Chapter III: Two of Them

TALKING to father and me, Mr. Russell grew lively; and once mother came to the kitchen door, with her finger up, and a "Hush!" for Mr. Russell had raised his voice too much. I wondered a little that he could forget so soon, when he was so fond of his sister. And yet I liked him. I could not help liking him.

Now and then he seemed quite young; and then, again, he spoke as if he was older. I was puzzled; but after a time he told us he was twenty-four, and his sister was thirty-two; so that settled the matter.

"She's a good sister to me—always has been. I shouldn't think a chap ever had a better sister," he said, and a sort of cloud came over his face, as if all at once he remembered something that he had managed to forget.

"Then I hope you're a good brother to her," father said.

Mr. Russell sighed at this, and looked melancholy, but he didn't explain why, nor answer what father said.

Then father had to go back into the station, for a train was nearly due; and I could see he wanted to take Mr. Russell with him, while Mr. Russell wasn't at all in haste to go.

Perhaps that was natural enough, his sister being ill in our cottage, and he having no other home in the place.

He was to sleep, I had found, at Mrs. Bowman's. For Mrs. Bowman had a spare room, and was glad any time of a lodger. That would be cheaper than going to the inn; and it was plain they had to think about expenses.

I wondered how Rupert would like him being there.

Father offered to point out the way to Mrs. Bowman's, and Mr. Russell said, "Yes—presently; but might he have just one more cup of tea first?" So father had to go off, leaving him and me together. I didn't think he half liked it, though mother was close by, just across the passage. Father was always so careful of his "little wild rose," as he called me; and of course he didn't know anything much of Mr. Russell yet.

I poured out the tea for Mr. Russell, and then waited for him to finish, getting out the grey sock which I was knitting at odd times for my father. Mother never liked to see me nor anybody sitting idle. She always said tongues went faster when fingers went slower; and, to be sure, I didn't get as much work done as I might, when I was set off talking.

Mr. Russell seemed in no haste to be done. He sipped his tea, and set it down to cool. Then he leaned back, looking melancholy again, and said, "Poor Mary! The best of sisters!"

"I am sure, from her face, she is good," I said.

"She is too good," said Mr. Russell, with a sort of smile which I didn't understand.

"I don't see how anybody can be too good," I said, and I spoke timidly, for I thought Mr. Russell wonderfully clever.

"There are different kinds of goodness," says Mr. Russell; and that was a new notion to me. I couldn't think what he meant; for, to be sure, the Bible don't tell of two kinds.

"I should think your sister's was the right kind," I said.

"Well—yes," says he. "I didn't mean a 'wrong' kind, you see, when I spoke of different kinds. I only meant that people might be good in too exalted a way for everyday life. That is Mary's tendency, perhaps. Poor dear Mary!" He sighed again, and then he reached out his cup, saying, "Might he have a little more sugar?"

I couldn't help a sort of amused feeling at his being able to think about sugar; and yet I was half vexed with myself for being amused. After all, it takes a lot of trouble to bring a man to such a pass that he don't care what he eats or drinks. Women mostly come to that point sooner; and yet not women of the weak and faddy sort; for the worse trouble they are in, the more faddy and complaining they get.

Mr. Russell helped himself to the sugar, and then he stirred his tea round and round with the spoon, till it got to look like a whirlpool with a hole in the middle. Presently he sipped it again, and told me it was "perfect," and after that he went on with what he was saying.

"Yes, Mary is a most excellent creature—too good for common life. One can't help admiring, of course—but still—" and he shook his head, as much as to say that it wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all!

"Perhaps it would be better if everybody was the same," I said, thinking how father would speak and how mother would look in my place. I felt that there was something out of joint in what he was saying; and yet I did not want to feel anything that was not in his favour.

"The world would be at a standstill," says he. "People must have common sense if they are to get on in life."

