The young man looked so grand and strong in his faith, and truth, and righteousness, that the elderly lady said no word, but let her eyes flow, and kissed him. He placed the stockings in an inner pocket, carelessly wrapped in their paper; and he rode home apace to please his mother; and having a cold on him from all his wettings, he perspired freely; and at every stretch of his galloping horse he was absorbing typhus fever.
CHAPTER XXIV.
SUO SIBI BACULO
In April, when the sunny buds were showing forth their little frills; and birds, that love to hop sideways and try the toleration of the sprays that they are picking at, were almost too busy to chirp, and hung as happily as possible upside down, shaking the flutter of young green lace; while at the same time (for it is a season of great coincidence) pigs reared aloft little corkscrew tails, and scorning their nose-rings, employed them as thimbles for making a punch in the broidery of turf; also when – if the above is not enough – ducks and geese, and cocks and hens, and even the dogs (who regard green grass as an emetic mainly) were all, without knowing it, beginning to wag themselves as they walked or waddled, and to shine in the sun, and to look very large in their own eyes and those of their consorts; neither was there any man who could ride a horse, without knowing how – unless he first had starved him; – at this young jump of the year and of life, Grace Oglander wanted to go for a walk.
She had not by any means been buried in the haunted quarry; neither had she as yet required burial in any place. On the contrary, here she walked more blooming and lovely than even her custom was; and the spring sun glistening upon the gold letters of her tombstone at Beckley, ordered by her good Aunt Fermitage – the same sun (without any strain of his eyes at all likely to turn him to a Strabo) was pleasantly making and taking light in the fluctuations of her growing hair.
Her bright hair (which had been so cruelly cropped) instead of being the worse for the process, was waving and glowing again in vast multiplicity of vigour; like a specimen golden geranium shorn to double the number of its facets; and the blue in the spring of her eyes was enough to dissatisfy the sun with his own sky. However, he showed no discontent, but filled the young wood with cheerful rays, and the open glades with merriment, and even the sombre heart of labouring man with streaks of liveliness. For here were comforts that come in, without the eye considering them; and pleasures, which when thought of fly; and delicate delights, that have no idea of being delightful.
Hereupon the proper thing is for something very harsh to break in, and discomfit all the wandering vision of earthly happiness. But the proper thing, in the present instance, showed its propriety by absence. Nothing broke the flow of sunshine and the eddy of soft shade! unless it were a little ruffle of the south wind seeking leaves before they were quite ready; or the rustle of a rabbit, anxious about his family; or the flutter of a bird, uncertain where to stand and sing his best.
Grace (without a thought of what her own thoughts were or whether she had any mind for thinking) rambled on, as a school-girl does when the hours of school are over. Every single fall or rise of nature's work was kind to her, and led her into various veins of inductive unphilosophy. The packing and storing of last year's leaves, as if exceeding precious, gathered together by the wind and land in some rich rustling corner; the fitting of these into one another (for fear of losing one of them) wonderfully compact, as if with the hammer of a gold-beater, or the unknown implement wherewith a hen packs up her hatched egg-shells; the stiff upstanding of fine young stuff, hazel, ash, and so on, tapering straight as a fishing-rod, and knobbing out on either side with scarcely controllable bulges; over, and above, and throughout all, and sensible of their largeness, the spreading quietude of great trees, just breathing their buds on the air again, but not in a hurry (as in young days) to rush into perils of leafiness – pleased with all these proofs of soft revival and tender movement, the fair maid almost forgot her own depression and perplexities.
When howling winter was put to the rout and banished underground; and the weather, perhaps, might be hoped to behave as decently as an English spring, most skittish of seasons, should order it; and the blue ray of growth (which predominates then, according to the spectroscopists) was pouring encouragement on things green; how was a girl in her own spring yet, to strive against all such influence?
At any rate Grace made no attempt to do anything of the kind; but wandered at her own sweet will, within the limits of her own parole. She knew that she was in seclusion here, by her father's command, for her own good; and much as she yearned, from time to time, to be at home, with all the many things she was so fond of, she was such a dutiful child, and so loving, that she put her own wishes by, and smiled and sighed, instead of pouting. It could not be very long now, she was sure, until her father should come home, and call for her, as he had promised, and take her once more to beloved Beckley, after this mournful exile.
