by A. A. Milne
* * *
Stop! He knew the Doctor, and understood what he had done. He would not let it be a surprise to them. But he could make it one, yet, by going forward on foot. If the orchard–gate were open, he could enter there; if not, the wall was easily climbed, as he knew of old; and he would be among them in an instant.
* * *
He dismounted from the chaise, and telling the driver—even that was not easy in his agitation—to remain behind for a few minutes, and then to follow slowly, ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the gate, scaled the wall, jumped down on the other side, and stood panting in the old orchard.
* * *
There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But, the red light came cheerily towards him from the windows; figures passed and repassed there; and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear sweetly.
* * *
Listening for hers: attempting, as he crept on, to detach it from the rest, and half believing that he heard it: he had nearly reached the door, when it was abruptly opened, and a figure coming out encountered his. It instantly recoiled with a half–suppressed cry.
* * *
‘Clemency,’ he said, ‘don’t you know me?’
* * *
‘Don’t come in!’ she answered, pushing him back. ‘Go away. Don’t ask me why. Don’t come in.’
* * *
‘What is the matter?’ he exclaimed.
* * *
‘I don’t know. I—I am afraid to think. Go back. Hark!’
* * *
There was a sudden tumult in the house. She put her hands upon her ears. A wild scream, such as no hands could shut out, was heard; and Grace—distraction in her looks and manner—rushed out at the door.
* * *
‘Grace!’ He caught her in his arms. ‘What is it! Is she dead!’
* * *
She disengaged herself, as if to recognise his face, and fell down at his feet.
* * *
A crowd of figures came about them from the house. Among them was her father, with a paper in his hand.
* * *
‘What is it!’ cried Alfred, grasping his hair with his hands, and looking in an agony from face to face, as he bent upon his knee beside the insensible girl. ‘Will no one look at me? Will no one speak to me? Does no one know me? Is there no voice among you all, to tell me what it is!’
* * *
There was a murmur among them. ‘She is gone.’
* * *
‘Gone!’ he echoed.
* * *
‘Fled, my dear Alfred!’ said the Doctor, in a broken voice, and with his hands before his face. ‘Gone from her home and us. To–night! She writes that she has made her innocent and blameless choice—entreats that we will forgive her—prays that we will not forget her—and is gone.’
* * *
‘With whom? Where?’
* * *
He started up, as if to follow in pursuit; but, when they gave way to let him pass, looked wildly round upon them, staggered back, and sunk down in his former attitude, clasping one of Grace’s cold hands in his own.
* * *
There was a hurried running to and fro, confusion, noise, disorder, and no purpose. Some proceeded to disperse themselves about the roads, and some took horse, and some got lights, and some conversed together, urging that there was no trace or track to follow. Some approached him kindly, with the view of offering consolation; some admonished him that Grace must be removed into the house, and that he prevented it. He never heard them, and he never moved.
* * *
The snow fell fast and thick. He looked up for a moment in the air, and thought that those white ashes strewn upon his hopes and misery, were suited to them well. He looked round on the whitening ground, and thought how Marion’s foot–prints would be hushed and covered up, as soon as made, and even that remembrance of her blotted out. But he never felt the weather and he never stirred.
Part The Third
THE world had grown six years older since that night of the return. It was a warm autumn afternoon, and there had been heavy rain. The sun burst suddenly from among the clouds; and the old battle–ground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully at sight of it in one green place, flashed a responsive welcome there, which spread along the country side as if a joyful beacon had been lighted up, and answered from a thousand stations.
* * *
How beautiful the landscape kindling in the light, and that luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial presence, brightening everything! The wood, a sombre mass before, revealed its varied tints of yellow, green, brown, red: its different forms of trees, with raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. The verdant meadow–land, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been blind, a minute since, and now had found a sense of sight where–with to look up at the shining sky. Corn–fields, hedge–rows, fences, homesteads, and clustered roofs, the steeple of the church, the stream, the water–mill, all sprang out of the gloomy darkness smiling. Birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their drooping heads, fresh scents arose from the invigorated ground; the blue expanse above extended and diffused itself; already the sun’s slanting rays pierced mortally the sullen bank of cloud that lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of all the colours that adorned the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its triumphant glory.
* * *
At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly sheltered behind a great elm–tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign–board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passer–by, from among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer. The horse–trough, full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed, prick up his ears. The crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little bed–chambers above, beckoned, Come in! with every breath of air. Upon the bright green shutters, there were golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top. Upon the window–sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and in the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards.
* * *
On the door–step, appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too; for, though he was a short man, he was round and broad, and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy confidence—too calm and virtuous to become a swagger—in the general resources of the Inn. The superabundant moisture, trickling from everything after the late rain, set him off well. Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain top–heavy dahlias, looking over the palings of his neat well–ordered garden, had swilled as much as they could carry—perhaps a trifle more—and may have been the worse for liquor; but the sweet–briar, roses, wall–flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome for them, and had served to develop their best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground, they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain could seldom reach, and hurting nothing.
* * *
This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon sign. It was called The Nutmeg–Grater. And underneath that household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the sa
me flaming board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.
