Chapter IV: In the Grotto

JOHN TINCROFT soon got tired of the cricket ground, and retraced his steps to the now deserted lawn. The sun was near setting, but it was shining hotly nevertheless; and the poor student, wearied with his day's exertions, and somewhat perturbed in spirit as well, betook himself to a cool grotto in a remote part of the grounds, which Richard Grigson had had constructed for his own especial pleasure.

The grotto was not only cool, but secluded. It was built of rough stones, after the manner of an ancient ruin, only, unlike ruins in general, it was snugly roofed in, and was weather-tight. It consisted of two chambers, the inner one—which was accessible from the outer by a low archway—being fitted up with some regard to comfort. Among the accessories were a soft couch and a rough rustic table; also a locker, in which were the materials, if required, for the creature enjoyments of smoking and so forth.

Tincroft was not a smoker, nor did he care at that time for treating himself hospitably, though a half-emptied bottle of pale sherry end a tumbler might have tempted one who was so inclined. As it was, he merely stretched himself comfortably on his friend's couch, wondering what pleasure could be found in entertaining a parcel of rustics, and thinking that the life of a country gentleman, and a landlord to boot, was not without its drawbacks, till his memory went back to the pretty girl in pink bows and fair curls, and his own disconsolate condition.

Finally, he dropped off into a sound slumber, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot."

Was it a dream? It seemed like one; and yet, when the sleeper lazily roused himself, and half raised himself on his elbow, something like the following dialogue fell upon his ear.

It should be noted that by this time the sun had disappeared below the horizon, and the fast gathering twilight was, within the walls of the grotto or hermitage, intensified into a deeper gloom. The voices came through the low archway, and the speakers, whomsoever they might be, had evidently taken up their positions in the outer chamber.

"And now we have come together, we don't part, miss, till I have told you a bit of my mind." The voice of this speaker was firm and strong and rough, though feminine. To whom it belonged, the unintentional listener could only guess. He had heard the same voice, however, in almost equally harsh and loud tones, that same afternoon.

"It is very cruel of you, Elizabeth, to treat me so," was said in reply, by another female speaker, and, as it seemed to John, in piteous remonstrance. At any rate, the tones had a musical softness and pathos which smote upon the listener's heart.

"It isn't cruel," said the first speaker; "it is only straightforward and honest, and that is what I mean to be."

"Such friends as we used to be, Elizabeth," sobbed the second interlocutor.

"And may be again, if you will only be sensible, and give up Walter, as you ought to do."

"I won't, I won't, I won't!" cried the weaker one. "And to think of your wanting me to do this, when you were the first to—to—to make him fall in love with me."

"I didn't do anything of the sort," rejoined the other, promptly; "and if I did," she added with a little inconsistency and self-contradiction, "it was when we were both children, and I did not know any better."

"And you are grown wiser since then, cousin—do you mean to say that?" asked the harassed one, with a little more spirit than before—for which John applauded her in his heart. He understood it all now.

"Yes, I am grown wiser, miss," replied Elizabeth. "I didn't know then how your father was robbing my father and all of us."

"It isn't robbing. Father borrowed the money, and if he could pay it back, he would; and if he can't, he can't."

"And why can't he? What's he always getting drunk for? That isn't the way to get on, and to pay his debts, I reckon; is it? And your mother, too—"

"I won't hear you talk like that—I won't; no, I won't!" cried the unhappy girl, desperately. "Let me go, Elizabeth."

There seemed then, to Tincroft, as though there were a slight scuffle; but while he hesitated whether or not to make his presence known by some audible token, it ceased, and the conversation was resumed.

"There, there, I didn't mean to hurt you, Sarah," were the first words spoken, and in response, as it appeared, to the pantings and hysterical sobs of the weaker girl—"and I don't believe I have. But I have not said what I had to say to you, and I mean to say it."

"You may say what you like now, Elizabeth."

"I don't mean to say anything more about uncle Mark and aunt," the other went on; "because I know as well as you do, that you can't help that. And you and I might be as good friends as ever, Sarah, if you would only be sensible, as I said before, and see things as you ought. Now look, dear—"

(Oh, thought John Tincroft, in his concealment—dear, too! When women begin to call one another dear, it looks ominous. So I have heard. Not that I know anything about it. How should I?)

"Now, look, dear; you know you can't be Walter's wife—"

"I don't know anything of the sort," said Sarah.

"Not for a long time, not for years and years, if ever."

"I'll wait, and so will he," replied the poor baited girl, bravely; but with a perceptible tremulousness of voice, nevertheless.

"Ah, you think so now; but I know better. I won't say anything about you, dear; but I know Walter better than you do. He made up to you because you took his fancy. But such fancies don't last long. Look at Mr. Elliston, of the Mumbles; he was all hot for Miss Summerfield, as you know. But he didn't have her, not he. He saw somebody richer, and so he turned off his Laura—and glad enough she is of it now. And it will be just the same with Walter and you."

"You can go on, and say what you like," said Sarah, panting for breath.

John Tincroft began to feel more uncomfortable in being the involuntary hearer of all this family difference.

"Yes, I mean to, Sarah," continued the stronger-minded cousin. "It will be just the same with Walter, I say. Why, there's Miss Burgess, Mary Burgess he calls her, Ralph Burgess's sister, who keeps house for her brother—you should read what Walter writes about her."

"It isn't true—it isn't!" almost screamed the tortured girl. "It's all stories you are telling, you good-for-nothing thing, you!"

"And she has got money," the torturer went on, without noticing the contradiction, or caring for the agony she might possibly be inflicting; "and why shouldn't Walter have it?"

