Chapter IV

HAD I known that Mrs. Jennings had already two lodgers at Roundtree Farm, I would not have gone there, and I told her so.

"Bless you, miss," said she, "you might be here for months and never set eyes on them. Mr. Winn, a broad-shouldered, handsome gentleman, does nothing but hunt bees and butterflies and suchlike. Mr. Marsden is mad after out-a-way plants and flowers. They don't even go a fishing, though, there's lovely trout for the catching. I wish they would, for fish is hard to get so far from a market."

"But off they go betimes in the morning, with flytraps and tins, which carry lunch first and no end of green rubbish after. They come home as the birds do—towards night, and they have dinner and supper in one. Then they are busy arranging what I call 'regular trash,' and looking as pleased as if a bluebottle was a diamond, or the green stuff good to eat. They make a lot of litter, but it's clean dirt, as one may say, and they never torment the live things, but have a way of putting a quick end to them. I couldn't abide to have even a fly tormented here. They are quiet, regular, and pay well for what trouble they give, so what could I want more? They will never annoy you, Miss Anstey."

What could I say to this? I paid little; I had come in ignorance; I had nowhere else to go! Was I to be driven away on account of these neighbours? Not I! Mr. Winn might hunt beetles, and Mr. Marsden gloat over his "green trash," while I would do my best to forget the existence of the pair, and enjoy my holiday.

I did not quite succeed in keeping this resolution. I was a daughter of Mother Eve, and, therefore, curious. My landlady was equally her daughter, and inclined to talk; so from her I learnt that her lodgers were both "born gentlemen," though Mr. Winn had parents living and several sisters, whilst Mr. Marsden had only a mother, who doted on him.

"By all accounts she wants him to marry, and she doesn't. She would like him to have wife and children; but thinks she could pick a mate for him best, and all the while does not believe there is a lady in the world good enough for this precious son of hers. No matter what she might be, I suppose the old lady would be jealous of her. Eh, dear! It isn't the best thing to be over-much thought of, is it, Miss Anstey?"

I told Mrs. Jennings I was no judge, for I had no one left to trouble me with too much love. And then conscience reproached me as I thought of the dear family at Hillstowe, who had given me so much cause for thankfulness and made me one amongst them.

"I don't think Mr. Marsden lets his mother's fidgety ways trouble him," replied Mrs. Jennings. "When he does marry, he will choose for himself, and the right of it, too. Meanwhile, he seems as happy as a bird, and makes the old lady happy, too, for he is a dutiful son, if ever there was one."

While professing to care nothing about my neighbours, and to feel no interest in their movements, I did think I should like to see them without their seeing me. When Sunday approached, I wanted to ask if they went beetle and fern-hunting on the Sunday, but I was too great a coward to show even this much interest, and tried to persuade myself that it was a matter of no consequence to me. Still, I did wonder whether they and I would occupy opposite corners in that relic of barbarism, a high, square pew, for the church at Hailsby-le-Beck had not yet been restored, and was a marvel of internal ugliness.

But Mrs. Jennings did not leave me to wonder long.

"The gentlemen," she said, "have friends in this county, and either spend their Sundays with them, or go home. They leave on Saturday afternoons and return on Mondays."

So my devotions were undisturbed by any occupants of the square pew, except the farmer and his wife.

I spent a fortnight happily enough, for I had resolved to lay in as much strength as possible, the better to fit me for my duties at Hillstowe. I wanted to give my very best to those who were so good to me. So I borrowed a sun bonnet from Mrs. Jennings, and went with her to the hay-field, where she said I did not play at hay-making. I gathered the eggs, I fed the chickens, and after much effort and aching of wrists succeeded in learning to milk a cow. I turned my hand to whatever was going, and could soon bake, make up the butter, and do almost anything about the farm that its mistress was in the habit of putting her hand to.

"I cannot know too much," I thought, "and if I should some day go out to Australia, such accomplishments would be useful."

