CHAPTER VI.
SUNRISE AND LIGHT.
PETER CLINTON rode the pony to the queer little post-town nine miles away, once a week, sometimes twice, when the Squire expected a letter, and brought home, at least, the county newspaper.
That morning the Beacon of Northumbria lay long on his table unopened. The Squire’s head was running upon the adventure of last night, and the beautiful guest whom, a chance storm had cast at his door. When at last he did unfold that chronicle, a minute assured him that “there was nothing in the paper.” How wearisome seemed the doings of the magistrates, the price of sheep, even the excitement of the hour — the inquest upon the peddler who died of a heart-complaint, at the “George” in Golden Friars!
But when he took up the paper a second time, a little paragraph, hid away in a corner, accidentally caught his eye, and instantly riveted his attention. It was printed in the following terms: —
“The neighborhood of Fothergang, twelve miles from Tatham, on the old Harrowgate road, and on the borders of Lancashire and Yorkshire, was thrown into considerable excitement, on the morning of the 14th instant, by the intelligence that a young nun had made her escape in the course of the night from the Convent of St. Mary, which was opened about five years since, as our readers will remember, with considerable éclat, near that hamlet She is supposed to be travelling on foot, most probably in the direction of Morpeth, where she is stated to have some Protestant relatives resident, on whose protection she probably reckons. Formal information has been given to the magistrates of this elopement by the Superioress of the Convent who thus invokes the aid of the civil power to recover the custody of the young person who has made her escape. It is understood, however, that some messengers in the employment of the convent are already in pursuit In the convent she is styled Sister Euphemia — her real name has not transpired. She is stated to be under 20, rather tall and slight, with dark eyes and hair — intelligent and good-looking. Her conventual faults were— ‘too great a proneness to talk,’
‘restlessness,’ a ‘tendency to levity,’ and ‘a disposition to question the authority of superiors.’ Great excitement prevails in the neighborhood, and we need hardly say that the sympathies of the inhabitants are altogether with the poor young nun who has made her escape. It is thought that any attempt to bring her back publicly, and consign her to the tender mercies of the conventual authorities, would produce a very alarming state of feeling in the vicinity — possibly a somewhat notous search and rescue within the walls of the convent itself. It is stated that the local magistrates have applied to the Home Office for instructions under the circumstances.”
This piece of intelligence William Haworth read over and over till he could have repeated it, word for word, by rote.
Nothing in the paper, indeed? Floods of light!
William changed color again and again — from red to pale, and from pale to red.
Had that eloquent paper, the Beacon of Northumbria, ever excited readers so fearfully before?
- With a great sigh, at last the Squire laid the paper down, smiling darkly to himself over the discovered mystery. For the present he would keep his proofs to himself. With his penknife he carved the paragraph out of its place in the paper, and locked it up quickly in his desk.
He would not take old Martha quite into his confidence; but he must sound her, and put the solution conjecturally before her. Her opportunities were so multitudinous; trifles would help the proof. It was very odd, but the idea had struck him, at once, that this girl, with her singular manners and unaccountable dignity, might be what this paragraph very nearly proved her.
He might, he thought, fairly be a little conceited of his penetration. The thing, however, was not quite proved yet. The solution might be something quite different. But, with the same dark smile, he thought, “We must at least admit that it is not altogether improbable.”
Half an hour after, also, Mrs. Gillyflower, having no one else to talk to, popped into William’s study, and after some conversation — about Peter Clinton’s administration of the garden, and the old kitchen-jack that would not wind — suddenly recalled his wandering thoughts, and fixed them in a moment, by beginning: “That poor young lass has been and telt me all that’s foan-out at heyam, and ill-served she has been wi’ a raggard stepmother. I ken that sort ower-weel mysel’.”
And with this exordium she told the story, and William shut his Sanscrit Dictionary, and stood listening with a romantic intensity, and his elbow on the chimneypiece.
The Squire of Haworth Hall had been a distinguished man in his college — a hard reader when he chose, a debater, a writer of essays; and he was, like many ingenious men with brilliant imaginations, one who could see a good way into a millstone.
“That young lady,” said he— “for so I am sure she is — has a rosary with a cross to it; I saw it for a moment Mind, Martha, this is quite between you and me, and you are not to repeat a word of it She has quarrelled with her superioress, and possibly about some confessor she dislikes. She calls her superioress a stepmother, and so on. If we had time, I’ve a book there, which says, that when nuns have any complaint to make of their condition to people of the world, they often do so in allegory — I mean, a kind of parable.”
“Well, that is queer. I never saa a nun in a’ my days before, an’ I should not wonder; but who’d think, to look at her an’ hear her talk, she was that sly; but I consayted them nuns was always dressed in a windin’-sheet like, but doubtless you know best.”
“Nothing, except from books. And she stays till tomorrow, then? That’s right The wind has shifted, not at this side of the house now; but still it is a high wind, and may be higher by evening.”
“I left her whistling to the bird. She did look bonny, keekin’ into the cage! She’s a bonny lass, ain’t she?”
