Chapter IV: An Unwarrantable Liberty

GRACE and her brother had not long finished breakfast the next morning, when Arthur Seaton appeared.

"I have come to propose a picnic," he said, when greetings had been exchanged. "Are you both equal to a good walk?"

"There is nothing I should like better," said Stanley, with all the pride of restored health, "and I think I can speak for Grace too. But before we say more, let us thank you for your kind present of last evening."

"Yes, indeed," said Grace, "though I really think we ought to scold you. You should not have done it. I felt ashamed of having mentioned our want."

"I hope not. I am afraid it was rather an impertinence on my part, but you will find that everyone indulges me at Trematon. I am a spoilt child, and always get my own way."

"Say, rather, a good fairy, one of your Dartmoor pixies, showering on needy mortals the gifts they crave," said Erith.

"No, no; I am nothing so good as that," said Arthur, laughing. "But now, how soon can you be ready to start? The air is so fresh; it is just the morning for a walk, and I propose to take you across country to the top of Rocksbro' Cleave, and then by moor and fell and sweet woodland paths to our own falls, the grand show of this neighbourhood, which I was surprised to learn from Miss Erith yesterday you had not yet visited."

"You think it a serious omission," said Erith. "The truth is, the man who drove us here spoke so slightingly of the falls, that we have felt in no hurry to visit them."

"Fancy suffering yourselves to be misled by the natural contempt of a native for the scenes amidst which he has been reared!" said Arthur Seaton. "But wait till you have seen the falls. If you approve of my programme, we shall reach them about mid-day, and Mrs. Brown, my uncle's housekeeper, has promised to send something in the way of luncheon to await us there."

"How good of you to arrange it all so thoroughly," said Grace. "It will be delightful! I love to spend the whole day out of doors."

"What is the time, Grace?" asked Stanley. "My watch has run down."

"I will ask Mrs. Sparks," she replied, rising hastily.

But Arthur quickly supplied the information.

"Did you not bring your watch with you, Grace?" asked her brother, remembering that he had not seen her wear it since they had been at Trematon.

"No, I did not," she answered with heightened colour. "I will be ready in five minutes, Mr. Seaton—"

And she hurried from the room, as though to escape further questions.

Arthur Seaton understood it all. Grace had concealed from her brother the fact that she had sacrificed her watch, the one which had been their father's, in order to increase their dwindling funds. And that very watch, so familiar to them both, was now locked within a drawer of his at the Rectory. How he might venture to return it to Miss Erith was a problem on which Arthur was constantly exercising his ingenuity, but as yet without any satisfactory result.

In a few minutes, they were on their way. It was indeed a lovely walk Arthur led them: through narrow lanes with ferny, flowery banks, through deep, steep woods, they descended to a spot where the river which came down from the moors was completely hidden under huge mossy boulders, blocking its bed for many yards. The water, invisible, could be heard flowing underneath. Crossing by this romantic natural bridge, they began the ascent of the opposite slope of the deep valley.

The sun shone warmly on them as they climbed upwards, but the magnificent view which they obtained from the top of the ridge more than repaid them for the fatigue of the climb. The enormous rocks which crowned the summit of the Cleave, and were piled together with the wildest irregularity, formed a marvel of nature which astonished the Eriths. They lingered there for some time, no one feeling inclined to move away.

Far below them was the river, flashing into sight here and there amid the trees; on the other side rose the wooded slopes they had descended. And above these, the broad sweep of the moor showed lovely gradations of brown and green and the purple of heather as the sunshine glorified it, or the passing clouds cast their shadows on its surface. To the right, the tall grey tower of Trematon Church and the ragged mass of rocks behind, dwarfed by distance, were discernible. Away to the left stretched mile after mile of open country, meeting at last a strip of vivid blue—the distant sea.

Grace did not rest long. She must explore the romantic spot, and from crag to crag she climbed with Arthur's aid, enjoying the excitement of every difficulty. The glorious day, the beautiful scenery, filled her with ecstacy. The mere sense of living in such a beautiful world was rapturous. Stanley wondered at her gaiety. He had never seen her in such spirits before. But her joyous mood was contagious. It was a merry party that explored Rocksbro' Cleave.

But at last, the thought that luncheon awaited them far down in the green dell inclined them to turn their steps thither. They descended on the other side of the Cleave, crossed the river at a point considerably lower down than their former crossing-stones, and then followed a winding path through the woods, which brought them to the falls.

The Eriths had to acknowledge that these were indeed deserving of a visit. True, the fall of water was slight in comparison with the grand mass of boulders over which it fell. But these great granite masses, worn smooth and greened by the water, round and over and under which the stream made its way as best it could, were in themselves a beautiful sight; while the boughs meeting overhead, the rich depth of foliage overshadowing the stream, made the glen a delightfully cool retreat in the hot noontide.

Beautiful as the scene was, however, it was a sad, prosaic fact, that the appearance of the boy with the luncheon basket was hailed as a welcome addition to the view.

Mrs. Brown had provided in generous fashion. And Arthur, declining Grace's assistance, and displaying the skill of a master in arranging an "al fresco" repast, had soon a most appetising meal spread on a square, smooth block covered with snowy damask. How well they did justice to it, we need not tell.

