The Squire of Sandal-Side A Pastoral Romance

CHAPTER VII.

WOO­ING AND WED­DING.

“She was made for him,--a spe­cial prov­idence in his be­half.”

“Like to like,--and yet love may be dear bought.”

“In time comes she whom Fate sends.”

Un­til af­ter Twelfth Night the Christ­mas fes­tiv­ities were con­tin­ued; but if the truth had been ad­mit­ted, the cum­brous cer­emo­ni­als, the ex­ces­sive eat­ing and vis­it­ing, would have been pro­nounced by ev­ery one very tire­some. Julius found it par­tic­ular­ly so, for the fes­ti­val had no roots in his boy­hood's heart; and he did not in­clude it in his dreams of pre-​ex­is­tence.

“It is such sem­blance of good fel­low­ship, such a weari­some pre­tence of good wish­es that mean noth­ing,” he said one day. “What val­ue is there in such talk?”

“Well,” an­swered the squire, “it isn't a bad thing for some of us to feel obliged once in a twelve months to be good-​na­tured, and give our neigh­bors a kind wish. There are them that nev­er do it ex­cept at Christ­mas. Eh? What?”

“Such wish­es mean noth­ing.”

“Nay, now, there is no need to think that kind words are false words. There is a deal of good some­times in a mouth­ful of words. Eh? What?”

“And yet, sir, as the queen of the crocodiles re­marked, 'Words mend none of the eggs that are bro­ken.'”

“I know noth­ing about the queen of the crocodiles. But if you don't be­lieve in words, Julius, it is quite al­low­able at Christ­mas time to put your good words in­to any sub­stan­tial form you like. No­body will doubt a good wish that is fa­ther to a hand­some gift; so, if you don't be­lieve in good words, you have a very re­li­able sub­sti­tute in good deeds. I saw how you looked when I said 'A mer­ry Christ­mas' to old Si­mon Gills, and you had to say the words af­ter me. Very well; send old Si­mon a new plaid or a pound of to­bac­co, and he'll be­lieve in your wish, and you'll be­lieve in your­self. Eh? What?”

The days were full of such strained con­ver­sa­tions on var­ious top­ics. Har­ry could say noth­ing which Julius did not po­lite­ly chal­lenge by some doubt­ful in­quiry. Julius felt in ev­ery word and ac­tion of Har­ry's the au­thor­ity of the heir, and the for­bear­ance of a host tol­er­ant to a guest. He com­plained bit­ter­ly to Sophia of the po­si­tion in which he was con­stant­ly put. “Your fa­ther and broth­er have been ex­am­in­ing tim­ber, and look­ing at the out-​hous­es this morn­ing, and I un­der­stand they were dis­cussing the build­ing of a con­ser­va­to­ry for Char­lotte; but I was left out of the con­ver­sa­tion en­tire­ly. Is it fair, Sophia? You and I are the next heirs, and just as like­ly to in­her­it as Har­ry. More so, I may say, for a sol­dier's life is al­ready sold, and Har­ry is reck­less and dis­si­pat­ed as well. I think I ought to have been con­sult­ed. I should not be in fa­vor of thin­ning the tim­ber. I dare say it is done to pay Har­ry's bills; and thus, you see, it may re­al­ly be we who are made to suf­fer. I don't think your fa­ther likes our mar­riage, dear one.”

“But he gave his con­sent, beloved.”

“I was very dis­sat­is­fied with his way of do­ing it. He might as well have said, 'If it has to be, it has to be; and there is no use fret­ting about it.' I may be wrong, but that is the im­pres­sion his con­sent left on my mind. And he was quite un­rea­son­able when I al­lud­ed to mon­ey mat­ters. I would not have be­lieved that your fa­ther was ca­pa­ble of be­ing so dis­agree­ably haughty. Of course, I ex­pect­ed him to say some­thing about our rights, fail­ing Har­ry's, and he treat­ed them as if they did not ex­ist. Even when I in­tro­duced them in the most del­icate way, he was what I call down­right rude. 'Julius,' he said, 'I will not dis­cuss any fu­ture that pre-​sup­pos­es Har­ry's death.'”

“Fa­ther's sun ris­es and sets in Har­ry, and it was like him to speak that way; he meant noth­ing against us. Fa­ther would al­ways do right. What I feel most is the re­fusal to give us our own apart­ments in Seat-​San­dal. We do not want to live here all the time, but we ought to be able to feel that we have a cer­tain home here.”

“Yes, in­deed. It is very im­por­tant in my eyes to keep a foot­ing in the house. Pos­ses­sion is a kind of right. But nev­er mind, Sophia. I have al­ways had an im­pres­sion that this was my home. The first mo­ment I crossed the thresh­old I felt it. All its rooms were fa­mil­iar to me. Peo­ple do not have such pre­sen­ti­ments for noth­ing.”

