Early summer was already upon the land, flowers were blooming, and the
reign of sunshine had begun. The cuckoo haunted the Hall gardens,
rabbits basked in the glades, and the woods were alive with singing
birds.
A little thing happened which surprised me. A troop of us were riding
one day along the moor, and by the outskirts of the road, I, being
foremost, espied two figures at a distance among the trees, and
recognizing the girls from the farm, I pressed on and came on them
unawares, where they were down on their knees, gathering mosses out of
the grass. Mopsie was on my neck in a moment, but Jane was a little shy.
I had to coax her to be frank.
She thought I must be changed, she said, I stayed away so long. If I
cared for them any more, I would have come to see them. Mother was not
very well, and John, when at home, was dull. He fretted about something.
Did I not know what it was about?
"Whether I come or stay, you must believe in me, Jane," said I; "I am
not one of those that change. I will go back with you now and see your
mother. Here are the rest of our party coming; we will meet them and
tell them what I am going to do."
"That is Miss Leonard," I added, seeing Rachel riding foremost. "Are you
not curious to see her?" Jane said "Yes," and walked on beside me,
holding my whip.
The sun was in Rachel's face till she passed into the shade right before
us. She raised her eyes then and looked at us, started violently, gave
her reins a sudden wild pluck; the horse reared, plunged, and flung her.
I screamed and sprang to the ground, but Jane stood immovable, looking
at Rachel where she lay, staring at her with a face which had changed
from glowing red to white. I pushed her aside to reach Rachel. She
turned quickly round, and, without a word, began walking rapidly towards
home. She passed out of sight without once looking back. It all occurred
in a minute.
The other riders came up; Rachel was not injured, only a little bruised
and faint. She was too nervous to remount. Our party rode home, and I
sat with Rachel on the grass, till a servant came with a pony carriage.
The man took our horses, and I drove Rachel home. She cried hysterically
all the time whilst we waited in the wood. I did not see any more of
Jane, and, of course, I did not pay my proposed visit to her mother.
Rachel did not attempt to explain the cause of her accident, and I did
not ask her anything about it. I remembered Jane's face, and I puzzled
over her strange conduct in silence. It was impossible not to think that
she had beheld in Rachel some one whom she had not expected, and was not
well pleased to see. Yet this young girl had been a child when she had
come to Hillsbro', and she had not known Rachel by name. My head ached
distressfully over the puzzle, but I could make nothing of it. Jane was
an odd girl; she had conceived a prejudice against Miss Leonard, and had
taken a whimsically rude way of showing it. This was all the conclusion
I could come to on the subject.
One evening we had a dinner party, and a good many young people being
present, we danced a little. I danced more gaily than the rest, for my
heart was unusually sore. Grace Tyrrell had told me that day that she
purposed leaving the Hall next week, and had pressed me to go with her
to London. I thought I had better go, yet I had refused her. I knew I
must leave Hillsbro', yet I shrank from the great effort of tearing
myself away. Here I had been loved and happy; the trees and the moors
knew it; even the strange faces of the country people passing on the
roads had seemed to be in my secret, and had played their simple part in
my dream. I felt that, once gone, I could never return, and I must first
have an explanation with John, and put an end to our engagement. Yet how
to seek him for such a purpose? I had kept at so great a distance from
him lately that it seemed impossible. I felt that he would be relieved
by my absence, and glad of his release, but my own woe pressed upon me.
I feared to make a fool of myself, if he was kind as of old when we said
good-bye.
So I was dancing with the rest, and Captain Tyrrell was my partner. We
were very merry. Grace was playing for us, and looked approvingly over
her shoulders. John had been with us at dinner, but I had lost sight of
him, and as I did not see Rachel either, my fancy saw them walking in
the moonlight without. For it was a warm evening, the windows were open,
the stars bright, and people went in and out at their pleasure. The
flowers smelt sweetly in the dew, and the nightingales were singing.
There was a game of hide-and-seek on the lawn, and when the shrieks and
laughter were subsiding, some one began to sing within. Rachel was
entertaining the old ladies and gentlemen, and the rovers flocked round
the windows to listen. I had sauntered with Captain Tyrrell into a grove
to hear a nightingale, and I was weary to death of his company. He was
trying to make me promise to go to London. "Oh, let it rest," I said,
"we will talk about it to-morrow. Let us be merry to-night. We will play
hide-and-seek again!" and I darted suddenly among the trees, and lay
close behind a great oak. My squire lost me; I heard him go past
plunging through the underwood, and swearing a little. I lay still till
he had given up the search and gone towards the house, and then, like
the silly lamb in the spelling-book story, I came forth in the
moonlight, and if I did not skip and frisk about with delight, I at
least enjoyed myself after the only dismal fashion I could command.
Captain Tyrrell was to me, in these days, a veritable old man of the
sea, I could not get rid of him, and sometimes I thought in my most
despairing moods that it was going to be my lot to carry him on my
shoulders for the remainder of my life.
I was walking slowly, musing ruefully, when I saw a figure advancing to
meet me on the path. I saw at a glance that it was John Hollingford. The
time had been when I would have flown gladly to meet him, linked my arm
in his, and seized the opportunity for one of our old talks about
pleasant fancies. But this was not the friend I had known, nor was I any
longer the simple girl who could open her heart to trust, and delight in
shining dreams. The pleasant fancies had been proved cheats, the stars
had fallen. I no longer looked up at the sky, but down to the ground.
For a moment I shrank back, and would have hidden, but then I thought
bitterly, what did it matter? Unpleasant words must be said between us,
sooner or later. A very few would suffice. Better they were said at
once.
"Margery," said John, "people are looking for you, and talking about
you. I have come to fetch you to the house. To tell the truth I am glad
of the opportunity of saying something which has been long upon my mind.
Will you bear with me a few minutes?"
"Yes," I said, "certainly. As long as you please," and I tossed little
pieces of twig over my shoulder, and prepared myself to listen. Oh, my
dears, how defiant women will be, just for the fear of being pitied.
"You must know very well," he continued, "what I am going to say. I have
a right to ask you for an explanation of your conduct for the past few
weeks. People are coupling your name with that of Captain Tyrrell, and
with good reason. You are so changed that I scarcely see a trace of the
Margery I once knew. Child! if you repent of the promise you have given
me, tell me now and I will set you free. I remember the circumstances
under which that promise was given. You, perhaps, exaggerated your own
feelings; you have since renewed your acquaintance with people and ways
of life that suit you best. I will try not to blame you. Speak out at
once, and do not think of me."
The truthful ring of feeling and reproach in his voice startled my ears,
and set my heart struggling for liberty to give an honest response to
this appeal. A few simple words would have been enough, but the
recollection of all that I knew came back too quickly. The conviction of
his insincerity and injustice suddenly bewildered me with anger, keen in
proportion to the desolation I had suffered.
"Sir," said I (we said "sir" for politeness in those days, my dear),
loftily, coldly, and in utter despair, "I will take you at your word.
Let the promise between us be broken from this moment!"
He heaved a great sigh, of relief, I thought, and being near the house
we parted with much politeness. Thus we put an end to our engagement.
Holy and indestructible I had believed it to be; but then I was an
ignorant little fool. People shake hands and say good-bye every day, and
never dream of being so mad as to spoil to-morrow with tears. As for me
I did not wait for to-morrow. That night was piteous with the rain of my
grief. But Grace was at hand to comfort, to counsel, to instruct, which
she did with her own peculiar figures of speech.
"You are a brave little thing!" she said. "I am glad you had spirit to
act on the first notice to quit. It would have been so much more
humiliating to have waited for a forcible ejectment."
And I promised to accompany her to London.