CHAPTER XXXVI.—IS IT TOO LATE?
‘There was nobody in the house, Mr Culver; but I knew you would be here, and so came on.—Where is Pansy?’
Thus Madge, as she entered the vine-house, where Sam, the Scotch gardener, standing on steps, was busy amongst rich clusters of grapes.
‘Oh, it’s you, Missy. Good-day to you,’ he answered, looking over his shoulder with that serious contraction of the muscles of his thin face which friends accepted as a smile. ‘This is washing-day; and if Pansy is no in the house, she’ll be on the green wi’ the clothes.’
‘I shall find her; but I am glad to have an opportunity of speaking to you first. Can you spare five minutes?’
‘Ten, or more, if it be to pleasure you, Missy,’ answered the gardener, with as near an approach to gallantry as he had ever made. He came down from the steps, and dusted them carefully with his apron. ‘I have no chair to offer you; but you can take a rest here, if you’re no owre proud.’
‘You will not think that of me,’ she said, smiling, ‘although I prefer to stand.’
‘Please yoursel’, Missy, just please yoursel’, and you’ll no dee in the pet. That’s what I aye say to onybody that maun hae their ain way.’
‘And what do you say to those who cannot have their own way?’
‘Oh, I say to them, you’ll just hae to do as you are bidden.’
‘Is that what you would say to Pansy, if she wanted very much to have her own way about something?’
‘That would depend on what was the way she wanted,’ was the cautious reply.
‘Well, Mr Culver, I am going to do what will offend you’——
‘That’s no possible.’
‘Or what you will take as a proof of my liking for Pansy, according to the light in which you regard it. At anyrate, I hope you won’t be annoyed with me.’
‘No a bit, no a bit, whatever it be.—But what is’t?’
‘Pansy does not know that I am going to speak to you about it, so you must not be displeased with her, whatever you may think of me. Philip says there can be no harm in speaking to you, and wishes me to do it.’
‘Guid-sake!—is there onything wrang?’
‘No, no; we think everything is right, and that they will be a very happy couple. Have you never considered that Pansy will want to marry some day?’
Sam was relieved. Although Madge had been speaking with a smile on her face all the time, he had been a little puzzled, and for a second vaguely alarmed on his daughter’s account. When he heard this question from her, he began to understand.
‘Ay, whiles the notion has come into my head—she’s a bonnie lass and a guid lass, and it’s natural for women-folk to think about marriage. But it appeared to me that there was time enough to fash about thae things, and I just let the notion gang by.’
‘But you will have to consider it seriously—and soon. Suppose the man she wanted did not please you: would you say that she must do as she is bid, and refuse him?’
Sam took up the dead stem of a fern, and whilst he was breaking it into small pieces, considered very wisely.
‘Wha is the man?’ he asked abruptly, comprehending what Madge was hesitating to explain, and coming to the point at once.
‘He had the misfortune to offend some people who did not understand him, but I hope you are not one of them: I am sure you will not be when you know him. It is Caleb Kersey.’
Sam looked stolidly at the ground; no surprise, pleasure, or displeasure expressed on his features. Madge observing him closely, was busy collecting her arguments in favour of Caleb.
‘Now, that’s very queer,’ he began slowly. ‘When he was coming about the house at first, I suspected that he was hankering after my lassie, and I’m obliged to own that it wasna exactly the kind o’ match that I would have liked her to make; but when she was spoken to, she just said nothing. Syne, thinking that there was nae harm in his coming, and seeing what fine work he was making of the harvest, I took a notion o’ the lad because he was fond o’ flowers— especially geraaniums. Do ye know, daft-like as it was, I thought it was the geraaniums he had a fancy for.’
There was a comic pathos in the air of dejection and disappointment with which he made this confession, whilst he rubbed his soft cap slowly over his head, as if he would rub out the stupidity which had caused him to make such a mistake.
‘I have no doubt that the geraniums had something to do with bringing him here,’ was the consolatory comment of Madge. ‘You may be certain that Caleb would never say he liked anything if he did not. His outspoken ways are the causes of the ill-favour he has fallen into amongst the farmers. You know as well as I do that he is a good worker; he is steady; and Philip bids me assure you that he is now in a position which he is exactly fitted for, and he will be able to earn a good wage. I believe that Pansy likes him, and that they are both held back from speaking because they are afraid of you.’
‘Feared for me! How can that be? I never did anything to scare them; and I’m sure I have ta’en mair pains in letting him into a’ the secrets of the culture of geraaniums than I ever did wi’ onybody afore. Maybe I should have tried him wi’ the pansies.’
‘He has found out that secret for himself,’ said Madge merrily as Sam chuckled at his own little joke. ‘Then I may tell them that you will not be cruel—that you will not interfere with them?’