* * *
At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face, you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain himself who stood in the doorway—reasonably changed by time, but for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.
* * *
‘Mrs. B.,’ said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, ‘is rather late. It’s tea–time.’
* * *
As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled leisurely out into the road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction. ‘It’s just the sort of house,’ said Benjamin, ‘I should wish to stop at, if I didn’t keep it.’
* * *
Then, he strolled towards the garden–paling, and took a look at the dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless drowsy hanging of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet dripped off them.
* * *
‘You must be looked after,’ said Benjamin. ‘Memorandum, not to forget to tell her so. She’s a long time coming!’
* * *
Mr. Britain’s better half seemed to be by so very much his better half, that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and helpless without her.
* * *
‘She hadn’t much to do, I think,’ said Ben. ‘There were a few little matters of business after market, but not many. Oh! here we are at last!’
* * *
A chaise–cart, driven by a boy, came clattering along the road: and seated in it, in a chair, with a large well–saturated umbrella spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded around her, and a certain bright good nature in her face and contented awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion of her carriage, which smacked of old times, even in the distance. Upon her nearer approach, this relish of by–gone days was not diminished; and when the cart stopped at the Nutmeg–Grater door, a pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr. Britain’s open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but Clemency Newcome.
* * *
In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy comfortable–looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown quite dimpled in her improved condition.
* * *
‘You’re late, Clemmy!’ said Mr. Britain.
* * *
‘Why, you see, Ben, I’ve had a deal to do!’ she replied, looking busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages and baskets: ‘eight, nine, ten—where’s eleven? Oh! my basket’s eleven! It’s all right. Put the horse up, Harry, and if he coughs again give him a warm mash to–night. Eight, nine, ten. Why, where’s eleven? Oh! forgot, it’s all right. How’s the children, Ben?’
* * *
‘Hearty, Clemmy, hearty.’
* * *
‘Bless their precious faces!’ said Mrs. Britain, unbonneting her own round countenance (for she and her husband were by this time in the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. ‘Give us a kiss, old man!’
* * *
Mr. Britain promptly complied.
* * *
‘I think,’ said Mrs. Britain, applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers: a very kennel of dogs’–ears: ‘I’ve done everything. Bills all settled—turnips sold—brewer’s account looked into and paid—’bacco pipes ordered—seventeen pound four, paid into the Bank—Doctor Heathfield’s charge for little Clem—you’ll guess what that is—Doctor Heathfield won’t take nothing again, Ben.’
* * *
‘I thought he wouldn’t,’ returned Ben.
* * *
‘No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he’d never put you to the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.’
* * *
Mr. Britain’s face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall.
* * *
‘An’t it kind of him?’ said Clemency.
* * *
‘Very,’ returned Mr. Britain. ‘It’s the sort of kindness that I wouldn’t presume upon, on any account.’
* * *
‘No,’ retorted Clemency. ‘Of course not. Then there’s the pony—he fetched eight pound two; and that an’t bad, is it?’
* * *
‘It’s very good,’ said Ben.
* * *
‘I’m glad you’re pleased!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘I thought you would be; and I think that’s all, and so no more at present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the papers, and lock ’em up. Oh! Wait a minute. Here’s a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printer’s. How nice it smells!’
* * *
‘What’s this?’ said Ben, looking over the document.
* * *
‘I don’t know,’ replied his wife. ‘I haven’t read a word of it.’
* * *
‘“To be sold by Auction,”’ read the host of the Nutmeg–Grater, ‘“unless previously disposed of by private contract.”’
* * *
‘They always put that,’ said Clemency.
* * *
‘Yes, but they don’t always put this,’ he returned. ‘Look here, “Mansion,” &c.—“offices,” &c., “shrubberies,” &c., “ring fence,” &c. “Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs,” &c., “ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden, Esquire, intending to continue to reside abroad”!’
* * *
‘Intending to continue to reside abroad!’ repeated Clemency.
* * *
‘Here it is,’ said Britain. ‘Look!’
* * *
‘And it was only this very day that I heard it whispered at the old house, that better and plainer news had been half promised of her, soon!’ said Clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully, and patting her elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened her old habits. ‘Dear, dear, dear! There’ll be heavy hearts, Ben, yonder.’
* * *
Mr. Britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said he couldn’t make it out: he had left off trying long ago. With that remark, he applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window. Clemency, after meditating in silence for a few moments, roused herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled off to look after the children.
* * *
Though the host of the Nutmeg–Grater had a lively regard for his good–wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift, good–humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in any degree of life (as the world very often finds it), to take those cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking of people for their outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison!
* * *
It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward.
* * *
He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers for her day’s proceedings in the cupboard—chuckling all the time, over her capacity for business—when, returning with the news that the two Master Britains were playing in the coach–house under the superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping ‘like a picture,’ she sat down to tea, w
hich had awaited her arrival, on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and glasses; a sedate clock, right to the minute (it was half–past five); everything in its place, and everything furbished and polished up to the very utmost.
* * *
‘It’s the first time I’ve sat down quietly to–day, I declare,’ said Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night; but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his bread–and–butter; ‘how that bill does set me thinking of old times!’
