Part 1, Chapter XXVIII.
Jock Muses.
There was a troubled heart at the rectory as well as at the farm, where Julia Mallow, in spite of having been so far a firm, matter-of-fact girl, had found her meetings with the wheelwright’s big ruffianly brother make so strong an impression that although she made a brave effort to cast it all aside as unworthy of her, she was always living under the idea that this man was at her elbow, ready to meet her with his intent, half-mocking gaze.
Once or twice she had nervously alluded to it when chatting with her sister, but Cynthia had merrily told her not to be so silly, for papa said the man must have just come out of prison, and spoken like that out of spite.
“Depend upon it, Julie, you’ll never see him again.”
Julia said nothing, but went to the window of her room, and sat there reading, and now and then lifting her eyes to gaze out at the pleasant prospect right across the fields to the ridge about a quarter of a mile away, beyond which the land sank at once towards Kilby Farm.
The next moment with a faint cry she shrank back, for even at that distance she seemed to recognise the burly form of the rough fellow, seen boldly standing out against the sky as he appeared to be crossing the ridge. Then as she gazed at the figure with starting eyes it went over the edge of the hill and was gone.
“I shall never dare to go out alone,” she said hoarsely. “Heaven help me! What shall I do?”
This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow’s presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.
The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town house, but Cynthia read it—and told Lord Artingale her reading—that it was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn’t he think it was a shame?
Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else but themselves—thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.
Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton’s poetical rhapsodies as a kind of protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then gloating—no, a Philistine would have gloated—he, one of the chosen of the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing fleshly poems the while—wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled with ethereal admiration.
But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near, and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she was alone.
Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money, he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by hurried play.
Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and together they went a great deal to the King’s Head, where there was an old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their hearts’ content.
Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright’s, where there were a few dace to be whipped for in the stream.
Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the Temple gardens and the trees in Grey’s Inn poor dejected-looking affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring’s children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the wintry storms.
Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars, brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and there. Clusters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds, while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in feather-land to the blackbird’s fluting, and the twittering of many throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her sister, and laughingly passed the string of her hat over her head, thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.
“Let’s be little children once again, Julie,” she cried. “I want a rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril and the pretty schoolmistress.”
“Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy,” said Julia, thoughtfully.
“Yes, but let’s hope it is all over now; I think it is.”
“I don’t know,” said Julia, thoughtfully.
“I think I do,” cried Cynthia. “Papa frightened him. But how wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching some mischief.”
“Don’t be uncharitable, Cynthia,” said Julia, with a sad smile; “think the best of your brothers.”
“I do try to, Julie, but I’m afraid I’m not very fond of my brothers.”
“Cynthia!”
“Well, I’m not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It’s quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don’t like it I’m sure.”
“You are making the worst of it, Cynthy.”
“No, I’m not, for Harry—there, I won’t talk about it; I’m tired of all the nonsense, spooning and flirting with Harry and that fat-featured—oh! why is it rude for a young lady to slap such a fellow’s face, Julie? If you marry that Perry-Morton I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I shall never marry Mr Perry-Morton,” said Julia, dreamily.
“No, no; we don’t want to marry any one at all,” said Cynthia, merrily. “Come and let’s be children in the wood again. It’s heavenly out of doors, dear. Come along.”
Heavenly it was, as they got out of the fields, and struck out through the woods, where the soft moss was like a carpet beneath their feet, and the air was redolent with scents and suggestions of the spring. For it was one of those days, of those very few days, that come early in the year, when the senses seem to be appealed to, and, in a delicious calm, the worries and cares of life roll away, and the spirit seems even troubled with the sweet sense of joy.
The sisters had wandered far, and filled their baskets, but still there were always fresh blossoms to pluck, odorous violets or primroses, and delicate scraps of moss or early leaf.
Cynthia was a couple of score yards away from her sister, in the budding copse, trilling a merry song, as if in answer to the birds, and Julia, with a bright, happy flush upon her face, was still eagerly piling up fresh sweets, when a clump of primroses, fairer than any she had yet gathered, drew her a few yards further amongst the hazel stems.
She was in the act of stooping down to pick them when her flushed face became like marble, her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she stopped—leaning forward—motionless—fascinated by what she saw.