Full as she was of all these thoughts, and heeding her own ways but little, so long as she kept within the outer ring of fence allowed to her, she fell into a little stupid fright, as she called it afterwards; for which there was no one but herself to blame. Only yesterday that good Miss Patch (her governess and sweet guardian) had particularly begged her to be careful; because the times were now so bad that lawless people went everywhere. Miss Patch herself had heard several noises she could not at all account for; and while she considered it quite a duty to trace up everything to its proper source, and absolutely confide in Providence, whose instrumentality is to be traced by all the poor instruments seeking it, still there are times when it cannot be done; and then the right thing is to keep within sight or call of a highly respectable man.
This was exactly what Grace might have done, and would have done, but for the tempting day; for a truly respectable man had been near her, when first she began her little walk; a man whom she had beheld more than once, but always at a little distance; a tall stout man, according to her distant ideas of him, always busy in a quiet way, and almost grudging the time to touch his broad-flapped hat without lifting his head, when he saw her in the woodland. Grace had never asked him who he was, nor been within talking distance of him; at which she was almost surprised, when she thought how glad, as a rule, are all Oxfordshire workmen to have a good excuse for leaving off. However, she was far beyond him now, when she met another man who frightened her.
This was a fellow of dark complexion, dressed in a dirty fustian suit, and bearing on his shoulder a thick hedge-stake, from which hung a number of rabbit-skins. His character might be excellent; but his appearance did not recommend him to the confidence of the public. Grace shrank aside, but his quick eyes had spied her; and, indeed, she almost feared from his manner, that he had been on the watch for her. So she put the best face on it, and tried to pass him, without showing any misgivings.
But the rabbit-man was not to be thus defrauded of his right to good society. With a quick sharp turn he cast off the skins from his staff, and stretched that slimy implement across the way with one hand; while he held forth the other caressingly, and performed a pretty little caper.
"Allow me to pass, if you please," said Grace, attempting to look very resolute; "these are our grounds. You are trespassing."
"Now, my purty young lady," said the rabbit-man, coming so close that she could not fly, "you wouldn't be too hard, would you now? I sees a great many young maids about – but Lor' there, what be they to compare with you!"
"I am sure that you do not mean any harm," replied Grace, though with much inward doubt: "nobody ever does any harm to me; but every one is so kind to me. My father is so good to all who get into any trouble. I am not worth robbing, Mr. Rabbit-man; honest as you are, no doubt. But I think that I can find a shilling, for you to take home to your family."
"Now, Missy, sweet Missy, when once I seen you, how could I think of a shilling – or two? You was coming out herefor to kiss me, I know; the same as I dreamed about last night. Lor' bless them bootiful eyes and lips, the most massionary man as ever was a'most, would sooner have a kiss, than a crown, of 'em!"
"You insolent fellow! how dare you speak to me in this manner? Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is?"
"No, Missy; but I dessay a thunderin' beak, as have sent me to prison; and now I have got you in prison too. No comin' out, wi'out paying of your fine, my dear." The dirty scamp, with an appreciative grin, laid hold of poor Grace's trembling hand, and drew her towards him; while she tried vainly to shriek, for her voice had forsaken her – when bodily down went the rabbit-man, felled by a most inconsiderate blow. He dropped so suddenly, that he fetched poor Grace to her knees, by his violent grasp of her; and when he let go, she could not get up for a moment, because her head went round. Then two strong hands were put into hers; and she rose, and faced a young gentleman.
In her confusion, and sense of vile indignity, she did the natural thing. She staggered away to a tree, and spread both hands before her eyes, and burst forth sobbing, as if her heart would break. Instead of approaching to comfort her, the young man applied himself first to revenge. He espied on the path the stick of the prostrate rabbit-man, and laid hold of it. Then, striving to keep his conscience clear, and by no means hit a man on the ground, he seized the poor dealer in fur by the neck, and propped him well up in a sapling fork. Having him thus well situated for penal operations, without any question of jurisdiction, or even of the merits of the case, he proceeded to exhaust the utility of the stick, by breaking it over its owner's back. The calm wood echoed with the sound of wooden thumps, and the young buds trembled at the activity of a stick.
"Lor' a' mussy, a' mussy!" cried the rabbit-man. "You be gooin' outside of the bargain, sir!"
"Oh, don't! – oh, please don't!" Grace exclaimed, running forth from her retirement. "I dare say he did not know any better. He may have had a little too much beer. Poor fellow, he has had quite enough! Oh, stop, do stop, for my sake!"