“Yes — I daresay those who like dark beauties; but I’m held so fast to my books that my eyes are growing old, I fancy, and they can hardly admire anything. My eyes are on Sanscrit, and my heart in India. Not but I hope to come home, some day, with a hatful of money, to spend the rest of my days in the old place — where you are to welcome me back again, mind; and you’ll keep the old house together, and the fire burning, while I’m away, and write me a letter every post; and you’ll have my tea and a hot bannock ready for me, just in the old way, the evening I come back.”
And, so saying, he placed a hand on each shoulder of the old woman, and looked very kindly down into her face.
“Hey, yer na gane yet man — who kens?” said the old woman.
“True enough — who kens? as you say, Martha.”
“Ay, ay — man proposes, God disposes; and I’ll not be greetin’ for my bonny lad, till I see his trunk packed and his hat on, for the flittm’.”
And with these words, smiling bravely, her eyes filled up with tears; and turning briskly, she said:
“Hoot, lad — I’m wastin’ the whole mornin’, and nothin’ down for dinner yet, and talk ‘ill never mak ye fat. Get along wi’ ye, an’ let’s mind our business.”
And away she trotted.
The Squire went to the window; and to the left, a little way off, he saw the tall slender girl, very busy choosing and plucking roses from the huge bushes that grew near the paling.
How her head is set on! How she holds herself! She steps like a deer. How beautiful she is! — how elegant! How small her hand is!
Her black tresses were blown in the wind, and her fingers brushed them back every now and then. He lowered the window, smiling. At the noise she looked round at him, from the nodding bunch of roses in her hand, standing quite still, very gravely. Then she said something he could not hear, and smiled a little anxiously, and looked gravely at him again.
“You are too much at the corner there,” he called, smilingly; “it is quite sheltered this way.”
She drew near, in her leisurely way, walking with her short steps and high air; and with her grave proud look, she said, with the roses in her hand, a little
toward him:
“I was gathering some flowers, sir; I hope it ain’t any harm?”
There is something interesting in that voice, so sweet and gentle, that contrasts, somehow, with the style of her beauty and her proud bearing.
“Would not you be better with something on? Aren’t you afraid of this rough wind? If you’ll allow me, I’ll go and ask Mrs. Gillyflower for your cloak and bonnet; I’ll fetch it in a moment.”
“No, thank you, sir,” she answered, still gravely, though he was smiling. “I like the wind; I’m used to it — it never hurt any one.”
“Well, you’ll allow me to show you where there are much better roses, and I think other flowers?”
“Thank you, sir.”
In a moment he was out on the grass — without a hat, of course; he would have been ashamed to wear one while her head was uncovered.
“It is so sheltered this way,” he said, “just round this corner; and here, you see, the roses grow like great hedges.”
And so they did — nothing the better of the wind, of course, but still very splendid festoons of red, white, and yellow roses.
“And this little nook is so sheltered; you don’t feel the wind unpleasantly here.”
It was a recess under the gable of the house, beyond which were the rear of tall stable-walls covered with ivy, and a great walnut-tree threw its shadow on the grass.
“Oh, yes; those roses are very fine; may I gather some, sir?”
“Certainly,” said William, in a lower tone, that confessed the power of beauty. “You are very welcome to anything, everything you like, at Haworth.”
William’s color was heightened as he spoke. But there was nothing in the girl’s manner to show that she thought herself addressed in any unusual strain, or that the speech could be made to comprehend more than the flowers she had asked leave to take.
For a few seconds they were both quite silent, and the handsome girl went on plucking these roses.
CHAPTER VII.
THE SQUIRE IMPROVES HIS ACQUAINTANCE WITH HIS GUEST.
WILLIAM was longing to talk, but he did not know how to begin. He felt a little gêné. In the girl’s serenity there was, a feeling of inferiority that embarrassed him. He was very much afraid that she would have completed her task, and gone away with her arm laden with flowers, before he had made up his mind what to say. He was standing beside her without a word, and looking, he began to think, very foolish; and his awkwardness was enhanced by the secret misgiving, “What an ass she must think me!”
At last a thought struck him, and he said: —
“I was so glad you stayed with us.”
“You are very kind, sir — yes, forty-eight hours — thank you, sir.”
“If you had gone, you know, it would have been as much as saying you thought us churls, and did not trust our hospitality; and I wish — it is not impertinence, I assure you — to ask you, if you’ll allow me, just a question or two. May I?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the girl, turning toward him, and standing like a picture of a Southern Flora, with her roses hanging clustered over her arm, and her eyes lowered to the grass near her foot. She does not look as if he were going to question her, but proud and grave, as a princess going to hear a petition.
“It was only this,” he began. “Mrs. Gillyflower says you are going to make a journey to the residence of some of your friends. I don’t know, of course, what the distance may be; but if you will allow me, I will tell Clinton, and you can drive in the taxcart, twenty miles, in any direction you please.”