There is a class of lovers who find their supremest plea­sure in iso­lat­ing them­selves; who con­sid­er their own af­fairs an oa­sis of de­light, and make it desert all around them. Julius and Sophia be­longed to it. They re­al­ly en­joyed the idea that they were be­ing bad­ly used. They talked over the squire's in­jus­tice, Mrs. San­dal's in­dif­fer­ence to ev­ery one but Har­ry, and Char­lotte's en­vy, un­til they had per­suad­ed them­selves that they were the on­ly re­spectable and in­tel­li­gent mem­bers of the fam­ily. Nat­ural­ly Sophia's na­ture de­te­ri­orat­ed un­der this iso­lat­ing pro­cess. She grew se­cre­tive and sus­pi­cious. Her love-​af­fairs as­sumed a pro­por­tion which put her in false re­la­tions to all the rest of the world.

It was un­for­tu­nate that they had come to a cri­sis dur­ing Har­ry's vis­it, for of course Har­ry oc­cu­pied a large share of ev­ery one's in­ter­est. The squire took the op­por­tu­ni­ty to talk over the af­fairs of the es­tate with him, and this was not a kind of con­ver­sa­tion they felt in­clined to make gen­er­al. It took them long soli­tary walks to the dif­fer­ent “folds,” and sev­er­al times as far as Kendal to­geth­er. “Am I one of the fam­ily, or am I not?” Julius would ask Sophia on such oc­ca­sions; and then the dis­cus­sion of this ques­tion sep­arat­ed them from it, some­times for hours at a time.

Mrs. San­dal hard­ly per­ceived the growth of this do­mes­tic an­tag­onism. When Har­ry was at Seat-​San­dal, she lived and moved and had her be­ing in Har­ry. His food and drink, and the mul­ti­tude of his small com­forts; his friends and amuse­ments; the ren­ova­tion of his linen and hosiery; his hopes and fears, and his pro­mo­tion or mar­riage, were enough to fill the moth­er's heart. She was by no means obliv­ious of Sophia's new in­ter­ests, she on­ly thought that they could be put aside un­til Har­ry's short vis­it was over; and Char­lotte's sym­pa­thies were al­so with Har­ry. “Julius and Sophia do not want them, moth­er,” she said, “they are suf­fi­cient un­to them­selves. If I en­ter a room pre-​oc­cu­pied by them, Sophia sits silent over her work, with a look of in­jury on her face; and Julius walks about, and kicks the stools out of his way, and sim­ply 'looks' me out of their pres­ence.”

Af­ter such an ex­pul­sion one morn­ing, she put on her bon­net and man­tle, and went in­to the park. She was hot and trem­bling with anger, and her eyes were misty with tears. In the main walk she met Har­ry. He was smok­ing, and pac­ing slow­ly up and down un­der the bare branch­es of the oaks. For a mo­ment he al­so seemed an­noyed at her in­tru­sion on his soli­tude; but the next one he had tucked her arm through his own, and was look­ing with broth­er­ly sym­pa­thy in­to her flushed and trou­bled face. This morn­ing Char­lotte felt it to be a great com­fort to com­plain to him, to even cry a lit­tle over the break­ing of the fam­ily bond, and the loss of her sis­ter's af­fec­tion.

“I have al­ways been so proud of Sophia, al­ways giv­en up to her in ev­ery thing. When grand­moth­er showed me the sap­phire neck­lace, and said she was go­ing to leave it to me be­cause she loved me best, I begged her not to slight Sophia in such a way as that,--Sophia be­ing the el­der, you know, Har­ry. I cried about it un­til she was al­most an­gry with me. Julius of­fered his hand to me first; and though I claim no mer­it for giv­ing up what I do not want, yet, all the same, if I had want­ed him I should have re­fused, be­cause I saw that Sophia had set her heart up­on him. I should in­deed, Har­ry.”

“I be­lieve you would, Char­lotte.”

“And some­how Julius man­ages to give me the feel­ing that I am on­ly in Seat-​San­dal on his tol­er­ance. Many a time a day I have to tell my­self that fa­ther is still alive, and that I have a right in my own home. I do not know how he man­ages to make me feel so.”

“In the same way that he con­veys to me the im­pres­sion that I shall nev­er be squire of San­dal-​Side. He has doomed me to death in his own mind; and I be­lieve if I had to live with him, I should feel con­strained to go and shoot my­self.”

“I would come home, and get mar­ried, Har­ry. There will be room enough and wel­come enough for your wife in Seat-​San­dal, es­pe­cial­ly if she be Emi­ly.”

“She will not be Emi­ly; for I love some one else far away bet­ter,--mil­lions of times bet­ter than I love Emi­ly.”

“I am so glad, Har­ry. Have you told fa­ther?”

“Not yet. I do not think he will be glad, Char­lotte.”

“But why?”

“There are many rea­sons.”

“Such as?”