I didn't know what he meant then; I know better now. He meant that we had to serve Mammon as well as God; and that, in matters of business, Mammon must come first, God second. He would not have put it so plain as that, of course, but it came to nothing less. Yes, and it always does end in that, when we try to do what our Lord said couldn't be done—when we try to serve Mammon and God too. Mr. Russell's "Mammon" was "getting on in life," and making money. He wouldn't put the service of God before that, and his sister would. That was why he called her "too good" for common life. But perhaps I ought not to say all this now. Perhaps I ought to leave it to be found out later.

Mr. Russell all at once turned the talk to something different.

"By-the-bye," said he, "I'm told the Earl gave you his own watch and chain."

"Yes," I said, and I got rather red.

"I don't wonder your father is proud."

"Was he proud about it?" I said. "Then he didn't show what he felt."

"Might I," Mr. Russell went on— "might I see the watch?"

I didn't see how to refuse or why I need: so I ran upstairs and brought down the gold watch and chain, laying them on the table in front of Mr. Russell. He took them up and examined both closely, letting his tea get cold, he was so interested.

"You'll have to mind you keep them in a safe place," he said after a while. "The Earl knows how to do things in a princely style. You're in luck, I can tell you. It's a thirty-guinea watch if it's worth a penny, and the chain half as much again!"

I was rather startled to hear this.

"First-rate article," says Mr. Russell. "Look, here's where you wind up." I came nearer to be shown, and at the sound of a step outside the window he just lifted his eyes for a moment, and asked in a careless way, "Who is that gawky young fellow? I saw him at the station."

"Oh, that is Rupert Bowman, our ticket-collector," I said, foolishly ashamed that anybody so plain and awkward should be a friend of ours.

Rupert walked straight in at the open door, as he always did. When he saw Mr. Russell sitting at our table, holding the gold watch, and me standing near, his face grew as black as midnight. He scowled at Mr. Russell, and shuffled more than ever.

What a contrast the two were, to be sure!

"I say, Kitty—" he burst out.

Then he stopped. I knew why. I didn't like him to speak so to me before Mr. Russell. It sounded rude; and, besides, I did not like him to seem so much at home—calling me by my name, and putting on that angry manner, as if I was a child to be scolded! Well, I was but a silly lass, and my head had been pretty well turned that day.

I suppose I showed pretty plainly what I thought. Rupert always said I could toss my head, and could be scornful, for all I was so humble and bashful. Not that I was humble really, only folks said it of me.

Mr. Russell showed plainly what he felt too. He put down the watch and tilted his chair, leaning back on it, and he fixed his eyes hard upon Rupert, lifting his eyebrows with a sort of disdain, as if he was looking down upon a lower animal altogether.

I don't now think that kind of manner from one man to another anything grand, and I know well enough it is not gentlemanly. A true gentleman is kind and courteous all round, just as much to those beneath him as to those above him.

But I had seen then very little of life, and Mr. Russell's manner seemed to me uncommon fine and dignified. I grew more and more ashamed to think how awkward and clumsy Rupert was, and how that very day he had dared to ask me to marry him.

I began to feel, too, that I never could nor would marry Rupert,—no, not if he asked me fifty times!

Rupert turned away from me and glared at Mr. Russell. I don't think "glared" is too hard a word. Rupert had a temper naturally, and sometimes it got the better of him, though he did fight to keep it down. Mr. Russell's manner was enough to try it; and Rupert always had cared for me as he cared for nobody else. I suppose it was hard for him to see me with this stranger, so different from himself, and me seeming already taken with him.

"Mr. Phrynne told me I was to show you the way to our cottage," he says in a short angry tone.

"Thank you," Mr. Russell made answer. "When I'm in want of a conductor, I'll apply to you."

It didn't strike me at the moment, that this was not the way he ought to have taken my father's message.

"Mr. Phrynne said so," Rupert said again gruffly.

