JOHN CAIRNS was, as Mrs. Brooke had said of him, “quite a respectable farmer.” Nobody except disdainful Mrs. St. John would have thought of applying the term “milkman” to that gray-headed well-to-do old man, owner of many broad acres, even though he did largely supply the “gentry” of the neighborhood with butter and milk.
The farm occupied a position about equally distant from Woodleigh Hall and Mr. St. John’s residence, being within three miles of either. It was an aged, ivy-grown house, with divers sheds and out-buildings hard by, and several hay ricks in the near background.
A smart little drawing-room, swathed in brown holland and yellow gauze, was so seldom employed as to be practically useless. There was, however, a small cosy parlor, close to the big kitchen, where the farmer permitted himself to sit and smoke. Occasionally his son did the same; but Jervis was more of a reader than a smoker. The daughter, Hannah, might also be found there, darning stockings, once in a while; not often, since she had no great love for sitting still, and was commonly busy about the house and farm.
Hannah Cairns was not the old farmer’s only daughter, and Jervis Cairns was not the only son. Many years back there had been, twice over, times of great trouble at the farm—trouble of a kind which tends either to break the heart or to harden the nature.
First, the eldest son, William Cairns, the pride and hope of his parents, went wrong. Up to the age of twenty all seemed well. He had always had an aversion to farming; but he was rising to a position of trust in the employ of a neighboring gentleman of property—no other than George Rutherford, himself in those days a young man. Then William was led astray by bad companions, ran into debt, and fell under temptation into dire and deliberate dishonesty.
The generous kindness of George Rutherford averted the more terrible disgrace of open trial and condemnation; but remorse in his case did not mean reformation, and from that day to this, his face had never been shown in his own land. John Cairns never wrote to him or invited his return.
The eldest daughter, Marian, commonly known as “Polly,” was an unusually pretty girl, her father’s especial darling, and not a little spoilt by him. When William so disgraced himself at the age of twenty-one, Polly was only seventeen, while Hannah and Jervis were not more than twelve and six years old.
Five years passed, and the second great family trouble came. Polly went to pay a long visit to a farmer-uncle in the next county. While she was there a young Cantab,* Hubert Brooke by name, who was spending part of his long vacation at a large country house near, fell in with her accidentally, and speedily lost his heart and head. Polly was very taking, no doubt, and Hubert was very young—more than a year her junior. Polly went home, and Hubert followed her, taking up his abode for a week at an inn, not far off. He did not show himself to Polly’s parents, but contrived to meet her two or three times; and a runaway marriage was an early ending to the brief, foolish affair. Hubert’s family immediately cut all connection with him, and Hubert insisted on the entire separation of his wife from her family. He had friends who helped him to find work, and while her husband lived Polly knew no lack of tolerable comfort.
* Undergraduate in Cambridge University
Had Hubert openly sought Marian as his wife from her parents they might not have objected. But that she should marry without leave, and should give them to understand that all intercourse between herself and them must thenceforth cease—this did come with a terribly heavy blow. The farmer grew hard and cold in his hurt pride, and forbade the mention of Marian’s name; and Hannah, young as she was, sternly followed suit. The mother said little, but quietly drooped and died. Only Jervis still cherished loving recollections of the sister who had always been kind to him.