CHAPTER II
Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they had
not followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hill
stone, and chimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of a
slope beside King's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in front
of it grew a large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed a
convenient staircase from the road below to the front door of the
dwelling. Its situation gave the house what little distinctive name
it possessed, namely, 'The Knap.' Some forty yards off a brook
dribbled past, which, for its size, made a great deal of noise. At
the back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and live-stock
by a side 'drong.' Thus much only of the character of the homestead
could be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time.
But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty was
construed at Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-
centred arch was nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were
seated two women--mother and daughter--Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, or
Sally; for this was a part of the world where the latter
modification had not as yet been effaced as a vulgarity by the march
of intellect. The owner of the name was the young woman by whose
means Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition on
the approaching day.
The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave much
mark of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. She
had resumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its
whiteness by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no such
aids to pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her features
showed curves of decision and judgment; and she might have been
regarded without much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited,
handsome girl.
She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absent
air, as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with the
tongs, and piled them upon the brands. But the number of speeches
that passed was very small in proportion to the meanings exchanged.
Long experience together often enabled them to see the course of
thought in each other's minds without a word being spoken. Behind
them, in the centre of the room, the table was spread for supper,
certain whiffs of air laden with fat vapours, which ever and anon
entered from the kitchen, denoting its preparation there.
'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way like
himself,' Sally's mother was saying.
'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally independently. 'Lord, I
shouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all! Young men make such
kind promises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they go
away. But he doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown--he gives it to me
merely as a gown to wear when I like--a travelling-dress is what it
would be called by some. Come rathe or come late it don't much
matter, as I have a dress of my own to fall back upon. But what
time is it?'
She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour was
not otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times was
rather a thing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wall
than window was there in the apartment. 'It is nearly eight,' said
she.
'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said Mrs. Hall.
'Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you are
much mistaken! Let him be as late as he will--or stay away
altogether--I don't care,' said Sally. But a tender, minute quaver
in the negation showed that there was something forced in that
statement.
Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sure
about Sally not caring. 'But perhaps you don't care so much as I
do, after all,' she said. 'For I see what you don't, that it is a
good and flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr.
Darton. And I think I see a kind husband in him. So pray God
'twill go smooth, and wind up well.'
Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it would go
smoothly, she asserted. 'How you are up and down, mother!' she went
on. 'At this moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to
see him as he is to be here, and his thought runs on before him, and
settles down upon us like the star in the east. Hark!' she
exclaimed, with a breath of relief, her eyes sparkling. 'I heard
something. Yes--here they are!'
The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished the
familiar reverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up the
roots of the sycamore.
'Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said. 'Well, it is not so
very late after all, considering the distance.'
The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They began
to think it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villager
under Bacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth,
when their doubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into the
passage. The door of the room was gently opened, and there
appeared, not the pair of travellers with whom we have already made
acquaintance, but a pale-faced man in the garb of extreme poverty--
almost in rags.
'O, it's a tramp--gracious me!' said Sally, starting back.
His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves--rather, it might be,
from natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, though
there were indications that he had led no careful life. He gazed at
the two women fixedly for a moment: then with an abashed,
humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance to the floor, and sank into
a chair without uttering a word.
Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by the
fire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles.
'Why--mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'It
is Phil, from Australia!'
Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized the
man with the ragged clothes. 'To come home like this!' she said.
'O, Philip--are you ill?'
'No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak.
'But for God's sake how do you come here--and just now too?'
'Well, I am here,' said the man. 'How it is I hardly know. I've
come home, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were against
me out there, and went from bad to worse.'
'Then why didn't you let us know?--you've not writ a line for the
last two or three years.'
The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hoped
and thought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news.
Then he had been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come
home from sheer necessity--previously to making a new start. 'Yes,
things are very bad with me,' he repeated, perceiving their
commiserating glances at his clothes.
They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand,
which was so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetch
up again had not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed her
inquiries, and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come that
particular night for any special reason.
For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random.
Then Philip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first time
that the table was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger
number than themselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded their
dress. He asked quickly what was going on.
'Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' replied the mother;
and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, was
coming there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other
details. 'We thought it must be their step when we heard you,' said
Mrs. Hall.
The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. 'I see--I see,' he
murmured. 'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk as
I are not wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have no
business here--spoiling other people's happiness.'
'Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinness
of lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more than
past events justified; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speak
honestly to you. For these three years you have taken no thought
for us. You left home with a good supply of money, and strength and
education, and you ought to have made good use of it all. But you
come back like a beggar; and that you come in a very awkward time
for us cannot be denied. Your return to-night may do us much harm.
But mind--you are welcome to this home as long as it is mine. I
don't wish to turn you adrift. We will make the best of a bad job;
and I hope you are not seriously ill?'
'O no. I have only this infernal cough.'
She looked at him anxiously. 'I think you had better go to bed at
once,' she said.
'Well--I shall be out of the way there,' said the son wearily.
'Having ruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in these
togs, for Heaven's sake. Who do you say Sally is going to be
married to--a Farmer Darton?'
'Yes--a gentleman-farmer--quite a wealthy man. Far better in
station than she could have expected. It is a good thing,
altogether.'
'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and looking
up at her with a smile. 'I ought to have written; but perhaps I
have thought of you all the more. But let me get out of sight. I
would rather go and jump into the river than be seen here. But have
you anything I can drink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my long
tramp.'
'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,' said Sally,
with grief in her face.
'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother--' He stopped, and
they waited. 'Mother, I have not told you all,' he resumed slowly,
still looking on the floor between his knees. 'Sad as what you see
of me is, there's worse behind.'
His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went and
leant upon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing.
Suddenly she turned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care!
Philip, tell the worst, and take your time.'
'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I am not the only one in this
mess. Would to Heaven I were! But--'
'O, Phil!'
'I have a wife as destitute as I.'
'A wife?' said his mother.
'Unhappily!'
'A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!'
'And besides--' said he.
'Besides! O, Philip, surely--'
'I have two little children.'
'Wife and children!' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded.
'Poor little things!' said Sally involuntarily.
His mother turned again to him. 'I suppose these helpless beings
are left in Australia?'
'No. They are in England.'
'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable place.'
'I have not left them at all. They are here--within a few yards of
us. In short, they are in the stable.'
'Where?'
'In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I had
seen you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They were
very tired, and are resting out there on some straw.'
Mrs. Hall's fortitude visibly broke down. She had been brought up
not without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse
of genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would in
ordinary have been moved. 'Well, it must be borne,' she said, in a
low voice, with her hands tightly joined. 'A starving son, a
starving wife, starving children! Let it be. But why is this come
to us now, to-day, to-night? Could no other misfortune happen to
helpless women than this, which will quite upset my poor girl's
chance of a happy life? Why have you done us this wrong, Philip?
What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into a
family of vagabonds?'
'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed.
'Charley isn't the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won't
marry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. I
won't be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England--
not I!' And then Sally turned away and burst into tears.
'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a different
tale,' replied her mother.
The son stood up. 'Mother,' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so I
will go. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie
in your stable to-night. I give you my word that we'll be gone by
break of day, and trouble you no further!'
Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. 'O no,' she answered
hastily; 'never shall it be said that I sent any of my own family
from my door. Bring 'em in, Philip, or take me out to them.'
'We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said Sally,
brightening, 'and make up a large fire. Let's go and help them in,
and call Rebekah.' (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairy
and housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, who
attended to the cows.)
Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brother
said, 'You won't want a light. I lit the lantern that was hanging
there.'
'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.
'Helena,' said Philip.
With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.
'One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip. 'I--I haven't
confessed all.'
'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and
clasping her hands in calm despair.
'We passed through Evershead as we came,' he continued, 'and I just
looked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept on
there as usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that
moment, and guessing that I was bound for this place--for I think he
knew me--he asked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sally
that was marked "immediate." My wife had walked on with the
children. 'Twas a flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and I
found on looking at it that it was a thick warm gown. I didn't wish
you to see poor Helena in a shabby state. I was ashamed that you
should--'twas not what she was born to. I untied the parcel in the
road, took it on to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn, and
told her I had managed to get it for her, and that she was to ask no
question. She, poor thing, must have supposed I obtained it on
trust, through having reached a place where I was known, for she put
it on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other gowns, I
daresay.'
Sally looked at her mother, speechless.
'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man's
impatience. 'I thought to myself, "Better Sally cry than Helena
freeze." Well, is the dress of great consequence? 'Twas nothing
very ornamental, as far as I could see.'
'No--no; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly, adding in a
gentle voice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead of
that one, will you?'
Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on another attack
of the cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was so
obviously unfit to sit in a chair that they helped him upstairs at
once; and having hastily given him a cordial and kindled the bedroom
fire, they descended to fetch their unhappy new relations.