"You can be so good as to tell Mr. Phrynne that I already know the way," Mr. Russell answered. "When I have had a stroll, I shall make my appearance at your mother's." Then he turned to me, speaking in a different tone, like to an equal, while his manner to Rupert was like an inferior. "I have kept you too long, I'm afraid," says he; "but I suppose I may look in again by-and-by, just to ask after my poor sister?"

Rupert stood and glared at him still. Mr. Russell didn't seem disturbed. He lifted his cup to drink off the rest of his tea, and I remember how he stuck out his little finger as he held the cup, in a way I thought elegant then, though now I can see it was affected. Isn't it odd, the little stupid things that come back to one's mind, years after, when much more important things are forgotten? Everything that happened on that day is clear to me still, just as if I had pictures of it all laid up in my mind.

Mr. Russell got up to go, and as he gave back the watch to me, he said in an undertone—

"What could your father have meant?—sending such a chap as that!"

Rupert must have heard; he could not help hearing. He stood like a stock till Mr. Russell was gone, and then he turned sharp round upon me, and said—

"You ought to know better, Kitty!"

"Oh, ought I?" said I, getting very red. And of course, it wasn't the way for Rupert to speak to me. He had no business to call me to account in any such tone. But it didn't improve matters for me to be angry. I've often thought since that it was one of the times for mother's favourite saying. Less hot words would have been sooner mended. But we were both young and impatient.

"Oh, ought I?" says I. "I think you ought to know better by this time, and not behave as if you'd never learnt any manners."

"How do I behave?" Rupert asked in a fierce way.

"Treating me like a child!" I said. "I'm not a child any longer, and it's time you should know it. And standing staring at Mr. Russell as if you were out of your wits!"

"That—puppy!" said he, and the words came in a smothered fury, not against me but against Mr. Russell. I think he was angry with me too, though only a sort of dull sore anger. "How much do you know about that—puppy!—eh, Kitty?—with his airs and graces! And nobody in the village ever set eyes on him nor heard of him till to-day!"

"I know more than you do," I said. "Calling him names won't make me think any worse of him nor any better of you."

"That's not calling him names. He is a puppy," says Rupert. "With his oiled hair and his put-on manners and his conceit! D'you think I don't know his sort at first sight?"

"I wish you were half as much a gentleman as Mr. Russell," I said.

"A gentleman!" Rupert burst into a grating laugh, as if he felt choked. "Call that a gentleman?"

"Much more of one than you, at any rate," I said.

"I'm not a gentleman, and don't pretend to be; don't want to be, neither. A man's capable of being honest, I hope, without using hairdresser's scent and wearing kid gloves. That's what Mr. Russell's gentlemanliness means—nothing more and nothing less. Hairdresser's scent won't stand in the place of honesty, nor kid gloves in the place of—of—" Rupert's voice shook, and he could hardly get out the words— "of real true love, Kitty." He came a step nearer, looking hard at me. "Kitty, don't you be taken in!" says he. "Say you won't!"

"I shall not say anything of the sort," I said, and I tossed my head, for I could not get over the way he had spoken to me. "It's no business of yours!"

"No business of mine who you care for? You don't mean that!" said he.

"Yes, I do. It's no business of yours at all," I said. I'd never spoken so to Rupert before, but the doings of that day seemed to have changed me somehow. "I shall care for who I choose," I went on, "and not ask your leave. And if you mean to plague me like this, why I shall think better of Mr. Russell than of you. He does know how to behave, and you don't."

Such a pity to say so much, wasn't it? What was the good? I might just as well have held my tongue. Of course, if I could not marry him, the sooner I made him understand, the better. But there's different ways of making folks understand; and words spoken in a pet are never the right sort.

"You don't like him best, now, Kitty!—say you don't!" begged Rupert.

I got up and turned short off, as if I was tired of the talk. If only I had got tired and run away sooner!

"Say you don't," begged Rupert again. "Kitty, I'll be as civil to him as ever you can wish, if only you'll just say you don't, nor won't, like him better than me."

But I was vexed still, and I said—

"Why shouldn't I? You are so disagreeable, Rupert. I like Mr. Russell much the best."