“She is poor.”

“Oh! that is bad, Har­ry; be­cause I know that we are not rich. But she is not your in­fe­ri­or? I mean she is not un­ed­ucat­ed or un­la­dy­like?”

“She is high­ly ed­ucat­ed, and in all Eng­land there is not a more per­fect la­dy.”

“Then I can see no rea­son to think fa­ther will not be pleased. I am sure, Har­ry, that I shall love your wife. Oh, yes! I shall love her very dear­ly.”

Then Har­ry pressed her arm close to his side, and looked lov­ing­ly down in­to her bright, earnest face. There was no need of speech. In a glance their souls touched each oth­er.

“And so he asked you first, eh, Charley?”

“Yes.”

“And you would not have him? What for Charley?”

“I did not like Julius, and I did like some one else.”

“Oh! Oh! Who is the some one else?”

“Guess, Har­ry. He is very like you, very: fair and tall, with clear, can­did, hap­py blue eyes; and brown hair curl­ing close over his head. In the folds and in the fields he is a mas­ter. His heart is gen­tle to all, and full of love for me. He has spir­it, dint, [Dint, en­er­gy.] am­bi­tion, en­ter­prise; and can work twen­ty hours out of the twen­ty-​four to car­ry out his own plans. He is a right good fel­low, Har­ry.”

“A North-​coun­try man?”

“Cer­tain­ly. Do you think I would mar­ry a stranger?”

“Cum­ber­land born?”

“Who else?”

“Then it is Steve La­trigg, eh? Well, Charley, you might go far­ther, and fare worse. I don't think he is wor­thy of you.”

“Oh, but I do!”

“Very few men are wor­thy of you.”

“On­ly Steve. I want you to like Steve. Har­ry.”

“Cer­tain­ly. Seat-​San­dal folks and Up-​Hill folks are al­ways thick friends. And Steve and I were boy chums. He is a fine fel­low, and no mis­take. I am glad he is to be my broth­er. I asked moth­er about him; and she said he was in York­shire, learn­ing how to spin and weave wool--a queer thing, Charley.”

“Not at all. He may just as well spin his own fleeces as sell them to York­shire­men to spin.” Then they talked awhile of Stephen's plans, and Har­ry ap­peared to be much im­pressed with them. “It is a pity fa­ther does not join him, Charley,” he said. “Ev­ery one is do­ing some­thing of the kind now. Land and sheep do not make mon­ey fast enough for the wants of our present life. The in­come of the es­tate is no larg­er than it was in grand­fa­ther's time; but the ex­pens­es are much greater, al­though we do not keep up the same ex­trav­agant style. I need mon­ey, too, need it very much; but I see plain­ly that fa­ther has none to spare. Julius will press him very close.”

“What has Julius to do with fa­ther's mon­ey?”

“Fa­ther must, in hon­or, pay Sophia's por­tion. Un­for­tu­nate­ly, when the fel­low was here last, fa­ther told him that he had put away from the es­tate one hun­dred pounds a year for each of his girls. Un­der this promise, Sophia's right with in­ter­est will be near three thou­sand pounds, ex­clu­sive of her share in the mon­ey grand­moth­er left you. I am sor­ry to say that I have had some­thing to do with mak­ing it hard for fa­ther to meet these obli­ga­tions. And Julius wants the mon­ey paid at the mar­riage. Fa­ther, too, feels very much as I feel, and would rather throw it in­to the sea than give it to him; on­ly _no­blesse oblige_.”

The sub­ject ev­ident­ly ir­ri­tat­ed Har­ry be­yond en­durance, and he sud­den­ly changed it by tak­ing from his pock­et an ivory minia­ture. He gave it to Char­lotte, and watched her face with a glow of pleas­ant ex­pec­ta­tion. “Why, Har­ry!” she cried, “does so love­ly a wom­an re­al­ly ex­ist?”

He nod­ded hap­pi­ly, and an­swered in a voice full of emo­tion, “And she loves me.”

“It is the coun­te­nance of an an­gel.”

“And she loves me. I am not wor­thy to touch the hem of her gar­ment, Charley, but she loves me.” Then Char­lotte lift­ed the pic­tured face to her lips. Their con­fi­dence was com­plete; and they did not think it nec­es­sary to talk it over, or to ex­act promis­es of se­cre­cy from each oth­er.

The next day Har­ry re­turned to his reg­iment, and Sophia's af­fairs be­gan to re­ceive the at­ten­tion which their im­por­tant cri­sis de­mand­ed. In those days it was cus­tom­ary for girls to make their own wed­ding out­fit, and there was no sewing-​ma­chine to help them. “Mine is the first mar­riage in the fam­ily,” Sophia said, “and I think there ought to be a great deal of in­ter­est felt in it.” And there was. Grand­moth­er San­dal's awm­ries were opened for old laces and fine cam­bric, and pet­ti­coats and spencers of silks won­der­ful in qual­ity and col­or, and guilt­less of any ad­mix­ture of less pre­cious ma­te­ri­al. There were whole sets of many gar­ments to make, and tuck­ing and frilling and stitch­ing were then slow pro­cess­es. Agnes Bul­teel came to as­sist; but the work promised to be so te­dious, that the mar­riage-​day was post­poned un­til Ju­ly.