"Let him have it—let him!" cried poor Sarah.

"That's what I say, dear; let him have it. Why shouldn't he? I declare if I was in your place, I should write and tell him so at once. I think it would be very selfish in you to try to keep him dangling after you when he has the chance of bettering himself. Don't you see it in that light, dear?"

"Have you got anything more to say, Elizabeth?" asked the other, faintly.

"No, I think that's pretty much all I have to say now."

"Then please go, and let me alone. Go, go!" she added, more vehemently.

And then there was a sound of departing footsteps faintly echoing in the inner grotto, and reaching John's ears. Then followed a low wailing cry, and after that there was silence.

How long the involuntary eavesdropper remained in concealment after the conversation ended, he never exactly knew, for strange thoughts and feelings rushed unbidden into his mind and made him oblivious to the flight of time. From these meditations, whatever their import, he was presently roused by distant shouts which proclaimed that the cricket match in the meadow was concluded, and that the players, with the spectators, were returning to the lawn.

Not caring to be missed at the breaking up of the party, Tincroft roused himself from his lair and prepared to leave the grotto. And then he was surprised to find how rapidly the shades of evening had drawn on, so that even the entrance chamber, which opened upon the lawn, was in semi-darkness.

It was not so wrapped in gloom, however, but that while rapidly passing through it, his steps were suddenly arrested by what at first appeared to be a bundle of white clothes in an angle close to the doorway.

In another moment he had made a further discovery, which turned back his thoughts to the conversation he had overheard, and quickened the current of blood in his veins. In yet another moment, he was clumsily but anxiously endeavouring to raise the insensible form of the poor girl from whose lips had broken the low wail of distress which had just now fallen so sorrowfully on his ear.

Succeeding at last in his endeavours to raise the young person, and to place her in a reclining position, John looked around him for help. It was plain that she had fainted, and it was necessary that some means should be adopted for her restoration. But there was no help at hand: the grotto was, as we have said, in a distant as well as secluded part of the pleasure-grounds; and the company were, as Tincroft knew, now gathering together into the hall of the Manor House for the parting cup and their host's hearty farewell.

There was no one near the grotto, therefore, and had there been, John Tincroft would, naturally enough, considering his inbred shyness, have shrunk from exposing himself to probable jokes, if not to unjust suspicion, by his merely accidental proximity to, and discovery of, the fainting damsel.

Driven then to his own unaided resources, John bethought him of untying the bonnet strings, which evidently impeded the free circulation of blood in the swollen veins. So far, good. Then the clumsy fingers, trembling a little at their unaccustomed task, loosened a kerchief which was fastened round the unconscious girl's neck with a gaudy brooch. These operations seemed to give some little relief, for a gentle sigh was heard; still the eyes remained half closed, and there was no further sign of returning animation.

"What shall I do next?" muttered John, in perplexity. "I have heard that cutting the stay laces—but that will never do. Ah! I have it," he said, as a sudden thought seized him, and in less time than it takes to tell, he had dived under the low archway into the cool retreat, and as speedily reappeared, bearing in his hand a half-tumbler of the precious hoard from Richard Grigson's locker. Filling it up with cold water, he moistened the lips of the poor girl with the liquid, and then, by slow degrees, insinuated the edge of the tumbler between them, himself trembling the while still more violently, as though he were perpetrating an awful crime.

"If Tom or anybody were to find me at this sort of work, I should never hear the last of it," he murmured.

But for all his craven fears, he did not desist in his endeavours till a half-choking, gurgling sound in the poor girl's throat warned him that it was time to withdraw the tumbler from her lips, and to devise some other method, if he could, for calling back the lost senses. Happily for the clumsy nurse, before he could proceed to further extremities, the damsel began to breathe more freely; then the closed eyes opened, and, finally, an outbreak of hysterical cries and a flood of tears proclaimed that the long fainting fit was over.

"Oh! Where am I? What has been happening?" asked Sarah, wildly, when she found herself half-reclining against the wall of the hermitage, and half-supported by the arm of a stranger.

John Tincroft briefly explained that he had accidentally found her on the floor of the grotto, and in what state; and that he had, as far as lay in his power, enacted the part of the Good Samaritan. He did not think it necessary to add that he had heard the previous conversation of the two cousins.

It was very kind of him, then, the maiden said, and she was afraid she had given him a great deal of trouble.

"A great pleasure to be of any use to you, I am sure," stammered John, scarcely knowing what he said, and whether he ought not now to draw in the arm and shoulder against which the patient was yet leaning.

She saved him the trouble by staggering in a frightened way to her feet, and adjusting her bonnet strings, and then by making an effort to step into the outer air. It was beyond her strength, however, and she sank back on to the bench from which she had before risen, once more crying violently.

Again John was at his wits' ends; but as his remedy had previously been successful, there was nothing better to do, he thought, than to replenish the tumbler.

"You had better drink a little of this," said he, once more by her side.

The damsel obeyed.

"And then, when you are able to walk, I will—You don't live far from here, I suppose?" continued John, as he stood watching her.

By this time the restorative had produced its effect, and the rustic beauty's colour had partially returned to her cheeks.

"I live at High Beech Farm," said she; "and it is time I was there. My father and mother went home long ago, and—oh, dear!"

She was once more on her feet, and anxiously looking out at the darkening landscape.

"It is a fine evening," said John; "and I'll—yes, if you will accept my help, I'll walk home with you. You are not well enough to be by yourself. You might have another fit on the road, you know. You must take my arm, and I'll see you safe, miss."