Rupert looked like somebody who has had a sharp blow in the face. His eyes grew dull, and he went slowly out of the kitchen without another word. I turned my head to see him go, half minded to call him back,—and there was Mrs. Hammond in the doorway.

"That's right, Kitty," says she, laughing. "Keep the young fellows in their place, and don't you be put upon."

Seeing Mrs. Hammond frightened me, for I knew that whatever came to her knowledge was sure to be over the whole place. She couldn't keep a thing to herself; and that was partly why mother distrusted her. I did wish I had not said so much. I felt that I wouldn't on any account have others know what I had said to Rupert about liking Mr. Russell. I made light of it all to Mrs. Hammond, and at the same time begged her not to repeat what she'd heard. Mrs. Hammond promised fast enough; but I might have known what the promise was worth.

Then she asked how Miss Russell was, and wanted to see my watch and chain. She had heard all about what had gone on at the station from Mabel Bowman, who was told everything by Rupert himself. That was how I knew that he was the first to see me standing by the clock, and how he had watched me come forward with such wide-open eyes.

While I listened to Mrs. Hammond I was sorry I had been so sharp upon Rupert; and yet, when I thought how he had spoken to me, I was as vexed as ever again.

* * * * * * * * *

Things went on the next few days as they had begun. Rupert scarcely ever came near, and when he did, if Mr. Russell was by, I felt ashamed again of his plain face and awkward ways. And I liked to know that Mr. Russell admired me.

Mrs. Hammond told me one day I ought to marry a gentleman; and it pleased me to hear her say it, even though I guessed she meant Mr. Russell—and I knew he wasn't a real gentleman.

Mother was very busy with Miss Russell. It didn't seem as if she could know much of what was going on outside the sick-room, she was so much shut up in it. I never could be sure, though. Mother had such sharp eyes; she seemed able to see through anything. Her not speaking meant nothing, for she wasn't a sieve, like many women, always letting everything in her mind run out. If she didn't think the time was come for speaking, she'd wait till it did come.

Miss Russell was very ill for several days. She had to keep still, and at first she might not talk. Mother seldom left her. I think those two took to one another at first sight, as people sometimes do.

She was wonderfully patient, and never complained. She didn't even seem to be in a hurry to get well. I used to go and sit by her sometimes, and watch her quiet pale face. Often she looked as if she had very happy thoughts; but that wasn't always.

One evening, mother had gone for a few minutes into the garden, and I was there instead. Miss Russell was asleep, when all of a sudden she stirred, and put out both hands.

"Don't, don't! oh, Walter, don't!" she says, in such a sad voice.

I kept still, and didn't speak, only wondering what she meant.

"O Walter, don't!" she said again, and then she woke, and her eyes met mine.

"I think you were dreaming, weren't you?" I said.

"Yes, I was dreaming," she said, and sighed. "Such an uncomfortable dream! I am glad you roused me."

I had not roused her, but that did not matter, and I only asked—

"What was the dream about?"

"You, partly," she said, with a little smile.

I was puzzled, thinking how she had called to her brother; but, of course, she did not know me to have heard that.

"What about me?" I asked.

"Nothing much. A foolish dream," said she. "I hope it will never come true. I only dreamt you were going to make a very unhappy marriage, and I was trying to prevent it." She looked at me earnestly, and said, "Not likely to come true, I think. You have been brought up so well and sensibly. Kitty—" and she stopped— "Kitty, you are a very pretty girl. You can't help knowing it. Don't you marry the first foolish young fellow who is ready to run after you just because of your pretty face. That wouldn't mean being happy."

Mother came in and put a stop to the talking. I could see she was not pleased with me for letting Miss Russell say so much. She had heard our voices going, and that brought her back.

Miss Russell was allowed to see her brother once or twice a day, for just five minutes. It always seemed to me those visits did her no good. She used to look so worried after, in her quiet way. Yet I could not find out why.