In the mean time, Julius spent his time be­tween Ox­ford and San­dal-​Side. Ev­ery vis­it was dis­tin­guished by some rich or rare gift to his bride, and he al­ways felt a plea­sure in as­sur­ing him­self that Char­lotte was con­sumed with en­vy and re­gret. He was very much in love with Sophia, and quite glad she was go­ing to mar­ry him; and yet he dear­ly liked to think that he made Char­lotte sor­ry for her re­jec­tion of his love, and wist­ful­ly anx­ious for the rings and bracelets that were the por­tion of his be­trothed. Sophia soon found out that this idea flat­tered and pleased him, and it gave her nei­ther shame nor re­gret to in­dorse it. She loved no one but Julius, and she made a kind of mer­it in giv­ing up ev­ery one for him. The sen­ti­ment sound­ed rather well; but it was re­al­ly an in­tense self­ish­ness, wear­ing the mask of un­selfish­ness. She did not re­flect that the dai­ly love and du­ty due to oth­ers can­not be sin­less­ly with­held, or giv­en to some ob­ject of our own par­tic­ular choice, or that such a self­ish idol­atry is a do­mes­tic crime.

It was a very un­hap­py time to Char­lotte. Her moth­er was weary with many un­usu­al cares, her fa­ther more silent and de­pressed than she had ev­er be­fore seen him. The sun­ny seren­ity of her hap­py home was dis­turbed by a mul­ti­tude of new el­ements, for an at­mo­sphere of con­stant ex­pec­ta­tion gave a rest­less tone to its usu­al placid rou­tine. And through all and be­low all, there was that feel­ing of mon­ey per­plex­ity, which, where it ex­ists, is no more to be hid than the sub­tle odor of musk, present though un­seen.

This year the white win­ter ap­peared to Char­lotte in­ter­minable in length. The days in which it was im­pos­si­ble to go out, full of Sophia's sewing and lit­tle wor­ries and os­ten­ta­tions; the windy, tem­pes­tu­ous nights, that swept the gath­er­ing drifts away; the cloud­less moon­light nights, full of that aw­ful, breath­less qui­et that broods in land-​locked dales,--all of them, and all of Na­ture's moods, had be­come in­ex­press­ibly, monotonous­ly weari­some be­fore the change came. But one morn­ing at the end of March, there was a great west wind charged with heavy rains, and in a few hours the snow on all the fells had been turned in­to rush­ing floods, that came roar­ing down from ev­ery side in­to the val­ley.

“'Oh, wind! If win­ter comes, can spring be far be­hind?'”

quot­ed Char­lotte, as she stood watch­ing the white cas­cades.

“It will be cuck­oo time di­rect­ly my dear; and the lambs will be bleat­ing on the fells, and the yel­low prim­ros­es blow­ing un­der all the hedges. I want to see the swal­lows take the storm on their wings bad­ly this year. Eh? What, Char­lotte?”

“So do I, fa­ther. I nev­er was so tired of the house be­fore.”

“There's a bit of a dif­fer­ence late­ly, I think. Eh? What?”

Char­lotte looked at him; there was no need to speak. They both un­der­stood and felt the full mis­ery of house­hold changes that are not en­tire­ly hap­py ones; changes that bring un­faith­ful­ness and in­grat­itude on one side, and re­sent­ful, wound­ed love on the oth­er. And the worst of it all was, that it might have been so dif­fer­ent. Why had the lovers set them­selves apart from the fam­ily, had se­crets and con­sul­ta­tions and in­ter­ests they re­fused to share? How had it hap­pened that Sophia had come to con­sid­er her wel­fare as apart from, and in op­po­si­tion to, that of the gen­er­al wel­fare of Seat-​San­dal? And when this feel­ing ex­ist­ed, it seemed un­just to Char­lotte that they should still ex­pect the whole house and house­hold to be kept in tur­moil for the fur­ther­ance of their plans, and that ev­ery one should be made to con­tribute to their hap­pi­ness.

“Af­ter all, maybe it is a bit nat­ural,” said the squire with a sad air of apol­ogy. “I have no­ticed even the robins get an­gry if you watch them build­ing their nests.”

“But they, at least, build their own nest, fa­ther. The cock-​robin does not go to his par­ents, and the hen robin to her par­ents, and say, 'Give us all the straw you can, and put it down at the foot of our tree; but don't dare to peep in­to the branch­es, or of­fer us any sug­ges­tions about the nest, or ex­pect to have an opin­ion about our house­keep­ing.' Self­ish­ness spoils ev­ery thing, fa­ther. I think if a rose could be self­ish it would be hideous.”