"For nothing else – in the world – would I stop," said the youth, who was breathless with hitting so hard, and still looking yearningly at the stick, now splintered by so much exercise; "but if you beg him off, he gets off, of course – though he has not had half enough of it. You vile black rascal, will you ever look at a young lady in your life again?"
"Oh, no, so – oh, no, sir – so help me – " cried the rabbit-man, rubbing himself all over. "Do 'ee let me whisper a word to you."
"If I see your filthy sneaking face two seconds more, I'll take a new stick to you, and a much tougher one. Out of my sight with your carrion!"
Black George, with amazement and fury, gazed at the stern and threatening countenance. Then seeing the elbow beginning to lift, he hobbled, as fast as his bruises allowed, to his bundle of skins in the brushwood. Then with a whimper and snivel he passed the broken staff, now thrown at him, through his savoury burden, and with exaggerated limps departed.
"See if I don't show this to your governor," he muttered, as he turned back and scowled, when out of sight and hearing; "I never were took in so over a job, in all my life afore, were I! One bull for a hiding like that!" he grumbled, as he pulled out a sovereign, and looked at it. "Five bull would hardly cover it. Why, the young cove can't a' been told nort about it. A scurvy joke – a very scurvy joke. I ain't got a bone in me as don't ache!"
Leaving him thus to pursue his departure, young Christopher Sharp, with great self-content at the good luck of this exploit, turned towards Grace, who was trembling and blushing; and he trembled and blushed in his turn at her.
"I am so sorry I have frightened you," he said in the most submissive way; "I have done you more harm than good, I fear. I should have known better. But for the moment, I really could not command myself. I hope you will not despise me for it."
"Despise you! Can I ever thank you? But I am not fit to do anything now. I think I had better go home if you please. I am not likely to be annoyed again. And there is a good man in a field half-way."
"To be sure, you know best," the young man answered, cooling into disappointment. "Still, I may follow at a distance, mayn't I? The weather looks quite as if it would be dark. And at this time of year, scarcely anybody knows. There seem to be tramps almost everywhere. But I am sure I do not wish to press myself. I can go on with the business that brought me here. I am searching for the true old wind-flower."
"Oh, are you?" said Grace; "how exceedingly lucky! I can show you exactly where to find it; if only you could manage to come to-morrow."
"To-morrow? Let me see – to-morrow! Yes, I believe I have no engagements. But will you not be afraid – I mean – after that blackguard's behaviour to-day? Not, of course, that he should be thought of twice – but still – oh, I never can express myself."
"I understand every word you would say," the young lady answered decisively; "and I never mean to wander so far again. Still, when I know that you are botanising; or rather, I mean when a gentleman is near – but I also can never express myself. You never must come – oh, I mean – good-bye! But I feel that you ought to be careful, because that bad man may lie in wait for you."
CHAPTER XXV.
MISS PATCH
That evening Grace made one more trial to procure a little comfort in her own affairs. In the dark low parlour of the cottage, where she had lived for the last three months, with only Miss Patch and a deaf old woman for company and comfort, she sat by the fire and stitched hard, to abide her opportunity. At the corner of the table sat the good Miss Patch, with her spectacles on, and occasionally nodding over her favourite author, Ezekiel.
It was impossible for anybody to look at Miss Patch, and believe in anything against her high integrity. That lofty nose, and hard-set mouth, and the fine abstracted yet benevolent gaze of those hollow grey eyes, were enough to show that here was a lady of strict moral principle and high sense of duty. Incorruptible and grandly honest, but prickly as a hedgehog with prejudice, she could not be driven into any evil course, and required no leading into what she thought the right one. And the right course to her was always the simplest of all things to discover. Because it was that which led most directly to the glory of God at the expense of man. Anything that would smite down pride, and overthrow earthly schemes, and abase the creature before the Creator – that to her mind was the thing commanded; and if it combined therewith a cut at "papal arrogance," and priestly influence, then the command was as delightful as it was imperative.
This tall and very clear-minded lady was, by an in and out sort of way, related to Squire Oglander. She called him her "brother;" and the Squire once (to comfort her in a vile toothache) had gone so far as to call her his "sister." Still that, to his mind, was a piece of flattery, not to be remembered when the tooth was stopped; – from no pride on his part; but because of his ever-abiding execration of her father – the well-known Captain Patch.
