The winter deepened. Christmas was drawing near, and workmen were busy
setting the old Hall to rights for the reception of Mr. Hill and his
family. John had been requested to oversee the arrangements, for the
place had been unoccupied for years, and there were many alterations to
be made, and much new furnishing to be done. The housekeeper, who had
quietly dozed away half her life in two rooms in a corner of the house,
now bestirred herself joyfully to open shutters, kindle fires, see to
the sweeping and scrubbing, keep her eye upon painters and charwomen,
and make ready store of pickles and preserves for the adornment of her
pantry shelves.
This good woman was an old acquaintance of our two girls, their long
walks often leading them across the moor, and through the grounds to the
Hall. Mrs. Beatty, from her lonely window, had always espied their
approach, and many a winter day had she fed them with sweets by her
fireside, while she dried their wet wrappings, and told them stories of
the pictures in the dining-room. Later, they had discovered the library,
a sunny room at the south side of the house, stored with an excellent
collection of books, and had gone there to read when it pleased them. I,
in my capacity of governess, encouraged them in this habit, and at least
once a week we had a "reading day," as we called it. Mrs. Beatty knew
our day, and had coffee and a blazing fire awaiting us. And here we had
delicious times of study, with our books in our laps, perched on the
steps of the little ladder, or buried deep in the recesses of the deep
leathern chairs.
Now, however, the luxury of our quiet days was interfered with. Workmen
hammered about our ears, and an impertinent odour of paint annoyed us.
We turned our reading days into days of general inspection, and amused
ourselves with watching how the dingy corners threw off their cobwebs
one after another, and came forth into the light with clean and
brilliant faces. It was pleasant to know that I was useful to John in
those days, for his mother did not interfere in this affair, and he
needed a woman's taste to help him. It was I who selected the colours
for Mrs. Hill's drawing-room carpet, I who chose the silk hangings for
Miss Leonard's boudoir, I who rearranged in the cabinets the curiosities
about which no one but a stray mouse or two had been curious for many
years. I knew well that I did nothing but what any other person could
do, yet it pleased me to see how John overrated my services. It
delighted me to hear him praise to his mother my "exquisite taste and
skill;" but it pained me to see her anxious look from him to me. I knew
she feared that he was getting to love me well; sometimes with a mixture
of fear and joy I thought it myself. I guessed that his mother would
rather keep her son by her side unwed--perhaps that he could not afford
to marry. I often longed to slip my hand in hers, and say, "Be not
afraid, I am true;" but I could only look straight in her eyes and be
silent. And this thought, perhaps because I might not speak it out and
have done with it, remained with me, and preyed upon my mind. About this
time I began to lie awake at nights, planning how I might show Mrs.
Hollingford that I had no wish to thrust myself between her and her son.
And so it came that there arose a strangeness between John and me. I did
not wish it to be so, but it happened naturally as a consequence of all
my thinking and planning. It grew up in the midst of our pleasant work
at the Hall, and it was burthensome, for it took the joyous adornment
off everything, made handsome things ugly, and comfortable things
dreary. It made the snowy landscape lonely, and the red sun angry. It
made me cold and disobliging, the girls dull, and John proud and
reserved. Jane spoke of it to me; she said:
"What is the matter between you and John? You used to be such good
friends. Now you hurry down-stairs in the evenings, though you know he
likes our chat round the school-room fire. And when we go to the Hall
you start early for the purpose of walking home without him."
"Don't be foolish, Jane," I said; "John and I are just as good friends
as ever. But you must not suppose he always cares for our women's
chatter. We must give him a little rest sometimes."
Jane was silenced, but not satisfied. She thought I was beginning to
look down on her brother. The proud, loving heart would not brook this,
and she, too, estranged herself from me. The girl was very dear to me,
and it was a trial.
