CHAPTER XXIII.—CHANGES.
The arrival of a stranger in Kingshope was not such an unusual occurrence as to attract much particular attention. The villagers were accustomed in the summer to frequent visits of bands of ‘beanfeasters’ or ‘wayzegoose’ parties, as the annual outings of the employees of large city firms are called. On these occasions there were athletic games on the common, pleasant roamings through the Forest, and high revel in the King’s Head or the Cherry Tree afterwards. Then there were itinerant photographers, negro minstrels, and gypsy cheap Jacks, with caravans drawn by animals which may be best described as the skeletons of horses in skin-tights—working the Forest ‘pitch’ or ‘lay’—these being the slang terms for any given scene of operation for the professional vagrant. The bird-snarers and the pigeon-flyers seemed to be always about. In the hunting season there were generally a few guests at the King’s Head; and so, although every new visitor underwent a bovine stare, he was forgotten as soon as he passed out of sight.
Mr Beecham’s ways were so quiet, that before he had been a week in the place, he had glided so imperceptibly into its ordinary life that he seemed to be as much a part of it as the parson and the doctor. His presence was of course observed, but there was little sign of impertinent curiosity. It was understood that he was looking about the district for a suitable house in which to settle, or for a site on which to build one. This accounted for his long walks; and there was nothing remarkable in the fact that his peregrinations led him frequently by Willowmere, and sometimes into the neighbourhood of Ringsford Manor.
Although his ways were so quiet, there was nothing reserved or mysterious about them. The object which had brought him to Kingshope was easily comprehended; he entered into conversation with the people he met, and took an interest in the affairs of the place—the crops, the weather, and the prospects of the poor during the coming winter. Yet nothing more was known of his antecedents than that he came from London, and that he visited the city two or three times a week. He dressed plainly; he lived moderately at the inn—not like one who required to reckon his expenses carefully, but like one whose tastes were simple and easily satisfied.
The general belief was that he had belonged to one of the professions, and that he had retired on a moderate competence, in order to devote his time to study of some sort. He himself said nothing on the subject.
One of the first acquaintances he made was Uncle Dick, who adhered to the kindly old country custom of giving the time of day to any one he met in the lanes or saw passing his gates. The first salutation of the master of Willowmere induced Mr Beecham to make inquiries about the district, which led to future conversations. These would have speedily introduced the stranger to the farmhouse and its mistress; but hitherto he had not availed himself of the cordial invitation which was given him. He was apparently satisfied with the privilege of going over the land with Uncle Dick, inspecting his stock and admiring his horses, and thus speedily developing a casual acquaintanceship into a friendship. On these occasions he had opportunities of seeing and conversing with Madge, and she formed as favourable an opinion of him as her uncle had done.
‘Has he ever said what made him think of coming to settle hereabout?’ inquired the dame one day, after listening to their praises of the stranger.
‘Never thought of asking him,’ replied Crawshay, wondering if there was anything wrong in having neglected to put such a natural question.
‘He mentioned that some friends of his lived near here at one time,’ said Madge, ‘and that he had always liked the Forest.’
‘Has he spoken about any family? Is he married? Has he any children?’
‘Why, mother, you wouldn’t have me go prying into what doesn’t concern us!’ was Crawshay’s exclamation. ‘It does seem a bit queer, though, that he seems to have nobody belonging to him.’
Aunt Hessy thought it very queer; and when Philip came next, she asked him to describe Mr Shield to her again.
‘He must have changed very much since I last saw him,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I scarcely know what put it into my head, but this Mr Beecham is much more like what I should have fancied your uncle would grow into, than the gentleman you describe. But foreign parts do seem to alter people strangely. There was neighbour Hartopp’s lad went away to California; and when he came back ten years after, it took his own mother two whole days before she would believe that he was himself. Yes, foreign parts do alter people strangely in appearances as well as feelings.’
It was regarded by the little group as a good joke that Aunt Hessy should have formed the romantic suspicion that the stranger in the village might be her old friend Austin Shield. They did not know anything of the confidential letter. She had said nothing about it yet, and her conscience was much troubled on that account.
‘It’s wrong to keep a secret from Dick,’ she kept saying to herself. ‘I know it is wrong, and I am doing it. If harm come of it, I shall never forgive myself; I hope others may be able to do it.’
