As the summer advanced, Helen’s spirits rose. She was not the pale, plaintive woman that Rhoda had found on her return from London. Her beauty brightened visibly, and more than one neighbour remarked that it was a sin and a shame for such a pretty creature to be tied up to a man who was nothing but a cross to her.
Perhaps Helen herself was of the same opinion. The baby was given up more and more to Rhoda’s care, while its mother went freely to the villagers’ houses. She was one of those women to whom admiration is as necessary as their daily food. Her pleasure in her own loveliness amused while it saddened her cousin. There was something in it that seemed akin to the delight of a child in its fine clothes. Helen’s mind had never grown with her body. But Rhoda and the others had got into the habit of viewing her weaknesses indulgently. And they gratified the little fancies that were, as a rule, harmless enough.
They had their first disagreement at the end of August. There was an early harvest that year. In the southern counties most of the wheat was cut and stacked before September set in. The crops were plentiful, and there was rejoicing on all sides. But it was not always the right kind of rejoicing.
“It’s a strange way that some folks have got of thanking the Lord of the harvest,” remarked Farmer Farren one day. “He gives them bread enough to satisfy all their wants, and they must needs show their gratitude by stupefying themselves with beer! I used to think, when I was a lad, that ’twas an odd thing for King David to go a-dancing before the Almighty with all his might. But there’s more sense in dancing than in drinking for joy.”
Father and daughter stood side by side, leaning against the garden wall; for it was evening, and the farmer’s work was done. Just before he spoke, some drunken shouts disturbed the quiet air. Labourers were roystering in the village tavern, and many a wife’s temper was sorely tried that night.
“O Uncle, I am glad you don’t think it’s wrong to dance!” cried Helen, coming suddenly out of the house. “Here’s good news! Squire Derrick is going to give a feast in his park next Friday. I know that John can’t go, because of his sprained ankle; but William Gill will drive us to the park in his chaise. There’ll be room for Rhoda and me and Mrs. Gill.”
“But, Helen, I don’t go to merry-makings,” said Rhoda, gravely. “We have never taken part in anything of that kind. And as to father’s remark, King David’s sort of dancing was very different from the waltzes and polkas and galops that there will be on Friday night.”
Helen’s face clouded like that of a disappointed child.
“O Uncle, would there be any harm in my dancing?” she asked.
“No harm exactly, my girl,” responded the farmer uneasily, as he picked a piece of dry moss off the wall. “But even when things are lawful, they are not always expedient. You are a married woman, you see, and your husband’s under a cloud, and miles away—poor fellow!”