Thus a division grew up amongst us. It was in the bright frosty days
before Christmas, when the fields and dales were wrapped in snow, when
the logs burned merrily, and the crickets sang, when fairyland was
painted on every window-pane, when our superintendence at the Hall was
over, when all things there had been placed in readiness, even to the
lighting of the fires in the bed-chambers. We had left Mrs. Beatty in
possession of her domain, and in daily expectation of an announcement of
the intended arrival of her master and mistress. Things were in this way
when one day a carriage dashed up to our farmhouse door, and out stepped
Grace Tyrrell and her brother Frederick.
Jane shrank into a corner when I asked her to accompany me down-stairs,
murmuring something I would not hear about my "fine friends." But Mopsie
smoothed her curly locks, put on her best apron, and slipped her hand in
mine as I went down to the parlour.
Grace was impatiently tripping about the room, making faces at the bare
walls and laughing at the old-fashioned furniture. She was clothed in
velvet and fur with feathers nodding from her hat. She put her hands on
my shoulders and eyed me all over critically.
"Pray, little Quakeress," said she, "can you tell me what has become of
my friend Margery?"
"Yes," said I laughing, "I actually happen to have her about me. What do
you want with her?"
"Only to ask her what sin she has committed that she shuts herself up
from the world, starves herself to skin and bone, and dresses herself in
sackcloth?" she replied, touching my dress, and trying its texture
between her finger and thumb.
"We do not starve her," put in Mopsie stoutly.
"And who are you, little miss?" said Grace, using a gold-rimmed
eye-glass, which nearly annihilated poor Mopsie.
"No matter," said the little one, scarlet and trembling. "We are all
Margery's friends, and we love her dearly."
Grace laughed at the child's ardour, as if it were something very funny
and original; but Mopsie, never flinching, held my hand all the time.
"And what about the ploughman, dear?" Grace went on; "would it be
possible to get a sight of him? Yes, do go" (to Mopsie), "like a useful
little girl, and see about getting us some lunch. We are staying in this
country at present, Margery, and when we return to London we intend to
take you with us."
Mopsie's eyes dilated dangerously, but she retreated to the door at a
whisper from me.
"Frederick," said Grace, "come and help me to persuade Margery;" and
Mopsie vanished.
I said something about Frederick Tyrrell before, but I can hardly
describe how excessively slim, and elegant, and effeminate he looked to
me that day in particular. His dress and his manners amused me very
much. While staying with the Tyrrells one of my chief occupations had
been making fun of this young man, a fact of which I believe he was
blissfully unconscious. Perhaps experience had made him incredulous as
to the indifference any young lady might feel to his special favour; or
it might have been conceit; I will not pretend to decide which. But when
he drew near me, murmuring (shall I say lisping?), "Oh, do come; pray,
take pity on us--we have missed you so dreadfully," I am sure he thought
he did enough to make any reasonable young woman desire to leave
Hillsbro' on the instant.
But I did not want to leave Hillsbro', I felt a pang of keen pain at the
very suggestion; yet at the same moment an idea came into my mind that
it might be a good thing that I should leave it for a time. I hesitated,
asked Grace when she intended returning to London, and, while we were
parleying about the matter, Mopsie returned. During the remainder of the
visit the little girl listened earnestly to everything we said on the
subject, and when I parted from my friends at the gate, leaving it
undecided whether I should go with them to London or not, Mopsie burst
into tears and clung to my neck.
"Do not go with them," she said; "they cannot love you as we do."
"Mopsie, my pet," I said, "don't be a little goose. Neither do I love
them as I love you. If I go away for a time I will be sure to come
back."
Mopsie whispered her fears to Jane, and all that evening Jane kept aloof
from me. My head ached with trying to think of what I ought to do, and I
sat alone by the school-room hearth in the firelight considering my
difficulties, fighting against my wishes, and endeavouring in vain to
convince myself that I had no wishes at all. Mopsie came in and lay down
at my feet, with her face rolled up in my gown; and so busy was I that I
did not know she was crying. John came in and found her out. He took her
on his knee and stroked her as if she had been a kitten. Mopsie would
not be comforted. I felt guilty and said nothing. John looked from her
to me, wondering. At last Mopsie's news came out.