“Thank you, sir — that’s very kind of you; but I’ll walk, sir,” said this independent heroine. “I’ve very good shoes, sir.”
And, by way of demonstration, she put out, in a strong shoe, the very slenderest and shapeliest foot he had ever seen.
“Well — and will you pardon me this? You know you are very young,” he added, wisely, “and you can’t have much experience in travelling, especially in such travelling. And I radier think you have been leading a particularly quiet life.”
He said this pointedly, apropos of another accidental glimpse of her rosary, and he paused for a little; but there followed not the least sign or movement to indicate acquiescence or denial.
“And at all events,” he said, “I wish so very much you would allow me to renew Mrs. Gillyflower’s offer; she is really quite unhappy about it, and so am I — very; you ought to have some little provision more than she says you have about you.”
“That’s good of you, sir, but I have more money than I want; very little would carry me a long way.”
“I see you are more cruel than you look; you won’t allow me to be of the least use — you’ll accept nothing from us. I think that is hardly kind, Miss — Miss — You have not even told me your name.”
“Any name you please will do, sir.”
“Oh, I may take my choice,” he laughed. “I know that young ladies, when they betake themselves to a solitary life, change their names, as they do when they marry. Miss Mayflower, or Miss Nightingale, becomes Sister Eugenia, or Sister Cecilia; and I suppose you mean that I am at liberty to choose from the calendar, and I can’t choose very wrong.”
He said all this archly; he fancied —— simple youth! — that he might bring about a confidence, and become a champion; and he was growing to feel that he would give half Haworth for a chance of fighting in her quarrel. But the girl stood, as before, with her eyes lowered to the grass near her foot “You’ve refused all my poor requests,” said he. “I believe that compassion is killed in the shadow of the cloister, and a cruel purity, taintless and cold as snow, dwells only in that colorless and freezing life. May I ask you a question?”
“Surely, sir.”
“Is it true that you fear a revengeful man is in pursuit of you?”
“Mrs. Gillyflower told you that — did not she?” asked the girl, raising her splendid eyes to his.
“Yes, certainly, it was she,” he replied. “It is so, sir — quite true. That’s why I stayed; I would not have him overtake me in a lonely place. He’s always plotting mischief and rolling revenges. They say he’s mad; drink, I think, has made his brain unsound. I should have to run and fight and fight and run, for my life. He would not think twice; he’d fell me with his cudgel, as ready as look, and throw me in a brook.”
“Thank you for speaking so frankly,” said he. “Now, remember you are my guest and your life is dear to me; you shan’t leave this tomorrow.”
“Have you heard he’s about here?” she asked.
“No matter,” said he, evading. “You must stay over tomorrow. I say I will not risk you.”
“I would stay tomorrow, sir, only I’m sure my people will be looking for me; I sent them word.”
“That’s no reason. If they care for you as they ought, they should be only too glad that you were made safe until that ruffian is off your track. Pray remain; do — I entreat!”
He placed his hand upon her arm as he pleaded.
“It is very good of you, sir; and as you say, so I will.”
“You have made me so happy,” said he, and he did look quite radiant; “and I’ll tell Martha. Perhaps you’d prefer that she should ask you; and would not it be well if you told her everything? You have no idea what a wise old woman she is. She could give you such good counsel, and who knows but it may end by your staying with her — for I’m sure you like a quiet life — a great deal longer than you ever dreamed.”
And so he went on, eloquently, for a good while.
What was there so odd and unsatisfactory in the expression of her beautiful features, as the girl listened to his eloquence? He tried afterwards to analyze it. It resembled the expression which they wore in conversation with Martha Gillyflower — the expression with which a beautiful girl might listen to the kindly prattle of a child who thought itself wondrous wise. Amused superiority and goodnature, and something of sadness and compassion, were there.
“Well, I’ve been giving very wise a
dvice, as I supposed, and I see you are laughing at me,” said he, with a smile.
“No, sir, I don’t laugh; you would not think that, but what you say would not answer me; there’s no one thing about it I could do.”
She smiled genuinely now, and shook her head.
“Well, I’ve had my innings, and done no good; will you try now? I should be very glad of good advice. Here I am, a poor man, of an old but decayed family, and far from content with his lot: what do you advise me to do?”
“I’m not fit to advise such as you are, sir.”
“Pray do, though. How can you tell? — how can I? I have no one to advise me, and your counsel might be the very best I could have.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, but try — pray do.”
“Do you understand horses?”
“No.”
“Are you going for a soldier?”
“No; what would you change about me?”
“I don’t know, sir; I think I’d throw the books out o’ the window.”
“Why?”
“They’re not manly. Why should you be sitting all day, like a woman, in a room — stifling?”
“But I must earn money, and I can’t do that without reading.”
“Liberty is better than money. What does a man want, after all, but bread and health? Men shutting themselves up in a house, like ladies! I sometimes wonder they’re not ashamed!”
There was no enthusiasm, real or affected, in this speech, which she spoke musingly; but it nettled him, for he thought he saw in her pretty face more of the old expression of amusement and disdain.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 767