“I don't think a lover would make my Char­lotte for­get her fa­ther and moth­er, and feel con­tempt for her home, and all in and about it that she does not want for her­self. Why, a stranger would think that Sophia was nev­er loved by any hu­man heart be­fore! They would think that she nev­er had been hap­py be­fore. Nay, then, she sets more store by the few nick-​nacks Julius has giv­en her than all I have bought her for twen­ty years. When yon­der last bracelet came, she went on as if she had nev­er seen aught of the kind in all her born days. Yet I have bought her one or two that cost more mon­ey, and hap­pen more love, than it did. Eh? What, Char­lotte?”

There were two large tears stand­ing in his blue eyes, and two sprang in­to Char­lotte's to meet them. She clasped his hand tight, and af­ter a minute's si­lence said,--

“I have a lover, fa­ther; the best a girl ev­er had. Has he made any dif­fer­ence be­tween you and me? On­ly that I love you bet­ter. You are my first love; the very first crea­ture I re­mem­ber, fa­ther. One sum­mer day you had me in your arms in the gar­den. I rec­ol­lect look­ing at you and know­ing you. I think it was at that mo­ment my soul found me.”

“It was on a sum­mer day, Char­lotte? Eh? What?”

“And the gar­den was all ros­es, fa­ther; red with ros­es,--ros­es full of scent. I can smell them yet. The sun­shine, the ros­es, the sweet air, your face,--I shall nev­er, nev­er for­get that mo­ment, fa­ther.”

“Nor I. I was a very hap­py man in those days, Char­lotte. Young and hap­py, and full of hope. I thought my chil­dren were some new make of chil­dren. I could not have be­lieved then, that they would ev­er give me a heartache, or have one them­selves. And I had not a care. Mon­ey was very easy with me then: now it is mid­dling hard to bring buck­le and tongue to­geth­er.”

“When Sophia is mar­ried, we can be­gin and save a lit­tle. Moth­er and you and I can be hap­py with­out ex­trav­agances.”

“To be sure, we can; but the trou­ble is, my sav­ing will be the los­ing of all I have to send away. It is very hard, Char­lotte, to do right at both ends. Eh? What?”

Af­ter this con­ver­sa­tion, spring came on rapid­ly, and it was not long ere Char­lotte man­aged to reach Up-​Hill. She had not seen Ducie for sev­er­al weeks, and she was long­ing to hear some­thing of Stephen. “But if ill had come, ill would have cried out, and I would have heard tell;” she thought, as she picked her way among the stones and _de­bris_ of the win­ter storms. The coun­try was yet bare; the trees had no leaves, no nests, no se­crets; but she could see the sap run­ning in­to the branch­es, mak­ing them dark red, scar­let, or yel­low as rods of gold. High­er up, the pines, al­ways green, took her in­to their shade; in­to their calm spir­it of un­change­able­ness, their equal light, their keen aro­mat­ic air. Then came the bare fell, and the raw north wind, and the low gray house, stretch­ing it­self un­der the leaf­less, out­spread­ing limbs of the sycamores.

In the val­ley, there had been many wild flow­ers,--tufts of vi­olets and ear­ly prim­ros­es,--and even at Up-​Hill the black­thorn's stiff boughs were cov­ered with tiny white buds, and here and there an open blos­som. Ducie was in the gar­den at work; and as Char­lotte crossed the steps in its stone wall she lift­ed her head, and saw her. Their meet­ing was free from all demon­stra­tion; on­ly a smile, and a word or two of wel­come, and yet how con­scious of af­fec­tion! How sat­is­fied both wom­en were! Ducie went on with her task, and Char­lotte stood by her side, and watched her drop the brown seeds in­to the damp, rich earth; watched her clip the box-​bor­ders, and loosen the soil about the spring­ing cro­cus bulbs. Here and there tufts of snow­drops were in full bloom,--white, frail bells, look­ing as if they had known on­ly cheer­less hours and cold sun­beams, and wept and shrank and feared through them.

As they went in­to the house, Ducie gath­ered a few; but at the thresh­hold, Char­lotte turned, and saw them in her hand. A lit­tle fear and an­noy­ance came in­to her face. “You a North-​coun­try wom­an, Ducie,” she said, “and yet go­ing to bring snow­drops across the door­stone? I would not have be­lieved such a thing of you. Leave them out­side the porch. Be said, now.”

“It seems such a thing to think of flow­ers that way,--mak­ing them signs of sor­row.”