We had learnt that the two were off together for a fortnight's outing; and I shouldn't think they could well afford the expense, from little remarks that were made. There had been some sort of crank in the plan. Miss Russell said one day, "Walter was bent on it!" And another day Mr. Russell said, "Poor dear Mary was so set on it!" Between them I was puzzled. I felt sure Miss Russell must have been in the right, and tried to feel sure Mr. Russell couldn't have been in the wrong.

He was in and out of our cottage a great deal,—more than father and mother liked, I am sure, though I don't think they knew quite how often he came, and I suppose they hardly knew how to stop his coming. It was so natural that he should call to ask about his sister, and when he called it was natural he should sit down for a few minutes.

Somehow, he very soon knew exactly the times when father had to be at the station, and mother was busy with his sister, and I was at work in the kitchen; and those were the times he chose for coming. I didn't mean to make any secret of his calls, but still I am afraid I did not speak out so plain as I ought.

Things went on so for ten days at least, and I saw little of Rupert. He seemed to shrink into himself, and to keep away from me. I suppose my words that day had cut deep, and he couldn't forget them.

I don't think he and Mr. Russell met often, though they slept under one roof. Each did his best to avoid the other.

As the days went on, I thought less and less of Rupert, and my mind was more and more given to this new friend. Ought I to call him "friend?"

We had little chats together, and I began to feel how well I knew him. I could not help feeling, too, how much he liked me. His face would light up at the sight of mine. I wondered often how I could ever have thought that I might some day marry Rupert. Poor dull Rupert! so different from this handsome Mr. Russell, with his nice manners!

Nearly a fortnight had gone by, and Miss Russell was doing as well as possible, when all at once she had a relapse.

The afternoon was hot and sunny, and she seemed better than any day yet. Mother sent me to sit with Miss Russell, and took the kitchen work herself. I would rather have been in the kitchen, for Mr. Russell was pretty sure to look in; but mother was determined, and I had to do as I was bid.

At first I felt cross; only it was not possible to be cross long with Miss Russell—she was so gentle always. Somehow she got to talking about her own young days, and the parents she had lost, and the struggle life had been. She must have worked hard, very hard, to support her brother and herself; and to have him educated for a schoolmaster.

"But hard work doesn't seem so hard for those one loves," she said. "I have always loved Walter dearly—almost as a mother loves, I think. He is more like my child than my brother."

"And he is so fond of you," I said.

"Yes,—I suppose so," she said slowly. "I am not sure that I look much for the return love. It is enough for me to be needful to him. Still,—yes, he is fond of me."

"I am sure he is! He was dreadfully unhappy about you when you were ill," I said.

She smiled, and said— "Poor Walter! always up and down."

"I think it would have broken his heart if you had not got better," I said.

"O no!" and a curious look came into her face. "No fear of that. I love my Walter dearly—more dearly than you can tell. I love him as one loves only where one has brought up and sheltered and toiled for another through years. But love does not blind me to his faults. Perhaps I see them the more clearly just because my love is so strong."

I wondered what she meant; and feeling her eyes upon me, my colour went up.

"He has his faults," she said, "and his weaknesses. Don't you think so, Kitty?"

"Yes, of course. Everybody has faults," I answered. "I shouldn't think he has so many as some people."

"Quite as many." And Miss Russell sighed. "It was a difficult thing for me," says she, "very difficult, left alone with him, and I—his sister—only a girl. To be sure, I was many years older; still, I did find it hard to control him properly. I am afraid I didn't. I let him have too much of his own way,—a great deal too much. One sees the ill effects now: he can't understand being denied anything. Yes, that is true, though he is a man, and a clever man, and good at managing boys,—at least, pretty good. He can never understand being opposed. It's a bad look-out for his future wife, whoever she may be. I little thought, when I spoilt the boy, that I was so cruel to other people as well as to him."