I had time besides for sketching expeditions and long rambles, sometimes with a cottager's child for company, at others alone, except for busy and not unhappy thoughts. I had known much sorrow, but God had been very good in answering my prayers, and giving me friends. I thanked Him and took courage.

There was a pretty view near the stream, or "beck" as it was called, and I had made up my mind to sketch it, supported in this resolution by the knowledge that Messrs. Winn and Marsden never went fishing.

The water was very low, and though the bottom was pebbly, there was some good stiff clay towards that portion of the steep banks left bare by the falling water.

I was considering which side would be the best from which to take my sketch, and wanted to cross the beck, to find out. The only bridge was the trunk of a tree—not a very wide one, but substantial enough. Still, a firm foot and steady head were needed to cross it. I determined to attempt this, and got on very well until I was past the middle. Then the ungainly bridge gave an unexpected rock, for it was only thrown across, not fastened, and over I went into the water.

I was not at first afraid of being drowned, and my clothes would wash, but the situation was unpleasant on account of that dreadful barrier of stiff clay, on which I could get no footing or hold. Not a bush was within reach, I was nearly up to my waist in water, nobody would be likely to hear me call, and any attempt at laying hold of the bank resulted in a handful of clay, and a slipping back into my original position. I hardly knew Whether to laugh or cry, my predicament being equally ridiculous and uncomfortable. I knew nothing about the turns of the stream, or the height of the banks in either direction, so I started haphazard, and began making my way through the water as cautiously as possible, fearing now that I might step into some hole, get beyond my depth, and perhaps be drowned.

I soon became even less hopeful of extricating myself without help, for the banks grew higher as I proceeded. With some difficulty I retraced my course, for now I was going against the stream. I passed the treacherous bridge, and went in the opposite direction, but seeing no better chance of escape, I gave a succession of ringing cries, which produced no reply, then resolved on a new plan. I would scoop out the clay with my hands, and so make steps by which to escape.

I had just discovered that I could not reach high enough to make my work a success, when I saw a sunburnt face looking down upon me from the top of the bank, and heard a voice saying, "Do not be frightened, I will help you. Stay where you are."

Both belonged to my fellow-lodger, Mr. Marsden, and in a very few moments he was in the water by my side.

The circumstances admitted of scant ceremony, and I was very glad indeed to feel myself held in his firm grasp, as he guided me through the stream.

"The bank slopes further on," he said, "and with my help you will be able to climb on to dry ground. I am very sorry to see you in such an uncomfortable and dangerous position. I suppose you tried to cross by that log bridge. I take blame to myself for not having replaced a dislodged stone which usually steadies it, as I noticed that the bridge was even less safe than usual when I crossed this morning. If I had dreamed that feminine feet would test its firmness, I would have taken better care."

I tried to answer lightly, and even to laugh, but I was glad Mr. Marsden did not. It was bad enough to be in such a wretched plight, and I think if I had seen an amused look on his face, I should have changed that poor ghost of a laugh into a cry. When finally landed on the bank, I was dripping wet from the very shoulders, my hands were mud-stained, my feet shoeless, for I had lost my shoes in the clay, and my whole appearance was miserable in the extreme.

Even then Mr. Marsden did not laugh. He was full of kindly pity and regrets for the wretched object before him, and hurried me on to a cottage, where a good old woman took me in hand, and insisted on my undressing and getting into her bed, until a change of clothes came to me from the farm.

Shall I make a confession? Every other girl will feel that what I did was exactly what she would have done herself, under the circumstances. I glanced towards the little square of looking-glass which hung on the cottage wall, and rejoiced to see it reflect a clean face, glowing with the effects of recent haste, and handsomely framed in short, natural curls, which anticipated by many years the present fashion of fringes. I am afraid I was vain enough to decide mentally that I looked unusually well, and to be glad of it, as well as thankful for my escape, and to my rescuer.