"Margery's grand London friends have been here, and they want to take
her away."
"What grand London friends?" asked John, looking at me, but talking to
her.
"Oh, Mr. and Miss Tyrrell, a pretty lady with long feathers and
ringlets, and flounces on her dress, and a handsome gentleman who said
they had missed Margery dreadfully. And Margery is thinking of going
back to them."
John suddenly stopped stroking her, and sat quite still. I felt him
looking at me earnestly, and at last I had to look up, which I did
smiling, and saying, "I did not know Mopsie cared so much about me."
Then John kissed the little girl, and said, "Go down-stairs to Jane,
dear. I have something particular to say to Margery."
I was completely taken by surprise. He closed the door upon Mopsie, and
came back and reseated himself at the fire. He sat on one side of the
fireplace, and I at the other, and the flames danced between us. He
shaded his face with his hand, and looked across at me; and I watched
intently a great tree falling in the depths of a burning forest among
the embers.
"Is this true, Margery," said John, "that you are going to leave us, and
return to London?"
"I am thinking of it," I said pleasantly.
"I thought--I had hoped you were happy with us," he said.
"Yes," I said, "I have been very happy, but I think I want a little
change."
How my heart ached with the effort of uttering that untruth! I knew that
I wanted no change.
"I do not wonder at it," he said after a pause. "We have made a slave of
you. You are tired of it, and you are going away."
He said this bitterly and sorrowfully, shading his eyes still more with
his hand.
"No, no," I said, "you must not say that. I never was so happy in my
life as I have been here."
I spoke more eagerly than I meant to do, and my voice broke a little in
spite of me. John left his seat and bent down beside me, so that he
could see my face, which could not escape him.
"Margery," said he, "I have seen that you have made yourself happy, and
I have been sometimes wild enough to hope that you would be content to
spend your life amongst us. When you came first I feared to love you too
well, but your sweet face and your sweet ways have been too much for me.
It may be ungenerous in me to speak, seeing that I only have to offer
you a true love, truer maybe than you will meet with in the gay world, a
tarnished name, and a very humble home. I have debts to pay, and a soil
to wash off my name; but still, Margery, will you be my wife? With your
love nothing will be dark or difficult to me."
It was very hard. My heart was brimming over with a joyous reply to this
appeal; but Mrs. Hollingford's uneasy face was vividly before my eyes
all the time, and I could only say distressedly, "It cannot be, John. It
cannot, cannot be."
"Why?" he asked, almost sternly, and he rose up and stood above me.
"Tell me that you cannot love me--tell me you would rather save yourself
for more honour, more prosperity, and I will never trouble you again.
Were I differently circumstanced I might plead, but I could not live to
see you discontented, ashamed. Why can it not be, Margery?"
I clasped my hands in my lap, and tried to speak firmly. "For a reason
that I cannot give to you, John. Let us be good friends."
"Friends!" he echoed bitterly. "Well! I was wrong to think of my own
happiness before your worldly advantage. Good-bye, Margery. I am going
to London in the morning. Perhaps you may be gone before I come back."
And with this he abruptly walked out of the room. But afterwards I sat
there an hour, wondering if what had passed so quickly were true, and I
had really refused to be John Hollingford's wife.
After tea he left us early, saying he must start for Hillsbro' at four
in the morning. Mopsie fell asleep, and Jane absorbed herself in her
books. Mrs. Hollingford and I held some embroidery in our hands, but my
fingers trembled so that the stitches went all wrong. Now and again,
glancing up, I encountered long troubled looks from Mrs. Hollingford.
She had seen that something was amiss between me and John, and I guessed
that her mind was at work with fears. I could not bear it; I thought it
was not fair after what I had done. For the first and last time I felt
angry and impatient with the dear old lady. Would she herself, in her
own young days, have sacrificed as much? Jane shut up her books at last,
and carried Mopsie off with her to bed, and Mrs. Hollingford and I were
left sitting facing one another.