I kept silence, sure that Miss Russell must be wrong. It was strange that she should judge her brother harshly—she, of all people, so gentle as she seemed. And why should she say all this to me? Why—? But a thought came in reply which turned me hot all over. Did she think, or know, that he wanted to have me for a wife? Was that it? I couldn't look up or meet her eyes.

She laid her cool hand against my cheeks, which were burning.

"Little Kitty, you are very young," she said. "Don't—don't be in a hurry. Perhaps some day—"

Then she stopped and thought, and presently she asked—

"What of young Bowman? I hear you and he are great friends."

"He may call himself so," I said, and I could have cried.

"Is that all? I fancied—"

"We know him very well," I said; "and he likes us. So, I suppose, we are friends. Only he gets so—"

"So what?" she asked.

"So cross," I said— "and disagreeable. I hate people to be cross and disagreeable."

"You would like to bask in sunshine always, wouldn't you?"

"I like people to be good-tempered, and not silly and jealous," I said.

"Jealousy is always silly, isn't it?" she said; "but when people love very much, with a love not very unselfish, perhaps—"

I made a sort of movement of impatience.

"He is a steady young fellow," she went on; "your mother tells me so. He has right principles and a warm heart. Kitty, don't you think, some day—?"

I only said, "No!" but I meant it from my very heart.

"Poor fellow!" she said. "Well, you are right not to make up your mind quickly to—anything. I did once, and I had reason to be sorry. O it was just the old story, dear. He thought he loved, and he won my love; and then he grew tired of me, and went off after somebody else. That so often happens."

"With some men, I suppose," I whispered.

"Yes, with some men; not with all. I could fancy that young Bowman would be constant, not changeable, if he once cared thoroughly for anybody, he would go on caring. Walter is different. He does not mean to treat anybody with unkindness, of course, but it seems as if he never could know his own mind."

What did make her say such things of her brother? I was growing angry.

"I have seen it in him again and again," she went on; "so I really have almost given up believing in his devotion to anybody. He is so easily caught, and he so easily breaks loose. I wish I could persuade him to go home now. It is not good for a young man to be staying in a strange place, with nothing whatever to do."

"Father thinks it wonderful how quiet and contented Mr. Russell is in such a dull village," I said.

"And your mother quotes old Watts about 'idle hands.' A woman often sees farther than a man, Kitty. My brother finds amusement of some sort, or he would not be so willing to stay. The question is, what sort of amusement? An idle young fellow has it in his power to work mischief, unless—"

"I thought you were so fond of him," I said. And I did feel hurt for Mr. Russell—not there to defend himself.

"Yes—more than fond," she answered. "I love him with more than a sister's love, my dear. It is like a mother's love, I believe, for it can see his faults and look to what is for his good."

That was all that passed, for she had talked more than she ought. I felt rubbed the wrong way by her words. I knew she meant them as a sort of warning to me, and I didn't like it; I didn't want to be warned; I wanted to be let alone. My head was getting more and more full of Mr. Russell, and his soft words were fast winning my foolish little heart. I didn't want to be warned off from him; and I dreaded lest she should say anything to father or mother. She had not done so yet, I knew.

An hour later father happened to ask— "Russell been in to-day?"

"Yes," says mother, who was with us both for a moment, and she spoke drily. "He came to ask after his sister, and I was in the kitchen."

"Ah!" says father.

"I've no notion of him dangling about when you and I aren't there," said she.

"No, no; quite right," said he. "But, all the same, I like him, Kate. He's a nice young fellow, I do believe."

"I don't!" mother said to herself; and she spoke no more. She never would argue with father, and wisely, too. Nobody is convinced by arguing.

Well, it was perhaps an hour later still, and getting dark, when mother called to me. And when I ran in, there was a dreadful sight! The bleeding had come on afresh, almost as much as ever. Miss Russell did look bad.

"Send or go for the doctor, Kitty, and don't lose a moment!" says mother, and I rushed off, only stopping to seize my hat. There was nobody at hand to be sent just then, and I could not wait to find any one.

The doctor was out, but the servant promised to let him know as quick as possible.