‘Oh, if the young folk have settled the matter for themsel’s, there would be no use of me interfering; and if they ha’ena, there’ll be no need.’
‘I cannot tell you how much pleasure you have given me, Mr Culver; and Philip will be delighted, for he began to think that poor Caleb was going to be ruined by his anxiety about this matter. I must go and find Pansy now.’
‘But there is no need to be in haste about it,’ said the gardener, and there was evidently some anxiety underneath his dry manner: ‘she is a young thing yet, and I’m no sure that I could get on without her.’
‘Perhaps you would not require to be separated from her; but all that can be arranged by-and-by.’
As Madge quitted the vine-house, she was aware that Sam was meditatively rubbing his head with his cap, and she heard him muttering: ‘Ay, ay, it wasna the geraaniums after a’. Weel, weel, weel; I daursay it’s natural.’ He always returned to his native dialect when speaking familiarly, or when under the influence of emotion whether of affection or rage.
The washing-house was a small erection jutting out from the back of the cottage, and thither Madge hastened with the agreeable news, which she believed was to make two young people ‘happy ever after.’ The door stood wide open as she approached, but a mist of steam hid everything within, and boiling water running over the floor prevented her from entering. A figure appeared in the mist—stooped—groped for something—and presently darted out, stumbling against Madge.
‘Why, Pansy, what in the world is the matter?’
The girl was flushed and panting with excitement.
‘I am so stupid to-day.—I hope I did not hurt you,’ she gasped. ‘The tap of the boiler—I forgot to turn it off; and the place was full of steam in a minute, and I’ve upset the tub on the floor, and dirtied all the clothes. O dear!’
‘Never mind about the clothes. You might have been suffocated or scalded to death. Are you burned?’
‘I don’t know. I think my hand was a little, when I turned off the tap just now.... O dear! I am so stupid to-day.’
The left hand was already puffed up with a white swelling, which looked more dangerous than it was in reality. Madge hurried her into the cottage, and poured oil over the scalded hand into a bowl. When the bowl was half-full of oil, she bade the girl keep her hand in it. Pansy submitted with a patience that was akin to indifference; but as she continued at intervals to utter little cries of distress, it was some time before Madge became aware that they had nothing to do with the injury the girl had sustained. She did not look at her hand at all, but stared at the window, as if she saw something outside that made her unhappy.
‘I suppose you have not got any lint in the house. Well, you must find a bit of soft rag; and when we have steeped it in the oil, I will fasten it on your hand until we get Dr Joy to dress it properly. You can walk down to the village with me.’
‘It’s no use—it doesn’t matter. I must finish the washing.... O dear!’
‘Is it paining you very much?’
‘O yes.—He looked so bad, that it scared me to see him; and I ran away, and I don’t know what I was doing.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Madge, alarmed lest the girl’s fright was to have more serious consequences than she had anticipated.
‘About him—Caleb.’
Her eyes were still fixed on the window; and observing this, Madge also glanced in that direction, half expecting to see the lover outside. Seeing no one, she became more and more uneasy about Pansy’s odd behaviour.
‘He will come soon,’ she said cheeringly; ‘and I have great news for you and for him. You would never guess what it is.’
‘No; I never would guess. I am not able to try.’
‘Ah, well, you will have all the more pleasure in the surprise. I always knew your father was a sensible and just man, who would never allow any prejudice to affect his judgment of others; but he did surprise me when I spoke to him about you and Caleb. He gave me leave to tell you that he will not interfere between you. Now, is not that great news!’
Madge expected to see her flush with joy and rouse from the dazed state into which she had fallen. Instead of that, Pansy started to her feet, pale, and all consciousness of the scalded hand had evidently vanished.
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Sorry!... Why?’
‘Because I am not going to have him,’ was the half-petulant, half-sobbing answer.
‘O Pansy, what is this?’ exclaimed Madge astonished, puzzled and regretful. ‘When we last spoke about him, you made me believe that you liked him very much, and that you only hesitated because you were afraid your father would not be pleased.’
‘And I do like him—like him so much, that it upsets me to put him out or trouble him. But I’m not going to have him, and I’ve told him so. He was asking me just before you came, and—and I told him.’
There was real distress in voice and look; but there was an under-current of sulky defiance, as if being conscious that she had not behaved well to the man, she was eager to defend herself, and finding no ready way of doing it, was angry with herself whilst ready to anticipate blame.
Madge’s expression of astonishment changed to one of grave concern, although Pansy’s confession of anxiety to spare Caleb suggested that there was nothing worse to apprehend than some misunderstanding between the lovers, which would be put right as soon as the girl got over her excitement. So she proceeded quietly to bandage the injured hand, without speaking for several minutes. Pansy was evidently unhappy; the silence of her friend was a more severe rebuke than any words of blame could have been. She could endure it no longer.
