CHAPTER XXX
CALM AFTER STORM
Of course the Cynic had to explain, because he did not realise at first how shadowy the whole occurrence had been to me. You see, I really was not fully conscious at the time, and might easily have concluded that I had dreamt it.
However, he is my Cynic now, really, so I can talk quite freely to him; and I tell him that after he called me "darling" and whilst he was trying to make sure that I still breathed, he kissed me; but he says that convinces him that I really was dreaming. But we have agreed not to quarrel about it, as one more or less doesn't much matter.
His professional duties must be pretty elastic, for it is now Wednesday and he has not gone back; though, to be sure, he has done a fair amount of pleading in a local court and has won the first part of his case and seems likely to be successful in the next. A remarkable thing about these bachelors who have waited so long is that they cannot afford to wait the least bit longer. They are no sooner engaged than they must be married. But in this instance things are going to be done decently and in order. The squire says we do not know each other well enough yet, and suggests two years as the term of our engagement, but I think we shall compromise on four months.
"What about my studio, Philip?" I asked this morning. "I have not seen it for days, and it is as dear to me as a lover."
"Is it?" he said; "can you bear to walk as far?"
"Why, of course," I replied; "I'm all right now."
"You'll have to take my arm," he remarked; "you are only shaky yet."
It was merely an excuse, but I did it to please him. Of course all the village knows what has happened, and a dozen friendly folk nodded, or smiled or shouted their congratulations according to the measure of their intimacy or reserve.
When we came in sight of my cottage the studio was nowhere to be seen, and, greatly surprised, I turned to the Cynic for an explanation, but he merely pressed my arm and said:
"Farmer Goodenough is there. He will tell you all about it."
I held my peace until we entered the field and stood by my late landlord's side. Explanation was unnecessary, for the field was still littered with splintered wood and broken glass, though much of it had been cleared away.
"So you're about again, miss! Well, I'm downright glad to see you." Then, indicating the débris with an inclination of the head: "I've sorted out all 'at seemed to be worth ought. All t' glass picturs 'at weren't reight smashed I've put into a box an' ta'en into t' 'ouse. But there isn't much left. Them 'at saw it say 'at t' stewdio cut up t' paddock like a hairyplane, an' it must ha' collapsed in t' same way."
"It knew it was doomed," remarked the Cynic, "supplanted—and it promptly put an end to itself."
"Well, never mind, miss," put in Reuben, "there's nought to fret about. 'Off wi' the old love an' on with the new!' I'd nearly put that down to t' Owd Book, but I should ha' been mista'en. However, ye've made a good swop, an' I don't know which on ye's got t' best o' t' bargain."
"I have, Reuben," said the Cynic heartily.
I wasn't going to contradict him, of course, though I know he is "mista'en."
"I was just thinkin', miss, if it's all t' same to you," continued the farmer, "'at it 'ud be a charity to let Martha an' her little lass have your cottage. You see——"
"But you forget they are only for widows, Mr. Goodenough," I interrupted.
He glanced quickly at Philip. "They haven't told you then, miss? Well, it's out now. Martha is a widow. Barjona got clear by t' skin of his teeth, but Roger an' t' dog were killed on t' spot; an' though it sounds a 'ard sayin', it's no loss to Martha an' Lucy. Are we to let 'em have t' cottage, think ye?"
I agreed, of course; but the tragic death of Roger had saddened me, and as usual Reuben noticed my clouded expression.
"Now don't you take on, miss. You'll 'ave to leave these things to them above. After all, as t' Owd Book says, 'It's an ill wind 'at blows nobody iny good,' an' t' storm has blown you two into one another's arms an' Martha into t' cottage, in a manner o' speakin'; so we must look on t' cheerful side. However, I must be stirring."
He raised his cap and left us, and I turned to the Cynic.
"Philip," I said, and I know the tears filled my eyes, "the sight of the cottage brings back to me sweet memories of dear old Mother Hubbard. How delighted she would have been to welcome us! How pleased she would have been if she had known!"
"She did know, Grace," he replied. "I called to see her when you were away, and the good soul spoke to me about you in such loving terms that I could not help making her my confidante; and do you know, she asked if she might kiss me before I left. She hoped to live to see the consummation, but if that were denied her she bade me tell you how earnestly she had prayed for our happiness, and how fervently she had longed to see us united."
Now I have reached the very last line in my book. How could I end it better than with Mother Hubbard's blessing?
THE END