“You know what you said about your fa­ther and the plant,--'Death-​come-​quick­ly.' I have heard snow­drops called 'flow­ers from dead-​men's dale.' Look at them. They are like a shroud­ed corpse. They keep their heads al­ways turned down to the grave. It is ill-​luck to bring them where there is life and love and warmth. It will do you no harm to mind me; so be said, Ducie. Be­sides, I wouldn't pull them any­way. There was lit­tle Grace Lewth­waite, she was al­ways gath­er­ing the poor, in­no­cent flow­ers just to fling them on the dusty road to be trod­den and tram­pled to pieces; well, be­fore she was twelve years old, she fad­ed away too. Per­haps even the prayers of man­gled flow­ers may be heard by the mer­ci­ful Cre­ator.”

“You do give me such turns, Char­lotte.” But who ev­er rea­sons with a su­per­sti­tion? Ducie sim­ply obeyed Char­lotte's wish, and laid the pal­lid blooms al­most re­morse­ful­ly back up­on the earth from which she had tak­en them. A strange melan­choly filled her heart; al­though the ser­vants were busy all around, and ev­ery­where she heard the good-​na­tured laugh, the thought­less whis­tle, or the songs of hearts at ease.

When she en­tered the house­place she put the bright ket­tle on the hob, and took out her sil­ver teapot and her best cups of love­ly crown Der­by. And as she moved about in her qui­et, hos­pitable way they be­gan to talk of Stephen. “Was he well?”--“Yes, he was well, but there were things that might be bet­ter. I thought when he went to Brad­ford,” con­tin­ued Ducie, “that he would at least be learn­ing some­thing that he might be the bet­ter of in the long end; and that in a mill he would over-​get his no­tions about sheep­skins be­ing spun in­to gold­en fleeces. But he doesn't seem to get any new light that way, and Up-​Hill is not do­ing well with­out him. Fold and farm are need­ing the mas­ter's eye and hand; and it will be a poor lamb­ing sea­son for us, I think, want­ing Steve. And, deary me, Char­lotte, one word from you would bring him home!”

Char­lotte stooped, and lift­ed the tor­toise-​shell cat, ly­ing on the rug at her feet. She was not fond of cats, and she was on­ly at­ten­tive to puss as the best means of hid­ing her blush­es. Ducie un­der­stood the small, wom­an­ly ruse, and wait­ed no oth­er an­swer. “What is the mat­ter with the squire, Char­lotte? Does he think that Stephen isn't good enough to mar­ry you? I'll not say that La­trigg evens San­dal in all things, but I will say that there are very few fam­ilies that can even La­trigg. We have been with­out re­proach,--good wom­en, hon­est men; not afraid of any face of clay, though it wore a crown above it.”

“Dear Ducie, there is no ques­tion at all of that. The trou­ble arose about Julius San­dal. Fa­ther was de­ter­mined that I or Sophia should mar­ry him, and he was afraid of Steve stand­ing in the way of Julius. As for my­self, I felt as if Julius had been in­vit­ed to Seat-​San­dal that he might make his choice of us; and I took good care that he should un­der­stand from the first hour that I was not on his ap­pro­ba­tion. I re­sent­ed the po­si­tion on my own ac­count, and I did not in­tend Stephen to feel that he was on­ly get­ting a girl who had been ap­praised by Julius San­dal, and de­clined.”

“You are a good girl, Char­lotte; and as for Steve stand­ing in the way of Julius San­dal, he will, per­haps, do that yet, and to some more pur­pose than sweet-​heart­ing. I hear tell that he is very rich; but Steve is not poor,--no, not by a good deal. His grand­fa­ther and I have been sav­ing for him more than twen­ty years, and Steve is one to turn his pen­ny well and of­ten. If you mar­ry Steve, you will not have to study about mon­ey mat­ters.”

“Poor or rich, I shall mar­ry Steve if he is true to me.”

“There is an­oth­er thing, Char­lotte, a thing I talk about to no one; but we will speak of it once and for­ev­er. Have you heard a word about Steve's fa­ther? My trou­ble is long dead and buried, but there are some that will open the grave it­self for a mouth­ful of scan­dal. What have you heard? Don't be afraid to speak out.”

“I heard that you ran away with Steve's fa­ther.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That your fa­ther and moth­er op­posed your mar­riage very much.”

“Yes, that al­so is true.”

“That he was a hand­some lad, called Matt Pat­ti­son, your fa­ther's head shep­herd.”

“Was that all?”

“That it killed your moth­er.”

