Chapter XIV: The Little Flagged Path

HOPE was not without visitors, even at King's Dell. Mrs. Dane came to see her very often, and always brought flowers and fruit for the invalid. Hope enjoyed her visits immensely. She could talk freely and unrestrainedly to her, and leant upon her for counsel and advice. Lancelot was called away to see his property in the North, so he did not accompany his mother. Busy as she was, Hope was enjoying her cottage life more than she would have thought possible. Perhaps Brian's increased cheerfulness and energy infected her. He began to turn some of their waste ground into a kitchen garden, with a view to selling vegetables, and was always happy when he was working in the open-air.

The days drew in, and autumn began to verge into winter. Still Mr. St. Clair remained in the same condition, and though they were not quite so tied to the sick-room, he was a great anxiety and care.

Kitty continued her visits. Avice very occasionally came to call, but Hope quickly realised that she was too absorbed in her own interests to become very friendly.

One afternoon Hope was in the act of pumping some water in the yard, when she was startled by the sudden appearance at her side of a thin, wiry old man dressed in a very shabby great-coat and wearing a faded red comforter round his throat.

He took off his hat with an old-fashioned flourish.

"I hear, madam, that Miss Rill has left. She always sold me a dozen pounds of honey at this time of year. I came round to see if you were continuing to keep bees."

"I am sorry," said Hope politely, "but we do not; Miss Rill sold her hives to a friend of mine. We have poultry and eggs to sell, and we hope to have some vegetables later on."

He stroked his chin meditatively and looked at her.

"Are you a farmer's daughter?"

"Well," Hope said slowly, "I suppose I am. My father has farmed in Canada, but is too ill now to do anything of that sort, so my brother is going to farm this small place instead."

"And you are a modern product, then, of a young person taken out of her own station of life and sent to boarding-school to be made a lady."

Hope's eyes twinkled.

"And now I've come back to my proper station of life," she said, "and I find it very enjoyable."

Again he looked at her curiously.

"Look here," he said brusquely. "I live the other side of those woods, and I heard there was a young capable fellow in this place kicking his heels for want of work. If he's your brother, I want to speak to him, and I'll step in and sit down while you fetch him."

"Come in, then," said Hope, wondering at the strangeness of her visitor. "I will call my brother; he is working at the other end of the orchard."

She went off to Brian. "You must come in and speak to him; he evidently doesn't think much of me," she said. "He looks a regular old tramp, but his voice is that of a gentleman."

"I know who he is," said Brian, rolling down his shirt-sleeves and slipping on his coat. He was digging, and looked, as Hope thought, the picture of a young farmer. "The Vicar told me the squire of this place was very queer and miserly, and lived by himself with very few servants. It will be Mr. Spencer, I guess!"

Mr. Spencer it was, and he stayed in Hope's kitchen for one full hour, talking to her and to Brian. In the end, Brian promised to go over the next day and superintend a bit of farming on the old man's place.

"I am not proud," said Brian afterwards. "I know what he wants, and I shall see that his men do it."

"It seems to me you have your hands full as it is," said Hope; but he would not have it so.

The next afternoon he came back chuckling.

"He can't make us out. He's awfully curious about you, asked no end of questions. I like the old chap; he made me come into his room and have a smoke before I left. He's a clever old sort, reads a good bit, and philosophises. He says clothes and food ought never to be luxuries. That is the sin of the age."

"I dare say he is right," said Hope, smiling.

She was glad when a strange friendship was formed between Brian and this old man. Brian always preferred older men to those of his own age; and now very often, when his work was done, he would go over to smoke a pipe with old Mr. Spencer.

As winter came on, Hope began to find her household duties more irksome. The cold and wet depressed them all. The cottage lay low, and the meadow and orchard became almost a swamp. Visitors were few and far between. The Chesneys went away, Mrs. Dane was laid up with a bad attack of rheumatism, and Kitty was the only one who cheered Hope from time to time by her unfailing helpfulness and good spirits. She was helping her bake one afternoon when there was a knock at the door, and without any ceremony Lancelot walked in upon them.

"Well," he said, after he had shaken hands with Hope and been introduced to Kitty, "you have now effectually isolated yourself by barriers of mud and water. May I ask how you reach the highroad?"