Captain Patch was the man who married the last Squire Oglander's second wife, that is to say, our good Squire's stepmother, after the lady had despatched her first husband, by uneasy stages, to a better world. Captain Patch took her for her life-interest under the Oglander settlement; and sterling friends of his declared him much too cheap at the money. But the Oglanders took quite the contrary view, and hated his name while he drew their cash. Yet the Captain proceeded to have a large family, of whom this Hannah Patch was the eldest.
A godly father (as a general rule) has godless children; and happily the converse of that rule holds true. The children of a godless father (scared by the misery they have seen), being acquitted of the fifth commandment, frequently go back to the first. And so it befell with almost all of that impious fellow's family. Nevertheless the Squire, believing in the "commandment with promise," as well as the denunciation at the end of the second, kept himself clear of the Patches, so far as good manners and kindness permitted him, Miss Patch, knowing how good she was, had keenly resented this prejudice after vainly endeavouring to beat it down. Also she felt – not ill-will – but still a melancholy forgiveness, and uneasiness about the present position of Grace's poor mother, who had died in her sins, without any apology to Miss Patch.
However, put all these things as one may (according to constitution), this lady was very good in her way, and desired to make all others good. There was not one faulty point about her, so far as she could discover it; and her rule of conduct was to judge her own doings by a higher standard than was to be hoped for of any other person. Therefore of course, for other persons she could judge what was right and godly infinitely better than they could.
"Oh, Aunty," said Grace, by way of coaxing, having found this of good service ere now; "Aunty, don't you wish it was tea-time now?"
"All meals come in their proper season. We should be grateful for them; but not greedy."
"Oh, but, Aunty, you would not call it greedy to be hungry, I should hope. And you would be so hungry, if you only knew. Ah, but you won't get me to tell you though. I have always been celebrated for making them. And this time I have quite surpassed myself. Now, how much will you offer me to tell you what it is?"
"Grace, you are frivolous!" Miss Patch answered, yet with a slight inclination of her nose towards the brown kitchen where the wood-fire burned. "If our food is wholesome, and vouchsafed in proportion to our daily wants, we should lift up our hearts and be thankful. To let our minds dwell upon that which is a bodily question only, tends to degrade them, and leads us to confound the true end – the glory of our Maker – with the means to that end, which are vulgarly called victuals."
"Very well, Aunty, we will do with bread and butter. I only made my Sally Lunns for you; and if they degrade your mind, I will give them to Margery Daw, or the cottage with ten children, down at the bottom of the wood. What a treat they will have, to be sure, with them!"
"Not so, my dear! If you made them for me, I should fail in my duty if I refused them. We are ordered to be kind and courteous and long-suffering towards one another. And I know that you make them particularly well. They are quite unfit for people in that lower sphere of life. It would be quite sinful to tempt them so! They would puff them up with vanity, and worldliness, and pride. But if you insist upon my tasting them, my dear, in justice to your work I think that you should see to the toasting. Poor Mrs. Daw smokes everything."
"Of course she does. But I never meant to let her do them, Aunty. Only I wanted to be quite sure first that you would oblige me by tasting them."
"My dear, I will do so, as soon as you please." The good lady shut up Ezekiel, and waited. In a few minutes back came Grace, with all things done to a nicety, each against each contending hotly whether the first human duty were to drink choice tea or to eat Sally Lunns. Miss Patch always saw her course marked out by special guidance, and devoutly thus was enabled to act simultaneously.
Grace took a little bit now and again to criticise her own handiwork, while with her bright eyes she watched the relaxing of the rigid countenance. "My dear," said Miss Patch, "they are excellent! and they do the greatest credit to your gifts! To let any talent lie idle is sinful. You might make a few every day, my dear."
"To be sure I will, Aunty, with the greatest pleasure. I do love to do anything that reminds me of my dear father! Oh, Aunty, will you tell me something?"
"Yes, Grace, anything you ask aright. Young girls, of course, must submit to those whose duty it is to guide them. Undue curiosity must be checked, as leading to perverse naughtiness. The principle, or want of principle, inculcated now by bad education, can lead to nothing else but ruin and disgrace. How different all was when I was young! My gallant and spirited father, well known as a brave defender of his country, would never have dreamed of allowing us to be inquisitive as to his whereabouts. But all things are subverted now; filial duty is a thing unknown."