“No, that is un­true. Moth­er died from an in­flam­ma­tion brought on by tak­ing cold. I was no-​ways to blame for her death. I was to blame for run­ning away from my home and du­ty, and I took in full all the sor­row­ful wage I earned. Steve's fa­ther did not live to see his son; and when I heard of moth­er's death, I de­ter­mined to go back to fa­ther, and stay with him al­ways if he would let me. I got to San­dal vil­lage in the evening, and stayed with Nan­cy Bell all night. In the morn­ing I went up the fell; it was a wet, cold morn­ing, with gusts of wind driv­ing the show­ers like a sol­id sheet east­ward. We had a hard fight up the breast of the moun­tain; and the house looked bleak and des­olate, for the men were all in the barn thresh­ing, and the wom­en in the kitchen at the but­ter-​troughs. I stood in the porch to catch my breath, and take my plaid from around the child; and I heard fa­ther in a loud, solemn voice say­ing the Col­lect,--fa­ther al­ways spoke in that way when he was say­ing the Con­fes­sion or the Col­lect,--and I knew very well that he would be stand­ing at that east win­dow, with his prayer-​book open on the sill. So I wait­ed un­til I heard the 'Amen,' and then I lift­ed the latch and went in. He turned around and faced me; and his eyes fell at once up­on lit­tle Steve, who was a bon­ny lad then, more than three years old. 'I have come back to you, fa­ther,' I said, 'I and my lit­tle Steve.'--'Where is thy hus­band?' he asked. I said, 'He is in the grave. I did wrong, and I am sor­ry, fa­ther.”

“'Then I for­give thee.' That was all he said. His eyes were fixed up­on Steve, for he nev­er had a son of his own; and he held out his hands, and Steve went straight to him; and he lift­ed the boy, and kissed him again and again, and from that mo­ment he loved him with all his soul. He nev­er cast up to me the wrong I had done; and by and by I told him all that had hap­pened to me, and we nev­er more had a se­cret be­tween us, but worked to­geth­er for one end; and what that end was, some day you may find out. I wish you would write a word or two to Steve. A word would bring him home, dear.”

“But I can­not write it, Ducie. I promised fa­ther there should be no love-​mak­ing be­tween us, and I would not break a word that fa­ther trusts in. Be­sides, Stephen is too proud and too hon­or­able to have any un­der­hand court­ing. When he can walk in and out Seat-​San­dal in dayshine and in dark, and as ev­ery one's equal, he will come to see me. Un­til then we can trust each oth­er and wait.”

“What does the squire think of Steve's plans? Maybe, now, they are not very pleas­ant to him. I re­mem­ber at the sheep-​shear­ing he did not say very much.”

“He did not say very much be­cause he nev­er thought that Steve was in earnest. Fa­ther does not like changes, and you know how land-​own­ers re­gard traders. And I'm sure you wouldn't even one of our shep­herd-​lads with a man that minds a loom. The brave fel­lows, trav­el­ling the moun­tain-​tops in the fiercest storms to fold the sheep, or seek some stray or weak­ly lamb, are very dif­fer­ent from the lank, white-​faced man­nikins all fin­ger-​ends for a bit of ma­chin­ery; aren't they, Ducie? And I would far rather see Steve count­ing his flocks on the fells than his spin­ning-​jen­nys in a mill. Fa­ther was trou­bled about the rail­way com­ing to Am­ble­side, and I do think a fac­to­ry in San­dal-​Side would make him heart-​sick.”

“Then Steve shall nev­er build one while San­dal lives. Do you think I would have the squire made heart-​sick if I could make him heart-​whole? Not for all the woollen yarn in Eng­land. Tell him Ducie said so. The squire and I are old, old friends. Why, we pulled prim­ros­es to­geth­er in the very mead­ow Steve thought of build­ing in! I'm not the wom­an to put a mill be­fore a friend, oh, no! And in the long end I think you are right, Char­lotte. A man had bet­ter work among sheep than among hu­man be­ings. They are a deal more peace­able and easy to get on with. It is not so very hard for a shep­herd to be a good man.”

“You speak as I like to hear you, Ducie; but I must be go­ing, for a deal falls to my over­sight now.” And she rose quick­ly from the tea-​ta­ble, and as she tied on her bon­net, be­gan to sing,--

"'God bless the sheep up­on the fells! Oh, do you hear the tin­kling bells Of sheep that wan­der on the fells?

The tin­kling bells the si­lence fills, Sings cheer­ily the soul that wills; God bless the shep­herd on the hills!

God bless the sheep! Their tin­kling bells Make mu­sic over all the fells; By _force_ and _gill_ and _tarn_ it swells, And this is what their mu­sic tells: God bless the sheep up­on the fells.'"

The melody was wild and sim­ple, a lit­tle plain­tive al­so; and Char­lotte sang it with a low, sweet monotony that re­called, one knew not how or why, the cool fra­grance of the hill­side, and the scent of wild flow­ers by run­ning wa­ter.