‘Oh, what shall I do?’ she burst out; ‘you are vexed with me now, like him.’
‘You must not think that, Pansy. I am very much grieved to see you in such a state as this; but I am sure it only needs a little forbearance on your part to put everything right again. There is nothing uncommon in a little tiff between lovers, and you will soon get over it. I will answer for Caleb that he will be ready to make it up as soon as you speak a kind word to him.’
‘But I can’t speak the word he wants, for I am not to have him.’
That was sufficiently decisive. Then Madge examined her closely, and became very anxious, for she perceived that Pansy’s distress had a deeper source than ‘a little tiff.’
‘You do not mean to say that Caleb is not the one you care most for?’
There was sullen silence.
Now, of all the feminine frailties which nature and training had taught Madge to shun, coquetry stood foremost. An acted falsehood!—What could be more abominable? A falsehood which, by inspiring baseless hopes, may cause an honest heart long days and nights of pain, when the truth becomes known? Can there be pleasure in seeing another suffer? There are women who consider coquetting with any decent-looking fellow a legitimate form of amusement, and avail themselves of it without a suspicion of immodesty or a single pang of conscience; yet the same women would scream at a mouse or at sight of a bleeding scratch. Demure glances, soft tones, a confiding touch on the arm—meaning nothing more than to gratify a mania for admiration at any cost—have played the mischief in high and low life many a time.
If anybody might claim a privilege to coquet, Pansy might, for she had been praised and flattered by everybody, whilst she had been guarded by her father as if she had been a flower almost too precious for the common eye. Hitherto, she had shown few symptoms of the weakness which too often makes such a position dangerous. Although there were many lads in the district who would fain have been suitors, not one dare say that she had deceived him by word or look. Caleb Kersey could say it now.
‘Come and sit down, Pansy, and let us talk about this; you will feel better when you have told me all about it. Besides, it will do you good to have a little rest before we start for the doctor’s.’
There was really no need to hurry to the doctor, as the wound had been dressed so cleverly. Madge drew her gently down on the chair and, holding her hand sympathetically, waited. Like a glow of sunlight breaking through a rain-cloud, the sullen gloom was dispersed with a sob and a burst of tears. Pansy’s head rested on her friend’s shoulder, whilst she clutched her hand, as if seeking courage and support in the assurance of her presence. The time for words had not come yet.
By-and-by, the girl lifted her head and wiped her eyes with a corner of the big white apron which covered her from the neck to the ankle.
‘I’m right ashamed at myself for taking on this way—that I am,’ she said bashfully; ‘and there ain’t no reason in it either, barring that I’m vexed for vexing him, and that he’ll feel worse when he finds there’s no help for it.’
‘Why have you not answered my question, Pansy?’
‘There ain’t no answer.’
‘Somebody else has spoken to you before Caleb, and has been luckier than he.’
‘Nobody else has spoken to me—if you mean in the way of asking me.’
This cleared away a simoom of disagreeable speculations which had been whirling through Madge’s brain. Caleb’s happiness was not wrecked yet.
‘And there is nobody you expect to ask you?’
‘Oh, I don’t say that—I don’t know. Who can tell what may happen? But there’s no use speaking about that. I wish things hadn’t gone so far with Caleb.’
Madge agreed that there was no use speaking any more at present; but although she did not feel quite so assured as she had done a moment before of Caleb’s speedy restoration to favour, she was hopeful that he would be in the end, since no one else had spoken. At the same time, she was satisfied that there was another who had contrived to catch the wayward fancy of the girl by touching some hidden spring of vanity. Worst of all, there was the unpleasant probability that this ‘other’ who disturbed the peace of two honest folk was one whose position was so different from her own that the girl was afraid or ashamed to confess her folly at once. But this would be transient, and Pansy would come back to her senses in good time. Clearly, whatever silly notions possessed her for the moment, it was Caleb she loved, or she would never have been so much worried on his account.
Having, however, some conception of the headstrong nature of the man, Madge was aware of the importance of promptitude in clearing up the misunderstanding between the lovers, and she did not see how that could be done unless Caleb remained steady and patient. She and Philip must persuade him to be so. For the present, nothing more could be said to Pansy with advantage.
The girl was glad of the excuse to go to the doctor’s, as it afforded her time to recover self-possession before she came under the keen eyes of her father. On their way through the forest, no further reference was made to Caleb, although Madge talked about Philip’s work, and the happy future which they believed was in store for every man who laboured under him. Of course she intended her companion to understand that Caleb would share largely in that brilliant future. Whether it was this suggestion or the brisk exercise which had the effect, Pansy looked sufficiently composed on their arrival in the village not to attract the particular attention of passing acquaintances.