"Oh," said Hope, with laughing eyes, "I haven't been beyond our brick path since last Sunday. I never go out in the week, and Brian does the marketing."

"You look like it," he said, regarding her with his keen dark eyes. "Now I shall carry you off this afternoon for a short drive. It is wonderfully mild, and in my trap you won't be conscious of the mud. Miss Kitty might like to come too, but I am going to take no denial."

"Ah, but you must! There is my father; how can I leave him? Brian is out. I cannot run away from my duties like that."

"Let me stay and look after him just for one hour," pleaded Kitty. "The air would take away your headache, and you would come back feeling quite different. So make her go, Mr. Dane. No one ever can make her go out, and I think she is getting quite pale and thin. Just one hour—it's only three o'clock now, and you would be back at four in time for tea, and you really shall go, Miss St. Clair!"

Two resolute pertinacious natures overcame Hope's scruples. She found herself seated in Lancelot's trap before she had time to make any further objections.

"How delicious!" she exclaimed, as the soft air fanned her cheeks. "I have been in the kitchen most of to-day, for as you saw, we are doing our weekly baking, and Kitty and I were nearly overcome with the heat. What made you think of coming?"

"I got home from the north yesterday, so of course I came. Is it not within the limits of friendship to see each other occasionally?"

"I suppose so," was the laughing rejoinder. Then, in a different tone, Hope asked anxiously:

"And how is Mrs. Dane? I have longed to see her, but could not manage it."

"She is better, but still in bed. Tell me what you have been doing."

"Cooking, mending, nursing, cleaning, and enjoying life," said Hope stoutly.

He looked down upon her with humour in his eyes.

"Where does the enjoying come in?"

"It begins in the morning when the robins sing outside my window, and when I first open the door, and get a whiff of the moist air and fallen leaves. Then I go to the pump and look up through the orchard to the woods beyond, with the tall blue pines towering against the sky, and then I come indoors refreshed and strengthened, and as I work on through the day—forgive my self-conceit—I enjoy the feeling that I am really becoming a capable housewife. I can boil milk without burning, black grates without soiling my hands, and turn out a dinner that is not a failure!"

"Admirable accomplishments!"

"Don't scoff! I am learning to enjoy things I never enjoyed before. This drive is ten times more enjoyable from the very rarity of it. Leisure and rest mean so much to me now. But I will not talk of myself. Tell me the news of the day. We only have a weekly newspaper, and I want to hear what has been going on since last Saturday."

He told her; then related some of his experiences in his northern home. Hope listened with interest and attention, and then his tone deepened into gravity as he added:

"My time is nearly up. I shall go out next month. And you will, perhaps, be surprised at my news; but my mother goes with me."

"Oh! Both of you!"

The words escaped her breathlessly.

"Isn't it a very sudden idea?" she asked confusedly.

"Yes. My brother Rufus is going to be married, as I expect you know. Paul has taken chambers in town, so none of us will be at home this winter. We do not like the idea of our mother being alone. She has always had one or the other with her; and she is quite willing to try six months in India with me."

Hope felt dumbfounded; she had difficulty in keeping the tears out of her eyes.

"I shall feel quite lost without your mother," she said, after a pause. "She has been such a friend to me."

Lancelot said nothing. He looked in front of him with a set determined face; and then, without any warning, a tremendous storm of rain burst upon them.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I might have thought this mild December day would make us pay for it."

He gathered up the rugs round Hope. She was, unfortunately, without a cloak or umbrella, and there was no house or shelter of any kind near them. Seeing how wet she was getting, he drew up the horse, and without a word slipped out of his overcoat and wrapped it round her. It was no good for Hope to protest; his masterful manner won the day, though she assured him that the rest of the drive would be spoilt to her.

"With your Indian constitution, and your tendency to ague, it is cruel to make me the cause of your becoming ill," she assured him.

He laughed, and looked down upon her with such a glance that Hope's eyes fell before his. And then he spoke.

"Don't you know," he said, "that I want to give you something more than a tweed overcoat?"

Hope caught her breath, then gently laid her hand upon his arm.

"Don't say more," she said.

"But I must, though I did not think I should have to do so in the face of such a storm as this. Do you think I am going away to India without a word—without one effort to win you?"