It was impossible after this to ignore my neighbours entirely. They must have known that I lodged at Roundtree Farm before that day, for, without a word from me, Mr. Marsden went there to warn Mrs. Jennings of my position, and asked her to send me a change of clothes. But, like good, true-hearted young men, they had guessed my wish to avoid anything like putting myself in their way, and respected it. That evening, however, Mr. Marsden came to inquire after me, and he repeated the attention on the following day. Still, he never presumed upon the service he had rendered me, and though I saw both him and Mr. Winn from time to time, it was always when the farmer or his wife were close at hand.

Both stayed at Roundtree Farm the next week end, but that had been decided on before my immersion and rescue, so it resulted from no romantic desire to improve my acquaintance. It is true we all walked to church together on Sunday, but Mrs. Jennings was between me and Mr. Marsden, and Mr. Winn followed with the farmer.

We had two or three chilly evenings, after wet days, and then, somehow, we all got together in the great, cheery farmhouse kitchen, and enjoyed the warmth and brightness, so contrary to the gloom without.

The farmer put aside his pipe out of respect to me, and his wife grew so interested as her lodgers discoursed about "creeping things and green stuff," while they displayed their new treasures, that she ceased to click the knitting-needles—so rarely at rest in her busy fingers. I listened with delighted ears, and looked at and learned much about things I had never before cared to notice, though I had spent my life amongst such. And I could not help seeing that often, whilst Mr. Winn talked, Mr. Marsden's eyes were turned in my direction. I did not seem to notice this, but listened attentively to the speaker, whilst I felt my heart beat a little more quickly.

I was glad that no one could catechise me as to how much I remembered of the lecture on creeping things and winged insects, or I fear I should have disgraced myself utterly. Then, when the early bedtime came, and we said "Good night," I could not help carrying in my mind's eye the kind, sun-browned face of Mr. Marsden, who always opened the door to let me pass out. He carried his fine manners with him everywhere, and in the farm kitchen was as respectful to Mrs. Jennings and myself as if we had been duchesses.

Mr. Marsden's face being the last I saw at night, was it wonderful that I should dream of it, both waking and sleeping, more especially as his eyes were so often turned to mine? I was glad of this, and sorry at the same time, for I knew this happy holiday season would soon come to an end.

I will not describe Mr. Marsden's looks. Let each reader picture her own hero, and he will do to represent mine, so far as she is concerned.

I found out quite incidentally that Mrs. Jennings had made her male lodgers acquainted with my story so far as she knew it, just as she had told me theirs.

One lovely night I went early to bed, leaving my lattice window open. I lay awake, enjoying the moonlight, which came shimmering through the creeping plants that veiled the window, and the unbroken silence that prevailed.

It was a realisation of that expressive line in Gray's Elegy—

"And all the air a solemn stillness holds."

All at once, I heard Mr. Marsden's voice, and knew that the young men must be sitting in the rustic porch below.

"Yes, Winn," he said, "you are right in saying that this is becoming dangerous ground to me, Miss Anstey has attracted me as no other girl ever did, and all I have heard about her has served to increase the attraction. She is brave-hearted, of a bright, cheery temperament, and, if I am not mistaken, essentially true, modest, and pure-minded."

"I believe she is all these," replied Mr. Winn. "The very fact of her acting as she has done under this roof is a proof of her modesty and straightforwardness. How many girls would have been here, alone as she is, without availing themselves of such opportunities for flirtation as are afforded by the neighbourhood of two idlers such as you and me?"

"I hope a good many. You know my feeling about such things, and that the reverence and love I entertain for my mother make me wish to think well of every woman."

"You may think well of Miss Anstey without making a mistake. Nevertheless, she is a very dangerous character."

"To you, Winn?" asked Mr. Marsden, quickly; but the merry laugh of his friend reassured him at once.

"No, my dear fellow. There is not the slightest fear of our becoming rivals, though the young lady is in herself worth winning. But I would not advise you to try to win her, because I fear she would not meet Mrs. Marsden's views as to a daughter-in-law."