The injured hand was attended to, and Dr Joy complimented Madge on her skill as a dresser.
‘There will be no need to ask you to come to my lecture on the art of dressing ordinary wounds,’ said the little doctor gallantly; ‘but I hope you will come, for I shall then feel that there will be at least two people in the room who have some idea of the subject—you and the lecturer. Meanwhile, you are not to go away without seeing Mrs Joy. She has one of her patients with her—a poor woman who has got into a dreadful muddle with her domestic economies. What a pity that we cannot get the simple rule driven into their heads, that a penny saved is a penny gained.—That’s her going now. Come this way; and you’ll excuse me—I have a couple of patients to see immediately.—My dear, here is Miss Heathcote with Pansy Culver.’
The doctor hurried away as Mrs Joy advanced with both hands extended to Madge.
‘I am so delighted to see you, dear; I have’—— She interrupted herself, and without releasing Madge’s hands, said in parenthesis: ‘How do you do, Pansy; and how is your father? Please sit down.’ Without waiting for a reply, she proceeded with what she had been about to say to Madge. ‘I have such an interesting case to report to you. Of course you remember Edwin’s lecture last year called “Penny wise and Pound saved”—that is his playful way of dealing with that wicked saying of “penny wise and pound foolish,” which has done incalculable harm to poor people—and rich people too, I am sure. You remember it?’
‘I am sorry to have to own that I missed the lecture.’
‘What a pity! However, there was a poor labourer present—Wolden is his name—and he was so deeply impressed by what he heard, that he determined to lay by one penny regularly every week. That is a most gratifying proof of the benefit of real practical counsel: but what is most gratifying is that the man actually carried out his good resolution. Think of that! He has fourteen shillings a week, and out of each payment he regularly put by one penny in a hole above the fireplace, which was only known to himself and his wife. Well, he kept to his good resolution in spite of many temptations, and he only wanted three weeks to make out a complete year of that noble self-denial. Think!—what a glorious proof of the value of the lessons which Edwin and I have been teaching. This man, who never before had a shilling he could call his own, had actually stored away in the course of forty-nine weeks four shillings and one penny!... It is so delightfully marvellous to observe how atoms grow and multiply into mountains!’
Mrs Joy was so much pleased with the idea which the last words conveyed to herself, that she paused to repeat and admire them with a view to their future use when she should offer herself as a candidate for the local School-board.
‘The doctor and you must be greatly pleased,’ said Madge, cordially appreciating the effect of Dr Joy’s wise admonitions.
‘We are—we were; but’—here Mrs Joy shook her head with a smiling regretfulness at being obliged to own the existence of human weakness—‘but to-day there came to him a friend who required him to take a parcel into London—a parcel for a friend of yours, Mr Philip Hadleigh. His fare there and back was to be paid, and half-a-crown for the service. Wolden had often thought, if he were in London, he would buy something useful with his savings. Here was the opportunity. He ran home for his savings; and what did he find? The hole in the wall was empty; and his wife was obliged to own that she had used the money for a pair of boots for one of the children. Think!’
Madge did think; but it was not about the doctor’s lecture or the misfortune of his convert—it was about the person who had been suddenly employed to carry a parcel to Philip. Pansy’s thoughts jumped in the same direction.
‘How unfortunate,’ said Madge; ‘the poor man’s disappointment must have been awful. But who gave him the parcel for—Mr Hadleigh?’
‘Most unfortunate—terribly disappointing,’ proceeded Mrs Joy, apparently unconscious of the question which had been asked. ‘The man became so wild, that the poor woman ran out of the house and came to me for advice and assistance. I scolded her, I can tell you—scolded her roundly for having deceived her husband in such a way. She was very penitent. I always scold, and they are always penitent. She promised never to do anything of the kind again; and I gave her the money, in order that she might start on her new course with a clear conscience. You should have seen how grateful she was, dear; and it is most delicious to feel that one can save a household from destruction by such simple means—good advice and four shillings and a penny!’
Mrs Joy was so lost in contemplation of the small expense at which morals and domestic economy could be instilled into the minds of the people, that she did not observe the anxious expression of Madge, or the frightened look of Pansy.
‘Forgive me, Mrs Joy, but I have a reason for again asking you who was the sender of the parcel to Mr Hadleigh?’ said Madge.
‘Oh, how ridiculous of me to forget. It was Caleb Kersey.—It seems that he has some idea of emigration; and this poor fellow Wolden caught up the notion, and threatened to leave his wife and family to the parish. That was what put the woman in such a state; but he will stay at home now that he has got back his four shillings and a penny.’
‘Caleb Kersey going to emigrate!’
‘That was what she said.’
Madge looked at Pansy. Her face was white and lips quivering.
‘Will you excuse us, Mrs Joy? We must go now.’