"A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky."--WORDSWORTH.
The baby morn has flung aside its robes, and grown to perfect
strength. The day is well advanced. Already it is making rapid strides
towards rest and evening; yet still no cooling breeze has come to
refresh the heart of man.
Below, in the quiet fields, the cattle are standing, knee-deep in
water, beneath the spreading branches of the kindly alder. They have
no energy to eat, but munch, sleepily, the all-satisfying cud, and,
with gentle if expressionless eyes, look out afar for evening and the
milkmaid.
"'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun
Darts on the head direct his forceful rays.
O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye
Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all,
From pole to pole, is undistinguished blaze.
Distressful Nature pants!
The very streams look languid from afar,
Or, through th' unsheltered glade, impatient, seem
To hurl into the covert of the grove."
A tender stillness reigns over everything. The very birds are mute.
Even the busy mill-wheel has ceased to move.
Bright flashes of light, that come and go ere one can catch them, dart
across the gray walls of the old mill,--that holds its gaunt and
stately head erect, as though defying age,--and, slanting to the
right, fall on the cottage, quaint and ivy-clad, that seems to nestle
at its feet. The roses that climb its walls are drooping; the
casements all stand wide. No faintest breath of air comes to flutter
Ruth's white gown, as she leans against the rustic gate.
All millers' daughters should be pretty. It is a duty imposed upon
them by tradition. Romance, of the most floral description, at once
attaches itself to a miller's daughter. I am not at all sure it does
not even cast a halo round the miller himself. Ruth Annersley at least
acknowledges this fact, and does her duty nobly; she gives the lie to
no old legends or treasured nursery superstitions; she is as pretty as
heart can desire,--
"Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair."
She is small, piquant, timid, with large almond-shaped eyes and
light-brown hair, a rounded supple figure, and hands delicately white.
Perhaps there is a lack of force in her face, an indefinable want,
that hardly detracts from her beauty, yet sets one wondering, vaguely,
where it lies, and what it can be. The mouth, mobile and slightly
parted, betrays it most.
Her lashes, covering her brown eyes, are very long, and lie a good
deal on her cheeks. Her manner, without a suspicion of _gaucherie_, is
nervous, almost appealing; and her smile, because so rare, is very
charming, and apt to linger in the memory.
She is an only child, and all through her young life has been petted
and caressed rather more than is good for any one. Her father had
married, somewhat late in life, a woman in every way his superior,
and, she dying two years after her marriage, he had fallen back for
consolation upon the little one left to his sole care. To him, she was
a pride, a delight, a creature precious beyond words, on whom the sun
must shine gently and the rain fall not at all.
A shy child from the first, Ruth had declined acquaintance with the
villagers, who would, one and all, have been glad to succor the
motherless girl. Perhaps the little drop of gentle blood inherited
from her mother had thriven in her veins, and thus rendered her
distant and somewhat repellent in her manners to those in her own rank
of life.
She had been sent early to a private school, had been carefully
educated far above her position, and had come home again to her
father, with all the pretty airs and unconscious softness of manner
that, as a rule, belong to good birth.
She is warm-hearted, passionate, impulsive, and singularly
reserved,--so much so that few guess at the terrible power to love, or
hate, or suffer, in silence, that lies within her. She is a special
favorite with Miss Peyton and the vicarage people (Mr. and Mrs Redmond
and their five children), with those at Hythe, and indeed with most of
the country people, Miss Scrope excepted, who gives it freely as her
opinion that she will come to no good "with her books and her high
society and general fiddle-faddling." Nobody knows what this last
means, and every one is afraid to ask.
Just now, with her pretty head bare, and her hand shading her eyes,
she is gazing down the dusty road. Her whole attitude denotes
expectancy. Every feature (she is off her guard) expresses intense and
hopeful longing,--
"Fiery Titan, who
----with his peccant heat
Has dried up the lusty liquor new
Upon the herbis in the greene mead,"
has plainly fallen in love with her to-day, as he has clothed her in
all his glory, and seems reluctant to pass her by on his homeward
journey.
The heat has made her pale and languid; but just at this moment a
faint delicate color springs into her face; and as the figure of a
young man, tall and broad-shouldered, turns the corner of the road,
she raises her hand to her cheek with a swift involuntary gesture. A
moment later, as the figure comes closer, so near that the face is
discernible, she pales again, and grows white as an early snow drop.
"Good-morning, Ruth," says Dorian Branscombe, with a smile, apparently
oblivious of the fact that morning has given place to noon many hours
agone.
Ruth returns his salutation gently, and lets her hand lie for an
instant in his.
