CHAPTER III
It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately so
cheerful, passed out of the back door into the open air of the
barton, laden with hay scents and the herby breath of cows. A fine
sleet had begun to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly.
The stable-door was open; a light shone from it--from the lantern
which always hung there, and which Philip had lighted, as he said.
Softly nearing the door, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name 'Helena!'
There was no answer for the moment. Looking in she was taken by
surprise. Two people appeared before her. For one, instead of the
drabbish woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed,
ladylike creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather than
was ruled by it. She was in a new and handsome gown, of course, and
an old bonnet. She was standing up, agitated; her hand was held by
her companion--none else than Sally's affianced, Farmer Charles
Darton, upon whose fine figure the pale stranger's eyes were fixed,
as his were fixed upon her. His other hand held the rein of his
horse, which was standing saddled as if just led in.
At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a way
neither quite conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming to
recollect that words were necessary as a solution to the scene. In
another moment Sally entered also, when Mr. Darton dropped his
companion's hand, led the horse aside, and came to greet his
betrothed and Mrs. Hall.
'Ah!' he said, smiling--with something like forced composure--'this
is a roundabout way of arriving, you will say, my dear Mrs. Hall.
But we lost our way, which made us late. I saw a light here, and
led in my horse at once--my friend Johns and my man have gone back
to the little inn with theirs, not to crowd you too much. No sooner
had I entered than I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelter
here--and found I was intruding.'
'She is my daughter-in-law,' said Mrs. Hall calmly. 'My son, too,
is in the house, but he has gone to bed unwell.'
Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene until this moment,
hardly recognizing Darton's shake of the hand. The spell that bound
her was broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on a
heap of hay. She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took one
on her arm and the other in her hand.
'And two children?' said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had not
been there long enough as yet to understand the situation.
'My grandchildren,' said Mrs. Hall, with as much affected ease as
before.
Philip Hall's wife, in spite of this interruption to her first
rencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel any
one's presence in addition to Mr. Darton's. However, arousing
herself by a quick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance of
her sad eyes upon Mrs. Hall; and, apparently finding her
satisfactory, advanced to her in a meek initiative. Then Sally and
the stranger spoke some friendly words to each other, and Sally went
on with the children into the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed,
and Mr. Darton followed these, looking at Helena's dress and
outline, and listening to her voice like a man in a dream.
By the time the others reached the house Sally had already gone
upstairs with the tired children. She rapped against the wall for
Rebekah to come in and help to attend to them, Rebekah's house being
a little 'spit-and-dab' cabin leaning against the substantial stone-
work of Mrs. Hall's taller erection. When she came a bed was made
up for the little ones, and some supper given to them. On
descending the stairs after seeing this done Sally went to the
sitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall entered it just in advance of her,
having in the interim retired with her mother-in-law to take off her
bonnet, and otherwise make herself presentable. Hence it was
evident that no further communication could have passed between her
and Mr. Darton since their brief interview in the stable.
Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up the
restraint of the company, after a few orthodox meteorological
commentaries had passed between him and Mrs. Hall by way of
introduction. They at once sat down to supper, the present of wine
and turkey not being produced for consumption to-night, lest the
premature display of those gifts should seem to throw doubt on Mrs.
Hall's capacities as a provider.
'Drink hearty, Mr. Johns--drink hearty,' said that matron
magnanimously. 'Such as it is there's plenty of. But perhaps
cider-wine is not to your taste?--though there's body in it.'
'Quite the contrairy, ma'am--quite the contrairy,' said the
dairyman. 'For though I inherit the malt-liquor principle from my
father, I am a cider-drinker on my mother's side. She came from
these parts, you know. And there's this to be said for't--'tis a
more peaceful liquor, and don't lie about a man like your hotter
drinks. With care, one may live on it a twelvemonth without
knocking down a neighbour, or getting a black eye from an old
acquaintance.'
The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though it
was in the main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truth
required but little help from anybody. There being slight call upon
Sally's tongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart most
desired, namely, watch her intended husband and her sister-in-law
with a view of elucidating the strange momentary scene in which her
mother and herself had surprised them in the stable. If that scene
meant anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before. That
there had been no time for explanations Sally could see, for their
manner was still one of suppressed amazement at each other's
presence there. Darton's eyes, too, fell continually on the gown
worn by Helena as if this were an added riddle to his perplexity;
though to Sally it was the one feature in the case which was no
mystery. He seemed to feel that fate had impishly changed his vis-
a-vis in the lover's jig he was about to foot; that while the gown
had been expected to enclose a Sally, a Helena's face looked out
from the bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from the
sleeves.
Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knew
nothing of how the dress entered into his embarrassment. And at
moments the young girl would have persuaded herself that Darton's
looks at her sister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothes
query. But surely at other times a more extensive range of
speculation and sentiment was expressed by her lover's eye than that
which the changed dress would account for.
Sally's independence made her one of the least jealous of women.
But there was something in the relations of these two visitors which
ought to be explained.
Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style,
interspersing his talk with some private reflections on the position
of Darton and Sally, which, though the sparkle in his eye showed
them to be highly entertaining to himself, were apparently not quite
communicable to the company. At last he withdrew for the night,
going off to the roadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Darton
promised to follow him in a few minutes.
Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sally
and her sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as they
retired upstairs to their rooms. But on his arriving at the front
door with Mrs. Hall a sharp shower of rain began to come down, when
the widow suggested that he should return to the fire-side till the
storm ceased.
Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was getting
late, and she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on his
account, since he could let himself out of the house, and would
quite enjoy smoking a pipe by the hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented;
and Darton was left by himself. He spread his knees to the brands,
lit up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the fire, and
at the notches of the chimney-crook which hung above.