She regarded with something like fear the enthusiasm with which Philip spoke of the social revolution he was to effect by means of the wealth placed at his command. Yet it was a noble object the youth was aiming at. Surely wealth could do no harm, when it was used for the purpose of making the miserable happy, of showing men how they might prosper, and teaching them the great lesson, that content and comfort were only to be found in hard work. The scheme looked so feasible to her, and was so good, that she remained silent lest she should mar the work. She bore the stings of conscience, and prayed that Philip might pass safely through the ordeal to which he was unconsciously being subjected. He talked of the bounty of his uncle, and she was uneasy, knowing that this bounty might prove his ruin, although she was quite unable to see how that could come about as matters looked at present. She was simply afraid, and began to understand why preachers often spoke of gold as a fiend—the more dangerous because it appeared as the agent of good. Then there was the coming of this stranger at the same time that Philip met his uncle in London. Of course there was nothing to associate the two in her mind except the period of their arrival. But she was puzzled.
‘There is not the slightest resemblance between the two men, I assure you,’ Philip said; ‘but there is this strong resemblance between my uncle as he is now and as he was, by your own account, when you knew him long ago—he is as odd in his ways as ever. He will not discuss anything with me except by letter. That, you might say, was no more than prudent, as it can leave no room for dispute as to what we say to each other.’
‘He wants to make you careful,’ said the dame, with some feeling of relief; for this arrangement seemed to prove that he was desirous of helping Philip to pass the test.
‘But, besides, he will scarcely see me at all; and when he does, he is as short with me and in as great a hurry to get rid of me as he was on the first day I called on him. When I try to explain things to him, he says: “All right; go your own way. If you want me to consider anything, you must write it out for me.” I don’t mind it now, having got used to it; but sometimes I cannot help wondering’——
Philip checked himself, as if he had been about to say something which he suddenly remembered should not be spoken even to his dearest friends.
‘Well?’ queried Uncle Dick, looking at him along the line of his churchwarden pipe as if it were a gun and he were taking aim. ‘What are you stopping for? You can’t help wondering at what?’
‘Only at his droll ways,’ answered Philip. ‘I should have thought that risking so much money in my hand, he would have been anxious to have the fullest particulars of all that I was doing with it.’
‘So should I, lad. What does your father say about it?’
‘Nothing more than that he will want to speak to me one day soon. He is not pleased.’
‘There don’t seem to me much to be not pleased about.—Eh, mother?’
‘We’ll see after a bit,’ answered the dame, cautiously, but smiling. ‘We don’t know yet whether Philip is to prove himself a very wise man or’——
‘Or a fool,’ interrupted Crawshay, with one of his hearty laughs.
‘Nay, Dick; not that. Philip will never prove himself a fool; but he might do worse—he might prove himself a sensible man doing foolish things.’
The stranger who provoked this discussion went on in his calm way, seeking what apparently he could not find, but always with a pleasant smile or a kindly ‘good-day’ to the people he met in the fields and lanes.
One of his favourite halting-places was at the stile which gave access from the roadway to the Willowmere meadows. On the opposite side of the road were the willows and beeches, bordering the river. Four of the latter trees were known as the ‘dancing beeches,’ from the position in which they stood, as if they had suddenly halted whilst whirling round in a country-dance; and when the wind blew, their branches interlaced and creaked in unison, as if they wanted to begin the dance again. This was a famous trysting-place, and in the summer-time the swains and their maidens would ‘wander in the meadows where the May-flowers grow.’ This is the burden of a rustic ballad which you would often hear chanted in the quiet evenings. It served the double purpose of supplying the place of conversation and of agreeably expressing the thoughts of the singers. Uncle Dick sometimes saw and heard them; but with kindly indifference to his clover, he would shake his head and turn away, remembering that he, too, had once been young.
Mr Beecham resting on the stile could, by an easy movement of the head, command nearly the whole of the hollow in which the village lay; and looking upward, could catch glimpses of Willowmere House peering through the apple and pear trees of the orchard.
After the lapse of years, how new it all looks, and yet how old; how changed, and yet familiar. There is the church, the same gray weather-beaten pile, in spite of the vicar’s manful efforts to get it put into a state of thorough repair. The vicar himself is the same cheery good friend in gladness, and the sympathising comforter in sorrow; his hair is almost gray now, and his figure is inclined to be rotund; but he is still the same. There are, however, new gravestones in the churchyard, and they bear the names of old friends. Their places in the world have been easily filled up; their places in the memory of the survivors never can be. Ay, there is change indeed.