"This is a summer's day, with a vengeance," says Dorian, genially,
proceeding to make himself comfortable on the top of the low wall near
which she is standing. He is plainly making up his mind to a long and
exhaustive conversation. "Talk of India!" he says disparagingly; "this
beats it to fits!"
Ruth acquiesces amiably.
"It is warm,--very," she says, calmly, but indifferently.
"'Ot I call it,--werry 'ot," returns he, making his quotation as
genially as though she understands it, and, plucking a little rose-bud
from a tree near him, proceeds to adorn his coat with it.
"It seems a long time since I have seen you," he goes on, presently;
and, as he speaks, his eyes again seek hers. Something in her face
touches some chord in his careless kindly nature.
"How pale you are!" he says, abruptly.
"Am I? The heat, no doubt,"--with a faint smile.
"But thin, too, are you not? And--and--" he pauses. "Anything wrong
with you, Ruth?"
"Wrong? No! How should there be?" retorts she, in a curious tone, in
which fear and annoyance fight for mastery. Then the storm dies away,
and the startled look fades from her pretty face.
"Why should you think me unhappy because I am a little pale?" she
asks, sullenly.
Branscombe looks surprised.
"You altogether mistake me," he says, gently. "I never associated you
in my mind with unhappiness. I merely meant, had you a headache, or
any other of those small ills that female flesh is heir to? I beg your
pardon, I'm sure, if I have offended you."
He has jumped off the wall, and is now standing before her, with only
the little gate between them. Her face is still colorless, and she is
gazing up at him with parted lips, as though she would fain say
something difficult to form into satisfactory speech. At this moment,
Lord Sartoris, coming suddenly round the angle of the road, sees them.
Ruth lowers her eyes, and some slight transient color creeps into her
cheeks. Sartoris, coming quickly up to them, makes some conventional
speech to her, and then turns to his nephew.
"Where are you going?" he asks, coldly.
"I was going to Hythe," returned the young man, easily. "Just as well
I didn't, eh? Should have found you out."
"Found me out,--yes," repeats his uncle, looking at him strangely. How
long--how long it takes to find out some people, on whom our very
hearts are set. "I am going to the village."
"Then so am I," says Branscombe. "Though I should think it would run
the original 'deserted' one close on such a day as this. Good-by,
Ruth."
He holds out his hand; and the girl, silently returning his warm
pressure, makes a faint courtesy to Lord Sartoris. There is no
servility, but some nervousness, in the slight salutation.
"How is your father, Ruth?" asks he, detaining her by a quick movement
of the hand.
"Quite well, thank you, my lord." Some timidity is discernible in her
tone, caused by the unmistakable reproof and sternness in his.
"I am glad to hear it. There is no worthier man in all the parish than
John Annersley. I hope nothing will ever occur to grieve or sadden
that good old man."
"I hope not, my lord," returns she, steadily, although his voice has
meaning in it. In another moment she is gone.
"How does your farming go on, Dorian?" asks Lord Sartoris, presently,
rousing himself from a puzzling revery.
"Quite in the model line," says Dorian, cheerful. "That Sawyer is an
invaluable fellow. Does all the work, you know,--which is most
satisfactory. Looks after the men, pays their wages, and takes all
trouble off my shoulders. Never could understand what a perfect
treasure is till I got him. Every one says I am most fortunate in my
choice of a steward."
"I dare say. It is amazing the amount of information people possess
about other people's servants. But you look after things yourself, of
course? However faithful and trustworthy one's hirelings may be, one's
own eyes should also be in the matter."
"Oh, of course," acquiesces Dorian, still cheerfully. "Nothing like
personal supervision, and so on. Every now and then, you know, I do
look over the accounts, and ask a few questions, and show myself very
learned in drainages, and so forth. But I don't see that I gain much
by it. Horrid stupid work, too,"--with a yawn. "Luckily, Sawyer is one
of the most knowing fellows in the world, or I suppose I should go to
smash. He is up to everything, and talks like a book. Quite a
pleasure, I give you my word,--almost a privilege,--to hear him
converse on short-horns and some eccentric root they call mangels."
"It is possible to be too knowing," says his uncle, depreciatingly.
"Eh? oh, no; Sawyer is not that sort of person. He is quite straight
all through. And he never worries me more than he can help. He looks
after everything, and whatever he touches (metaphorically speaking)
turns to gold. I'm sure anything like those pheasants----"
"Yes, yes, I dare say. But pheasants are not everything."
"Well, no; there are a few other things," says Dorian,
amicably,--"notably, grouse. Why this undying hatred to Sawyer, my
dear Arthur? In what has he been found wanting?"