Then she went slow­ly home, Ducie walk­ing to the pine-​wood with her. There was a vague un­rest and fear at her heart, she knew not why; for who can tell whence spring their thoughts, or what mover first starts them from their se­cret lodg­ing-​place? A sad­ness she could not fight down took pos­ses­sion of her; and it an­noyed her the more, be­cause she found ev­ery one pleas­ant­ly ex­cit­ed over a box of presents that had just ar­rived from In­dia for Sophia. She knew that her de­pres­sion would be in­ter­pret­ed by some as en­vy and jeal­ousy, and she re­sent­ed the false po­si­tion it put her in; and yet she found it im­pos­si­ble to af­fect the en­thu­si­asm which was ex­pect­ed from her over the Cash­mere shawl and scarfs, the In­di­an fans and jew­el­ry, the carved ivory trin­kets, the box­es full of East­ern scents,--san­dal­wood and cala­mus, nard and at­tar of ros­es, and pun­gent gums that made the old “Seat” feel like a lit­tle bit of Asia.

In a few days Julius fol­lowed; he came to see the presents, and to read, with per­son­al il­lus­tra­tions and com­ments, the let­ters that had ac­com­pa­nied them. Sophia's ideas of her own im­por­tance grew con­stant­ly more pro­nounced; in­deed, there was a cer­tain amount of “claim” in them, which no one liked very well to sub­mit to. And yet it was dif­fi­cult to re­sist de­mands en­forced by such re­marks as, “It is the last time I shall ask for such a thing;” “One ex­pects their own peo­ple to take a lit­tle in­ter­est in their mar­riage;” “I am sure Julius and _his_ fam­ily have done all _they_ can;” “They seem to un­der­stand what a girl must feel and like at such an event­ful time of her life,” and so on, and so on, in vari­ations suit­ed to the cir­cum­stances or the oc­ca­sion.

Ev­ery one was worn out be­fore Ju­ly, and ev­ery one felt it to be a re­lief when the wed­ding-​day came. It was ush­ered in with the chim­ing of bells, and the singing of bride-​songs by the vil­lage chil­dren. The vil­lage it­self was turned up­side down, and the house in­side out. As for the gloomy old church, it looked like a fes­tal place, with flow­ers and gay cloth­ing and smil­ing faces. It was the ex­press wish of Sophia that none of the com­pa­ny should wear white. “That dis­tinc­tion,” she said, “ought to be re­served for the bride;” and among the maids in pink and blue and prim­rose, she stood a very lily of wom­an­hood. Her di­aphanous, float­ing robe of Dac­ca muslin; her In­di­an veil of sil­ver tis­sue, filmy as light; her gleam­ing pearls and feath­ery fan, made her

“A sight to dream of, not to tell.”

The ser­vice was fol­lowed by the con­ven­tion­al wed­ding-​break­fast; the con­grat­ula­tions of friends, and the rat­tling away of the bridal-​car­riage to the “hur­rahing” of the ser­vants and the vil­lagers; and the _tin-​tin-​tab­ula_ of the wed­ding-​peals. Be­fore four o'clock the last guest had de­part­ed, and the squire stood with his wife and Char­lotte weary and dis­con­so­late amid the re­mains of the feast and the dy­ing flow­ers; all of them dis­tinct­ly sen­si­tive to that mourn­ful air which ac­com­plished plea­sures leave be­hind them.

The squire could say noth­ing to dis­pel it. He took his rod as an ex­cuse for soli­tude, and went off to the fells. Mrs. San­dal was cry­ing with ex­haus­tion, and was eas­ily per­suad­ed to go to her room, and sleep. Then Char­lotte called the ser­vants, men and wom­en, and re­moved ev­ery trace of the cer­emo­ny, and all that was un­usu­al or ex­trav­agant. She set the sim­plest of meals; she man­aged in some way, with­out a word, to give the wor­ried squire the as­sur­ance that all the fol­ly and waste and hur­ry­ment were over for ev­er; and that his life was to fall back in­to a calm, reg­ular, eco­nom­ical groove.

He drank his tea and smoked his pipe to this sense, and was hap­pi­er than he had been for many a week.

“It is a mid­dling good thing, Al­ice,” he said, “that we have on­ly one more daugh­ter to mar­ry. I should think a mat­ter of three or four would ru­in or kill a man, let alone a moth­er. Eh? What?”

“That is the blessed truth, William. And yet it is the pride of my heart to say that there nev­er was such a bride or such a bridal in San­dal-​Side be­fore. Still, I am tired, and I feel just as if I had had a trou­ble. Come day, go day; at the long end, life is no bet­ter than the preach­er called it--_van­ity_.”

“To be sure it is not. We laugh at a wed­ding, we cry at a bury­ing, a chris­ten­ing brings us a feast. On the Sab­bath we say our litany; and as for the rest of the year, one day mar­rows an­oth­er.”

“Well, well, William San­dal! Maybe we will both feel bet­ter af­ter a night's sleep. To-​mor­row is un­touched.”

And the squire, look­ing in­to her pale, placid face, had not the heart to speak out his thought, which was, “Nay, nay; we have mort­gaged to-​mor­row. Debt and fear, and the penal­ties of over-​work and over-​eat­ing and over-​feel­ing, will be dog­ging us for their dues by dayshine.”