"I cannot listen," said Hope quietly, though her heart was beating painfully. "You know my circumstances. I will never leave my father as long as he lives. It is quite impossible."

"Confound circumstances!" exclaimed Lancelot, for once losing his self-restraint. "My little Hope, tell me—I know you have liked me as a friend—could you care for me as a husband? I want to have the right to shield, to care for you, to take you right away and give you comforts and happiness, and—and—your proper and suitable environment."

"I am in the environment God has chosen for me," said Hope, almost below her breath.

"Yes—forgive me—I should not have said that. You grace it as you could grace a duchess's sphere. You make any surrounding beautiful. But you have not answered me. I know you will not play with me. Speak from your heart, I beseech you, and tell me truly whether you could ever regard me as something more than a friend."

It was a strange time in which to make a proposal. The rain was driving full in their faces, the wind buffeting them at every turn, and Lancelot's horse needed his continual guidance and attention.

Hope was greatly taken by surprise. She had instinctively felt that Lancelot liked her; but had repeatedly told herself that it was only as a friend. She had not thought he would bring matters to a climax so soon. And she hardly knew her own heart, as from the very first she had resisted and crushed any feelings that had exceeded the bounds of friendship.

She took refuge in silence, and was glad that the dusk and wet shielded her from his observation.

"Tell me," he repeated, "that friendship between us must deepen into love. I dare say I have not much to offer you except my love. People say I am a social failure; I am not fond of the gay world, but neither are you, and I honestly believe that I could make you happy."

"You have taken me by surprise," Hope said gently, though her voice trembled in spite of herself. "Will you give me time? I must think it over, but I really feel at present that I have no right to make any ties that will take me away from my father. I can never leave him. I am his only daughter. It would be unfair towards you if I bound you in any way, for I know for a long time that marriage would be out of the question for me."

"I will wait," he said eagerly. "I would not be so selfish as to wish to take you now. Perhaps I ought to have gone off to India without speaking, but I could not. Yes, I will give you time, though it will be suspense to me. But how long will you want? And will you promise me to consult your own heart before you consult either father or brother?"

"Yes, I promise that," said Hope quietly. "Give me till to-morrow afternoon—I will have my answer ready then."

They were approaching King's Dell. Lancelot stifled the hot passionate words that were upon his tongue, and Hope did not misunderstand his quiet self-restraint. She liked him the better for it. When they parted at the cottage gate, he took her hand in his.

"I shall pray God that you may be given me," he said, and then he turned away.

Hope went up the flagged path with throbbing pulse and tearful eyes. She was glad to hear that Kitty was reading aloud to her father, and the quiet moments spent in her own room, whilst she was changing her wet garments, restored her self-possession.

Kitty met her with great concern.

"It is too bad!" she exclaimed, with impatience. "You go out so seldom that you might have been given fine weather. Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"I have and I haven't," said Hope, smiling.

"You look worried. What a nice man Mr. Dane is! I like his eyes so, and he looks a man! He's so keen and quick and decisive in the way he speaks. I hate a man who drawls his words, don't you? But, of course, I don't see many men, only curates!"

"And vicars," said Hope, laughing outright at the inflection of scorn in Kitty's last words.

"Yes, but they're father's friends, not mine. I've only seen two classes of curates about here, the breathlessly energetic ones who begin to turn everything upside down, and quote their former parish until you wonder why they left it, and the drawley, lazy, bored ones, who smile superciliously, and place themselves on pedestals, refusing to come down. I've always told father that I shall never marry a curate—and, of course, Avice thinks there is no one on earth like them! I'm so sorry your drive was spoilt by the weather!"

She took her departure, and Hope found enough to occupy her hands, if not her thoughts, for the rest of the day. It was only when she went to her bedroom at night that she could sit down and give herself up to thought. And this she did. Her little clock on the chimneypiece was pointing to two o'clock before she moved from her chair by the window. And then sleep was long in coming. She was headachy and heavy-eyed when she came down the next morning, and her daily duties seemed to weigh heavily upon her.

The rain had passed and the sun shone out gloriously. It was one of those treasured days in winter that seem like spring in their warmth and buoyancy. Brian had gone in the morning to the railway station with the weekly batch of eggs and poultry. He came home at two o'clock, had his dinner, and then told Hope he would sit for a time with his father.

