[CHAPTER IX
AT THE FARM]
THE Farm was now lying in the full sunlight of noon, for the storm had swept by, and again the sky was clear, although grass was dripping and branches shone with moisture, which the sunlight had not yet had time to dry. Above it the sky was of deepest, clearest blue, and the yard at the back appeared to be bathed in light, which shone on the grey and white pigeons sunning themselves on the roofs, and consoling themselves now the rain was over. Beyond the yard was the kitchen-garden, and behind that rose the heads of some trees belonging to the Squire—a row of trees which Alice Robson did not favour, because they shut out the view of the sunset from her room. On the right, the yard-door opened upon the road near the school, down which were running the children, just released; whilst the smoke from the school-house, where dinner was no doubt being prepared, was intensely blue against the dark trees of the Hall. A pleasant yard! with its noontide lights and shadows, its roofs of house, outhouses, stables on each side of the square, with its whirr of pigeons, soon startled by a footstep, and its great black dog, stretching himself on the ground. In the noontide sunlight all seemed lazy and at peace, the more so since there was little business to be done.
For though Mr Robson had been a skilful farmer in his day, and indeed owned much land as a tenant of the Squire, he had been incapacitated some years before by an accident, which had nearly cost him his life. The land he still tenanted was farmed by his eldest son, who lived in a smaller farm-house near at hand; and to this lesser place most signs of business had retreated, leaving the Manor Farm to be quiet and at peace. Mr Robson lived there, as he had lived all his life, and with him his wife, and his pretty daughter Alice; and, since his sons had grown up and left the place, Mrs Robson had taken lodgers as an occupation for herself—Tim Nicol at first, and, that experiment proving successful, the two young strangers who had come from ‘Lon’on town.’ Whether that experiment would also be successful remained to be proved—there seemed some cause for doubt.
The Manor Farm, as a house, was of no very great extent, though larger than farm-houses generally are, and much improved by the alterations and additions which successive tenants had thought fit to make. In front it had gables and square windows which made recesses within, and an old green porch which was now gay with geraniums; and, standing as it did on the summit of the hill, it looked down over a wide extent of Fen. From the upper windows, if you awoke early in the morning, you could see white mists beneath a glow of sunrise; or, possibly, at a later period of the year, miles of water, the unfortunate result of autumn floods. These front bedrooms were the best and the largest in the house, and for some time had been left untenanted; but, just now, they had been recently given over to the use of the lady and gentleman from ‘Lon’on.’ That lady and gentleman had now inhabited them for a week, and had been the cause of much speculation, as may be supposed. It was not imagined that they would stay there long, for Lon’on people do not like country ways.
And yet even Lon’on people might have found themselves content with the brilliant flowers that were the garden’s pride, with the sweep of green field beyond, vivid in the sunlight, with the corn-fields, and the wide-stretching distance, blue against the sky. In Lon’on there is no such distance or such silence, such clearness of atmosphere without the breath of smoke, such sudden gleams upon grass and golden corn, such songs of blackbird or of thrush to break the stillness. The people of Lon’on have to content themselves with Lanes in which there is not the smallest blade of grass, with the tramp of men, and with music bought with shillings, with the glare of footlights, and the rush of cabs and trains. It is well if these pleasures do not leave them blind, deaf, and senseless to the earth and sky, so that when they are in the midst of the beauty of the country, the beauty of the country has no voice or charm for them.
It is to be supposed that it had little voice or charm for one discontented wanderer from the great city’s streets—Miss Tina Gillan, retired to her apartment, and leaning against the window of her room. Before her the sunlight shone on flowers and grass, on meadows, corn-fields, and wide blue distance. She let her glance wander over the extent of country before she turned away to express her thought to herself. ‘To think,’ she cried, petulantly, as she flung up her arms, ‘that I should have sunk as low as a village in the Fens!’
But even to a lady who has lived in London and who has been brought down to the level of the Fen, there are some consolations and alleviations that persist in haunting the most dismal paths in life. Tina almost smiled as, on turning round her head, her eyes caught sight of the litter in her room, the half-emptied trunk whose miscellaneous contents were lying strewn in disorder on the floor. For mixed with various translations of French novels, and hairpins, and combs, and curling pins, and even rouge, there were ribbons and feathers, flowers, gloves and fans, whilst the bed was covered with dresses and hats. From out of this varied assortment of articles a beautiful toilette was to be compounded—an attire so elegant and complete in all its details that it should even soften the heart of Mr Lee. For Tina was going with her brother to visit her relation—the uncle whom she had never yet beheld.
‘I am sure he will be an old fogey,’ cried Tina, with a pout, ‘and that anything pretty will be wasted upon him; so I won’t attempt to put on a bow of ribbon, or to look anything but a dowdy and a fright. In this horrid country they don’t care what you wear; they don’t look at you long enough to see; it would be better to have been born without a nose, for that might induce them to put up their spectacles!’ In making which statement, Miss Gillan was not at variance with the opinion of some Londoners on country folk; though it is true that in this instance she did the village an injustice—for the village had looked, and had also disapproved. It may be that some vague sense of being condemned gave an edge to the bitterness with which she spoke.
‘I do love London,’ cried Tina, with little dances—she was a small, light creature, who could dance easily—‘I love the streets, and the theatres, and the lights, and all the nice boys who fall in love with me! If I was to do what Mr Markham says I would be able to be a London girl—he would bring out my voice and make a fortune of it; and then I’d be on the boards for all my life. But then he keeps saying that I must work, and work, and I hate work, I can’t bear to do with it! With Mr Lee’s money I should be a lady, and could dress up in silk, and do all things that I like!’
Yes—‘be a lady—’ this was the sole ambition that had sunk deeply into the wild girl’s heart, the solitary longing that had worked in her since she had been able to choose things for herself. Brought up in the midst of the lives of adventurers, it had been impossible that she should not be aware of all the hardships, the possible wretchedness that attend too often on professional careers. Brought up by a father, adventurer and vagabond, who had been artist, musician, actor, as inclination prompted him; by a mother who had left a safe home to share his lot, and had ever afterwards regretted her choice openly, she had early learned to set an unspeakable value on the money that does not ask for years of labour, but is freely and graciously inherited. Ever since, in her early youth, she had heard of her uncle’s wealth, it had represented a means of obtaining that graciousness; since, if he left his money to her brother and herself, they would be able to be a lady and a gentleman and would not be obliged to work. The years, as they passed, increased this confidence—her uncle was a man, and all men were good to her.