"Mrs. Hollingford," I said, dropping my work with almost a sob, "don't
look at me like that. I cannot bear it, and I do not deserve it."
What made me say it I cannot think. The moment before I spoke I had no
intention of speaking. Mrs. Hollingford dropped her work in dismay.
"My love," she said, "what do you mean? I do not understand. What do my
looks say that you cannot bear?"
"Oh, Mrs. Hollingford," I said, covering my burning cheeks with my
hands, "you must know what I mean. You look at me, and look at me, and I
see what is in your mind. How can I help it?"
"My dear," said she, "is it anything about John?"
"Yes," said I desperately, "it is about John. You think I want to take
him from you, and I do not, and I never will, and I have told him so. I
am going away to London with my friends the Tyrrells, and I will never
trouble you any more."
I was rather blind by this time, and I was not sure of what part of the
room I was in; but Mrs. Hollingford had come to my side, and she put her
arms round about me and fondled my head on her breast.
"My dear," she said, "and is this the secret that has made the trouble
between us? I never thought that you wanted to take him from me; on the
contrary, I feared that you might be too young to understand his worth.
I dreaded sorrow and suffering for my son, nothing else."
My face was hidden in her motherly embrace. I could not speak for some
moments, and I thought my heart had stopped beating. At last I
whispered:
"Oh, Mrs. Hollingford, I have made a great mistake. Can it be that you
really--"
"Will have you for a daughter?" she asked, smiling. "Gladly, thankfully,
my darling, if it be for your happiness. But you must not decide
hastily; there are great disadvantages which you must consider, and I,
as your guardian and friend, must point them out to you. I must forget
my son's interests in the faithful discharge of my trust. John has a
cloud upon his name."
"Don't, don't!" I said, "if he had a hundred clouds upon his name it
would be all the same to me."
"Then you love him well?" she said tenderly, sighing and smiling at the
same time.
"I think I do," I said; "but that is only a misfortune, for you know I
have refused him."
"Well," she said cheerfully, "perhaps it is for the best. You must go to
London with your friends, and test your feeling by absence and the
society of others. If you remain unattracted by those who are better
placed in the world, I think John will try again, in spite of his pride.
I know I should in his place," she said, lifting up my disturbed face,
and looking in it with a half quizzical fondness.
I answered by throwing my arms round her neck in a long tearful embrace,
and after that we sat long by the fireside talking the matter over. The
consequence was, oddly enough, that I went upstairs to bed feeling so
extremely sober that, before I laid my head upon my pillow, I had begun
to doubt whether I cared for John Hollingford at all. It was not that I
shrank from what his mother had called the "sacrifices" I should make in
becoming his wife. I never even thought of them. I had found too much
happiness at Hillsbro' Farm to be able to realise their existence. But I
had a superstition that I ought to feel very joyfully excited about all
I had learned that evening; first, that John really loved me, and,
secondly, that his mother was ready to take me to her heart. Yet I only
felt sobered to the last degree, and exceedingly afraid of seeing John
again. I heard him driving away from the door before daybreak, and I
found myself hoping that he might not come back for a week.
The next day I was in the same mood. I felt so grave and quiet that I
made up my mind I could not have that wonderful love for John which I
believed to be the duty of a wife. I thought I had better write to
Grace, and arrange about going with her to London. Then I grew miserable
at the thought of leaving the farm, and wished I had never seen it. For
three days I tormented myself thus, and then there came a shock which
brought me cruelly to my senses.
On the fourth day after John had left us, I was walking up and down the
frosty avenue just as the evening was coming on. The sun was setting
redly behind the brown wood, and blushing over the whitened fields and
hedgerows. A man came up the avenue and pulled off his hat as he
approached me. I recognised in him an Irish labourer whom I had seen
working in the gardens at the Hall.
"Beg pardon, miss!" said he, "but be you Miss Margery Dacre?"