"I think him a low, under-hand, sneaking sort of fellow," says
Sartoris, unhesitatingly. "I should not keep him in my employ half an
hour. However," relentingly, and somewhat sadly, "one cannot always
judge by appearances."
They have reached the village by this time, and are walking leisurely
through it. Almost as they reach the hotel that adorns the centre of
the main street, they meet Mr. Redmond, the rector, looking as hearty
and kindly as usual. Lord Sartoris, who has come down on purpose to
meet him, having asked his question and received his answer, turns
again and walks slowly homeward, Dorian still beside him.
As they again catch sight of the old mill, Sartoris says, quietly,
with a laudable attempt at unconcern that would not have deceived the
veriest infant, but is quite successful with Dorian, whose thoughts
are far away,--
"What a nice girl that little Ruth has grown!"
"Awfully pretty girl," returns Dorian, carelessly.
"Yes,"--gravely,--"very pretty; and I think--I hope--upright, as she
is beautiful. Poor child, hers seems to me a very desolate lot. Far
too well educated to associate with those of her own class, she is
still cut off by the laws of caste from mixing with those above her.
She has no friends, no mother, no sister, to love and sympathize with
her."
"My dear Arthur, how you do agonize yourself!" says Dorian. "She has
her father, and about as comfortable a time altogether as I know of."
"She reminds me of some lowly wayside flower," goes on the old man,
musingly, heedless of the brilliant interlude, "raising its little
head sadly among gay garden-plants that care not for her, whilst
beyond the hedge that bounds her garden she can watch her own species
grow and flourish in wild luxuriance. Her life can scarcely be called
happy. There must always be a want, a craving for what can never be
obtained. Surely the one that could bring sorrow to that pure heart,
or tears to those gentle eyes, should be----"
"Asphyxiated," puts in Dorian, idly. He yawns languidly and pulls the
head off a tall dandelion, that adorns the wayside, in a somewhat
desultory fashion. The color in the older man's cheeks grows a shade
deeper, and a gesture, as full of impatience as of displeasure,
escapes him.
"There are some subjects," he says, with calm severity, "that it would
be well to place beyond the reach of ridicule."
"Am I one of them?" says Dorian, lightly. Then, glancing at his
uncle's face, he checks himself, and goes on quickly. "I beg your
pardon, I'm sure. I have been saying something unlucky, as usual. Of
course I agree with you on all points, Arthur, and think the man who
could wilfully bring a blush to Ruth Annersley's cheek neither more
nor less than a blackguard _pur et simple_. By the by, that last
little homely phrase comes in badly there, doesn't it? Rather out of
keeping with the vituperative noun, eh!"
"Rather," returns Sartoris, shortly. He drops his nephew's arm,
and walks on in silence. As a rule, Dorian's careless humor suits
him; it amuses and adds a piquancy to a life that without it
(now that Dorian's society has become indispensable to him) would
prove "flat, stale, and unprofitable." But to-day, he hardly knows
why,--or, perhaps, hardly dares to know why,--his nephew's easy
light-heartedness jars upon him, vexing him sorely.
As they turn the corner of the road and go down the hill, they meet
Horace, coming towards them at a rapid pace. As he sees them, he
slackens his speed and approaches more slowly.
"Just as well I met you," he says, with an airy laugh, "as my thoughts
were running away with me, and Phoebus Apollo is in the ascendant:
veritably he 'rules the roast.' This uphill work is trying on the
lungs."
"Where have you been?" asks Dorian, just because he has nothing else
to say, and it is such a bore to think.
"At Gowran."
"Ah! I'm going there now. You saw Clarissa, then?" says Sartoris,
quickly. "When do you return to town, Horace?"
"To-morrow, I think,--I hope," says Horace; and, with a little nod on
both sides, they part. But when the bend in the road again hides him
from view, it would occur to a casual on-looker that Horace
Branscombe's thoughts must once more have taken his physical powers
into captivity, as his pace quickens, until it grows even swifter
than it was before.
Sartoris goes leisurely down the hill, with Dorian beside him,
whistling "Nancy Lee," in a manner highly satisfactory to himself, no
doubt, but slightly out of tune. When Sartoris can bear this musical
treat no longer, he breaks hurriedly into speech of a description that
requires an answer.
"What a pretty girl Clarissa Peyton is! don't you think so?"
When Dorian has brought Miss Lee to a triumphant finish, with a
flourish that would have raised murderous longings in the breast of
Stephen Adams, he says, without undue enthusiasm,--
"Yes, she is about the best-looking woman I know."
"And as unaffected as she is beautiful. That is her principal charm.
So thoroughly bred, too, in every thought and action. I never met so
lovable a creature!"