An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, and
still he smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest. In
the long run, however, despite his meditations, early hours afield
and a long ride in the open air produced their natural result. He
began to doze.
How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know.
He suddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burnt itself in
two, and ceased to flame; the light which he had placed on the
mantelpiece had nearly gone out. But in spite of these deficiencies
there was a light in the apartment, and it came from elsewhere.
Turning his head he saw Philip Hall's wife standing at the entrance
of the room with a bed-candle in one hand, a small brass tea-kettle
in the other, and HIS gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her.
'Helena!' said Darton, starting up.
Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were an
apology. 'I--did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,' she said,
while a blush flashed to her cheek. 'I thought every one had
retired--I was coming to make a little water boil; my husband seems
to be worse. But perhaps the kitchen fire can be lighted up again.'
'Don't go on my account. By all means put it on here as you
intended,' said Darton. 'Allow me to help you.' He went forward to
take the kettle from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placed
it on the fire herself.
They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace,
waiting till the water should boil, the candle on the mantel between
them, and Helena with her eyes on the kettle. Darton was the first
to break the silence. 'Shall I call Sally?' he said.
'O no,' she quickly returned. 'We have given trouble enough
already. We have no right here. But we are the sport of fate, and
were obliged to come.'
'No right here!' said he in surprise.
'None. I can't explain it now,' answered Helena. 'This kettle is
very slow.'
There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched pots
was never more clearly exemplified.
Helena's face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistance
without the owner's knowledge--the very antipodes of Sally's, which
was self-reliance expressed. Darton's eyes travelled from the
kettle to Helena's face, then back to the kettle, then to the face
for rather a longer time. 'So I am not to know anything of the
mystery that has distracted me all the evening?' he said. 'How is
it that a woman, who refused me because (as I supposed) my position
was not good enough for her taste, is found to be the wife of a man
who certainly seems to be worse off than I?'
'He had the prior claim,' said she.
'What! you knew him at that time?'
'Yes, yes! Please say no more,' she implored.
'Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the last five
years!'
The heart of Darton was subject to sudden overflowings. He was kind
to a fault. 'I am sorry from my soul,' he said, involuntarily
approaching her. Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he became
conscious of his movement, and quickly took his former place. Here
he stood without speaking, and the little kettle began to sing.
'Well, you might have been my wife if you had chosen,' he said at
last. 'But that's all past and gone. However, if you are in any
trouble or poverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as your
relation by marriage I shall have a right to be. Does your uncle
know of your distress?'
'My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing. And now we have
two children to maintain.'
'What, left you nothing? How could he be so cruel as that?'
'I disgraced myself in his eyes.'
'Now,' said Darton earnestly, 'let me take care of the children, at
least while you are so unsettled. YOU belong to another, so I
cannot take care of you.'
'Yes you can,' said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stood
beside them. It was Sally. 'You can, since you seem to wish to?'
she repeated. 'She no longer belongs to another . . . My poor
brother is dead!'
Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the woman came to the
front. 'I have heard it!' she went on to him passionately. 'You
can protect her now as well as the children!' She turned then to
her agitated sister-in-law. 'I heard something,' said Sally (in a
gentle murmur, differing much from her previous passionate words),
'and I went into his room. It must have been the moment you left.
He went off so quickly, and weakly, and it was so unexpected, that I
couldn't leave even to call you.'
Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse which
followed that, during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom he
had never seen had become worse; and that during Helena's absence
for water the end had unexpectedly come. The two young women
hastened upstairs, and he was again left alone.
After standing there a short time he went to the front door and
looked out; till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced and
stood under the large sycamore-tree. The stars were flickering
coldly, and the dampness which had just descended upon the earth in
rain now sent up a chill from it. Darton was in a strange position,
and he felt it. The unexpected appearance, in deep poverty, of
Helena--a young lady, daughter of a deceased naval officer, who had
been brought up by her uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton in
marriage years ago--the passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sally
at discovering them, the abrupt announcement that Helena was a
widow; all this coming together was a conjuncture difficult to cope
with in a moment, and made him question whether he ought to leave
the house or offer assistance. But for Sally's manner he would
unhesitatingly have done the latter.
He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of him
opened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She went round to the garden-gate
at the side without seeing him. Darton followed her, intending to
speak.
Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where the
sun came earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind never
blew; it was where the row of beehives stood under the wall.
Discerning her object, he waited till she had accomplished it.
It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the bees by tapping
at their hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under the
belief that if this were not done the bees themselves would pine
away and perish during the ensuing year. As soon as an interior
buzzing responded to her tap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went on to
the second, and thus passed down the row. As soon as she came back
he met her.
'What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?' he said.
'O--nothing, thank you, nothing,' she said in a tearful voice, now
just perceiving him. 'We have called Rebekah and her husband, and
they will do everything necessary.' She told him in a few words the
particulars of her son's arrival, broken in health--indeed, at
death's very door, though they did not suspect it--and suggested, as
the result of a conversation between her and her daughter, that the
wedding should be postponed.
'Yes, of course,' said Darton. 'I think now to go straight to the
inn and tell Johns what has happened.' It was not till after he had
shaken hands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, 'Will
you tell the mother of his children that, as they are now left
fatherless, I shall be glad to take the eldest of them, if it would
be any convenience to her and to you?'
Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow should he told of the offer,
and they parted. He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared in
the direction of the inn, where he informed Johns of the
circumstances. Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house, Sally was
downstairs in the sitting-room alone, and her mother explained to
her that Darton had readily assented to the postponement.
'No doubt he has,' said Sally, with sad emphasis. 'It is not put
off for a week, or a month, or a year. I shall never marry him, and
she will!'