"Oh, but, Aunty, of course we never pretend to be half as good as you were. Still I don't think that you can conclude that I do not love my dear father, because I am not one bit afraid of him."
"Don't cry, child. It is foolish and weak, and rebellious against Divine wisdom. All things are ordered for our good."
"Then crying must be ordered for our good, or we should be able to help it, ma'am. But you can't call it 'crying,' when I do just what I do. It is such a long and lonely time; and I never have been away more than a week at a time from my darling father, until now; and now it is fifteen weeks and five days since I saw him! Oh, it is dreadful to think of!"
"Very well, my dear, it may be fifty weeks, or fifty years, if the Lord so wills. Self-command is one of the very first lessons that all human beings must learn."
"Yes, I know all that. And I do command myself to the very utmost. You know that you praised me – quite praised me – yesterday; which is a rare thing for you to do. What did you say then? Please not to retract, and spoil the whole beauty of your good word."
"No, my dear child, you need not be afraid. Whenever you deserve praise, you shall have it. You saw an old sack with the name of 'Beckley' on it, and although you were silly enough to set to and kiss it, as if it were your father, you positively did not shed one tear!"
"For which I deserve a gold medal at least. I should like to have it for my counterpane; but you sent it away most ruthlessly. Now, I want to know, Aunty, how it came to be here – miles, leagues, longitudes, away from darling Beckley?"
Miss Patch looked a little stern again at this. She perceived that her duty was to tell some stories, in a case of this kind, wherein the end justified the means so paramountly. Still every new story which she had to tell seemed to make her more cross than the one before; whether from accumulated adverse score, or from the increased chances of detection.
"Sacks arrive and sacks depart," she answered, as if laying down a dogma, "according to the decrees of Providence. Ever since the time of Joseph, sacks have had their special mission. Our limited intelligence cannot follow the mundane pilgrimage of sacks."
"No, Aunty, of course, they get stolen so! But this particular sack I saw had on it the name of a good honest man, one of the very best men in Beckley, Zacchary Cripps, the Carrier. His name did bring things to my mind so – all the parcels and good nice things that he carries as if they were made of glass; and the way my father looks over the hedge to watch for his cart at the turn of the lane; and his pretty sister Etty sitting up as if she didn't want to be looked at; and old Dobbin splashing along, plod, plod; and our Mary setting her cap at him vainly; and the way he goes rubbing his boots, as if he would have every one of the nails out; and then dearest father calling out, 'Have you brought us Her Majesty's new crown, Cripps?' and Cripps, putting up his hand like that, and grinning as if it was a grand idea, and then slyly peeping round where the beer-jug hangs – oh, Aunty, shall I ever see it all again?"
"Well, Grace, you will lose very little if you don't. It is one of my brother's worst failings that he gives away fermented liquor to the lower orders inconsiderately. It encourages them in the bad habits to which they are only too prone, even when discouraged."
"Oh no, Aunty! Cripps is the soberest of men. And he does take his beer with such a relish, it is quite a treat to see him. Oh, if I could only see his old cart now, jogging along, like a man with one prong!"
"Grace! Miss Oglander! Your metaphor is of an excessively vulgar description!"
"Is it, Aunty? Then I am very sorry. I am sure I didn't mean any harm at all. Only I was thinking of the way a certain one-legged fiddler walks – but, Aunty, all this is so frivolous! With all the solemn duties around us, Aunty – "
"Yes, my dear, I do wish you would think a little more of them. Every day I do my best. Your nature is not more corrupt than must be, with all who have the sad phronema sarkos; but unhappily you always exhibit, both in word and action, something so – I will not use at all a harsh word for it – something so sadly unsolemn."
"What can I do, Aunt? It really is not my fault. I try for five minutes together to be solemn. And then there comes something or other – how can I tell how? – that proves too much for me. My father used to love to see me laugh. He said it was quite the proper thing to do. And he was so funny (when he had no trouble) that without putting anything into anybody's head, he set them all off laughing. Aunty, you would have been amused to hear him. Quite in the quiet time, almost in the evening, I have known my father make such beautiful jokes, without thinking of them, that I often longed for the old horn lanthorn, to see all the people laughing. Even you would laugh, dear Aunty, if you only heard him."
"The laughter of fools is the crackling of thorns. Grace, you are nothing but a very green goose. Even a stray lamb would afford me better hopes. But knock at the wall with the poker, my dear, that Margery Daw may come in to prayers."