on
whom he could rely for help and advice and sympathy--who knew all
the facts too from beginning to end! His father and mother were
delighted to hear that they should now see the friend of whom he
had spoken so much. So he went up stairs and wrote an answer,
which set Hardy to work packing his portmanteau in the far west,
and brought him speedily to the side of his friend under the lee
of the Berkshire hills.