When they had finished, Stanley, who had brought his sketch-book, began to attempt a little rough sketch of the scene, and the others wandered away, following the course of the stream as they clambered over the moss-grown rocks and searched for ferns.

"I am glad you have enjoyed the day," Arthur said to Grace, when, about sunset, they returned to Trematon.

"Oh, I have!" she said impulsively. "It has been one of the happiest days of my life."

He looked well pleased.

"Mind," said Grace, as they shook hands, "you are not to forget your promise."

"My promise?"

"You cannot have forgotten it already! You said that you would tell me ere I left Trematon the name of the friend from whom you heard of my playing."

"Did I promise that?" he asked, with an air of perplexity.

"You did, indeed! Mind, I depend upon your telling me."

"Very well, I will tell you, but not now!"

"Before I leave Trematon?"

"Very well—I shall not forget."

He moved away. Stanley helped his sister over the last stile, and they went down the field to Torhill.

After this, there were few days of which Arthur Seaton did not spend some hours with the Eriths. Rapidly the weeks sped by.

The brother and sister became aware that their holiday must soon end, and anxious thoughts for the future began to shadow their minds.

Grace was in correspondence with a school-mistress in the north, who wanted a music governess. A cousin, the incumbent of a city church, wrote to Stanley, offering to assist him in his preparation for holy orders if he would come and work in his parish.

So the future had to be seriously considered. But though they constantly discussed them together, the Eriths instinctively avoided any reference to their plans when in the company of Mr. Seaton or his nephew.

The last Sunday was approaching. The new school-mistress, professing to be musical, was expected to arrive in the following week, and there would be no further need for Grace's services.

On Saturday afternoon, she went as usual to the church to practise the tunes for the morrow's services. She found the organ open, and, to her surprise, a small, square packet lay upon the keyboard addressed to her. The words, "To be opened when alone," met her eye.

Grace looked around her. The church was empty. Through the open door she could see a boy outside, busy shearing the grass about the graves. No one else was in sight. It was impossible to tell how the packet had come there.

She slipped it in her pocket and tried to give her attention to her music. But her curiosity to examine the mysterious thing increased every minute she delayed doing so.

She contented herself with a short practice, and hurried homewards. The last field gained, she halted in a shady, secluded nook beneath a hedge, and opened the little parcel. Within the paper was a small, square box, and in the box, carefully covered with wadding, she found, to her amazement, the watch and necklet she had sold six weeks ago. A slip of paper was folded beneath, and she read the words—

"DEAR MISS ERITH,—It was from Mr. Shears that I learned of your talent
for music. Will you forgive me that I was in his shop that afternoon,
and, unseen by you, heard all that passed? And may I venture, without
being deemed the most presuming, meddlesome fellow in the world,
to return you the property with which you parted? Please do not be
angry with me for doing this. I cannot rest till I am assured of your
forgiveness.

"Your friend,

"ARTHUR SEATON."

Grace dropped the little note as if it had stung her. Her face grew crimson. She WAS angry. She was both hurt and disappointed. She hardly knew what she had expected, but certainly no such explanation as this of the way in which she had been brought under Arthur Seaton's notice. And though she had been sorry to part with her valuables, it was bitter to have them thrust back on her thus.

Arthur had been mistaken if he deemed that Grace Erith was not sensitive on the score of her poverty. To a good, simple-hearted old man like Mr. Shears, she could freely reveal her straitened means without any sense of shame, but it was quite another thing to know that her petty, pitiful difficulties had been exposed to the knowledge of Mr. Arthur Seaton. Not that she judged him likely to scoff at them. She was sure of his kindness of heart. But none the less, the fact that he had overheard all that passed between her and the watchmaker annoyed her excessively.

"So he knew we could not afford to pay for lodgings, and it was out of charity he persuaded his uncle to ask me here. It was a mere pretence about my playing the organ. And I do call it a piece of presumption, of impertinence, a most unwarrantable liberty on his part, to send me back these things. But I will not have them. He shall know what I think. It is the insolence of wealth. Because we are poor, he imagines we have no pride. But I will teach him otherwise. It is not as if he were an old friend."

She paused. She remembered that Arthur had signed himself, "Your friend"; and was he not a friend? Had he not shown himself a friend to her and to her brother during the past few weeks? And words and looks and signs, noted only by herself, came to Grace's recollection, which had made her heart beat fast with a delightful consciousness that she had a special interest for Arthur Seaton.

"But I wish he had not done this," she thought, and then a few hot, passionate tears fell. A mischievous smile succeeded them as she remembered that he had written, "I cannot rest till I am assured of your forgiveness."

"I am not going to forgive you," she murmured.

And she rose, put the box in her pocket, and went on with her mind in a tumult.

"You have had a short practice, surely," said her brother, who sat sketching in the garden as she came in.

"The tunes were well known to me—there was no need to practise them," she replied.

"Did you see anything of Mr. Seaton or Arthur?"

"No."

"He is off shooting, I suppose. I have been hearing shots from the moor."

"Have you?"

"Is anything the matter, Grace? You seem put out."

"What can make you think that, Stanley?"

"I don't know. I fancy you seem rather glum."

"Perhaps I am. I believe I am getting tired of Trematon," said Grace, with a sigh. "I am not sorry that we leave next week."

"Well, that is something quite new," said her brother, looking at her in surprise. "Only yesterday, you were bemoaning the circumstance."