She was relieved, as, though Lancelot had arranged nothing, she expected him to call. She tidied up the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil for tea, and then opening the door, sat down in the porch with her mending-basket.

She had not been there long before the click of the garden gate made her raise her head. It was Lancelot. As he came steadily and swiftly up the red-brick path, Hope felt a strong inclination to turn into the house away from him.

"I have come," he said, as he shook hands with her, "for my answer."

She looked desperately round her, then rose from her seat. "Let us take a walk in the orchard," she suggested.

She led the way, and Lancelot followed her in silence. Brian had cut a path right round the orchard, and it was along this that Hope led her lover.

Presently she turned and faced him.

"I thank you," she said, "for giving me time for thought; but I feel much as I did yesterday, that I cannot bind myself at all to what would eventually lead me away from my father and brothers."

"But," said Lancelot, paling under the intensity of his feelings, "I don't want such cautious, calculating sentiments; I want to know if you love me."

He took both her hands in his, and drew her gently but firmly towards him. "Now, Hope, you are not going to wreck and spoil our lives by dismissing me so lightly. I am the last one to say that you should forsake your family in the present dilemma. I honour you for your devotion to them. But you will not always have them with you. You cannot consign yourself to a single existence for the rest of your life because just at present you feel they need you. I am not going to argue with you, but I am going to have a straight and truthful answer, and it is within my rights to demand it. I don't ask you whether you think we ought to marry at present. I ask you if you care for me? Please look at me. You could not be anything but true."

And then Hope's grey eyes were raised to his, but though for a second he thought he had gauged their depths, though the glowing light and love seemed to be dawning in them, in a moment she had turned her face away.

"I want to be true. I want to do right, and I feel I am absolutely right in saying 'No.'"

"This is your final answer?"

The words were quickly, almost curtly, uttered.

"Yes."

He dropped her hands, then took them again and, with old-fashioned courtesy, lifted them to his lips and kissed them.

His sudden silent acquiescence frightened Hope. Without a word they retraced their steps to the cottage.

Hope had argued the whole thing out to herself the night before. She called to mind more than one man in her London life who had asked her to love him. She remembered Jim Horrocks. At one time she felt she could have done it so easily, and yet now, though always glad to meet him as a friend, she felt thankful that she had never been anything more.

"I feel now," she assured herself, "that I could love Lancelot Dane; he has, as he said, come into my life to stay there, but time will show me in the same way that my love for him is only friendship. I ought to be free and unfettered. My father may live for years—God has shown me my sphere of usefulness. It would be wrong to take the first chance offered me of freeing myself from a life of self-denial and hardship, a life in which I am really needed. It is very hard to refuse him. I could—I know I could love him if I let myself. He is so thoughtful, so kind and courteous, so clever and cultured, so delightful in his quick decisions and humorous rallies, so protective in his manner. I will not think of him, for I must not. I have refused other men before, I must be firm now. I can't be spared; it would be unfair to bind him, and it is not too late to nip in the bud any feeling that I have about him. I am sure I am right. May Fosberry envied me my circumstances. I will not run away from them. I will not relapse into a life of ease again. And I feel if I were to say 'Yes' to Lancelot, he would be trying to make life easier for all of us. My pride could not stand that. It would rasp and irritate me. I could not accept favours from him nor allow any of my belongings to do so. I don't think I am wrong. I am penniless. My family depend upon me. I am not the wife for Lancelot!"

She repeated this over and over to herself, she entrenched herself behind a bulwark of arguments, and fancied herself strong and secure in her position. Yet when her answer had been given, when he had bowed his head and accepted it as final and irrevocable, for the first time panic and desolation gripped hold of her soul. If he had only known what was passing through her mind as they retraced their steps across the orchard, he would not have so silently acquiesced in her decision. He was hurt and sore at her refusal, and the stern lines about his eyes and lips told that he was putting a strong restraint upon his emotions.

He spoke when they reached the cottage.

"This is goodbye," he said. "I will not trouble you again; but you have my good wishes, and perhaps you may find time to see my mother before she sails. We do not leave London till the week after next."