"That is my trouble, Winn. If I stood alone, I would not hesitate. Even now I can hardly feel that I ought to stifle the longings of my own heart, when there is nothing wrong in connection with them. I would speak to Miss Anstey to-morrow, only I know the dear old mother would be heart-broken if she were not at least consulted before a decisive step was taken. She is from home just now. We shall not meet for a week, and Miss Anstey may go from Hailsby before I can see my mother and return. I cannot say to her, 'Please, will you stay here until I go and tell my mother that I have seen a girl I should like to make my wife, and then, if she is willing, I will come back.'"

Mr. Winn laughed heartily. "I should think not, indeed," he said. "And if you ask my advice, I should say, Better run away and do not come back at all."

At this moment the friends rose, left the porch, and strolled away out of hearing.

It seemed dreadfully mean to lie and hear all this; but what could I do? The house was a quaint rambling old place, once inhabited by the owner of the estate, but now given over to the farm. It had ins and outs, and I feel sure the two gentlemen were unaware as to which was my room, as it lay about as far as possible from their chambers. I had never seen them in the porch before, and could only suppose that they had been tempted to linger by the extreme beauty of the night, and without dreaming that amid the stillness the sound of their voices might be borne upwards to other ears.

I hated to play the listener, though what I heard made my heart throb wildly and my face glow with gladness. Had the speakers been females, or even older men, I should have warned them that they were within hearing. As it was, I acted like a coward. I feared that some one might hear me speak to these young men, and place a wrong construction on the nightly communication, for all the other inmates were in bed. So I failed to do right, lest I should be suspected of doing wrong. Afterwards, I thought that I might have closed the window with noise enough to warn them that some one was near, but without letting them know who it was. I took myself to task rather severely about this, but conscience cleared me so far. I really had not thought of the window until too late.

That fair night was the least satisfactory I spent at Roundtree Farm, so far as sleep went. I passed the hours in a whirl of conflicting emotions. I was thankful for the good opinion of two such men as Mr. Marsden and Mr. Winn. Their words proved that they had judged me fairly. But my tell-tale heart was at first in a flutter of joy at the thought that the one who had stolen into it and taken the dearest place, had also given me the same in his.

The joy, however, did not continue unalloyed. Much of it could never leave me. If I were never to see him again, if I were to spend my future life in loneliness, there would still be this memory; a good man thought me worthy of his love, and would have made me his wife, if he could.

I am afraid I began to feel glad that I had not thought of closing the lattice until it was too late.

It seems strange that after such thoughts I should have resolved not to see Mr. Marsden again. He had called me brave. I said to myself, "I will deserve his good opinion. He shall not have to take Mr. Winn's advice, and run away from me. I will run away from him. I will not bring him into a contest with his mother, or sow the seeds of trouble between them. If there is a trial to be borne, I will take the larger share. Besides, Lois Anstey is not quite without pride, or a sense of her own value. I do care for Mr. Marsden, but even he should seek me and take pains to win me; and into no family would I enter unless the mother could hold out motherly arms and bid me welcome as a daughter."

Two circumstances enabled me to carry out my resolution without difficulty. Mr. Marsden and Mr. Winn had started on one of their usual expeditions before I was down in the morning, and the post brought me a letter from Mary Baxendell, in which she implored me to spend the rest of my holidays at High Lea.

"We are at home," she wrote, "ten days sooner than was at first arranged. At least, my mother and I are here, and feeling rather dull, as my father is still away. If you will come to us, darling Miss Anstey, I shall be quite reconciled to our shortened tour. Do not trouble to write—come."

Go I did, and on that very day. I told Mrs. Jennings that a friend wanted me, and must set out with as little delay as possible; that I was not going straight to Hillstowe, but should be there in due time to resume my teaching. I soon packed my belongings, which were placed in the farmer's trap amid many regrets and hopes that I would go to Roundtree Farm next summer. Then, having more than satisfied my kind landlady, I turned my back on Hailsby-le-Beck, and thus passed that fourth milestone out of the six I wish specially to remember.