"Yes, Pat," said I. "This is a fine evening, is it not? What do you want
with me?"
"Oh then, a fine evenin' it is; glory be to God!" said Pat; "but all the
same, Mrs. Beatty is mortial anxious for you to step over to the Hall
the soonest minute ye can, as she has somethin' very sarious to say to
ye."
"Step over to the Hall?" I exclaimed. "Do you know what o'clock it is,
Pat?"
"Oh yis, miss!" said Pat; "it's three o'clock, an' the sun low, but
niver fear; I'll walk behind ye ivery step o' the way, an' if as much as
a hare winks at ye, he'll rue the day. Mrs. Beatty would ha' come over
here to spake to ye, only for fear o' hersel' at the farm," said Pat,
jerking his thumb in the direction of the house. "God keep sorrow from
her door; but I'm feared there's throuble in the wind!"
I did not quite understand whether the threatened trouble was for Mrs.
Beatty or Mrs. Hollingford. I guessed the latter, and thought
immediately of the absent husband and father. I felt that I could not do
better than obey the summons. Pat promised to wait for me at the gate,
and I hastened into the house to prepare for my journey.
"I am going for a walk, Jane," I said, looking in at the school-room
door. "Don't be surprised if I am not in before dark."
"But, Margery!" I heard her beginning, and did not wait to hear any
more.
How I racked my brains during that walk to try and guess the cause of my
sudden summons. The only thing I could think of was that Mr. Hollingford
was in prison. I never fancied anything approaching to the truth.
Mrs. Beatty was anxiously watching at the door for my arrival. She had
tea waiting for me, and began pulling off my bonnet and boots at her
fireside. But her hands were shaking, and her eyes red and watering.
"Never mind me, Mrs. Beatty," I said, imploringly; "tell me what is the
matter."
"Take a sup of tea first, my dear young lady," said she; "ill news is
heard soon enough."
"I won't taste it," I said, pushing it away. "Tell me this instant!" I
said, as a dim fear of the truth came across my brain.
"Well, my dear," she said, beginning to cry outright, "you see there has
been a terrible smash of the coach from London. The horses fell crossing
a bridge, and the coach was overturned into the river; and they do say
everybody was killed or drowned. And poor young Mr. Hollingford was in
the coach; and, oh! that I should have to say it, he's met a cruel
death. I sent for you, dear young lady, that you might break the news
gently to his mother; for there's not a soul in the country side dare
carry the story to her door, and they'll maybe be bringing home the
bodies."
"Stop!" said I. "Mrs. Beatty--are you sure--"
And the next thing I knew was a sensation of coldness and wetness upon
my face, and a smell of vinegar and wine, and a sound of murmuring and
crying.
[Illustration: MARGERY HEARS OF THE ACCIDENT.]
"Dear heart, dear heart! to think of her taking on so!" I heard the good
woman saying, and I crept to my feet, and began tying on my bonnet in
spite of her entreaties that I would lie still.
"No, no, I must get home!" I said, shuddering. "Some one else will come
and tell her, and it will kill her. Let me go at once! Let me go!"
At the door in the frosty dusk Pat was waiting with a horse and gig.
"I was thinkin' ye'd be a bit staggered by the news, miss," he said,
"an' I put the mare to this ould shandheradan. It's not very fit for a
lady, bad manners to it! but it'll be betther nor the slippery roads
undher yer feet."
I do not know how the drive passed. I remember saying once to Pat,
"Are they quite, quite sure that Mr. Hollingford was--was--"
"No indeed, miss," was the answer, "sorra sure at all. They do say he
was in the coach, but no wan seen him dead, as far as I can hear tell."
I made the man set me down at the farm gate, and walked up the avenue
just as the early moonlight was beginning to light up the frosty world.
As I came near the door, I fancied I heard crying and wailing; but it
was only Mopsie singing in the hall. Behind the parlour window I saw
Jane stepping about briskly in the firelight, arranging the table for
tea. All was quiet and peaceful as when I had left the place two hours
before.