"Will Mrs. Dane be well enough to go?"

"She thinks so. This is only a temporary ailment."

Raising his hat, he left her.

She stood in the porch and watched him stride away down the flagged path, and then, with a sudden rush of memory, she seemed to see Miss Rill standing in that same porch and watching the departure of her rejected suitor. That flagged path stared her in the face with earnest protest. "The offering of rejected love." Imagination gave it voice. Hope seemed to hear it say:

"You are sending him away for ever; he will never come back; your life will be empty without him. One woman lived here, and found no rest, only bitterness and disappointment without the one who could have made her happy. You are acting in the same way. You are young now, and do not feel your need of him; the day will come when you will be old, and lonely, and friendless. Then you will discover your mistake."

She saw Miss Rill with her puckered face, her pathetic yearning to die in the same place as her old lover, and the tears rushed to her eyes.

With an impulse that she hardly understood, she walked rapidly down the path. Would he look round? Could she call to him? A lump rose in her throat and prevented speech. If he did not look round, her life would be spoiled. That was the thought which flashed through her brain. He had reached the gate. One moment more and he would have gone. The blood rushed to her temples, then ebbed away as suddenly as it came, leaving her as white as a sheet. And then he turned with a grim set face to see for the last time the little spot that held the one he loved.

When he saw her, he did not show surprise.

But her white strained face convinced him that she was in trouble. He fancied that perhaps her father might be taken worse, and immediately he put his own trouble in the background and sought to help her.

"What is it?" he inquired. "Can I do anything for you?"

Then the realisation of what she was doing came over Hope, and again her cheeks flushed with emotion and shame.

"You must wait," she said breathlessly. "It is this flagged walk that has made me act so. Do you know its story? Will you listen to it?"

He bowed assent, and stood leaning against the gate and wondering what was passing through her mind.

"It was made by a man for the woman he loved."

Hope was speaking quickly, with nervously-clasped hands. Her eyes were on the path with the history.

"She was a little old maid who lived here before we came. She sent away the man who wanted to marry her, and she never ceased to regret it. Her remorse drove her up to London, away from her sweet home in which she could take no pleasure. I believe she thinks she may yet meet him there, but I expect he has married long ago."

"And the path?"

Light was slowly creeping into Lancelot's eyes.

"The path was bricked for her by him before he went. He left a note with just these words,—

"'When you tread this path, you will be treading on rejected love.'

"It was the path that drove her away; it is the path that has made me follow you, that has made me doubt my own decision!"

"What a blessed little path!"

Lancelot's face was alight and aglow in a moment, but Hope stood still, and put out her hand as if to keep him back.

"Wait! You are a good man; you will not make me act wrongly. You know my circumstances. I am going to trust you. I did not speak quite truly. If I let myself, I could so willingly give myself to you—"

She could say no more. Her faltering words were stopped by Lancelot, who, with his arms around her, sealed her capitulation with a kiss.

"I will prove myself worthy of your trust," he said. "My darling, how could you treat me so!"

"Oh," said Hope, with a long-drawn sigh, as she let her dark head rest on his broad shoulder, "I have been fighting against myself all the time, and now I can't fight any longer!"

It was one of the sweetest moments of her life, but it quickly came to an end. With a whoop and a shout Jerry and Toby made their appearance. They were startled when they saw their sister and Lancelot in such close proximity.

"Lessons over?" Hope asked quietly. "Run in, both of you. I will follow you."

Then she looked up sweetly and shyly into Lancelot's face.

"I have no more time," she said, "but you must advise me. I have cast prudence and forethought to the winds; but in spite of it all, you know I cannot leave my father."

"I will wait seven years if needs be," said Lancelot passionately. "I will come to-morrow. Oh, Hope, you have made life so different! And what joy it will give my mother! May I tell her?"

"Yes," said Hope recklessly; "I don't care who knows it. Forgive me for not knowing my own mind before."

She smiled upon him with all the warmth of her heart in her eyes, then went up the red-bricked walk to the cottage, where the boys awaited her.

Late that night she slipped out of doors in the moonlight with a shawl over her head. And then, deliberately, she went down on her knees and kissed the flagged path.

"You blessed little path!" she repeated, in a whisper. "I thank you with all my heart!"