And that was the face of Jock Morrison, as he lay amongst the leaves and flowers, prone upon his chest, his arms folded before him, his chin resting upon them, and his eyes literally seizing hers, not a yard away.
He did not speak or move, only crouched there, staring at her as if he were some philosopher trying the effect of the stronger eye upon the weaker. Neither did Julia speak, but stood there bending down, her eyes fixed, her body motionless, while you might have counted twenty.
“Julie! Where are you? Coo-ee!” Cynthia’s bright young voice broke the spell, and Julia’s eyes closed as she backed slowly away for a few yards before she dare turn and run towards her sister.
“Oh, there you are, Julie. If I did not think you were in the other direction! Why, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“No, no,” said Julia, hastily; “I think I am hot; it is tiring out here. Let us go home; I—I want to get back.”
“Why, Julie, you don’t come out enough; you are done up directly. There, come along out into the fields, there’s more fresh air there. I say, did I tell you that we are to go to town next week?”
“No,” said Julia, who shivered at every sound in the copse, and glanced from side to side, as if she expected to be seized at any moment.
“But we are, and I don’t know but what I long to be up in London to get away from Harry Artingale.”
“To get away?” said Julia, making an effort to be composed, and wondering why she had not told her sister what she had seen.
“Yes, I want to get away; for of course,” she added, archly, “he will have to stay down here.”
She spoke loudly, and all that had been said and left unsaid appealed very strongly to the senses of the great fellow in the copse.
Julia need not have felt afraid that he was about to rise up and seize her; he remained perfectly still for a few moments, and then rolled over upon his back, laughing heartily, but in a perfectly silent manner, before having a struggle with himself to drag a short pipe and a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket.
Filling his pipe quietly, he struck a match and lit it, placed his hands beneath his head, and stared straight up through the tender green leaves at the bare sky, while a robin came and perched upon a branch close by, and kept watching the ruffian with his great round eyes.
“This is jolly,” he said, in a bass growl; “better than having places of your own, and being obliged to work.”
Then he smoked for a few minutes before musing once more aloud.
“Women arn’t much account,” he said, oracularly; “and the younger and prettier they are, the worse they are.”
There was another interval of smoking.
“What a deal a fellow sees by just doing nothing but hang around. Franky Mallow, eh? Ah, he cuts me now. If I was John Berry, farmer, I’d cut him, that’s what I’d do.”
Another interval of smoking.
“Why don’t young Serrol,” (so he pronounced it) “go after the schoolmissus now, I wonder? Tired, I spose.”
Another smoking interval.
“Hah, if it’s because he prefers going down to the ford—”
He stopped short.
“I tell you what it is; if I thought—”
Another pause, during which Jock Morrison made his short pipe still shorter by biting off a piece of the stem and spitting it out.
“Shall I tell Tom—shan’t I tell Tom? Tom don’t like me, and tells me to keep myself to myself. He’d about smash him, that’s what Tom would do, if he knowed, and then he’d be miserable for ever and ever, amen, as owd Sammy Warmoth used to say.”
Another smoking fit.
“She’s a good little lass, and the trouble she was in about her bairn was terrible.”
More smoking, and the robin looking wondering on.
“Polly don’t like me, but she’s a kind-hearted little lass, and has give me many a hunk of bread and meat unknown to Tom, and I never see but that she was as square as square.”
Another long smoke.
“Master Serrol, eh? Why, of course! She must ha’ knowed him when she lived at parson’s. I’ll tell Tom.”
More smoking, and the pipe of tobacco burned out.
“No, I won’t tell Tom,” said the big fellow. “If I did he wouldn’t believe me, and it would only make him and Polly miserable too, and I don’t want to do that. I tell you what—if I see Master Serrol go down there again when Tom’s out of the way I’ll pretty well break his neck.”
He uttered a low chuckling laugh as he lay prone there, catching sight now of the robin, and chirruping to it as it watched him from its perch.
“Pretty Dick!” he said. “Going up to London, are they? All right! Anywheres’ll do for me, parson. I wonder whether Serrol and Frank’ll go too.”
Jock Morrison did not pretty well break Cyril’s neck, for a very few days after Mr Paulby had the full management of Lawford Church again, the family at the rectory being once more in town.
“It is worse for the boys,” said the Rector, “but it will keep Cyril away from her. I must get him something to do.”