But here is the golden autumn, its lustre slowly growing dim under the touch of approaching winter; there are the green fields and the red ploughed lands—they are just as they looked long ago, although his eyes see them through the sad haze which separates him from the past. There are the sounds of the cattle, the ripple of the river, and the rustle of the trees—sounds to which he gave no particular heed in the old time, and now they are like the voices of welcoming friends.
So the present steps by us; pain and sorrow plant milestones on our way; by-and-by the eye glances tenderly backward and over them, and in old age we hear the voices of our youth.
‘Good-afternoon, Mr Beecham. Do you think it will rain?’
He lifted his head, and bowed to Madge and Philip as they were about to pass over the stile. He looked up at the sky.
‘I am afraid it will rain; but you will be home before it begins, I think.’
Philip gave her his hand; she mounted the three foot-worn wooden steps and descended on the meadow side.
‘I hope you will always have a strong hand to help you over the stiles, Miss Heathcote,’ he said, smiling; but there seemed to be as much of earnest as of jest in his meaning.
‘I believe she may fairly count upon that, Mr Beecham,’ answered Philip.
‘The pity is, we so seldom find what we count upon,’ said Mr Beecham, shaking his head.
‘Then we must make the best of what we do find,’ replied Philip cheerfully, ‘and scramble over somehow without a helping hand.’
The two passed on at a smart pace up the meadow, Mr Beecham looking after them with a dream in his eyes.
Overhead, on this afternoon, was a sky gloomy and threatening; but on the horizon were rivers of pale golden light, giving hope and courage to the weary ones who were like to faint by the wayside. Suddenly a white light relieved the gloom immediately above, and the golden rivers were lashed with dark promontories; but still, the farthest point was light. Again suddenly a white glory burst through the gloom, dazzling the eyes and breaking the clouds into fantastic shapes, which fled from it like the witches of evil fleeing before the majestic genii of good. Another change, and all gradually toned down into the soft repose of a calm evening, bearing the promise of a pleasant day to follow.
‘I have lived alone too much,’ muttered Mr Beecham with a long-drawn breath, which is the only approach to a sigh ventured upon by a man past middle age; ‘and my own morbid broodings make me superstitious, showing me symbols in everything. I hope this one may turn out well, however.’
Philip and Madge had disappeared by this time, and Mr Beecham walked slowly on to the village.
When the young people reached the homestead, Madge announced that Philip had come to tell them something very important, which he had refused to reveal until they should be in the house.
Aunt Hessy glanced uneasily from one to the other; but seeing no sign of disturbance on either face, her uneasiness passed away. She concluded that it was some jest with which Philip had been teasing Madge.
‘I have seen Mr Shield again to-day,’ he began, ‘and I have received new instructions from him.’
‘He is not going to send you off to Griqualand, after all?’ queried Madge quickly.
‘O no; but maybe you would prefer that he should order me off there, rather than tell me to take chambers in town.’
‘Chambers in town! What can that be for?’
‘Well, he was as short and bustling as ever; he never seems to have time to discuss anything. “That’s what I want,” he says; “if you don’t like it, write, and tell me why.” All he said about it was that he desired me to feel independent.’
The uneasy expression reappeared on Aunt Hessy’s face.
‘Have you consented to make this change?’ she asked quietly.
‘I could see no objection; and in several ways the arrangement will be convenient. I made it clear that it was not in any way to be considered as a step towards separating me from my family. He said I could please myself as regarded my family—he had nothing to do with that.... Do you not like it, Madge?’
The clear eyes looked wistfully in his face. ‘No, Philip; I do not like it. But perhaps Mr Shield is right; and it may be as well that you should have the experience of being away from us for a time at least.’
‘Living away from you! Why I shall be here as often as ever!’
She said nothing; and Aunt Hessy put the apparently irrelevant question:
‘Have you seen Mr Beecham to-day, Madge?’
‘We saw him by the stile at the foot of the meadow as we passed.’
Aunt Hessy, with evident disappointment, abandoned the droll fancy which had for a time possessed her mind.