"What a pity she can't hear you!" says Branscombe. "Though perhaps it
is as well she can't. Adulation has a bad effect on some people."
"She is too earnest, too thorough, to be upset by flattery. I
sometimes wonder if there are any like her in the world."
"Very few, I think," says Dorian, genially.
Another pause, somewhat longer than the last, and then Sartoris says,
with some hesitation, "Do you never think of marrying, Dorian?"
"Often," says Branscombe, with an amused smile.
"Yet how seldom you touch on the matter! Why, when I was your age, I
had seen at least twenty women I should have married, had they shown
an answering regard for me."
"What a blessing they didn't!" says Branscombe. "Fancy, twenty of
them! You'd have found it awkward in the long run, wouldn't you? And I
don't think they'd have liked it, you know, in this illiberal country.
So glad you thought better of it."
"I wish I could once see you as honestly"--with a slight, almost
unconscious, stress on the word--"in love as I have been scores of
times."
"What a melancholy time you must have put in! When a fellow is in
love he goes to skin and bone, doesn't he? slights his dinner, and
refuses to find solace in the best cigar. It must be trying,--very;
especially to one's friends. I doubt you were a susceptible youth,
Arthur. I'm not."
"Then you ought to be," says Sartoris, with some anger. "All young men
should feel their hearts beat, and their pulses quicken, at the sight
of a pretty woman."
"My dear fellow," says Branscombe, severely, removing his glass from
his right to his left eye, as though to scan more carefully his
uncle's countenance, "there is something the matter with you this
morning, isn't there? You're not well, you know. You have taken
something very badly, and it has gone to your morals; they are all
wrong,--very unsound indeed. Have you carefully considered the nature
of the advice you are giving me? Why, if I were to let my heart beat
every time I meet all the pretty women I know, I should be in a
lunatic asylum in a month."
"Seriously, though, I wish you would give the matter some thought,"
says Lord Sartoris, earnestly: "you are twenty-eight,--old enough to
make a sensible choice."
Branscombe sighs.
"And I see nothing to prevent your doing so. You want a wife to look
after you,--a woman you could respect as well as love,--a thoughtful
beautiful woman, to make your home dearer to you than all the
amusements town life can afford. She would make you happy, and induce
you to look more carefully to your own interests, and----and----"
"You mean you would like me to marry Clarissa Peyton," says Dorian,
good-humoredly. "Well, it is a charming scheme, you know; but I don't
think it will come off. In the first place, Clarissa would not have
me, and in the next, I don't want to marry at all. A wife would bore
me to death; couldn't fancy a greater nuisance. I like women very
much, in fact, I may say, I am decidedly fond of a good many of them,
but to have one always looking after me (as you style it) and showing
up my pet delinquencies would drive me out of my mind. Don't look so
disgusted! I feel I'm a miserable sinner; but I really can't help it.
I expect there is something radically wrong with me."
"Do you mean to tell me"--with some natural indignation--"that up to
this you have never, during all your wanderings, both at home and
abroad, seen any woman you could sincerely admire?"
"Numbers, my dear Arthur,--any amount,--but not one I should care to
marry. You see, that makes such a difference. I remember once
before--last season--you spoke to me in this strain, and, simply to
oblige you, I thought I would make up my mind to try matrimony. So I
went in heavily, heart and soul, for Lady Fanny Hazlett. You have seen
Lady Fanny?"
"Yes, a good deal of her."
"Then you know how really pretty she is. Well, I spent three weeks at
it; regular hard work the entire time, you know, no breathing-space
allowed, as she never refuses an invitation, thinks nothing of three
balls in one night, and insisted on my dancing attendance on her
everywhere. I never suffered so much in my life; and when at last I
gave in from sheer exhaustion, I found my clothes no longer fitted me.
I was worn to a skeleton from loss of sleep, the heavy strain on my
mental powers, and the meek endurance of her ladyship's ill tempers."
"Lady Fanny is one woman, Clarissa Peyton is quite another. How could
you fail to be happy with Clarissa? Her sweetness, her grace of mind
and body, her beauty, would keep you captive even against your will."
Dorian pauses for a moment or two, and then says, very gently, as
though sorry to spoil the old man's cherished plan,--
"It is altogether impossible. Clarissa has no heart to give me."
Sartoris is silent. A vague suspicion of what now appears a certainty
has for some time oppressed and haunted him. At this moment he is
sadly realizing the emptiness of all his dreaming. Presently he says,
slowly,--
"Are you quite sure of this?"
"As certain as I can be without exactly hearing it from her own lips."
"Is it Horace?"
"Yes; it is Horace," says Branscombe, quietly.